Two apples and a banana later, he stomped onto the Quidditch pitch holding his state-of-the-art Nimbus 2500. While he had actually enjoyed the fruit as a change to his normal snack, he was loathe to admit it to anyone, especially the witch who, despite only having been in his life for a few short hours, had become the bane of his existence.
It was the principle of the matter, after all.
As she approached him, he gave her his most smug smile, lifting his broom confidently. She stepped up close, smiling in return, and swiftly snatched the broom from his grasp.
“Hey!” he yelped, reaching to grab it back, but she stepped back, looking at the thing sceptically.
“You can't use this,” she said.
“Of course I can use that. It's the lightest, fastest broom on the market.”
She looked at him as if he was somewhat confunded. “Which is exactly why you can't use it.”
“Hand me back my broom, Weasley.”
“No.”
He attempted to snatch it back, but she was faster. He felt sluggish trying to match her dance-like movements as she darted to and fro, keeping the item just out of his reach.
After a long minute of the childish game, he stopped, feeling more than slightly winded. Breathing heavily, he gave up the chase.
“What is your problem, Weasley?” he said, between heavy breaths, annoyed with the girl's apparently endless supply of energy. The thought brought him to vaguely realize that, at one time in his life, he could run all day without feeling tired either, but then, that was before spending four years behind a desk.
She only grinned back at him.
He released a long-suffering sigh. “Weasley, you invited me... no, you ordered me here to play. In order to do that, I need my broom. Now, kindly end the little game you are playing, and hand it over.”
“You'll be playing with the broom I give you, Malfoy.”
He stared at her incredulously.
She walked over to the side of the pitch, picking up two matching brooms. He looked at one with disdain after identifying it to be an old Cleansweep model.
“Those are antiques,” he stated, feeling just a tad petulant. “If you can't afford modern equipment...”
“I happen to own better brooms than yours,” she replied, motioning to the Nimbus. “As you recall, I played for the Harpies. I have prototype versions of next year's model, actually.”
“And your point?”
Her expression changed to one as if she were reprimanding a small child. “I don't want you to get hurt.”
He silently commended himself on not losing his temper, thinking that the years of dealing in business had truly helped him to perfect the skill. He decided to respond slowly and clearly, lest the little Weasley fail to understand plain English.
“I have been flying since I was four, for your information. I am quite confident that I can handle my own broom.”
She seemed to stifle a small smile. “I'm sure you can, Malfoy.”
He closed his eyes as he realized she was chuckling at the innuendo. He once again questioned why he was even bothering to discuss anything with her in the first place. Ah yes, he had a point to prove.
“You need to practice, Malfoy. I'm under the assumption that you haven't flown since you were in school. Am I correct?”
He raised one eyebrow in his best expression of superiority. “That doesn't mean I've forgotten how to fly.”
Sadly his carefully calculated expression had absolutely no effect on her, because she ignored it completely. “No, of course not. But you are obviously out of shape. We need to build up your strength, and using the slower heavier brooms will ultimately help you be more efficient on the faster ones.”
He glared at her rather spitefully and felt himself puff with indignation.
She lifted an eyebrow, almost daring him to challenge her assessment.
Unfortunately, she made sense, and he was bright enough to acknowledge that to himself, even though his pride left him with no intention of agreeing with her. Yet, it warranted some sort of response.
“I think you're just afraid I'll beat you, so your intention is to handicap me as much as possible.” It was only after the words left his lips that he realized how incredibly childish he sounded.
She had the supreme gall to smirk at him.
“Fine then, use your own broom and I'll use the Cleansweep, and the winner gets to determine what brooms we use for our next match,” she said.
Later, he would wonder why he agreed, since the usage of “next match” was part of her challenge to him. Yet, some stubborn part of him truly wanted to prove her wrong.
“You're on.”
X - X - X
She let the practice snitch loose and both took off into the cold spring sky, among the long shadows of the late afternoon. She flew the old broom efficiently, using her body to force the broom to change direction and speed at her bidding. At first, his lighter broom gave him the advantage as he pulled on the handle and kicked the tail around on their eager chase after the elusive snitch.
It was almost going to be too easy, he thought with a confident grin to himself.
Rocketing after the winged object, he passed her easily, but just as he reached his hand out to capture the prize, the snitch made a slight change in direction, slowing and dropping just out of range. He tried to force his broom to match the maneuver, but as he spun it around, it felt unstable, causing him to overturn, and sending him off in the wrong direction. He nearly lost his grip.
He expected his opponent, who was right on his tail, to immediately grab the object and end the game. Instead, she was next to him in an instant, her hand reaching toward him, but not touching him, until he'd steadied himself.
“What are you doing?” he shouted in no small amount of annoyance.
“I'm just making sure you don't fall. I don't want my client killed on the first day,” she said without any hint of malice. He narrowed his gaze at her, trying to figure out her motive, but then, the snitch reappeared just behind her, and he immediately turned to attempt another capture of the item.
Each turn seemed to take more strength than he was able to give, his arms began to feel heavy, and a cramp had started to pull at his abdomen. On the occasions when he was finally able to force the broom in the proper direction, he tended to shoot past his mark, unable to make fine adjustments in time to track the rapidly moving snitch. On at least three occasions, he nearly collided with various objects around the pitch. It felt like his broom had a mind of its own, fighting him at every movement.
All the while, Ginny Weasley hovered off his flank, seeming to be more interested in him than the elusive object of the game.
He was tiring quickly and sweating profusely, causing his grip on the broom to become slippery. He was also rapidly coming to the conclusion that his opponent was merely toying with him. He made one last grasp, once again missing the target, and when his broom neared the floor of the pitch, he decided he'd had enough. He slowed as best he could and dropped unceremoniously to the grass, breathing heavily.
He looked up to see Weasley hover over him for a long moment, before tearing off to her left. Less than a minute later, she reappeared with the snitch in hand.
Once he was able to catch is breath, he scowled at her, as she landed lightly next to him.
“You cheated.”
Her look was nothing short of condescending, as she stood over him while he remained sprawled on the ground, recovering. She, on the other hand, looked as if she'd exerted no effort at all.
“I did nothing of the sort. As I recall, you had the far superior broom.”
There was nothing more annoying than having his own advantage used against him. Internally, he allowed himself a moment to sulk, then, slowly, he hauled himself up to a sitting position and used whatever remaining energy he could muster to glare at her.
He had the distinct feeling that it had no effect on her at all. She simply gave him a rather fond smile, and he suddenly felt like he was a small child throwing a temper tantrum. It was horrifying.
She gave a deep sigh. “It's a simple matter of conditioning, Malfoy. You were out of shape, and, by now, you must realize that your broom is too much for you to handle.”
He commandingly brushed a stray lock of his ruffled hair out of his eyes. “I can handle it just fine. As you said, I've had four years without practice.” All right, now he sounded petulant, but this was important. And the tiny, little Weasley was intimidating him. It just wasn't right.
“And we need to work on building up your endurance. You barely lasted ten minutes on a light broom. How are you going to manage a two hour Quidditch match?”
He said nothing, but he did stick his lower lip out a bit in indignation.
“I'm here to help you, and believe it or not, I know what's best. You'll find out next time we practice,” she said with no small amount of conviction. “How's your schedule for Saturday morning? It should give you a day to recover from overdoing it tonight.”
His eyes widened in surprise. What? Saturday? He took a moment to attempt to comprehend the meaning of her words. He was supposed to be rid of her after this one practice, but then again, he was supposed to have beaten her, or, at the very least, put on a good show. The logic of the situation slowly caused him to come to the conclusion that he had not exactly succeeded.
“I never said there would be a next time, Weasley,” he replied, hoping that perhaps her facts differed in some way that would give him an opportunity to escape.
“Yes, you did. When we made the bet, remember? The winner gets to choose the brooms for next time.” She gave him an overly pleasant smile that made him feel an urge to vomit. He did agree to that, didn't he. But that was when he was still confident that he would win.
He settled for giving her a sour look.
“I'll just arrange it with your assistant, how's that?”
He continued to sulk, but pulled his bulky form upright, so that at least she was no longer staring down at him. “Fine,” he responded. At some point, he was going to show her who was the better player. Now that he'd recovered somewhat, he found that another chance might be in order.
“Good,” she said with a genuine smile, as she began to walk off the pitch with her elderly broom and more confidence than he could quite imagine.
At about that moment, he noticed that the outfit she wore was particularly well tailored, and that her arse looked rather nice in it. A small part of him hoped she would wear the same item again when they met on Saturday. He then considered chastising himself for that last thought, but decided against it. After all, he might as well gain some small amount of enjoyment from his time with the little witch.
She turned back to face him, and he was quite certain that he failed to hide the look of being caught thinking of something naughty. She smiled at him. “And I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. We have a lot to talk about.”
And with that, she turned and marched off the pitch, the red gold light of the setting sun making her look like she was made of pure fire.
- - -
The next day, Draco was miserable. Completely and utterly mad with misery and loss of control and, well, hunger. All right, not exactly hunger, but certainly a craving for his favorite muffin.
It had all started with breakfast that morning. Such a simple event, he thought. He only went because Edwina had put it in his schedule, and he found it best to not give her cause to reschedule things as it made her rather irritable.
His original plan to prove himself to Weasley had failed spectacularly. He was loathe to admit that he possibly really did need someone to help him train if he intended to participate in the charity Quidditch tournament. He also fully considered avoiding the event entirely. Unfortunately, Edwina had already sent the owl to the event organizers stating that he would be happy to participate, so backing out would appear a bit embarrassing.
The question was: even if he really needed help, why did it have to be Weasley?
He gave a deep sigh and walked into the Elfin Delight, looking forward to forgetting last night's debaucle by sampling a few of the establishment's famous pancakes.
Finding Weasley easily enough, he sat down in the booth across from her, barely suppressing a deep groan of pain. It seemed that the exertion from the short flight the previous evening had caused every muscle in his body to ache with a fierce intensity. Even the potion he'd taken to dull the pain hadn't been able to relieve the stiffness in his arms. He also noted that lifting the cup of coffee that the waitress placed in front of him seemed to take a concerted effort.
"A bit sore this morning?" Weasley asked, lifting one eyebrow at him in a teasing manner.
"No need to gloat," he muttered, picking up the menu to peruse its contents.
"I'm not gloating. It's to be expected, since you've been away from training for so long. I just need to know how badly so I can work out a proper plan for you."
He looked at her sourly.
"Pretty much everything, then," she stated, taking out a small notebook and marking something down.
The waitress returned with two plates of food, setting them down in front of each of the table's occupants. Draco paused for a brief moment to confirm that, indeed, he had not yet put in his order, and, even if he had, it would likely not resemble what was on the plate currently in front of him.
He opened his mouth to tell the waitress exactly that, but before a sound left his lips, he heard Weasley interrupt. "I took the liberty of ordering for both of us."
He looked across the table and the Weasley was unfolding her napkin and smiling sweetly at him. By the time he looked back toward the waitress, she had already departed the area.
"This is not what I would have ordered," he stated flatly.
"No, but, it's what you should have ordered," she replied. "Remember, we talked about a proper diet to improve your performance."
Somehow, her remark sounded suspiciously like an innuendo. He looked rapidly about to see if anyone had overheard her.
"Do you mind keeping your voice down?"
She began carving into the grapefruit on her plate and gave the tiniest chuckle, having had the good grace to at least not look at him while laughing at him.
"Weasley..." he said, his voice taking on a decidedly ominous tone.
"Sorry."
Not that he minded the fruit so very much, except he would have liked it more if it had been served on top of a few pancakes, but the pink goo served on the side...that was something else entirely. It looked remarkably like a failed potions experiment. He prodded at it for some time before Weasley took note of his action.
"Why are you playing with your yogurt?"
"It has a name?"
She tilted her head and that mildly amused smile came to her features again. He put down is spoon, placed his elbow firmly on the table, resting his chin on the palm on his hand, while his other hand drummed his fingers on the table impatiently, waiting for her to explain. And, then, just for good measure, he raised an eyebrow at her.
She closed her eyes and visibly fought back a laugh before she spoke.
"You need dairy. It has calcium. It's... It's just good. Eat it."
"I'm not eating it, Weasley. It looks like it just crawled out of an old cauldron to die."
The amused expression left her face. "Just try it,” she said, somewhat firmly.
An overwhelming desire to be belligerent came over him as he watched her practically command him to eat something he didn't want to eat. He didn't care how persuasive her expression was, with her lips pursed and a stubborn gleam in her eye. He could be more stubborn than anyone, and he intended to prove it immediately.
"No," he replied, leaning back in his chair, and crossing his arms in front of him, feeling just a bit pleased with himself.
She gave a sigh, and shook her head with a bit of resignation. He felt like he's won a small battle, at least for the moment. Unfortunately, the moment was disappointingly brief.
"Well, I expected something like this. I'm disappointed in you," she said, leaning out of the booth and glancing about the restaurant, as if looking for someone. Seemingly having located that person, she looked back at him just a bit too confidently.
"I'm afraid I'll have to resort to plan B."
"Plan B?" he asked, feeling his triumph fizzle away in a rather painful manner. He looked in the direction she seemed to indicate and, there, seated just around the corner and out of his direct line of sight, was Harry Potter.
"Should I invite him over to talk about what fun the Quidditch match will be?" she asked, and he did not fail to notice the little gleam in her eye. Voldemort might have learned a thing or two from this one. The witch was truly evil.
He glared at her.
"Eat the yogurt, Malfoy."
And, with complete and utter defeat, he ate the yogurt. It actually tasted rather good, but, again, it was the principle of the matter. She made him do it, and there was something inherently wrong about that.
But, that was yesterday morning. Now, mid-afternoon of his second day of dieting, he sat at his desk, drumming his fingers as he attempted to devise a clever way of defeating the red-headed menace.
The Weasley had descended into nearly every aspect of his life. His lunch had been pre-ordered, with far too much salad for his liking, and when he'd gone home, he found that his house elves had been given strict instructions as well. And it included way too many green things. There was only so much fiber a man could be asked to ingest, after all.
He tried to complain to his mother, but, apparently, she agreed with the instructions and ordered him to eat his vegetables.
And, with that, he was convinced: It was an absolute conspiracy.
It was the principle of the matter, after all.
As she approached him, he gave her his most smug smile, lifting his broom confidently. She stepped up close, smiling in return, and swiftly snatched the broom from his grasp.
“Hey!” he yelped, reaching to grab it back, but she stepped back, looking at the thing sceptically.
“You can't use this,” she said.
“Of course I can use that. It's the lightest, fastest broom on the market.”
She looked at him as if he was somewhat confunded. “Which is exactly why you can't use it.”
“Hand me back my broom, Weasley.”
“No.”
He attempted to snatch it back, but she was faster. He felt sluggish trying to match her dance-like movements as she darted to and fro, keeping the item just out of his reach.
After a long minute of the childish game, he stopped, feeling more than slightly winded. Breathing heavily, he gave up the chase.
“What is your problem, Weasley?” he said, between heavy breaths, annoyed with the girl's apparently endless supply of energy. The thought brought him to vaguely realize that, at one time in his life, he could run all day without feeling tired either, but then, that was before spending four years behind a desk.
She only grinned back at him.
He released a long-suffering sigh. “Weasley, you invited me... no, you ordered me here to play. In order to do that, I need my broom. Now, kindly end the little game you are playing, and hand it over.”
“You'll be playing with the broom I give you, Malfoy.”
He stared at her incredulously.
She walked over to the side of the pitch, picking up two matching brooms. He looked at one with disdain after identifying it to be an old Cleansweep model.
“Those are antiques,” he stated, feeling just a tad petulant. “If you can't afford modern equipment...”
“I happen to own better brooms than yours,” she replied, motioning to the Nimbus. “As you recall, I played for the Harpies. I have prototype versions of next year's model, actually.”
“And your point?”
Her expression changed to one as if she were reprimanding a small child. “I don't want you to get hurt.”
He silently commended himself on not losing his temper, thinking that the years of dealing in business had truly helped him to perfect the skill. He decided to respond slowly and clearly, lest the little Weasley fail to understand plain English.
“I have been flying since I was four, for your information. I am quite confident that I can handle my own broom.”
She seemed to stifle a small smile. “I'm sure you can, Malfoy.”
He closed his eyes as he realized she was chuckling at the innuendo. He once again questioned why he was even bothering to discuss anything with her in the first place. Ah yes, he had a point to prove.
“You need to practice, Malfoy. I'm under the assumption that you haven't flown since you were in school. Am I correct?”
He raised one eyebrow in his best expression of superiority. “That doesn't mean I've forgotten how to fly.”
Sadly his carefully calculated expression had absolutely no effect on her, because she ignored it completely. “No, of course not. But you are obviously out of shape. We need to build up your strength, and using the slower heavier brooms will ultimately help you be more efficient on the faster ones.”
He glared at her rather spitefully and felt himself puff with indignation.
She lifted an eyebrow, almost daring him to challenge her assessment.
Unfortunately, she made sense, and he was bright enough to acknowledge that to himself, even though his pride left him with no intention of agreeing with her. Yet, it warranted some sort of response.
“I think you're just afraid I'll beat you, so your intention is to handicap me as much as possible.” It was only after the words left his lips that he realized how incredibly childish he sounded.
She had the supreme gall to smirk at him.
“Fine then, use your own broom and I'll use the Cleansweep, and the winner gets to determine what brooms we use for our next match,” she said.
Later, he would wonder why he agreed, since the usage of “next match” was part of her challenge to him. Yet, some stubborn part of him truly wanted to prove her wrong.
“You're on.”
X - X - X
She let the practice snitch loose and both took off into the cold spring sky, among the long shadows of the late afternoon. She flew the old broom efficiently, using her body to force the broom to change direction and speed at her bidding. At first, his lighter broom gave him the advantage as he pulled on the handle and kicked the tail around on their eager chase after the elusive snitch.
It was almost going to be too easy, he thought with a confident grin to himself.
Rocketing after the winged object, he passed her easily, but just as he reached his hand out to capture the prize, the snitch made a slight change in direction, slowing and dropping just out of range. He tried to force his broom to match the maneuver, but as he spun it around, it felt unstable, causing him to overturn, and sending him off in the wrong direction. He nearly lost his grip.
He expected his opponent, who was right on his tail, to immediately grab the object and end the game. Instead, she was next to him in an instant, her hand reaching toward him, but not touching him, until he'd steadied himself.
“What are you doing?” he shouted in no small amount of annoyance.
“I'm just making sure you don't fall. I don't want my client killed on the first day,” she said without any hint of malice. He narrowed his gaze at her, trying to figure out her motive, but then, the snitch reappeared just behind her, and he immediately turned to attempt another capture of the item.
Each turn seemed to take more strength than he was able to give, his arms began to feel heavy, and a cramp had started to pull at his abdomen. On the occasions when he was finally able to force the broom in the proper direction, he tended to shoot past his mark, unable to make fine adjustments in time to track the rapidly moving snitch. On at least three occasions, he nearly collided with various objects around the pitch. It felt like his broom had a mind of its own, fighting him at every movement.
All the while, Ginny Weasley hovered off his flank, seeming to be more interested in him than the elusive object of the game.
He was tiring quickly and sweating profusely, causing his grip on the broom to become slippery. He was also rapidly coming to the conclusion that his opponent was merely toying with him. He made one last grasp, once again missing the target, and when his broom neared the floor of the pitch, he decided he'd had enough. He slowed as best he could and dropped unceremoniously to the grass, breathing heavily.
He looked up to see Weasley hover over him for a long moment, before tearing off to her left. Less than a minute later, she reappeared with the snitch in hand.
Once he was able to catch is breath, he scowled at her, as she landed lightly next to him.
“You cheated.”
Her look was nothing short of condescending, as she stood over him while he remained sprawled on the ground, recovering. She, on the other hand, looked as if she'd exerted no effort at all.
“I did nothing of the sort. As I recall, you had the far superior broom.”
There was nothing more annoying than having his own advantage used against him. Internally, he allowed himself a moment to sulk, then, slowly, he hauled himself up to a sitting position and used whatever remaining energy he could muster to glare at her.
He had the distinct feeling that it had no effect on her at all. She simply gave him a rather fond smile, and he suddenly felt like he was a small child throwing a temper tantrum. It was horrifying.
She gave a deep sigh. “It's a simple matter of conditioning, Malfoy. You were out of shape, and, by now, you must realize that your broom is too much for you to handle.”
He commandingly brushed a stray lock of his ruffled hair out of his eyes. “I can handle it just fine. As you said, I've had four years without practice.” All right, now he sounded petulant, but this was important. And the tiny, little Weasley was intimidating him. It just wasn't right.
“And we need to work on building up your endurance. You barely lasted ten minutes on a light broom. How are you going to manage a two hour Quidditch match?”
He said nothing, but he did stick his lower lip out a bit in indignation.
“I'm here to help you, and believe it or not, I know what's best. You'll find out next time we practice,” she said with no small amount of conviction. “How's your schedule for Saturday morning? It should give you a day to recover from overdoing it tonight.”
His eyes widened in surprise. What? Saturday? He took a moment to attempt to comprehend the meaning of her words. He was supposed to be rid of her after this one practice, but then again, he was supposed to have beaten her, or, at the very least, put on a good show. The logic of the situation slowly caused him to come to the conclusion that he had not exactly succeeded.
“I never said there would be a next time, Weasley,” he replied, hoping that perhaps her facts differed in some way that would give him an opportunity to escape.
“Yes, you did. When we made the bet, remember? The winner gets to choose the brooms for next time.” She gave him an overly pleasant smile that made him feel an urge to vomit. He did agree to that, didn't he. But that was when he was still confident that he would win.
He settled for giving her a sour look.
“I'll just arrange it with your assistant, how's that?”
He continued to sulk, but pulled his bulky form upright, so that at least she was no longer staring down at him. “Fine,” he responded. At some point, he was going to show her who was the better player. Now that he'd recovered somewhat, he found that another chance might be in order.
“Good,” she said with a genuine smile, as she began to walk off the pitch with her elderly broom and more confidence than he could quite imagine.
At about that moment, he noticed that the outfit she wore was particularly well tailored, and that her arse looked rather nice in it. A small part of him hoped she would wear the same item again when they met on Saturday. He then considered chastising himself for that last thought, but decided against it. After all, he might as well gain some small amount of enjoyment from his time with the little witch.
She turned back to face him, and he was quite certain that he failed to hide the look of being caught thinking of something naughty. She smiled at him. “And I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. We have a lot to talk about.”
And with that, she turned and marched off the pitch, the red gold light of the setting sun making her look like she was made of pure fire.
- - -
The next day, Draco was miserable. Completely and utterly mad with misery and loss of control and, well, hunger. All right, not exactly hunger, but certainly a craving for his favorite muffin.
It had all started with breakfast that morning. Such a simple event, he thought. He only went because Edwina had put it in his schedule, and he found it best to not give her cause to reschedule things as it made her rather irritable.
His original plan to prove himself to Weasley had failed spectacularly. He was loathe to admit that he possibly really did need someone to help him train if he intended to participate in the charity Quidditch tournament. He also fully considered avoiding the event entirely. Unfortunately, Edwina had already sent the owl to the event organizers stating that he would be happy to participate, so backing out would appear a bit embarrassing.
The question was: even if he really needed help, why did it have to be Weasley?
He gave a deep sigh and walked into the Elfin Delight, looking forward to forgetting last night's debaucle by sampling a few of the establishment's famous pancakes.
Finding Weasley easily enough, he sat down in the booth across from her, barely suppressing a deep groan of pain. It seemed that the exertion from the short flight the previous evening had caused every muscle in his body to ache with a fierce intensity. Even the potion he'd taken to dull the pain hadn't been able to relieve the stiffness in his arms. He also noted that lifting the cup of coffee that the waitress placed in front of him seemed to take a concerted effort.
"A bit sore this morning?" Weasley asked, lifting one eyebrow at him in a teasing manner.
"No need to gloat," he muttered, picking up the menu to peruse its contents.
"I'm not gloating. It's to be expected, since you've been away from training for so long. I just need to know how badly so I can work out a proper plan for you."
He looked at her sourly.
"Pretty much everything, then," she stated, taking out a small notebook and marking something down.
The waitress returned with two plates of food, setting them down in front of each of the table's occupants. Draco paused for a brief moment to confirm that, indeed, he had not yet put in his order, and, even if he had, it would likely not resemble what was on the plate currently in front of him.
He opened his mouth to tell the waitress exactly that, but before a sound left his lips, he heard Weasley interrupt. "I took the liberty of ordering for both of us."
He looked across the table and the Weasley was unfolding her napkin and smiling sweetly at him. By the time he looked back toward the waitress, she had already departed the area.
"This is not what I would have ordered," he stated flatly.
"No, but, it's what you should have ordered," she replied. "Remember, we talked about a proper diet to improve your performance."
Somehow, her remark sounded suspiciously like an innuendo. He looked rapidly about to see if anyone had overheard her.
"Do you mind keeping your voice down?"
She began carving into the grapefruit on her plate and gave the tiniest chuckle, having had the good grace to at least not look at him while laughing at him.
"Weasley..." he said, his voice taking on a decidedly ominous tone.
"Sorry."
Not that he minded the fruit so very much, except he would have liked it more if it had been served on top of a few pancakes, but the pink goo served on the side...that was something else entirely. It looked remarkably like a failed potions experiment. He prodded at it for some time before Weasley took note of his action.
"Why are you playing with your yogurt?"
"It has a name?"
She tilted her head and that mildly amused smile came to her features again. He put down is spoon, placed his elbow firmly on the table, resting his chin on the palm on his hand, while his other hand drummed his fingers on the table impatiently, waiting for her to explain. And, then, just for good measure, he raised an eyebrow at her.
She closed her eyes and visibly fought back a laugh before she spoke.
"You need dairy. It has calcium. It's... It's just good. Eat it."
"I'm not eating it, Weasley. It looks like it just crawled out of an old cauldron to die."
The amused expression left her face. "Just try it,” she said, somewhat firmly.
An overwhelming desire to be belligerent came over him as he watched her practically command him to eat something he didn't want to eat. He didn't care how persuasive her expression was, with her lips pursed and a stubborn gleam in her eye. He could be more stubborn than anyone, and he intended to prove it immediately.
"No," he replied, leaning back in his chair, and crossing his arms in front of him, feeling just a bit pleased with himself.
She gave a sigh, and shook her head with a bit of resignation. He felt like he's won a small battle, at least for the moment. Unfortunately, the moment was disappointingly brief.
"Well, I expected something like this. I'm disappointed in you," she said, leaning out of the booth and glancing about the restaurant, as if looking for someone. Seemingly having located that person, she looked back at him just a bit too confidently.
"I'm afraid I'll have to resort to plan B."
"Plan B?" he asked, feeling his triumph fizzle away in a rather painful manner. He looked in the direction she seemed to indicate and, there, seated just around the corner and out of his direct line of sight, was Harry Potter.
"Should I invite him over to talk about what fun the Quidditch match will be?" she asked, and he did not fail to notice the little gleam in her eye. Voldemort might have learned a thing or two from this one. The witch was truly evil.
He glared at her.
"Eat the yogurt, Malfoy."
And, with complete and utter defeat, he ate the yogurt. It actually tasted rather good, but, again, it was the principle of the matter. She made him do it, and there was something inherently wrong about that.
But, that was yesterday morning. Now, mid-afternoon of his second day of dieting, he sat at his desk, drumming his fingers as he attempted to devise a clever way of defeating the red-headed menace.
The Weasley had descended into nearly every aspect of his life. His lunch had been pre-ordered, with far too much salad for his liking, and when he'd gone home, he found that his house elves had been given strict instructions as well. And it included way too many green things. There was only so much fiber a man could be asked to ingest, after all.
He tried to complain to his mother, but, apparently, she agreed with the instructions and ordered him to eat his vegetables.
And, with that, he was convinced: It was an absolute conspiracy.
Author notes: Nothing big... hope you enjoyed. As always, your comments, good and bad are very much valued. Even if you hate my work, please let me know why (in a nice detailed intelligent way, please)
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