Chapter Two: Unnerved

-

Draco Malfoy hid.

He was in Harry Potter's body, amongst the people who presumably knew Harry Potter best – his bloody roommates in the bloody Gryffindor dorm. Upon being confronted by a very angry Ronald Weasley – Where in blazes have you been? the red-haired boy had demanded hotly, sounding remarkably like an irate housewife – the Slytherin had opted for the only sensible thing to do: surrender his spot.

"I – I, uh... Exhausted..." he had mumbled incoherently, shocked at hearing Potter's voice, thick from sleep and true exhaustion, coming from his own throat.

Taking two steps back he had stumbled into Potter's bed, not meeting any of the eyes that were on him. An automatic flick of the unknown wand had drawn the scarlet drapes around the bed, mercifully shielding him from view.

He doesn't know it's me - they don't know it's me! Weasley and Longbottom think I'm Potter. But HOW-

Despite the roar of his own frazzled thoughts bouncing around in his head, Draco could distinctly hear the Weasley boy's exasperated sigh on the other side of the curtain, and the way Finnigan continued to snore like a Muggle engine on its last throes.

The relief he'd felt at knowing he hadn't been discovered vanished as the sheer reality of the situation began to sink in; this was really happening. What was worse, he had no idea why or how to fix it.

"Harry," Weasel whispered insistently, sticking his brightly colored head in between the curtains. He brought his face so close that the Slytherin felt he could count every single freckle. "Where have you been – What's going on? Why won't you let us help?"

Draco closed his eyes.

Maybe if I just lay here he'll leave, he thought fervently.

And then he felt the mattress sink under the weight of another body. His eyes flipped open.

Ha! I KNEW it! part of him snarled triumphantly, while the rest of him cringed at the prospect of the homoerotic moment that would no doubt follow. He lay there tensely, ready to jump out of bed if need be.

If he kisses me, he's done for, Draco promised.

But what Weasley said next made him slowly relax.

"Hermione and I have been worried sick! You've been acting so strange lately...Harry, you're up to something, we know it. And where have you been sleeping, anyway? You look like shite, mate... We've been looking all over for you. Hermione got caught out of bed by Snape and now she has two detentions with him...we lost more points..."

Closing his eyes, Draco processed the flood of information, too tired and too unnerved to rejoice at that last part.

If Potter was being weird that gave him some room to maneuver; at least until he could find a way to get out. The main thing was not to get discovered.

He was surprised at his own clarity of mind, at his calmness. His body – Potter's body, he corrected himself – was depleted, but he felt more alert than he'd ever been in his entire life.

Merlin's balls, Finnigan snores like an old cow, some part of him observed with a flicker of irritation. Weasley, get on with it...

"Harry, what's going on? You keep saying you can't tell us, but we can help – whatever it is. It's like you don't even trust us anymore..."

Yes, yes... Do you have any theories?

"You've been acting so strangely since Dumbledore left...I think it must be something he told you...something about V-Voldemort?" The redhead stumbled on the dreaded name and Draco winced at hearing it spoken out loud.

He waited, but Weasley added nothing more.

The silence stretched on between them, and the Slytherin realized it was up to him to put an end to the conversation.

"I'm... sorry," he said at last, staring fixedly at the ceiling. "I really can't tell you anything now...you'll just have to trust me on this."

"But Harry –"

" – And now I'm afraid I'll need to be excused," Draco cut in, turning on his side, "I am dreadfully exhausted..."

He could feel Weasley's surprised stare on the back of his head. He'd just experienced the Narcissa Malfoy dismissal, and it never failed.

Draco remained silent, stubbornly entrenched in Potter's bed until the red-haired boy gave up and left. There he lay, drifting in and out of a deep, exhausted sleep, until he could no longer hear any sounds in the room, until even the lazy Irish wanker, Finnigan, had finally gotten up and joined the others in search of breakfast.

It was then that Draco emerged, cautiously, one foot at a time, feeling like the last human being left on the face of the Earth after some catastrophe of nuclear - nay, apocalyptic - proportions.

What in Salazar's name had happened, he wondered for the hundredth time, patting himself all over with disbelieving hands.

He faced Longbottom's mirror again, his hand automatically going to the lightning bolt-shaped scar that branded the high forehead. It was surprisingly smooth.

Okay - What was the big deal?

Draco scoffed in spite of himself.

(And here it must be said, for it is indeed true, that Draco did pause a moment to slip a calloused hand under the band of his jeans, groping about with some interest. His hand secured around its target, and he snorted. Well that explains a lot...)

More interesting to him were the twin scars on the backs of Potter's hands that read, if one squinted at them enough: 'I must not tell lies' on the left hand and 'I will not break rules' on the right.

He flexed the short fingers, spreading the hands and staring at them for some moments. Then he met the bright green eyes of Potter in the mirror, making a cursory inspection of the admittedly handsome, if unexceptional, features.

He was in truly deep troll dung.

For, he realized, this was not his own body disguised as Potter's by means of potions and charms. Part of him had understood from the beginning that he was indeed occupying Potter's body – HOW? Why? Who could have possibly – HOW? Where was Potter now? Where was his own body?

Tearing his eyes away from the awful reflection in the mirror, Draco ran his hands through the thick, unruly hair that now crowned his head. His heart accelerated almost painfully – he could almost feel it fluttering in his throat – but he refused to panic.

He was, like in all else, completely on his own in this predicament, he knew. It was up to him to make sense of this and fix it; he mustn't panic and he mustn't be rash.

Looking around the room, he decided to begin by doing the most obvious thing: the Slytherin made a thorough search of all the contents of the trunk at the foot of the bed and the cabinet by its side. Few things were particularly interesting; if his belongings were anything to go by, for a person so celebrated and discussed Harry Potter was surprisingly boring.

Of note was a blank piece of parchment found under the thick mattress. Draco examined it carefully, convinced it was magical in some way.

"Specialis Revelio," he murmured, waving his wand over it.

He watched, mystified, as ink lines appeared over the previously smooth parchment. Words formed, but Draco had to push the parchment nearly up to his nose in order to make them out – his eyes seemed to be still blurry.

He nearly toppled over in shock when he was at last able to read what had appeared.

Nice try, little dragon. Now run along to your dungeon.

Draco swore under his breath as the words disappeared, fading as if they'd never been there at all. The parchment knew him, knew he was Draco, even in Potter's body.

What in Salazar's name was this?

He'd have to find out later. Pocketing the rolled up parchment, Draco looked around the room one last time. No stone had been left unturned, so to speak, but he'd learned nothing. Certain people would kill to be in his position, but they'd be disappointed to find that there were no letters, no diaries, no dirty secrets – nothing really personal to be found here.

As he exited Harry Potter's room still very much in possession of Harry Potter's body, Draco Malfoy took notice of all the things that as the son of a prominent Death Eater were his duty and he was neglecting to do. He turned these things around in his mind, contemplating them in exactly the same way an old lady examines fruit at a market that she knows she has no intention of buying.

Maybe this was all a big test... In that case he was determined to fail resoundingly; it occurred to him that if he had been singled out, perhaps this was why. If someone had detected this in him then his character was more flawed than even Lucius suspected.

How like your mother.

The thought caused a tiny hurt, like an ant bite might. He let it lie still in his mind, refusing to prod it further, concentrating instead on another angle; no use being paranoid.

As things were, something like this could only serve to lessen his family's already precarious standing within the ranks of Voldemort. No one could ever know that this had happened to him, and that was as much his goal as recovering his own body.

Squaring his shoulders, Draco gave Potter's face one last glance as he exited the room.

OOO

Unlike the – appropriately – serpentine maze that was Slytherin, Gryffindor's lay out was straightforward enough and thus easy to navigate. Following the only corridor to its end led Draco to what was obviously the common room: a large and well lit room full of average quality furniture and done in – what else? – red and gold.

There was one person here, female, from what Draco could distinguish, sitting at a desk by one of the fireplaces, quill in hand. An assortment of books and a wide piece of parchment was laid out before her. He was unable to make out her features until he walked by her, at which time he realized that she was staring straight up at him.

And you are...?

Draco paused; he nearly had to press his face up to hers in order to get a good look – what was wrong with his eyes, for Merlin's sake?

Her large, amber brown eyes were eyes fixed on his face curiously in turn, but she remained unmoving as he inspected her, their faces inches apart.

Her hair was of a vibrant auburn shade, hanging loosely in unbroken waves down to her waist. She had a pretty, distinctive sort of face, dusted by freckles and dominated by large eyes and plump lips. She was staring at him so intensely that he wondered if he'd have to fend off the sexual advances of a Weasley, after all.

This time the prospect was not so unpleasant, for this was obviously girl Weaseley; the one with the fine rack and killer curves, the one with the mean Grip Roll, the one with the hand-me-downs (from whom, exactly if she was the only girl?) – in short, the one known as 'Ginny', or something equally inane... (Oh, who was he kidding? He knew perfectly well what her name was.)

All things considered, if one had to be assaulted by a Weasley, this would be the one you'd want, for sure.

They continued to stare at each other in silence for some moments, until finally she blinked.

"Harry...What are you doing?" she inquired calmly, their faces so close together that he could feel her warm breath on his face. "And where are your glasses?"

Glasses?

Draco mentally kicked himself. No wonder everything was so blurry; Potter was blind as a fucking bat.

"Accio, glasses!" he muttered, extending his hand.

The Weasley girl's fine eyebrows arched slightly but she made no comment as Draco caught the hideous things in his hand, hesitating briefly before putting them on. He felt like a complete wanker, but his vision instantly improved.

"Thanks," he said absently, pocketing Potter's wand. Giving an awkward and hopefully Potter-like wave, he turned towards the nearest exit.

This time the Weasley girl's eyebrows shot all the way up unchecked, but Draco's back was to her and he missed it. He was, however, in prime position to catch the hysterical giggling of the two girls coming down the stairs he'd been about to mount in the assumption of reaching ground level.

"Harry!" one of them – Padma Patil's twin, in fact – exclaimed, reproval and elation unmistakable in her voice. "Did you lose something up in the girls' dorm?"

They erupted into simultaneous peals of laughter once again, and Draco, now aware of the redheaded girl's eyes burning into his back, resolved to remain nonchalant.

"You know, I've always been curious..." he said, glancing in the direction of the stairs and turning to give them a small wink. "I was hoping one of you ladies might be willing to show me around."

"Harry Potter!" Lavender Brown squealed, flushing with pleasure and perhaps true abashment. They burst into giggles once again, and Draco stepped aside to let them pass, inclining his head slightly.

The girls went off arm in arm, whispering to each other and turning to shoot what could only be described as simultaneously calculating and embarrassed looks in his direction. Draco observed covertly as they exited through the back of a portrait frame hanging on the opposite wall. Aha.

"Harry! You're back!...And what in Merlin's name was that about?" demanded a female voice from behind him.

Draco turned to find the always anxious-looking Hermione Granger, arms full of books and shock written all over her features.

Great. Her.

What was her problem?

As far as he knew, Granger and Weasel were some kind of an item, so it wasn't like she had any actual claim on Potter. And yet here she was, glaring at Draco, the fact that she condemned his actions plain as day. Even Weasley was glaring at him. Jeez, what was wrong with these women?

"You've been acting so strangely lately, Harry, I swear..." Granger was saying.

"Listen,Gr – her...Her-mione! Her-mione," he said quickly, managing to stumble both times on the name, "it's not like I'm marrying those skanks or something, I was was just trying to be nice."

Granger and Weasley stared at him, their mouths all but hanging open.

Right.

Draco decided that this meeting had gone on long enough. "Well... I'm starving. Later, witches." He made to walk in the direction of the portrait, but Granger's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Harry, calm down. We're all starving. I've been in the library since this morning and haven't had a chance to – "

Draco, who hated being told to "calm down" when he was calm already, felt a flicker of irritation as the girl went on to describe her morning's itinerary. He tuned out the annoying bint.

He had a sense of urgency, a need to get out of Gryffindor territory. And did this Mudblood seriously expect him to hang out with her while he was stuck here?

" – and then Professor Snape gave me double detention, which I deserve, seeing as I was out of bed at an inappropriate time, but I – "

"– Well if we're all starving, how about we run along then?" Draco cut in impatiently.

The girls exchanged looks before looking back at him. More than Granger's obvious surprise, the intent way the Weasley girl's eyes were fixed on him made him feel unnerved.

Was there something distinctly un-Potter-like in the things he'd said? Draco realized he'd have to pay more attention to these small interactions. So far he'd been earning himself a lot of odd looks from the women. Perhaps he should...calm down.

OOO

Several people greeted "Harry" as they made their way to the Great Hall, and Draco managed to not roll his eyes at their obvious sucking up. He had to admit he'd had no idea Potter was so popular.

The Gryffindor girls walked beside him, not engaging in any type of chatter amongst themselves. Draco, who was used to the Slytherin girls' incessant babbling when in confidence, found this odd. Maybe they weren't close?

"Where have you been, anyway?" Granger asked him in hushed tones. She turned her body as if she intended for the Weasley girl not to hear, though the girl in question was walking right beside them.

"I can't tell you," Draco murmured, his eyes wandering from face to face. He wasn't sure what exactly he was looking for, but he felt nervous, expectant.

They arrived at the Gryffindor table and he seated himself at what he knew was Potter's usual place, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. It was unnerving to not sit at his own table, at his own place. This whole thing was exactly that: unnerving.

Draco scanned the Slytherin table from where he sat, but no one important was there.

"Have some cantaloupe," Granger said from beside him, holding out a platter.

"I hate that," he said automatically, wrinkling his nose against the particular odor; no amount of good breeding could keep him from expressing his various degrees of disdain towards certain foods. He was, in a word, picky.

"What? Since when?" Granger said, laughing her annoying little laugh. "You love cantaloupe! It's your favorite..."

Draco stared at the pale, unappetizing fruit. The smell of it always made him faintly nauseous.

"It's very fresh," she continued, spearing a few pieces and dumping them on his plate.

"Merlin's pants, woman. Keep to your own plate, will you?" he snapped, scanning the Slytherin table once more.

"Harry, you need to eat," Granger said with finality, ignoring his request and serving him more cantaloupe. "You're so cranky lately..."

"Yeah, Harry," the Weasley girl interjected, spoon in hand, "are you on your period again?"

"Really, Ginny!" Granger snorted.

Draco glared at the pretty redhead, who was sitting on the other side of Granger. Her spoon hung in mid-air and again her brown eyes were on his, questioning.

He automatically thought of a dozen different comebacks, all of which involved comments on her hair, her family name, her poverty and her lack of class – all of which would have immediately denounced him for what he was. He held his tongue.

Pretending to ignore her once again – which was completely consistent with Potter's behavior, he thought darkly – Draco turned back to the Slytherin table.

He couldn't have explained why, but all the while he was half dreading the moment when he would see himself come in and take his place at the table – he hadn't allowed the thought to take proper shape in his mind, but the fear of it was there, pulsing underneath the surface of his consciousness.

And finally it happened... There it was; his body. Tall, lean, impeccably dressed in gray slacks and a black turtleneck jumper. His white-blond hair was sleeked back away from his face. His fine, handsome features were arranged into an expression of indifference, and his movements were poised; he carried himself with a careless sort of grace.

Several thoughts surfaced in Draco's mind – the first, the more prominent, was the instant understanding of something he had somehow known all along; that was Harry Potter there, in a Draco suit. Somehow they had been exchanged.

Beneath that shocking certainty was the sudden realization of how much he resembled Lucius. His face, young and angular, was softened by Narcissa's contribution, which was evident in the large eyes and the full, shapely lips; soft, pleasing shapes in an otherwise sharply defined profile.

All that remained was a blueprint of Lucius Malfoy, as if he'd been commissioned to be a miniature scale rendition of the man, only to fully develop into him later. He was of a lighter build than his father, but there was something about the elegant, broad shoulders that hinted that perhaps in time he would become well muscled and imposing in the same way his father was now.

Was this what he really looked like to others, he wondered? Was this really him?

He was certainly very handsome – he'd been made conscious of that fact long ago. But he also looked like a bloody prick, arrogance clear in every gesture, every movement. He had not decided to be this way, not consciously, at least. It suited him.

And who else could it be but Harry Potter himself occupying the body, making it move and speak and bring the goblet to its lips. Draco didn't know how he knew, but he was willing to bet his life on that fact.

Potter seemed to be doing marvelously, and Draco wondered if the Gryffindor had studied him. He wondered if he was enjoying it.

Did this mean that he was behind this somehow?

Potter had stubbornly refused to look in his direction so far, but he would. He would have to, Draco knew. He would wonder. He would want to see for himself that Draco was indeed there, that he had kept the secret. That he hadn't done anything rash, like owl his parents, like owl the Dark Lord, perhaps.

Potter knew. They both did.

And then it happened: his own slate gray eyes gazed at him coldly from across the room, and Draco felt a shiver run down his spine.

Yes, I'm here, you bastard.

It was Potter who broke eye contact, turning the blond head a fraction so that his own body would no longer be in his line of sight.

For a moment Draco considered doing something rash, like gouging one of Potter's eyes out with the butter knife. Like owling the Malfoy estate.

And yet he knew he would do no such thing. For the moment, Draco Malfoy sat at the Gryffindor table, his hand gripping a piece of plain toast, and quietly seethed.

OOO

He'd posted a note to "Draco Malfoy" after breakfast using a nondescript barn owl, but had so far received no replies. Beyond that, there was nothing for him to do but wait; Potter had retreated into Slytherin, and there was no way Draco could follow in this body.

He had managed to shrug off Potter's friends during most of the day by hiding in the library and grounds, but he couldn't run forever.

"How about a round of Wizard's Chess, Harry?" Weasley asked hopefully, glancing up from his parchment.

"No," Draco snapped, not bothering to look at him.

He now sat in one of the surprisingly comfortable armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, head thrown back against the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The redhead had come to collect him from his most recent hiding place – Potter's canopy bed – where he had entrenched himself to consider his options, and demanded that he joined them in the common room.

Fearful of appearing even more out of character, Draco had let himself be towed along. He could still sulk in the common room, he found; nobody appeared to be particularly surprised.

"Harry, aren't you going to work on that Potions essay due Monday?" Granger inquired, looking up from her own work.

Draco ignored her, fixing his eyes on the cheerfully burning fire. For the hundredth time, his mind turned over his current situation from every possible angle. The fact remained his options were few; Blaise Zabini was by far the only person he could come close to trusting in Slytherin, and confiding in him regarding this predicament was completely out of the question; Slytherin was Slytherin, you never knew what people would use against you. The stakes were simply too high.

He was on his own in this, and he had no idea what to do.

In truth, there was no one he could turn to – especially not his parents. Draco never thought he'd ever feel so completely and utterly alone.

"Hey," a voice said, tearing him out of his thoughts. "Want a chocolate frog?"

It was one of those mousy photographer brothers, something or other Creevey. Small and thin, the boy stood before him with a wan smile, a still wrapped chocolate frog on his outstretched hand.

Draco stared up at him, unmoved.

"No."

The boy's face fell, and Draco felt a perverse sort of satisfaction.

"Can I have it, Dennis?" the Weasley girl said gently.

Draco glanced past the Creevey boy's, his eyes once again clashing with hers. She was looking at him almost accusingly from where sat with her parchments, her bright hair reflecting the light of the fire as if it too were made of flames.

The Slytherin would have smirked at her, but there was something about the way she was looking at him that he found disconcerting. Once again choosing to ignore her, he turned away and stared at the flickering flames.

OOO

Harry, we love you. We believe in you! read the note a Hufflepuff had pressed into his hand. You can do it!

Draco stared at the childish scrawls before crumpling the piece of paper.

He was into his second day in Potter's body without a clue as to how he'd gotten there or how he would get out.

He'd gotten up early in order to avoid Potter's friends, but that meant he hadn't seen himself at breakfast either. What was worse, his maneuver hadn't worked. It seemed the remaining two thirds of the Dream Team were intent on keeping tabs on him – Draco wasn't surprised when he encountered Weasley and Granger waiting for him at the end of the corridor.

"Are you coming to Hogsmeade or not?" Weasley demanded, blocking his way.

"Or not," Draco retorted shortly, sidestepping Weasley easily and ignoring the brown-haired girl beside him as he walked by.

"Wait!" she snapped, turning on her heel and following after him. "I'm tired of this, Harry! We have to talk."

"I'M NOT YOUR PRECIOUS HARRY! DROP DEAD, YOU SILLY BINT!" he wanted to scream in her face, but managed to keep walking in the direction of the pitch.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, grabbing him by the sleeve and causing him to come to a standstill. "I'm talking to you! What's going-"

"ARGH! LEAVE ME BE!" Draco shouted, releasing himself from her grip. He so seldom raised his voice that to do so now felt exhilarating and tremendously wrong all at once.

Granger stared at him in shock. Her eyes looked enormous, gleaming with anger and sorrow.

"Don't shout at her," Weasley said in a low voice, placing himself between Draco and Granger. They stared at each other for a moment, until Draco realized it was time to capitulate.

"I apologize," he murmured, breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself.

Granger was blinking rapidly, looking everywhere but at him.

"Would you both please...I'll speak to you when I'm ready." He didn't wait for their reply before turning and continuing on his way.

He stepped outside and automatically headed in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, grateful for the cool air of early fall that filled his lungs, the crunch of dry leaves beneath Potter's sneakers, the open space and the absence of humans to be careful of.

It was a fine day, chill with the promise of winter, crisp and sunny with the sun blazing overhead. Without even thinking of it he broke into a light run, leaving the trail behind and choosing to pick his own path on the bright green grass of the lawns that led to the pitch. He circled around, running effortlessly, feeling the muscles of this body respond to his command.

That bastard Potter was fit, no doubt; Draco had barely broken into a sweat. He imagined the Dark Lord running laps around the pitch and snorted.

When he reached the pitch Draco saw that there were others here already. Judging by the bright red banner of hair waving in the cool breeze, it was the Weasley girl up on one of the brooms. She watched as Romilda Vane and Euan Abercrombie, also Chasers for Gryffindor, did rolls on their brooms.

"Romi, lean in on the right turn," Weasley was calling out, just as she spotted Draco.

Their eyes met briefly, but they did not acknowledge each other.

"Hey, Harry!" called Vane, coming out of one of her rolls.

"Further in on your right turn," Draco snapped, for indeed the Weasley girl was right – she was coming up short.

He continued to jog easily, effortlessly, enjoying the demand on his muscles, the way his lungs moved air in and out. Occasionally he would look up, and he saw that the Chasers continued to work on their exercises under the supervision of Weasley, who would occasionally demonstrate a move.

She was good. There was no doubt about it. Great, even. She was every bit as good as her brothers had been, the formidable Weasley twins. Quidditch was the only thing the Weasleys could command respect in, he mused.

Watching her, Draco felt like flying, felt like mounting a broom and kicking up, up, up. He decided to do just that. Jogging up to the broom shack, he opened it an examined what was available to him. The broom in best condition was a Comet 260, by far inferior to his Firebolt, but it would have to do.

Draco mounted and took to the sky, feeling the same vague elation he'd experienced many years before, the first time he'd ever gotten on a broom. The feeling had never faded for him.

He flew in a wide, fast arch around the pitch, faster and faster until the cold wind burned his cheeks and his eyes watered. For the first time in what felt like ages he was able to forget his predicament, if only for the moment.

"Oi! How about a game?" called Abercrombie eagerly, bringing Draco out of his reverie.

He looked back at the group, noticing the way the Weasley girl's eyes were on him. What a curious way to look at someone; it was as if she were seeing him for the first time, almost as if she were waiting to be introduced.

It's true, he had exchanged a manner of charged glances with her over the years – in a way, there was an unspoken little something between them that Draco would never have admitted to out loud. But as she had no way of knowing this was him now, in all probability her covert glances were because she'd never gotten over her well-publicized crush on Potter in her first year.

In that case, Draco surprised himself thinking, she really was a twit and Potter was more of an idiot than he'd initially assumed.

Breaking eye contact with the redhead, he hovered opposite the Gryffindors now. "Girls against boys?"

This was fair, he knew. Romilda Vane was a better flyer than Abercrombie.

"Fine," Weasley replied.

She gracefully swooped down to the ground, where the box with the Quidditch gear awaited. Picking out a Quaffle and a Bludger, and tossed the bats to the other Gryffindors and the Quaffle to Draco.

"Think you can handle being a Chaser?" she shot at him, as he caught the Quaffle in one hand.

Draco smirked. He enjoyed being Chaser much more than Seeker. And, if he was honest with himself, he was better at it too. Weasley wouldn't know what hit her.

OOO

"Are you sure you can walk?" he inquired, looking at her doubtfully.

A bump the size of an ostrich egg was growing on the side of her forehead. She looked like crap, in all honesty.

The girl attempted a nod, but she staggered and her right hand went up to her forehead.

Draco arched a brow. "Hop on my broom," he commanded, and after a second of hesitation she complied, wobbling slightly.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny!" Abercrombie said for the fifth time, "I didn't mean to, I didn't expect it to clip you on the head like that..."

Draco snorted.

"Put this stuff away," he instructed the Gryffindors, slipping easily into the familiar role of Quidditch captain. "I'll fly her to the infirmary."

He turned to look at the still dazed girl perched on the broom behind him. Her brown eyes met his before he looked away, turning to face the front again.

"Weasley, put your arms around me like you've always wanted. Can't have you falling off."

"Excuse me – " she began hotly, but was silenced as he abruptly kicked up. Her hands immediately snaked around his waist.

Draco smirked.

He'd enjoyed himself immensely, there was no denying. It had been so long since he'd just played Quidditch. Nothing to lose or gain, just play – and with a worthy adversary, at that. She played like a man, this one did. She gave it her all and there was no need to hold back, to be gentle. Heck, if he tried any of that stuff she'd fly circles around him with her eyes closed.

"You're a good flyer," he said quietly, and she was silent for so long that Draco thought the wind might have carried his words away. He didn't know why he'd gone and said that, anyway.

"Why Harry," she murmured finally, just as quietly, "you make it sound like you've never been Chaser to me before."

Draco took in her words in silence, narrowing his eyes slightly. He would have turned to look into her face, had he not known he'd find her eyes, like twin pools of the lightest amber, calmly gazing back at him.