Warning: This fic has a snarky Draco with a major potty mouth. Please slow down and turn around if this type of thing offends. Draco's character and the humor in this fic were meant to amuse, not abuse. Thanks.
AN: I have decided to post my experimental, pre-HBP fic, Quidditch, here. "Experimental" in that it is written in a style very different from my usual and saved from the delete button after chapter two by the wise advice of ladyendymion. Give it a try, and I think you'll find it is not your typical Quidditch fic! Enjoy.
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Chapter 1
A Fucking Pickup Game of Quidditch, For Gods Sake
He didn't remember how it started, but that Saturday afternoon in late September, he found himself in the middle of a blood and guts, no holds barred, pickup Quidditch match. The Gryffindor and Slytherin teams, exchanging the practice field, had gotten into a confrontation. Crabbe and Goyle were shouting obscenities and taunts at the Weasel King. The Weasel yelled back with Scarhead somewhere in between, as usual. The next thing he knew fourteen brooms had taken to the pitch, flying furiously in all directions, no referee in sight.
Of course it had been a bloody stupid thing to do, but damn if he was going to be the one to put a stop to it. The last time he looked there was no sign reading 'Hufflepuff' emblazoned across his forehead. Fifteen minutes into the game, Crabbe and Goyle, flying in tandem, took out Jack Sloper, the Gryffindor Beater. Potty was circling the pitch 180 degrees from him, both Seekers searching frantically for the Snitch, hoping to end the insanity with a touch of glory. Weasel wasn't doing such a bad job today. He had only let in five scoring Quaffles, so far.
Then, blazing in from out of nowhere, Zacharias Smith, the notorious Hufflepuff do-gooder and uninvited guest, took Sloper's position. Things went from ugly to worse. The Slytherin Beaters started colliding with the Gryffindor Chasers, locking broom handles, and elbowing opponents shamelessly. Meanwhile, the Slytherin Chasers, in an illegal tandem, fought their way to the Weasel King. Once there, Zabini crammed the Quaffle through the goal post while Nott held the Weasel's broom from behind. These antics did nothing other than further enrage the Gryffindor Team, who began to return the play, in kind. It was nothing short of a miracle that no one whipped out a wand, at least not yet. Yes, it was a grand display of wizarding sportsmanship at its finest.
That's when he saw it, fluttering twenty feet from him, and all the shouting and name calling in the background faded, as his focus narrowed to that singularly beautiful sight. The Golden Snitch was darting around, taunting him, whizzing through the air. He leaned into his broom, lying flush against its handle, diving straight toward the ground, one gloved hand outstretched. He felt Potter half a step behind. How he would love to grab that Snitch right out from under that bloody Scarhead's nose for once.
All other flying on the pitch stopped. Twelve pairs of eyes were focused on the two Seekers diving recklessly for the ground.
Then he saw her, just out of the corner of his eye, in the outer rim of his peripheral vision. Her body hurdled forward from the impact of the Bludger against her small frame, that flaming red silk toppling over the handle of her broom. She was in a free fall, like a rag doll, her lithe frame turning over and over, her brilliant crimson hair ablaze all around.
Not understanding why, he pulled up sharply on his broom handle and veered ever so slightly to the left, opening his arms to catch her fall. When her body hit his arms, the impact nearly knocked him backward off his broom. He looked down at her, her delicate frame completely limp in his arms. He was surprised at how fragile and small she was. Her face was deathly pale. Its smattering of freckles mixed with the flowing crimson: crimson hair, crimson robes, crimson blood. She was unconscious and straining to breathe, taking harsh, raspy, shuddering breaths.
In one swift, fluid movement, he had them turned around and bolting off towards the castle as fast as his Firebolt could carry them. The scattered groups of students on the grounds and around the lake looked up to see a flash of green and red blazing toward the castle followed by a dozen other fast moving brooms, hot on their trail. He was acting on instinct more than anything else. Hell, he was no Healer, but he knew she needed help, immediate help.
She was in Madam Pomfrey's hands within seconds of his blasting a hospital wing window open with a hex and flying in. Several minutes after he hit the ward, a dozen other brooms came crashing in, one after another, much to the annoyance of Madam Pomfrey, who was now shouting orders for everyone to leave.
Then he was standing outside the hospital ward, leaning against the cold stone wall. His heart was pounding, his body tense, and his hands clenched tightly around the handle of his Firebolt. He was anxious and sweaty and finally remembered to breathe. He raked a trembling hand through his hair. She had been so pale and lifeless against his chest. He could still hear her desperate, raspy cries for air.
He was so immersed in his own thoughts that he didn't notice the mayhem that had erupted around him. The Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch Teams were on the brink of war. The Weasel King was barking accusations and insults at Crabbe. Potty was holding him back with the assistance of two other team members. A few seconds later, both sides had drawn their wands into striking position.
A tall, menacing figure in black robes stepped between the two teams and held up his hands.
"Put down your wands!' he roared. "That's 50 points from Slytherin, 100 points from Gryffindor, and 100 points from Hufflepuff for dueling in the castle corridors. If anyone would like to double that number of points, just let me know."
All wands immediately fell to the side. Professor Severus Snape's voice was dripping with disgust. "Everyone back to your houses. All Quidditch practices and games are suspended until further notice. Your Head of House will be dealing with you later."
Professor Snape looked over at Draco Malfoy, Head Boy, Captain and Seeker of the Slytherin Quidditch Team, leaning against the wall, his robes covered in blood. "Malfoy, come with me." He looked over at the Gryffindors, "Weasley, come with me as well. The rest of you, go!" He turned and swept into the hospital ward, black robes billowing behind him.
`That's the last goddamn time I do anything fucking noble again', Draco thought, storming out of the hospital ward and stalking down the corridors to the dungeons. Professor Snape had given him a month's worth of supervising detention for other Hogwarts students as punishment for the afternoon's events.
`I should have let the damn Gryffindor bint splatter all over the field'. He turned the next corridor, fuming, leather boots echoing as he dared anyone to step in his way. `At least that way, my Quidditch robes wouldn't have been soiled with her foul, Muggle-loving blood'.
The Slytherin was vaguely aware of the stares and whispers that met him on his way to the dungeons, but he was so involved in his own internal raging that he merely dismissed them.
He was a sight to behold. His lean frame still draped in his Quidditch robes with long black leather boots, protective leather shin and armbands, gloves, and his Firebolt hoisted over his shoulder. His hair was completely askew. His normally impeccably groomed Slytherin green Quidditch robes were covered in crimson red blood. His face and hands were also covered in flecks, specks, and spots of blood.
Now just outside of the Great Hall and heading towards the dungeons, the Slytherin could no longer ignore the growing crowd following him, gaping and whispering. He whirled around, drew to his full six feet and bellowed at the chattering crowd, "What the hell are you looking at?" A group of wide eyes and silent mouths greeted him. "Sod off," he roared, turned around, and escaped to the cool of the dungeons.
He was standing under the shower in his bathroom, watching the red tinged water swirl around and around and then down into the drain. His robes had been soaked. His hair, his face, and his skin were all covered in Muggle-loving blood. Did she have anything left in her? Merlin, he could even taste it in his mouth! He stopped for a moment, hearing her raspy cries for breath. Then he quickly continued his complete and thorough cleansing of his body.
When Draco strolled into The Great Hall for dinner that evening, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, he was his usual cool, calm, impeccably groomed self. Still, eyes followed him to the Slytherin table. Whispers were heard. Many at the Gryffindor table were staring, pointing, and talking. Draco had already spent a tense few minutes explaining his inexplicable actions to his teammates and housemates.
Of course it had been self-preservation, saving the little Weasel. It was a fucking pickup game of Quidditch, for gods sake. They didn't need a dead student. How many house points or cancelled Quidditch matches would one dead Weasel be worth? One was too many. A House Cup, perhaps? Too risky. Much better to save the girl than risk the consequences. His fast-talking had smoothed everything over with the Slytherins.
Every Slytherin, that was, except himself. He had no idea why he saved that little Weasel's neck, and at his own considerable expense at that. If only he could get the picture of her fragile, limp body, and straining breath out of his mind, he could just forget the whole thing and move on. He glanced over at the Gryffindor table. Scarhead, Weasel, and the Mudblood were huddled together, as usual, trying to save the whole goddamn world. He sighed and turned his attention back to his supper.
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Two weeks later, the little Weasel was back at the Gryffindor table eating breakfast with the trio. The Slytherin spotted her crass siren of red hair the moment she entered The Great Hall. This meant he still had two weeks left of his own detention for helping the chit. He was still fuming about the unfair punishment. Every other student there had gotten off with a mere firm talking to, three days detention, and a few house points. Just because he was Head Boy didn't mean he was responsible for every student's actions out there. He had saved the bint, hadn't he? Where was his fucking credit for that?
Having just lost his appetite, Draco stormed out of The Great Hall, leaving Crabbe and Goyle looking at his billowing robes in surprise. Ginny Weasley saw Draco Malfoy leave The Great Hall. Those at the Slytherin table, who knew him and knew the look he was wearing when he left, thought it best to leave him alone. But Ginny Weasley didn't know Draco or his seething look. She ran out of The Great Hall, chasing after him.
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AN: All reviews are appreciated! Thanks. fallenwitch
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