Quidditch

fallenwitch

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 08/10/2005
Last Updated: 17/11/2005
Status: completed

COMPLETED!!! Draco Malfoy inadvertently comes to Ginny Weasley's assistance during a game of Quidditch. The reverberations from his actions will rock his world for some time to come. Snarky Humor, Romance, and Psych 101 classes for all. "Where the hell was she? He glanced across The Great Hall continuously at breakfast and lunch the following day, until the cavernous room was nearly deserted, to no avail. Did Skele-Gro cause a complete loss of appetite as well? Had he dragged his arse out of bed at the crack of dawn and skived off half of Charms for nothing? Why was it when you didn't want a certain crass, Muggle-loving siren of a witch around, you couldn't beat her off with a broom, and when you actually went in search of her, she was nowhere to be found?"

Chapters

1. A Fucking Pickup Game of Quidditch, For Gods Sake

2. The Goddamn Month's Worth of Detention

3. The Furious Slytherin

4. Cursing His Package of Red Silk and Freckles

5. Call Off The Little Weaselette

6. A Dreamless Surrender

7. Just Win This Goddamn Game

8. The Bloody Witch Is A Danger To Herself

9. Never, Ever, Do Anything Like That Again

1. A Fucking Pickup Game of Quidditch, For Gods Sake

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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2. The Goddamn Month's Worth of Detention

Warning: The second Author's Note at the end of this chapter contains information regarding Draco's psychological state of mind. If this type of nonsense interferes with your enjoyment of the fic, I recommend skiving off.

Author's Note: I am posting two chapters today due to an earlier, technical difficulty I had posting on Portkey.

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Chapter 2

The Goddamn Month's Worth of Detention

She caught sight of his black robes heading down to the dungeons, walking at a brisk pace. She flew down the stairs in hopes of catching him. The stray Slytherin or two, heading up the stairs for a late breakfast, cast an odd glance at the sight of the Gryffindor in enemy territory on a Saturday morning.

"Draco!" she called, rushing down the stairs. He stopped, tense and irritable, and swung around, silver glaring. Ginny Weasley was rushing towards him in a sea of red silk and freckles, a look of innocent anticipation on her face.

Will this fucking nightmare never end? How do those Gryffindors tolerate all this bravery and nobility and all the crap that goes with it?

"Weasel," he snapped, poised tight as a snake ready to strike, when she approached him. Ginny smiled, stopping a moment to catch her breath.

He saw her straining to breathe, those raspy, agonizing cries for air. Her fragile, limp body against his chest. Her blood was everywhere...

"Thank you for the other day," she started, brown eyes shining up into his deathly frozen steel greys. "If you hadn't - "

"No, thank you, Weasel." She looked up at him, confused. "For the goddamn month's worth of detention your little stunt landed me. Don't play if you can't keep up with the big boys." Her mouth fell open, eyes wide with surprise and hurt. He spun around and continued down the stairs.

Ginny turned and ran up the dungeon stairs, accidentally bumping into Pansy Parkinson on the way out, eyes downcast and upset. "Excuse me," she muttered and kept on running. Pansy's eyes followed the Gryffindor up the staircase.

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The following Monday evening found the Slytherin stomping down the dungeon corridors to the Potions Laboratory to supervise Professor Snape's detention of a bunch of simpering first and second year nitwits. He threw open the large wooden door and strode to the front of the laboratory, glaring at the small group of students laying out their equipment and ingredients.

Draco said nothing, simply crossed his arms and leaned against a potions station, daring anyone to step out of line, ask a question, or drop a bottle of ingredients. Minutes later, a thin, wiry hand fell on his shoulder. Surprised, he looked up into the face of Professor Snape.

"Professor," he said, standing.

"Mr. Malfoy, it seems Miss Weasley has taken it upon herself to appeal your detention to Professor Dumbledore and myself. You are relieved of any further duties." Professor Snape then swept through the laboratory, looking at various potions, making cryptic comments here and there. Draco stood for a moment, dumbstruck, before composing himself, striding out of the laboratory and back to the Slytherin Common Room.

He sank into his chair in front of the fireplace, staring. Those huge brown eyes were staring back at him, surprised and injured. He stretched out his long legs and put a hand to his head.

She was pale and limp, gasping... so small and fragile against his chest...

He closed his eyes, as if that would stop it. His heart was pounding. He felt his body break out in a sweat, and his breathing became short.

"Draco!" His head shot up.

"Pansy," he said irritably before looking down again.

"I thought you were supervising Professor Snape's detention tonight. It started at seven."

"I'm well aware of the time,” he returned coolly. She sighed and sat down next to him, noting his odd posture, head bent in defeat.

"What's wrong?" she asked cautiously, watching his fallen face. She heard him sigh, slump further into his chair, and throw his head back. He was staring at some unknown mark on the ceiling, his eyes distant. She watched and waited for a few long minutes before rising and moving on. He was in no mood for company tonight.

Why had she gone to Dumbledore and Professor Snape? He had struck at her, wounded her, and taken pleasure in it. He enjoyed humiliating her. Why would she do such a thing for someone who loathed her, her entire family, and their very existence? He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

You saved her life, you incredibly stupid git.

Draco sucked in a deep breath, stood unsteadily, and walked out confused and cursing the day he ever decided to schedule that damn Quidditch practice session.

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Ginny Weasley nervously glanced over at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall a week later at supper. She was just able to make out the top of his head, spotting those uniquely platinum blond locks. Unable to see more, she turned away and reached for the plate of mashed potatoes.

He had seen the little Weasel scamper into the Great Hall a few minutes earlier. She now sat, flanked on all sides by a horde of Gryffindors, including the infamous trio. From his vantage point, he could see her dressed in a horrid rag that passed for a school robe. Her torrent of red hair was swept into two braids on either side of her face, her pale white skin setting off a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

Yes, Draco Malfoy had begun watching Ginny Weasley, watching her closely, with an intensity and scrutiny usually reserved for Potty or Weasel boy. He knew the tilt to her head, the heady laughter, the girlish whispering, and the swish of her slim hips. Ginny Weasley had been consuming more of his time and attention than he cared to admit. However, little did he know, this was just the beginning of her consumption of him.

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AN 1: Thanks for staying tuned. Please drop a review if you can.

AN 2: Draco is experiencing symptoms of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) as defined in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders DSM-IV-TR, that bible of psychiatric disorders. It is a syndrome in which a person who has been exposed to a traumatic event (one bloody, red-headed witch on the verge of death) experiences the following triad of symptoms:

1) Re-experiencing the trauma

2) Avoidance and numbing

3) Increased arousal (no, not that kind of arousal) - anger, irritability, difficulty sleeping, etc.

In this particular chapter, Draco's intrusive flashbacks, intense desire to avoid the little Weasel, as well as his heightened awareness of her are evidence of this. It does not, of course, explain his innate snarkiness, which is clearly not due to a psychiatric disorder but is more a statement of his innate temperament and personality. Psych 101 adjourned.

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3. The Furious Slytherin

Warning: The Author's Notes at the end of the chapter contain information on Draco's psychological state of mind. Please skive off if this is of no interest to you or interferes with your enjoyment of the fic.

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Chapter 3

The Furious Slytherin

Draco strode onto the Quidditch pitch stands, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. He sat, surrounded by various Slytherins, in the upper, middle section with a perfect view of the pitch. They were all gathered for a good show, the Gryffindor Quidditch Team practice.

It had become something of a tradition, since the Weasley King's addition to the team, to come and watch the occasional Gryffindor practice session bringing as much jeering and taunting as possible with them. Draco thoroughly enjoyed pissing off the Weasel.

Potty was much too experienced and skilled in playing the game, as well as tolerating the enormous amount of attention that came with it, to be bothered by their antics, but the Weasel boy was another matter altogether. He would become positively unglued.

Draco scanned the pitch for that familiar splash of red silk and freckles. They had several of their backup players on the pitch as well. He methodically went through each team member and was surprised to find she was missing. He checked again. Potty was shouting orders and began running a series of drills.

Amid the random jeer or taunt thrown by the Slytherins at the Weasel King, Draco scanned the stadium. On the opposite side of the stands, halfway up, was that package of red silk and freckles, sitting alone, staring out at the pitch. Draco followed her line of vision. She was staring at Potty directing the team practice.

"Draco, look at The Weasel!" Pansy yelled, nudging him. Draco turned to see a red-faced Weasel dangling by one tense hand from his broom, several team members rushing to his rescue. This was met with many additional Slytherin taunts and booming laughter.

What Draco Malfoy did not see was Ginny Weasley turning to stare at him from her vantage point across the field. She saw Pansy with her arm on his shoulder, Draco leaning back toward her, and their combined laughter. By the time Draco turned back around to take another look at the little Weasel, she was gone.

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Some weeks later, after a long, drawn out Slytherin Team practice and a much needed shower, Draco left the Slytherin locker room. He was headed back to the castle when something caught his eye. He glanced out at the field, then doubled back and to the side of the stands just to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

There, in the middle of the practice field, stood the Weaslette and Scarhead, alone. They were not wearing practice robes because there was no Gryffindor practice scheduled. He knew this because the Slytherin team had taken the last time slot and ran overtime with all the goddamn bickering. What the hell were those two doing out there at this time of night?

He stretched his long legs out and leaned against the base of the stands, well hidden from their view and watched with some fascination. No, he wasn't close enough to hear what was being said, but he was definitely close enough to read their body language. Potty had his hands on her upper arms, staring intensely into her eyes as he talked to the little Weasel. She was nodding her head and staring confidently back at him.

The next thing he knew, the little Weasel had mounted her broom and took off to the top of the pitch, Potty trailing her closely. Draco quickly ducked beneath the cover of the stands. Then he laughed. Was this some sort of Gryffindor idea of a date? He shook his head in disgust. Hoisting his Firebolt over his shoulder, he strode out from under the stands to head back to the castle. The last thing he wanted to see was two Gryffindors mating. Hell, that kind of disgusting inbreeding might lead something truly horrific, like more magically mutated Gryffindors.

Then he heard her scream, an ear-splitting, vampire-staking, Thestral-thrashing scream, which rang out over the pitch and through the still of the night air. He turned and saw her slipping off the side of her broom, her hand failing to make purchase with its slender handle. Then she began that familiar tumble, screaming as she fell. Draco drew his wand and focused its tip squarely on that package of red silk and freckles.

Potter flew nimbly under her falling figure, arms outstretched. When they collided, her attempts to grab Scarhead only prevented him from latching onto her securely. One gloriously ripped robe later, she was in a free fall toward the ground.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Draco was now running toward the pitch, wand outstretched. Her fall arrested less than a dozen feet before her body made impact with the ground. He was standing next her when her boots finally hit the ground, softly, safely. Potter was right beside him, shoulder to shoulder, watching the little Weasel, eyes wide with concern. As his spell lifted and her full weight fell upon her now quivering excuse for legs, she stumbled forward, reaching out for Draco, who caught her in his arms and hauled her up against him.

"Weasel? You all right?" he questioned, staring at her with those piercing grey eyes. She nodded, putting her hands on his shoulders and slowly straightening as she stepped back, still too stunned to speak.

"Nice charm work, Malfoy," Scarhead muttered.

Draco, suddenly aware of Potty's shoulder next to his, spun around and glared down the Wonder Boy's throat.

"What the hell did you think you were doing out there? Or were you thinking at all?" Draco grabbed a fist full of Potty's robes and shook him. "Didn't even bother to cast a safety net? That was a goddamn stupid thing to do."

Then he was aware of the little Weasel's hand on his shoulder. He let go of Potty's robes with a good push and stormed off, grabbing his Firebolt as he went.

Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter stood, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the furious Slytherin as he strode off toward the castle.

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Author's Note 1: Thanks to everyone who left a review.

Author's Note 2: Okay, Draco's fine display of hypervigilence and anger around Ginny's second accident are more evidence of his PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). In particular, his fierce, unexpected protectiveness and murderous rage are especially fine examples of his PTSD in action. Implied, but not stated in the story, was his re-experiencing of the original trauma as he watched her fall a second time. Life at Hogwarts is hell sometimes, sorry. If someone could please explain that to Ginny and Harry, I would greatly appreciate it. Thanks. Class dismissed.

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4. Cursing His Package of Red Silk and Freckles

Warning: The Author's Note at the end of the chapter contains information on Draco's psychological state of mind. Please feel free to skip right on over it if this type of nonsense offends your sensibilities.

Author's Note: A few of you have left reviews lamenting the lack of length in my chapters. Yes, they are short, especially in the beginning. When I edited this fic, it was the only way to make sense of the early chapters. Starting with chapter 6, they get considerably longer. Your patience is appreciated. Thanks for reading!

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Chapter 4

Cursing His Package of Red Silk and Freckles

The much anticipated Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match was two weeks away. Both Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were training their teams hard with daily practices, double practices on weekends. Draco had not spoken to Scarhead since the incident on the pitch three weeks prior nor had he seen the Weaselette come off the sidelines to participate in a Gryffindor practice session. This was just as well because the loss of the little Weasel would be another small advantage in Slytherin's favor. She was their best Chaser, and with her out of the picture, they might just have a chance at that Cup.

He was striding off the field after their double practice session that morning, hot, sweaty, and feeling more and more confident about his team. They had been an undisciplined but competent mess just two months ago. However, with the rigorous training sessions and strict adherence to certain rules, he had managed to pull together a true Cup contender. Then he heard the jeers and snide comments coming from both sides as they exchanged the practice field with the Gryffindor Team.

He looked up just as a certain package of red silk and freckles, dressed in crimson and gold Quidditch robes, passed him on the field, broom casually hoisted over one shoulder. His eyes locked onto her and refused to let go. They followed that package all the way to the center of the pitch and watched her mount her broom. He only looked away when Zabini knocked him in the shoulder to keep him moving off the field.

Draco brushed aside his fellow team members and slid into a seat in the stands, alone. What the hell was she doing? He followed her as she took several practice laps around the field with her teammates, then Potty started running his infernal series of Gryffindor drills. His silver grey eyes were completely and totally focused on a certain redheaded Chaser now sitting on her broom, tossing the Quaffle to her fellow Chaser and then running it back and forth between the two of them as they headed toward the goal posts. After watching thirty minutes of their practice, he felt his tense body relax. The Weaselette looked surprisingly good. Hoisting his Firebolt onto his shoulder, he made his way to the Slytherin locker room and that shower.

"Of course I was staring at the Weasley bint, you idiots, which is what you trolls should have been doing as well," Draco snarled at Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle. "She's their best Chaser, and she's back. We've got two weeks to adjust our strategy to take her antics into account. I needed to see what she was up to, that's all." Without waiting for their affirmations, Draco Malfoy strode off to the castle, scowl firmly in place.

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Many days later, Draco made an appearance at the Quidditch stands a few minutes early for practice. Noticing a handful of his team members sprawled out mid-stand and watching the Gryffindor Team finishing up, he stepped over to them and took a seat. Amid the occasional Slytherin taunt or two, he became aware of a certain line of conversation between Crabbe and Goyle, among others.

"She's obviously their weakest link now."

"Spooked by that fall, I'll bet."

"She's only been back at their bloody practices for a week now."

Draco said nothing, just sat and watched the Gryffindor Team file off the field, one package of red silk and freckles among the bunch. Then he glanced at his watch, mounted his broom, and roared at his team to follow suit as he took off flying over the pitch.

What did he care if his Beaters took the little Weasel out? It was the Slytherin way. They played as dirty as they could. It was common knowledge. If she took it upon herself to take to the pitch and play on Saturday, it was on her head. He had a win to concentrate on. The Slytherin Team needed this goddamn win against Gryffindor. Draco was focusing all of his time, attention, and plotting on how to grab that bloody Snitch out from under Golden Boy's nose. It was all that mattered to him. Nothing else mattered.

And so he didn't notice that package of red silk and freckles take to the lower bleachers in the stands and look at a certain Team Captain and Seeker run his team ragged with a brutal practice session. She watched him flying in his single-minded pursuit of that elusive Snitch, the golden object of his desires. He was elegant and flawless and beautiful in the air. When his time was up, his Snitch firmly in hand for the third time, and he was walking by that particular seat in the lower bleachers, he never noticed her eyes following his form all the way across the field and into the shadows of the locker room.

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The crowds were roaring as he and Potty were neck and neck, diving for that elusive mother of a Snitch. Both Seekers were streaming head long toward the ground, one gloved hand outstretched, neither letting their eyes lose contact with that golden lady, only feeling and sensing the presence of the other Seeker. When her scream rang out through that chilled winter's afternoon, he consciously blocked it out and dove even faster, snatching the Snitch right out from under Scarhead's nose for once.

He turned in triumphant to gloat but heard the crowd's collective shudder. Then he saw her fallen body with its ever growing pool of crimson: crimson hair, crimson robes, crimson blood. His heart exploded, shattered into a million bloody fragments, right there on the Quidditch pitch; in front of the entire school crowd, in front of his fellow Slytherins, in front of the whole goddamn wizarding world.

Draco awoke in a panic: eyes wide and dilated, heart racing, gasping for what little air there was in his stifling room. He scanned his dark surroundings frantically before slowly relaxing, one tense muscle at a time. That goddamn sorceress of a Gryffindor bint would not leave him alone. This was his third night's interrupted sleep this week, and he was bloody well sick of it. Was this some type of twisted hex she had cast on him? Cursing his package of red silk and freckles, Draco pulled up his bedcovers, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

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AN1: Many thanks to all who left reviews. Please drop a review if you can. I always appreciate the feedback.

AN 2: Draco's PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) continues as evidenced by his hypervigilence and preoccupation with a certain redheaded Witch's safety as well as his persistent nightmares. Now, that part about his heart breaking, hmmm... Nope, it doesn't say anything about that in the DSM IV-TR!

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5. Call Off The Little Weaselette

Warning: Psych 101 class dead ahead in the Author's Note at the end of the chapter. If this nonsense does not agree with you, please feel free to hop a Hippogriff and fly on over it!

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for hanging in there and continuing to read this neurotic little fic!

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Chapter 5

Call Off The Little Weaselette

Draco Malfoy looked at the long line of students snaking out from Madam Pomfrey's afternoon clinic at the Hospital Ward. Was there an epidemic of Dragon Pox for Merlin's sake? Cursing, he stepped to the back of the line, conjured up a chair, and drew out his Potion's text to start his homework. Might as well get some bloody homework done while he was held prisoner in this cursed line of Hagrid proportions. Minutes later, he became aware of the coughing, and the sneezing, and the other disgusting explosions of magical viruses dripping all around him. He stood. Hell, there was some kind of epidemic.

All he needed was a Dreamless Sleeping Potion. He did not need to come down with a goddamn magical virus before the Gryffindor match. He immediately stepped out of line, threw a quick 'Scourgify' on all vital exposed body parts before vanishing his chair and stuffing his homework back into his school bag.

He looked up to start his way back to the dungeons, and a most curious and unexpected sight greeted his eyes. Crabbe and Goyle, assisted by Pansy and Nott, were hobbling up to the end of the line, bitching and moaning every step of the way. Each had elephant sized ears and greatly enlarged feet to match. Their ears were flapping and waving, and their feet were dancing, as much as Crabbe and Goyle could be said to be dancing.

"What the hell happened to you two?" Draco queried with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Had the dunces been practicing hexes on one another again?

"The Weasel," Goyle spit out, shaking his head. Draco's eyes widened.

"The Weasel did that? I didn't know that Rodent could hex a gnome at point blank much less two Slytherins at what I assume was more than twenty-five paces?" His fellow Slytherins hung their heads.

"She was fast," said one.

"She was deadly," said the other.

"We didn't even have time to hex her first, much less jump her," they said together, looking at each other with much sympathy, ears waving in unison.

"You tried to jump the Weaselette?" Draco hissed, now understanding which Weasel they were speaking of.

Two fat heads with big ears nodded.

Draco swung around and glared at Nott, who shifted uneasily in his boots.

"We just wanted to shake her up a little. You know, rattle her before the big game. It was nothing." Then Nott looked over at Crabbe and Goyle, "We got the worst of it anyway."

"Yeah, what's the big deal?" Goyle said, staring at Draco, enormous ears twitching.

"You idiots. Keep the dirty antics to the pitch." Draco's deathly quiet voice chilled the air and ceased all further discussion.

With that, he grabbed his bag and stormed off, black robes billowing. Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle all turned to Pansy, who shrugged. Then she let her eyes follow the furious Slytherin until he disappeared down the hallway.

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Draco sat flanked by Pansy at supper that evening. Nott was sitting many safe Slytherins away at the other end of the table. When Pansy left Crabbe and Goyle, they were still several students away from Madam Pomfrey's doorstep. Draco said nothing, just dug away at his food, one slow stab at a time.

When they were more than halfway through their dinner, Pansy looked up and noticed Draco staring across the Great Hall. She followed his line of sight until it landed on Ginny Weasley, who had just walked in, accompanied by the trio.

It's about goddamn time she showed up for supper, he thought sullenly. Where the hell had she been? The last time he checked Gryffindors still ate food like the rest of the wizarding world. They did not sustain themselves on all that bravery and nobility crap alone. He stabbed another piece of chicken and looked over again. That package of red silk and freckles was tucked nicely between the Weasel King and Potty, and she looked remarkably unhexed and uninjured.

"I never thought you'd be one to fancy a Gryffindor,” she said softly in his left ear, low enough for him alone to hear.

He flashed her a deadly stare, turned around, and continued to eat. His eyes were no longer fixed across the Great Hall, but were now focused on his plate, as unappetizing as it looked in its current state of mauling.

What the hell was she talking about? He loathed that crass, Muggle-loving piece of Gryffindor trash. She had made his life hell, absolute hell, after that damn pickup game. He got no sleep, no peace during his waking hours for her constant intrusions into his mind, bloody little to eat most meals with her antics ruining his appetite, and now, with the biggest game of the year coming up, he was having to spend his precious time looking after her goddamn welfare. No, he most definitely did not fancy the Weaselette in any sense of the word. He would sooner blow his head off with a hex than touch that piece of pureblooded filth. He pushed his plate across the table, stood up, and strode out of the Great Hall without another word to Pansy.

"Malfoy!"

He stopped and felt his already tense body tighten further. Would he ever get a respite from all of this damn Gryffindor nonsense? He was tired and outraged and expected to be completely pissed off in short order if things didn't go in another direction. Draco Malfoy turned slowly around at the sound of Weasel King's voice grating on his last, very raw nerve.

"Weasel,” he drawled before straightening and placing his hand on the wand just up his right sleeve. Potty and Weasel boy were standing there, confronting him in the Main Entrance Hall, for all the school to see. Students were shuffling out of the Great Hall and curiously gathering around the site of the two famed Gryffindors confronting the lone Slytherin.

"Call your goons off, Malfoy,” the Weasel demanded, eyes flashing. Draco merely raised an eyebrow and casually crossed his arms, closing his fist around his wand in the process.

"Goons?"

"Yes, goons, otherwise known as Crabbe and Goyle," Potty chimed in. "We know you sent them after Ginny this afternoon. What's wrong, Malfoy? So worried about the game that you have to attack one of our Chasers off the field to win?"

This got Draco's attention and his gut, but he held himself in check. Gone were the days when Potter could provoke him into an undignified display of emotion. Several tense moments ticked by. The entire hall, full of students gathered in a loose circle around the trio, was now deathly silent. Observing eyes darted back and forth between the sworn enemies, watching the intensity of the confrontation ratchet up a notch.

Then Draco let out a roar of laughter, which took the Weasel King and Potty and every observing student by surprise.

"Gentlemen," he said with a sweep of his elegant hand toward the little Weaselette, who was now standing just outside the Great Hall staring at the three wizards. "I should be asking you to call off the little Weaselette after seeing Crabbe and Goyle outside Madam Pomfrey's door this afternoon." Then the tall, blond Slytherin turned and continued his casual stride down the staircase to the cool of the dungeons.

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AN: Draco's eloquent explanation at dinner about why he does not fancy the Weaselette is not only a concise encapsulation of his PTSD symptoms up to this point in our story but also a fine example of that noble psychological defense mechanism known as DENIAL. Any questions so far? Class dismissed.

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6. A Dreamless Surrender

Warning: The Author's Note at the end of the chapter contains important information for all readers involved in the Psych 101 class. If you have not been participating in this intellectual exercise, feel free to skive off again!

AN: Much thanks to gotsnape for her well placed words of wisdom. Now, on with the show!

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Chapter 6

A Dreamless Surrender

Draco Malfoy finally surrendered, stopped wrestling with his sheets, and rolled out of bed, exhausted. He raked a tired hand though his platinum blond locks and stared out the window. The moon was still high in the sky. It was three days until the Gryffindor match, and he was goddamn tired of the intrusive nightmares robbing him of his sleep.

He threw on his robes, stormed out of his room and up to the Hospital Wing. He didn't give a damn if it was one o'clock in the morning or if Pomfrey cursed him for waking her. He needed a goddamn Dreamless Sleeping Potion or else someone was going to get killed in short order.

Draco stomped, albeit quietly, up to the Hospital Wing in search of sleep. He was sick and tired of the little Weasel screaming and falling and bleeding all over his bed every night. Cursing himself for ever stopping to save her miserable life, he rounded the next flight of stairs. Cursing her for being a goddamn Gryffindor pain in the arse, he finally finished off the fourth and final flight of stairs in his relentless pursuit of sleep.

He hauled his dragging arse into the corridor outside the hospital wing. Gone was the chaotic scene that greeted him upon his last visit. There were no students dripping, reeking, and emitting sickly magical viruses everywhere. He sighed with relief and peeked quietly into the ward.

To his surprise, the torches were brightly lit. He pushed open the door and walked in. Madam Pomfrey stuck her head out from behind the closed curtains of an examination bed. "Sit down. Be right with you."

Draco sighed. It was one fucking o'clock in the morning, and he still had to wait in a goddamn line for a lousy sleeping potion. Fine, he thought, glancing around the otherwise empty ward. This little visit should take no more than a couple of minutes, and then he would be blissfully unconscious for the first time in days.

Eventually he heard the examination curtain rolling open. About goddamn time. Did she have the entire Gryffindor Quidditch Team in there, for Merlin's sake? He looked up and saw Madam Pomfrey shuffling out toward him, followed by only one member of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. There she stood, his Nightmare of red silk and freckles, in the flesh.

Draco groaned. Was there no bloody relief from this Gryffindor hell? Had she taken to stalking him during his nighttime waking hours as well, just to complete the whole fucking cycle? If this was some twisted Gryffindor strategy to win the game on Saturday, he had to say it was fairly effective and thus, too remarkably Slytherin-like for those plebians of nobility to have conceived.

"Mr. Malfoy, what can I do for you?" Madam Pomfrey asked, after she had him ensconced behind the examination curtain.

"I need a Dreamless Sleeping Potion - " he began before she cut him off mid-sentence.

"Sorry, you'll have to come back tomorrow." Draco's eyes flew wide open at this complete and total betrayal of any Hippocratic oath she had ever uttered. "With all the magical viruses we've had running around lately, I'm afraid I'm completely out of most of my commonly used potions."

He looked at her, desperate.

"This is an emergency! I haven't slept for days." She stared the outraged Slytherin down.

"Mr. Malfoy, insomnia is not an emergency. It is merely inconvenient. You may return tomorrow." Then she dismissed him. He slunk off the examination bed and sullenly walked toward the door.

"Mr. Malfoy!" He turned around.

"Would you walk Miss Weasley back to the Gryffindor Common Room for me? I need to get down to Professor Snape's private stockroom to resupply before tomorrow's clinic."

Normally, he would have snapped at the witch for even suggesting he abuse his Head Boy privileges by looking at that horror of a Muggle-loving Gryffindor, much less escorting her home, but he needed that potion. He nodded.

The Nightmare was sitting on a chair in the ward, waiting.

"Come on, Weasley," he growled. The Nightmare looked up at him but didn't move. "Look, Madam Pomfrey wants me to walk you back to the Gryffindor Common Room so she can go down to the dungeons and nick a few potions."

The Nightmare looked over at Madam Pomfrey, who apparently affirmed this fact, and only then did the Weaselette get off her arse and start to follow him.

Draco stormed up the four flights of stairs to the Gryffindor Common Room, not bothering to wait for the Nightmare, who was running after him to keep pace. He was standing in front of the Portrait of The Fat Lady cursing, when the Nightmare finally decided to show up. She watched him yelling at various adjacent portraits for several minutes before the Slytherin finally quieted down.

The goddamn Fat Lady was gone; that sadistic excuse for a School Nurse was off nicking Snape's potions in the dungeons; and he was stuck outside the goddamn Gryffindor Common Room with his now waking Nightmare. With no viable alternative left, Draco began banging his head on the wall outside the Common Room.

"Banging your head won't help, Malfoy." He glanced over and shot the Nightmare an icy stare. She shrugged. "It's fine. I'll just wait here. Thanks."

Who the hell knew where that damn portrait was off to, romping around the castle in the middle of the night? Draco looked at the empty portrait and then back at the Nightmare before sighing deeply. He knew it was the wrong thing to do. He knew he would regret it. He knew every contact he had ever had with her had led to hell and more hell, yet he inexplicably plunged in anyway.

"Come on, Weasley," he said. She shook her head.

"I'd rather wait here than in the hospital corridor." He let out an exasperated snort.

"I'm not going to leave you in any goddamn corridor, Weasley," he said stiffly. "Come on, I'll take you to my room." Then he saw the look on her face and shook his head. "To sleep Weasley. Come on."

She hesitated, staring at him suspiciously.

"Let's go," he snapped at her, shaking her out of her indecision. "I've got to get some goddamn sleep, Weasley. I'm in no mood for baby-sitting you tonight."

The tall, irritated, sleep-deprived Slytherin turned and strode down the long set of winding, ever changing staircases in his continued pursuit of that elusive unconscious state called sleep. He stopped mid-staircase and glared at her. She quickened her pace and was soon right behind him, matching him staircase for staircase until, eight staircases later, they both hit the dungeon floor.

Two mumbled passwords later they were standing in his darkened bedroom. The dying fireplace and slivers of moonlight were the only sources of weak light. He threw off his robes in short order and noticed her staring at him, now clad only in a loose pair of pajama bottoms, then followed her eyes to the lone bed in the room. He let out a groan and then a weary sigh.

"Look Weasley, I'm going to sleep. This is my bed and my room. I'm not sleeping on the floor. There's plenty of room in here for both of us." Then a weak smirk fell across his face. "I'm honestly too tired to try anything, even if I wanted to, which I do not."

With that little speech out of the way, he crawled into his half of the bed, facing away from her, laid his aching head on his pillow, and pulled up his bedcovers. Some minutes later, he heard the rustling of robes and much to his surprise, felt the Nightmare crawl into bed beside him.

And so the Slytherin wizard and the Gryffindor witch, each on their half of the bed, back-to-back, with no body parts touching, listened to the other breathing until a blissfully dreamless sleep took them both.

The next morning when Draco's eyes reluctantly blinked open, he was aware of waking up remarkably relaxed for the first time in weeks. Oddly, he was also surrounded by a sea of red silk smelling vaguely of honeysuckle. Then it dawned on him that he was trapped by a rather interesting package of red silk and freckles. The Weaselette was draped across his chest, left arm thrown carelessly across, cheek tucked nicely into his shoulder, legs intertwined with his. He looked down at the very witch who had been making his life a living hell, taking a minute or two to decide on the best course of action. Then he threw his arms around her, turned a bit, and went back to sleep.

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Author's Note: I think you've learned enough that you can capably take it from here. There will be no more Psych 101 classes as you have unwittingly just graduated. Congratulations. Sleep Disorders 101 has been postponed. I hope you've enjoyed this odd little post chapter ride as much as I have.

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7. Just Win This Goddamn Game

Author's Note: On the advise of gotsnape, somewhat outraged and shocked at the way I started this chapter (with no mention of what happened to Draco and Ginny the following morning), I have added this little addendum to Chapter 6. It was not intended to be a cliffhanger. Sorry. gotsnape, I hope this meets with your approval.

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Chapter 6 Addendum

A Dreamless Surrender Continued

(A Most Unexpected Guest)

When Ginny's eyes fluttered open the next morning, she was remarkably well rested, despite the previous week full of restless sleep interspersed with the usual nightmares. She gradually became aware of an odd heaviness on her body. She looked down and much to her surprise, found Draco Malfoy's body completely entangled in hers, arms thrown around her. She quickly glanced up at his face, now buried in the nape of her neck, eyes closed, looking as peaceful as she had ever seen the hissing Slytherin.

Lying completely still, she contemplated her current situation, unclear what her next step should be. From the light streaming into his windows, morning had arrived in all her unwelcome glory. Ginny, quietly and ever so carefully, began to untangle her limbs from his, one limb at a time. When she reached his head, she gently lifted it off her neck, reached over for his pillow and slipped it under his head so as not to disturb his sleep. Then she looked down at his tranquil sleeping form, for once unencumbered by his infernal glaring at her. She pushed a stray platinum lock or two out of his face before turning to get dressed.

He watched her, his curious silver greys falling over her slim figure draped in an oversized flannel nightshirt. She silently slipped on her shabby excuse for a school robe, pulled on her worn boots, and began looking around his room. She walked over to his desk, not touching a thing, just staring at the various objects randomly thrown there. Then she turned to read the titles off his bookshelf, passed his black robe thrown careless over a chair the night before, and stopped a moment at his fine black leather boots. To his amazement, she put her boot beside his, apparently measuring the significant difference between the two, before continuing to work her way around the small room. The little Weasel was now in front of his fireplace, looking up at the picture of his mother on the mantle, taking an inordinate amount of time studying it. Then she ran her fingers down the handle of his Firebolt, almost absent-mindedly. She looked at his closet door for a moment; then, apparently deciding against that particular invasion, turned to leave.

Ginny couldn't help herself. Before she left his private sanctuary, she walked back over to his bedside, watching him, unguarded for a moment in his sleep, knowing full well she would never have this particular opportunity again. There he was, exquisitely unblemished by his trademark scowls, stares, and rude comments. There were no raised eyebrows or nasty innuendos or that massive defense complex which he seemed to wear at all times. There was only this beautiful boy of a Wizard in a peaceful, dreamless sleep. She sighed before turning and silently slipping out of the Slytherin's lair.

He watched her go, moving silently out of his world and back into her own, puzzled by what he had just witnessed as well as his own inaction. Why hadn't he jumped up and yelled at her for invading his privacy? Yes, he had invited her in but only to sleep, not to put her muggle-loving Gryffindor nose into his things. Yet, he found he didn't mind her innocent curiosity about his world. He was more surprised than angry. He fully expected the little Weasel to beat his body off of hers the moment she awoke, possibly cursing him as well, maybe threatening a hex or two before throwing on her robes and storming out. He was quite unprepared for the witch he woke up with, having no idea that she existed at all. It was this silent witch who had stunned him into inaction, disarming him completely in the process. He rolled over, landing face first in her lingering warmth, drinking in what little remained of her precious scent, and closing his eyes to remember a most unexpected guest.

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Chapter 7

Just Win This Goddamn Game

A certain set of magnificent silver grey eyes scanned the pitch as the last vestiges of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team slowly left their last practice before the big game. Some left in two's and three's, huddled and chatting; others walked alone, contemplating in silence. Draco sat, surrounded by his teammates and many additional Slytherins, all of whom had gathered for the traditional Gryffindor show. They had heckled and taunted and mercilessly tortured the Weasel King.

Although normally delighted which such antics, Draco had been less enthusiastic than usual, distracted by the pressure emanating from the next morning's match. His stare was now boring a hole into the back of Potter's head. That bloody-Snitch-stealing-Gryffindor-excuse-for-a-Seeker was walking, shoulder to shoulder, with the Weasel King, staring straight ahead, silent and tense. It was good to know he felt the enormous pressure was well. How many times had Potter saved his worthless team from a crushing defeat by simply snatching the Snitch out of another Seeker's grasp? It was goddamn unnatural was what it was.

He was aware of Zabini's firm hand on his shoulder in a final farewell as the last of the Slytherins departed for the castle and supper. Those silver eyes continued to scan the empty pitch. He was now the lone figure in a completely deserted stadium. There he sat, shoulders heavy, eyes filled with concern, scanning the pitch for Lady knows what. Hell, he didn't even know.

No, this game wasn't about his fellow Slytherins, or the Quidditch Cup, or even his Father's expectations. It was all about his own ardent desire and ambition to, for once in his goddamn six year Quidditch career at Hogwarts, best that four-eyed freak of a fellow Seeker. He didn't give a Blast Ended Skrewt's arse if they didn't win the goddamn game or if they lost the Quidditch Cup or any of that other infernal crap as long as he got that blessed Snitch.

There would be other games, many other games this year, but it was this one opening game that held his wizard's balls like no other. The Huffelpuff and Ravenclaw teams were called many things by the Slytherin; Quidditch competitors was not among the list. They were a fucking joke. Their Seekers didn't hold a candle to himself, much less that freak Potter. He didn't give a rat's arse about those other games. It was this game, and this game only, which held his heart's deepest desire.

She stood, in the shadows of the stands, on the edge of the Quidditch field, gazing up at the lone Slytherin. She recognized the familiar bearing, that tilt to his head, those uniquely platinum blond locks shimmering in the last bloody glow of daylight's fading glory. Her weight shifted as she leaned against the handle of her broom, gripped tightly in her hands.

Yes, she knew what that Slytherin Team Captain and Seeker was dreaming about, staring longingly out into the empty pitch. She knew the hunger in his eyes, the twitch in his fingertips, the absolute single-minded desire in his heart to capture his elusive golden lady out from Harry's grasp. He would do anything to woo his beautiful Snitch away from Harry's fingertips and into his own. She lingered a moment before hoisting her broom onto her shoulder and making her way across the field and back toward the castle for supper.

He was aware of movement on the field below him, as she suddenly and silently pulled him out of his world and into hers. He watched her casually strolling across the field, broom hoisted over one shoulder, eyes straight ahead. It wasn't just that fiery silk floating amid the sea of freckles that he recognized. No, he knew that tilt to her head, that familiar swish to her slim hips, that hand carelessly pushing an errant strand of silk away from her face. Then he was awash in her scent, the vague smell of honeysuckle, and the warmth of her body entangled in his. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. When he opened them, she was gone.

His gaze returned to staring at that empty pitch, haunted with the ghosts of games long since played and the ones yet to be born. It was loud and rowdy, filled with cheering and shouting and heartache, so much heartache.

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The next day dawned a brilliant, crystal clear blue with a sun brighter than all the Galleons in Gringotts. A brisk wind kicked up and down the stands, blowing cloaks and scarves into a shimmer of assorted cheering colors. He stood, staring at the gathering crowds and listening to the chatter in the stands. Minutes prior, he had given his team their requisite speech before the game. Play hard, play smart, play dirty if need be, just win this goddamn game.

They saw him standing, alone, staring out of the Slytherin locker room. His fellow team members gave him a wide berth. Hell would come to any player who disturbed their Team Captain and Seeker during his private meditation just before a game.

With a wave of his hand and without looking back, Draco Malfoy strode onto the Quidditch field, followed by his teammates in their trademark orderly marching rows. They stopped, just shy of midfield, and watched as the two Team Captains met and shook hands under the watchful eye of Madam Hooch.

"Malfoy." A certain green-eyed freak of a Seeker spat out, staring hard at him.

"Potter." The Slytherin Captain returned coolly. Their eyes locked for one long moment before the handshake broke, and fourteen brooms took to the pitch, scattering desperately in all directions at once.

Where was that goddamn Snitch? A particular set of silver grey eyes was meticulously scanning the pitch, 180 degrees from the other Seeker. He let his focus toss a wide net, taking every player, every ball, every movement on the pitch into his consciousness, shifting, sorting, following. He sat very still on his broom, letting all the movement come to him. Scarhead was in his line of sight at all times. It was too dangerous to turn his back on that abomination for a second.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crabbe and Goyle roughing up Jack Sloper, the Gryffindor Chaser, looking to take him out completely, if possible. Then Zabini flew by the Weasel King with the first scoring Quaffle of the game. At the other end of the pitch, a flash of red silk and freckles netted Gryffindor their first scoring Quaffle. The game was on.

The Slytherin Seeker began carefully circling the pitch, watching, listening, feeling, waiting patiently for that golden lady to call to him. Scarhead was circling the pitch as well, anxious and scanning, his unnatural focus narrowed to the pursuit of that elusive Snitch.

Three hours later, Draco was still circling that infernal pitch, becoming edgier and edgier as each minute ticked by. Where the hell was that goddamn mother of a Snitch hiding? He glanced over at Scarhead, who was looking as tired and desperate as he felt. It took an extraordinary amount of energy to continually hyperfocus on the entire pitch, scanning and sorting and sifting each piece of extraneous movement in search of that one miniscule golden flash. He had been doing it for minute upon minute, hour upon hour... He could not become complacent, but what little patience he had was wearing dangerously thin.

He saw signs of mounting fatigue and restlessness in his fellow teammates as well. Zabini had not scored in the last thirty minutes, his antics held in check by the Gryffindor Beaters, and remarkably enough, by the Weasel King as well. His Beaters were carelessly locking broom handles and elbowing the Gryffindor Chasers. Goyle had even put a wreckless hand or two on the back of the little Weasel's broom.

Then it happened; the moment he had been living his entire goddamn life for finally arrived. He saw that beautiful, elusive object of his desires flutter no more than ten feet in front of him, and his eyes locked in on her. His broom was turned around and headed toward that mother of a Snitch in less than a Thestral's heartbeat. Instantly, he was flush against his Firebolt with one gloved hand outstretched and reaching. When the Snitch dove for the ground, he followed in wreckless pursuit, streaming head first for the Golden Snitch. He could feel Potter just a breath away and closing. His well-trained eyes never left the golden object of his desires. The crowd held a collective breath.

That's when he heard it, when every spectator and player on the field heard her terrifying cry ring out over the noise of the crowds, over the bickering of the players, and into the sacred sanctuary between Seeker and Snitch, paralyzing the pitch. He froze mid-dive.

Then all hell broke loose, one damning piece at a time. His eyes reluctantly, fatally, irreversibly broke contact with the Snitch as he looked up to see that familiar flash of red silk and freckles tumbling toward the ground in a free fall.

Noooo... Noooo... Noooo...

Unable to stop his body, despite his own voice screaming at him inside his unbelievably thick head, he pulled up sharply on his goddamn uncooperative Firebolt and veered sharply right, moving with inordinate speed, while opening up his arms. The impact of his package against his chest almost knocked the wind out of him. His arms lunged forward to grab her struggling form, almost dropping them both off the front of his broom, but she had her arms desperately locked about his waist. The tenacious little Weasel hung on, body dangling precariously from the side of his broom. He regained his balance and hauled his package up against his chest, holding her slight frame securely to him while slowly, painfully descending to the field, her arms wrapped around his chest. During the entire incident, he did not look at the little Weaslette or any other player on the field that day. The whole stadium was deathly quiet, only the sound of the wind whistling through the now still pitch was heard.

Madam Pomfrey was rushing onto the field as Draco took off again, only then taking the time to access the enormous damage his incomprehensibly foolish actions had resulted in. Scarhead was staring at him, through his goddamn glasses, askew as ever, astride his broom. Draco looked at Potter's hands. They were astonishingly empty. Then the bubble he had been in broke, the roar of the crowds and the screaming of his teammates all flooded his senses again as he realized the implication of the goddamn insufferable look the noble Gryffindor was giving him.

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It was over. His last goddamn match against Potter was over. Draco Malfoy stood under the shower in the Slytherin locker room for many minutes longer than necessary, soaking in the beating warmth of the searing hot water against his aching body. His whole fucking body and his head were screaming with pain. Not only was it the last of his games against Potter; it was also the longest. A full six hours later, one gloved hand finally captured that blasted sadistic bint of a Snitch.

No one had spoken to him about the incident with the little Weasel. They didn't have to. It no longer mattered, nothing mattered. The locker room was deserted and quiet when the lone Slytherin walked slowly out of the warmth of its torches into the cool of the withering new moonlight. He turned and looked back at the dark and empty stands, the abandoned field, the still pitch.

He found himself sitting in the comfort of the stands, now shrouded in moonlit madness and shadows, staring out at that infernal pitch, reliving his worst waking nightmare. It was a fucking nightmare with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The goddamn little Weaselette should be banned from Quidditch with her antics disrupting the shit out of his game. He wanted to stop himself. He had steadied himself, trained himself, willed himself not to respond to the little Weasel's cries or screams but failed spectacularly that afternoon, in front of the entire goddamn world.

What the hell was going on? Was he having a fucking identity crisis, for Merlin's sake? He was a Slytherin, a proud and cunning Slytherin, from a long line of Slytherins. It was the Malfoy way. He was no Gryffindor. Why the hell was he acting like a Slytherin impersonating a goddamn foolishly noble and brave Gryffindor? It was this kind of foreign crap that was fast becoming perilous to his health, not to mention his precarious state of mind, and downright lethal to his reputation.

He hung his head as he saw Potter's ever loving fingers close over the Golden Snitch, drawing it to him for an eternity. There would be no redemption from this particular hell, no second chances, no waking from this horrific joke of a nightmare. It was truly fucking over.

It was then that he felt her presence and looked up. There she stood, his beautiful Nightmare of red silk and freckles, haunting him in the flesh, again. She held his gaze for a moment before sitting down beside him and staring out at the pitch. What the hell was she doing out here? Who the hell cared if she was amazingly uninjured?

"Go home, Weasel." He spat out tightly. She glanced over at him, looking rather unconcerned, and then turned back to the pitch.

Draco Malfoy had had enough of the little Weasel for one day. He stood to leave but felt her hand on his arm, staying him. He glared at her. Her goddamn hand was burning his arm. He snatched it away from her touch.

"Stay," she implored softly.

He eyed her warily, regretting his hesitation even as it was unfolding. He looked at her and sighed. It would simply lead to hell and more hell, as it always did with her. In fact, she was his hell, his waking, breathing, ever living hell. And he, as always, couldn't seem to get enough of her hell so he inexplicably sat his dragging arse down.

"What is it Weasel?" He sighed.

"Harry knows," she started before turning to look at him out of her luminous brown eyes. "He knows you would have caught the Snitch if you hadn't -"

Then he put up a hand to stop her. He shook his head. He didn't want to hear it. In fact, he realized that he didn't want to hear another damn word out of her mouth, ever again. This thought was second only to his next one in which he never wanted to see her again, ever, for the rest of his goddamn life, and he really wasn't sure that would be long enough.

He stood and began to make his way slowly down the bleachers to the field and from there to the grounds and the castle itself. When she called to him, he ignored her, blissfully ignored the sound of the little Weaselette's voice, for once. He vowed there would be no more nightmares, no screaming or falling or bleeding in his room in the middle of the night. It was over.

She watched him make his way across the field, her thrice reluctant and cursing savior. She saw the defeat in the odd tilt to his head, the strangely sagging shoulders, and the unusual war weary stride. Her beautiful, flawless, driven Seeker had collapsed under the weight of her unexpected need for him. Ginny Weasley rose from the stands, alone, and made her way very slowly back to the elated celebration awaiting her in the Gryffindor Common Room.

Neither looked back toward the stands or the field or the pitch; the sight of many games, much glory, and immeasurable heartache. So much heartache...

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Author's Note: Many thanks to all who left such kind reviews! Two more chapters left until the end of the fic. fallenwitch

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8. The Bloody Witch Is A Danger To Herself

Author's Note: For Raie, now you can stop checking for that update because it's here. fallenwitch

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Chapter 8

The Bloody Witch Is A Danger To Herself

Cursing the goddamn Weaselette, Draco strode into the Great Hall for breakfast the following morning, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. The trio stood for a moment on the threshold as a deafening silence blanketed the entire, cavernous room. He knew what they were looking at. The whole bloody school knew what they were looking at, a goddamn fucking freak of a failure.

There he stood, dressed in his finest black school robes and boots, head held high, shoulders back, giving a good show of it. To hell with them. He strode over to the Slytherin table and took a seat beside Pansy. Crabbe and Goyle followed suit, as always. As soon as he sat, the tension in the air broke, and the whispering and the pointing and the outright gawking began.

With his trademark mask of indifference plastered to his face, Draco began piling on assorted items masquerading as food onto his plate. When he looked down, his stomach went cold and sick. He took his fork and began to push the sorry excuse for food around his plate, occasionally looking up to glare at the odd student or two bold enough to look him in the eye.

No, he didn't look over at the goddamn Gryffindor table. He had sworn off that trash the day before and would no sooner look at her than put a stake into his own heart. So Draco carried on with his brave facade, until many, many minutes later when the hum of noise slowly rose in the cavernous room and the previously mocking students returned to their own growling stomachs and tables.

About bloody time, he thought, rising to leave. He had made his goddamn appearance, lost what little appetite he had, and would now just like to get the hell out of the place. Draco pushed his plate away, rose, and strode out of The Great Hall without another word to anyone. Crabbe and Goyle were left behind in the wake of his billowing robes, still eating great quantities of food. Pansy's eyes followed the Slytherin all the way out the door, until he disappeared from her view.

Ginny, who had been watching the entire scene from across The Great Hall, straining over the many bodies to see what she could of the Slytherin, now watched him leave. As she returned to her breakfast, she saw Ron and Harry rushing out of the room after the Slytherin. Alarmed, she looked over at Hermione, questioning. The Head Girl stared back and both rose, almost running out of the Great Hall after them.

By the time they arrived on the scene, immediately surrounded by a horde of other curious students, Ron and Harry were attempting to engage the lone Slytherin. Malfoy was slowly turning to glare over at Ron, pure hatred blistering in his stare. She saw the muscles in his neck tense as he struggled to control his temper.

"Weasel," he spat out.

"Malfoy, we just wanted to thank you for saving Ginny yesterday." Ron said evenly. Harry was one step behind, backing him up in a show of support.

"Really?" the Slytherin drawled. Ginny could see his hands curling into tight fists of rage.

"We know it cost you the game."

"You have no idea of what it cost me," Malfoy hissed. "Keep your fucking pity, Weasel. What's wrong? With all those noble Gryffindors flying around, it took a Slytherin to save the little Weaselette's neck. Is that what's bothering you?"

Ron flushed red at this. Harry placed a steadying hand on Ron's arm. Ginny tried to press forward through the crowd to the three wizards.

"You git," Ron spat back. "Can't even take a little gratitude without acting like an arrogant bastard." The Slytherin raised an eyebrow at this before glowering down Ron's throat.

"I don't need your goddamn gratitude,” he seethed. "Get her off the pitch if she can't keep her arse on a broom."

Ron exploded with rage. Forgetting any gratitude he may have once have felt for the Slytherin, forgetting the crowd gathered, forgetting Harry's warning hand on his arm, Ron reached back and swung forward with all his might, aiming straight for that Slytherin bastard's arrogant, smirking face. Half a second later, he made contact gloriously, possibly breaking his own fist in the process. He didn't give a damn. It was worth it.

Then he heard the collective shudder and looked down at the crumpled figure on the floor. Ginny was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the nose in Malfoy's arms.

"You idiot,” the Slytherin hissed, glaring at Ron before quickly gathering up the fallen witch in his arms and sweeping up the Grand Staircase, the crowd parting silently to let him pass.

He looked down at her familiar fragile figure in his arms, flowing crimson everywhere, eyes closed, body limp. What the hell was she thinking? He didn't need her goddamn protection. Did she think him incapable of defending himself against her fumbling brother? He snorted as he rounded the top of the third staircase and headed toward the Hospital Wing doors. With one swift kick, he had her safely inside and into Madam Pomfrey's capable hands.

He stood, watching as Madam Pomfrey busied herself over the little Weasel's limp form, before the privacy curtains closed around her bed, blocking her from his concerned eyes.

Then he was accosted a second time by a horde of insufferable Gryffindors who came pouring through the Hospital Wing doors, led by the infamous trio. This time both the Mudblood and Scarhead were flanking the Weasel King.

Draco stood, arms casually crossed, looking over at the ugly Weasel. Would it be fair to say that the Weasel King was becoming positively unglued right before his very eyes?

"Malfoy," the Weasel growled, eyes flashing with fury.

"Weasel," he returned coolly. "Pushed her off her broom on the pitch as well, did you?" With a last frigid glare and a smirk, he spun around and left the Mudblood and Potty to struggle with the furious Gryffindor as he strode out of the Hospital Wing and down the staircase.

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That evening in the Slytherin Common Room, Pansy slid over to a certain Team Captain and Head Boy absorbed in his own world in front of the fireplace, slumped in that chair of his, his posture screaming his psychological state of mind. He had been sitting there for hours, staring at those ridiculous flames, not talking, not studying, not looking anyplace else. She really didn't think he noticed her sitting next to him, observing him for the past twenty minutes.

"Why don't you go to the Hospital Wing?" She suggested in a low whisper, for his ears alone. He startled at the sound of her voice and swung around, looking at her.

"What the hell are you rambling on about, Pansy?" he shot back at her, clearly irritated at the interruption.

She sighed. "Go to the Hospital Ward and see how Ginny Weasley is doing, that's what." He snorted at this suggestion before turning back to stare at the fire.

"That bloody witch is a danger to herself,” he said simply, dismissing her.

"She wouldn't be up there right now if she wasn't trying to protect you."

"I didn't need her goddamn protection."

"That's not the point, and you know it." He could feel her infernal eyes boring a hole into the side of his head. What the hell did everyone want from him? He was bloody well ready to tell Pansy to sod off.

"I could care less if she dies up there,” he announced triumphantly.

"Suit yourself," Pansy said shortly, got up, and walked into the Slytherin girls' dormitory, not looking back. Draco's eyes followed her form until it disappeared into the shadows. Interfering bint. Then he looked at his watch, stretched his long legs out a moment or two, before getting up and strolling casually out of the Slytherin Common Room into the castle corridors.

Draco was roaming the castle halls in a very particular fashion, beginning his late night Head Boy's rounds. He strolled by, checking empty classrooms, forbidden corridors, even the occasional broom closet for late night stragglers, finding the occasional shag fest or other interesting illicit activity. Normally one to enjoy the rare and unexpected discovery, he was merely going through the motions tonight, not even docking points for the out of line student or two. Hell, he didn't even have it in him to do much more than glare and frighten the shit out of them with his mere presence.

How had his life gotten so fucked up? One moment he was going to a simple Quidditch practice, the next thing he knew he had her goddamn dying body in his arms, and it just went downhill from there. Not only had he given up the biggest game of his career for her, but she had gone and put herself in the Hospital Wing over him. He'd never spoken more than a handful of sentences to her in his entire life. Besides one spectacular Bat-Bogey Hex years ago, she had never spoken much to him either. How was it that they were now so tangled up in each other's lives? He had absolutely no fucking idea. He had sworn off that Gryffindor trash the day of the game, and here he was, the next night, making his way down to the goddamn Hospital Wing. No, it wasn't on his bloody patrol route, so sod off.

He peered into the ward. The lights were dim. He stepped quietly inside and looked around. The bed where he had placed her earlier in the day was empty. At the far end of the ward was another bed with its curtains drawn. He could hear faint moaning emanating from its interior. His heart sank.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Malfoy?" Madam Pomfrey queried in a hushed whisper as she rounded the corner and looked at him.

"I was wondering how Weasley was doing." He mumbled, hesitating a bit.

"Trying to rest a bit now, I suspect. There was more damage than we initially expected. We really couldn't repair all those broken bones. We had to start all over with Skele-Gro. It'll be a rough night, but all will be as good as new in the morning." Draco's eyes widened.

"Start all over?" What the hell had been that broken? Merlin, not her face, he thought, panic rising.

"Well, the impact of that punch was quite severe, a bit more damage than even I expected."

"Do you think I could see... the Weasel?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No, not tonight. This type of treatment really necessitates some privacy. Come back in the morning." He nodded and looked over at the bed in the corner once more before leaving to shut out the sound of her moaning from his mind.

Then the tall, blond Slytherin, who really could care less if a certain redheaded witch died in that damn Hospital Wing, walked out with an unexpectedly heavy heart. As he finished the next hour of his nighttime patrol, he heard her moaning in his ears and couldn't help but speculate on the damage that was done when that idiot of a brother of hers slammed his fist into her face. Not that he even noticed her face before, for all those infernal freckles, but he would rather it not be changed when he saw her again. Yes, he decided he would like to see her as she always looked, as he remembered her looking when he held her last.

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Author's Note: Thanks for reading. One more chapter to go!

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9. Never, Ever, Do Anything Like That Again

Author's Note: It is with great pleasure that I give you the last chapter of Quidditch!

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Chapter 9

Never, Ever, Do Anything Like That Again

Was the Dreamless Sleeping Potion he had taken the night before just a placebo? No, he didn't dream. There were no nightmares in the Head Boy's room the previous night because he had gotten absolutely no goddamn sleep whatsoever. One generally needed to be asleep in order to dream, at least that's what he had previously believed; however, his recent experiences with a certain redheaded witch had taught him otherwise.

Where the hell was she? He glanced across The Great Hall continuously at breakfast and lunch the following day, until the cavernous room was nearly deserted, to no avail. Did Skele-Gro cause a complete loss of appetite as well? Had he dragged his arse out of bed at the crack of dawn and skived off half of Charms for nothing?

Why was it when you didn't want a certain crass, Muggle-loving siren of a witch around, you couldn't beat her off with a broom, and when you actually went in search of her, she was nowhere to be found? Once or twice he even wandered by the Hospital Wing, and it had been nearly teeming with infernal Gryffindors, including a Scarhead spotting. No, he would rather not put himself or her through that again. And so the Slytherin kept his silver greys open and watchful, going out of his way in hopes of coming across a certain Gryffindor witch's path. He never did. He wasted an entire day in empty pursuit of her. That redheaded Chaser was scarcer than a Snitch at the Quidditch World Cup.

By the end of the afternoon, he was beside himself, sleep-deprived and distraught with worry, his irritation having faded hours ago. He paced his room like a caged animal, alternating between cursing her and then cursing himself. It was absolutely ridiculous, putting herself in harms way like that. He had seen that goddamn fist coming, even before the Rodent knew it himself. Draco had purposefully pushed the great Weasel over the edge, just to give himself the satisfaction of pissing the Gryffindor off. If he couldn't get the Snitch or win the game, he would take what little glory was left, but he never expected the Weaselette to get involved.

What was taking so long in that damn Hospital Wing? Pomfrey had said she would be fine the next morning. It was now the end of the day. What the hell was going on? He finally sat down on his bed, rolled over onto his back, and stared at his Slytherin green canopy, just for the change of pace. He was about to swear off that infuriating piece of Gryffindor trash, when he stopped himself. Hell, it was near impossible to do that. He had tried that two days ago, and look what had become of his sorry excuse for a Slytherin. The harder he tried to get away from her, the more firmly entrenched he became in her tendrils, until he felt like he could no longer breath or think or do anything other than worry about the damn witch. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to shut her out from his witch weary mind.

When he opened his eyes, it was oddly dark and cold in his room. He sat bolt upright, looking around frantically. Goddamn it, he had fallen asleep.

"Lumos."

He glanced at his watch. Hell, he had just missed dinner as well. Draco threw his long legs over the side of his bed and rubbed the sleep out of his face. He had some goddamn decisions to make since he was no longer willing to live in the insanity and unrelenting hell his life had become. Was he a bloody Malfoy or not? Would he or would he not let himself be run over by some insufferable Muggle-loving Gryffindor trash?

Minutes later, he was walking down the corridors of Hogwarts as though he owned place. He flew up four flights of stairs to the Hospital Wing, blew open the doors, and strode in. The entire place was empty, even Pomfrey was gone. He spun around and raced up another flight of stairs.

He burst into the library, scanning the tables and the stacks before wandering further and further inside the maze of bookshelves and scattered tables, all filled with various students and texts. None, he noticed, had that certain splash of red silk and freckles. He took a quick peek in the restricted section before walking out and hitting the winding, ever changing staircases again.

Three flights of stairs later, he was in front of The Fat Lady's portrait. This time, the goddamn portrait was actually in and staring down her bloody nose at him. He had no time for her nonsense this evening and shouted the password at her fat face. Reluctantly, she swung open. Hell, just because he had never used the password, didn't mean that he, as Head Boy, didn't know the damn thing.

Taking a deep breath, Draco stepped over the threshold and into the most hostile and dangerous enemy territory in the entire castle, all the while expecting to be accosted, in short order, by all that ridiculous nobility and bravery running rampant in such squalor. As soon as the scattered students in the Gryffindor Common Room began looking up, one by one, at the most hated Slytherin in their home territory, Head Boy or not, the entire room fell silent, eyes staring at him. While they were temporarily stunned by his presence, he took a fast look around, scanning for that familiar package of red silk and freckles.

His eyes locked in on her, sitting in a chair underneath a tall window on the opposite side of the room. There she was, looking amazingly the same as she always did, every freckle, every crimson lock, even her delicate nose, all looked exactly as he remembered them, down to the last remarkable detail. He let out an enormous sigh of relief, and before anyone could stop him, he strode over to her.

She was staring at him walking over to her with definite purpose in each step, disbelieving the incongruent sight that greeted her. Draco Malfoy, Head Boy, Slytherin icon, and infamous Gryffindor hater was now in the heart of the Gryffindor Common Room. Had he gone completely insane? Did his life have no value to him? What was going on?

"Malfoy?" she breathed, eyes wide and questioning.

"Come on, Weasley," he said softly. To his astonishment, she did not need to be told twice. She rose to follow him. Before they could take more than ten steps toward the door, a hand flew out from the corner of the room, locking her in place.

"Ron," she admonished sharply, pulling her hand swiftly out of his. The Slytherin quickened his pace, and she was right behind him, until they passed safely back over the threshold of the Gryffindor Common Room and into the empty corridors of the castle. She continued to follow him, without questioning, matching him step for step, staircase for staircase until he had her ensconced in an abandoned classroom, with the door securely closed. Then he turned on her, towering over her slight frame, fixing his silver greys on her.

"Never, ever, do anything like that again," he said sharply. She looked up at him, completely unafraid, not cowering under his infamous Malfoy stare, and raised one delicate eyebrow back at him.

"Do what?" He sighed. The witch had an attitude as well.

"I don't need your goddamn protection, Weasley. I can handle your brother without your assistance." Then he saw her reaction. She winced, ever so slightly, at his words, and he discovered he took no pleasure in this. None at all.

Instead, he found himself studying her face, really studying it for the first time in weeks. He marveled at her now downcast luminous brown eyes, her remarkably perfect button nose, those sun kissed freckles dancing across her face, and her incredibly generous, pale pink lips. To his surprise, the back of his hand was running gently down the side of her face, amazed at the child-like softness of its perfection. It was the furthest thing from trash he had ever held in his hands.

He shook his head. This was true insanity he had descended into. He was utterly, completely mad, staring at her like this, staying his hand and his body from doing all the things they had a mind to do.

He thought things couldn't get anymore arse backward. That was before she somehow managed to snake her arms around his neck and pull his lips down onto hers. He didn't flinch or protest or push her away as he bloody well should have. She was, after all, still that Muggle-loving, Gryffindor, pureblooded pain in the arse. He didn't pull out his wand to blow his own head off with a hex, as previously promised, nor plunge a stake into his heart. No, the infamous Slytherin simply surrendered, utterly and completely, to her touch and found himself surrounded by a dazzling sea of red silk and freckles, quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

Of course it was the most natural thing in the world to meet her hungry, persistent lips with his own, to finally run his hands through those magnificent silken tresses, to press his body against hers until he could feel every curve and rise of her, reveling in the new found wonders of the little Weaselette. She was absolutely, unexpectedly glorious to him.

Then she was suddenly pulling away from him and coming up for air. He looked down at her, flushed and untangling herself from him. What the hell was he doing? She was his hell, his waking, breathing, ever living hell, which meant that this brief interlude would simply lead to hell and more hell, as it always did with her. He steadied himself, watching her closely. If this was hell, he finally decided, then he was a goddamn sinner and she, his righteous fallen angel. This was, most definitely, the way it was suppose to be.

He would not let her go. He reached out and pulled her to him. That cynical, hissing Slytherin wrapped his arms around his Nightmare of a witch from Gryffindor and cradled her to his chest in an unexpectedly tender fashion. Some seconds later, when he felt her relaxing, wonderfully, in his arms, he realized that she fit unbelievably well there, as though she might, perhaps, belong there in some crazy way.

"Never, ever, do anything like that again," he whispered to her, as he held her fast to him with no intention of letting go. Then he heard her laugh, that familiar heady laughter. This time when his heart exploded, it was quite a different feeling altogether. Yes, this was something different indeed, this inexplicable hell of his.

The End

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Out Takes

The Hospital Wing Fiasco

"What?" Draco stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief.

"That wasn't me in the Hospital Wing." She repeated herself.

"Who the hell was it?" She hesitated for a moment or two.

"Ron." She waited while this sank in, carefully watching his face.

"The Weasel?"

"No, I said Ron." She heard him snort at this.

"But Pomfrey said he needed Skele-Gro. Why the hell would he need that?"

"Because he broke several bones in his hand which couldn't be fixed."

A moment or two later, the Slytherin laughed, enjoying the thought of her brother experiencing a night full of pain courtesy of him. She scowled a bit at him in admonishment.

Draco saw the little Weaselette's look and sighed. Then he wrapped her face in his hands, staring at her with those magnificent silver grey eyes until she could see nothing else.

"You know I thought it was you in there." She nodded. "If it hadn't been for that idiot of a brother of yours, I never would have taken my life into my own hands by walking into that infernal Gryffindor Common Room looking for you." She wrapped her arms around him. "One night of Skele-Gro in the comfort of the Hospital Wing is the least of the punishments I could think of for knocking you unconscious." Then she laughed that particular laugh that he loved so much.

He resisted as she attempted to draw him closer to her, staying her with his hands planted firmly around her face, reveling in the sheer beauty of his little Weasel. This firecracker of a witch was his, totally and completely and amazingly his.

He ran a hand through her tousled silken tresses and saw her staring up at him, in the way that she always stared at him. He couldn't help himself. He willingly surrendered, utterly and completely, as he always did, to her touch and found himself painfully lost in her wondrous sea of red silk and freckles, in a passion and a desire so overwhelming he couldn't fathom enduring without her, in a time and place and space which existed only for them.

Draco Malfoy had been bested by another Gryffindor Quidditch player, a certain redheaded Chaser who loved him with all her heart and would never want another, ever. The Slytherin decided that she did, indeed, belong in his arms, and he would hold her, with an unmatched passion and fierceness, next to his heart for as long a time as she allowed, preferably forever.

The End Again

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He Never Said The Freak Couldn't Fly

He looked up from his vantage point at the base of the stands, and saw Scarhead with his arms on the little Weaselette, looking at her intensely, speaking in a voice too quiet for him to hear what was being said. She was staring back just as intensely, nodding in agreement. Then they both took off into the darkened pitch, one after another.

He watched Scarhead following the little Weasel around and around the pitch, closely mirroring her every movement, each twist and turn, each dive, each roll. Well, he never said the Freak couldn't fly. This ritual went on for what seemed like hours. By this time, he had ensconced himself in the comfort of the lower bleachers, in the shadows and moonlight of the winter's night, fully cloaked and hooded against the wind and the cold. Those bloody Gryffindors were still at it. He had his potions text out, reading by moonlight, occasionally looking up at the pair.

A full ninety minutes into the ritual, he heard it. Her cry rang out over the pitch and through the still of the frigid winter's night air. He finished up his next paragraph before looking up. Potty was assisting the little Weasel on the safety net he had cast. When Scarhead had her standing again, broom firmly in hand, Draco vanquished the net with a wave of his wand. The pair dropped safely to the field, and he stood to collect his package of red silk and freckles.

The Weaselette had a month to get ready for the Gryffindor game against Huffepuff just after Valentine's day. He was not going to put up with this falling nonsense during a game. After a little pushing and prodding, he discovered the initial bludger she took to the back of her head during the infamous pick up game in September damaged the system which kept her balance in check. While this had been slowly improving since then, Pomfrey had banned her from further matches, after her fall during the Slytherin match, until she could prove herself safe on the pitch.

Potter, who had been helping her with her flying since the initial accident, now put the little Weasel through a demanding set of flying drills twice a week to determine her readiness for playing an actual match. Ignoring the Weaselette's protests, Draco insisted on casting a safety net for every session, dragging his own frozen arse pitch side twice a week. Granted, this was her first fall in over a month.

"Malfoy."

"Potter," he returned, watching that freak of a Seeker mount his Firebolt.

"See you back in the Common Room, Gin,"

"Thanks, Harry. Sorry about that slip at the end."

"No problem. Good flying tonight." With a nod and a nimble jerk of his broom, Scarhead was flying over the pitch and back to the castle.

"Come on, Weasley." He looked over at her, took her broom and hoisted it over his shoulder before wrapping his other arm around her shoulder. They walked side by side, in the chill of the night air, across the field, through the grounds, and into the castle itself.

Really, Really The End

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Author's Note: A big thanks to all those who hung on, reading this little fic until the end. It's been a blast. Any parting reviews are appreciated. Hope to see you at the posting of my other fics, Breaking His Heart (will be restarting soon) and The Slytherin's Witch (under my alias, felloverdead).

About the author: I am an ex-psychiatrist, now full-time house elf, with two crazy kids and a workaholic husband. I started writing fanfiction seven months ago and use it to prevent complete intellectual collapse as well as a device for escapism when the walls of suburbia threaten to implode on me. Seems to be working so far. If I go silent in the future, you'll know what happened. fallenwitch

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