Love Under Will

Love Under Will

Part One: Transeamus

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Chapter 7: Queens of Quidditch

“And you’re back again,
Only different than before
After the sky.”

—Stephen Sondheim

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Draco’s day went downhill very rapidly.

The sting of Professor Snape’s remark only increased as the memory of his behavior grew more ridiculous. If he hadn’t been lost in doing whatever the hell he’d been doing with Harry, the entire embarrassing episode wouldn’t have happened—and if Harry hadn’t been such a damn prat about the whole thing, well, Malfoy undoubtedly wouldn’t have forgotten himself. Trying to hold his hand. Fucking holding his hand! How much more impudent could he get??

Draco was getting extremely good at shutting out the voice in his head which was suggesting quietly that he liked Harry’s impudence, and always had. After all, it was easy enough to blame Harry. Nothing simpler.

It was harder to ignore the fact that when he had looked down, his hand had been on top.

It was harder to escape the tightening pressure around his heart when he thought of Harry’s expression in the corridor when he’d told him to fuck off. Somehow the conviction that Harry’s feelings shouldn’t, and didn’t, matter to him faded at the prospect of never again feeling his arms around that firm body; of having to train his heart not to leap at the mere physical presence of Harry Potter, as it had been doing all week and threatened to keep doing with unnerving regularity.

It was harder to ignore the fact that somewhere amid all the horror at realizing that he had been holding hands with Harry fucking Potter! had been a thrill of excitement: a momentary yearning, vanquished quickly, thank god, to press even tighter into Harry’s grasp; to claim him with a clasp, to drag him off to some dark secluded corridor and do wicked things to him while his hand stayed fused to Harry’s like a branding iron on that smooth, tanned skin. It was also harder to ignore the voice that was steadily reminding him, you could still do that, you know…

Then there was the little matter of the kiss.

Draco wasn’t even making an effort to ignore that.

But it was a weakness, dammit. This whole thing, his feelings for Harry, the affect those feelings were having on his judgment—a weakness. It was the reason he had shamed himself in front of Snape to begin with; and a Malfoy should never know shame. It was inconceivable to his pride that his longing to be close to Harry had precipitated the events of that morning’s class. He was Draco Malfoy! He knew what was required of him, and making a fool out of himself because of Harry Potter was nowhere in the job description.

So instead of focusing on all those things he really should have been able to ignore, Draco focused on mentally preparing to face Harry again—this time in the Quidditch match between Slytherin and Gryffindor

The Slytherin-Gryffindor matches were traditionally the most heatedly anticipated of all Quidditch games at the school, but since the advent of the Malfoy-Potter teams the rivalry had reached new heights of intensity, for no two Seekers had ever been as fiercely competitive against each other. It didn’t help that at the end of the last year both players had been offered the position of team captain for the following season. Harry, still dealing with the death of Cedric Diggory, had presumably had more important things on his mind and quietly refused; Angelina Johnson had been named in his stead. Malfoy, however, had gleefully accepted, and even though he had honestly been the best person for the position, as he was the swiftest, most aggressive teammate, and the one least likely to be thrown off on academic probation, the other houses resented his arrogance in taking the position as a fifth year.

Malfoy, naturally, had liked being the cause of the dissent. What was a Slytherin if not ambitious; and what was he if not a true Slytherin?

He clung to this confidence all day, and by evening it was pulsing almost defiantly through his veins as he addressed his teammates before the game. 9 The strategy the Slytherins normally used was a brutal defense combined with an even more brutal offense, a time-honored tradition in their house that usually worked. For this Gryffindor team, however, Draco knew they needed something more.

“All right, once more, then—what are we going to use to win this game?” Most of the six other Slytherin players shouted out a hearty response, but Malfoy’s shrewd gaze centered on Crabbe, who had balked and mumbled while averting his eyes. Malfoy advanced on him, his eyes cold. “What was that, friend? I don’t believe I heard you.”

“Um…” Crabbe swallowed. “Constant vigilance?” He laughed and the others joined in, but Draco, not in the mood for humor, grabbed his broomstick and shoved him back against the wall of the locker room with such unexpected force that the larger boy gasped.

A Malfoy always knew when to use his strength to his advantage.

“Aggression,” he said quietly, a note of calculating calm in his voice. “The Gryffindors play by instinct. We will channel those instincts to force them to play our game. We’ll have them right where we want them.” He looked around at the team members, who were each nodding in agreement, concentrating on him. “I don’t care what you have to do out there to get them to play defensively,” Malfoy continued, gaining volume as the atmosphere grew more charged, “But whatever it is, be aggressive. If I see any—any of you—backing down against a Gryffindor—“ he turned to look a seventh-year Chaser directly in the eye, and a thrill of power ran through him as the older boy flinched—“I swear to Merlin I’ll sub Millicent Bulstrode on the team for you faster than you can spell ‘humiliation.’” He had everyone’s full attention. “Ben,” he said sharply to the chaser, “who’s the player to worry about?”

“Angelina Johnson.”

“Someone give this man a cookie. Crabbe and Goyle, I want you to focus on one thing and one thing only: eliminating Angelina from the game as quickly as possible. When you see a bludger, I want you to aim for her. You got that?”

“Aim for Angelina. Right.”

“If you take her out you’ve effectively crippled their offense. You two”—he rounded on the other two seventh and sixth-year chasers—“Remember what we talked about with the flying patterns?”

“Yeah, fly low, vary the angle of approach—”

“And don’t approach head on ‘cause Thomas’ll be expecting that.”

“Exactly. He grew up playing football; he’s still on the ground mentally as far as his blocking goes. And as for you”—he turned to face Blaise Zabini, his new keeper, would-be Slytherin star player, and worst attitude problem. She slouched rebelliously and eyed him with a dismissive look that thoroughly ticked him off.

“Yeah? Whaddya got?” Her chestnut eyes glittered with spirit.

“Plenty,” Malfoy snapped.

Blaise leered blatantly at his crotch and winked at him. “I’ll say you do. Is all that for me?”

“Shut up, Zabini,” he retorted contemptuously. “First of all, Katie Bell likes to swoop into the hoop from behind. You don’t even think of letting her try shit like that with you, you got it?” Blaise stared him down and nodded. “Secondly, any opportunity you get, pass the ball to Ben on the rebound.”

“Ben? The way he’s been playing?” She blurted. The seventh-year, who since a recent injury had been giving uneven performances, turned red with embarrassment.

Malfoy’s expression deepened into one of exact fury. “If you,” he said quietly, quelling any further outbursts simply by the intensity of his eyes, “ever insult one of these players again, I will make you regret it.” Blaise flinched. “When you’ve played more than three games with us maybe you’ll have an inkling of just what it takes to be a real Quidditch player and not just a wannabe on a broom. He’s been here for four years, witch, and you will treat him with the respect he deserves. You want to prove something, wipe the goddamn sneer off your face and do it on the field. Clear?”

Blaise nodded, avoiding his gaze and looking furious. Malfoy continued as if the incident had never happened. “So. Pass to Ben. They’ll be expecting Morse to take it down the field, so we’re going to shake ‘em up a bit.”

“What about Potter?” Blaise shot back. “All this strategy won’t count for nothing if we don’t keep Potter from getting to the Snitch, and you haven’t said one word about how we’re gonna do that.”

Draco eyed her coolly. “Leave Harry Potter to me.” He didn’t try to keep the intensity out of his voice. “Especially if you want to see real aggression.”

~~~~~~~~

The moment they felt the wind in their faces, Draco left the week behind. Pure adrenaline filled his blood, and the fact he’d gotten no sleep the night before became irrelevant. Even the sight of Harry, presenting an unmistakable figure of grace as he cut through the air in an arc of red and gold, only filled Draco with new energy. He flew up to the center of the field to meet the Gryffindor, now more determined than ever not to be undone by his rival’s defiant stare and cool, fiercely challenging eyes. Below them their teammates faced off as the deafening roar of the crowd began.

This was always his favorite moment: the part just before the release of the Quaffle. Harry hovering there right beside him, so unconsciously sure of himself on his Firebolt—Malfoy had one too, a newer edition, but a Firebolt was still a Firebolt—made the moment all the more intense. Draco couldn’t resist. “Lovely weather for flying, isn’t it, Potter?”

Harry looked at him for the first time, eyes full of fire. “Any weather’s good for kicking your ass, Malfoy.” He was heartlessly angry.

“Then let’s play,” Malfoy responded viciously, tingling from the burning combativeness their interaction in Quidditch always ignited within him.

At that moment the Quaffle took to the air; he had no time to see Harry’s reaction before the flurry of red and green down below led to a Gryffindor capture as Alicia grabbed it from a Slytherin chaser and took off down the field. Harry yelled a cheer of encouragement and began searching the grounds for the Snitch. Draco took a moment to watch him, noting the way his forehead crinkled up when he was concentrating hard, before the cheers of the Gryffindors (and the other two houses) yanked him back to reality. Alicia was speeding toward the hoops zone and Blaise was readying herself, with no idea that Katie Bell was zooming in on the far left about to take the pass. With a curse Malfoy dived like a falcon straight at Katie, so unexpectedly that she nearly screamed when she saw him attacking her from above.

He made it between them just as Alicia hurled the ball, and a cry of dismay went up from three sides of the stadium as he blocked it, nearly knocking Katie off her broom in the process. After passing to Ben he flew by Blaise and muttered, “That’s the last time I cover your arse today. You clear on that?”

“I love it when you talk dirty, Malfoy,” she retorted. He rolled his eyes and rejoined Potter, who was pacing overhead, wearing a look that might almost have been admiration for Draco’s save, had it not been filtered through layers of distrust and doubt. It was almost refreshing, but Draco wasn’t focusing on Harry’s looks as he locked sides with him, bumping him roughly because the wind was picking up and taking them with it. Crabbe and Goyle aimed a pair of bludgers at Angelina with surprisingly good timing, and only a last-second block by Fred kept one from giving her a concussion. In the meantime she scored against a pissed-off Blaise, who let Ben run the ball downfield, successfully dodging a bludger from one of the twins. True to their word, once he handed off to the other Slytherin chasers they immediately went into a dizzying roller-coaster of dives, loops, and passes that won a few gasps of appreciation from the audience and left Dean Thomas with no way of preparing for the block. As they scored easily Draco let out a whoop of approval and heard Harry groan beside him.

“Should’ve kept him on the ground with the soccer players,” Draco taunted. Harry irritably gave Malfoy’s Firebolt a kick, and it wavered at the mercy of the gusts of wind whipping all around it before righting itself. Draco was pondering yanking a chunk of tail out of Harry’s own broom when he saw the Golden Snitch fluttering behind them, about thirty yards away, well below the level of play. Instantly he leaned flat against his broom and sped down, hoping no one got in his way, because he certainly had no intention of swerving out of theirs…

From far away he thought he heard shouts of alarm, but he registered only the Snitch gleaming ahead of him: the Snitch, and the anticipation of feeling Harry at his side any moment. But Harry did not materialize; instead, just as the Snitch began a frantic rise and Malfoy began to hurtle after it, something seized the back of his broom and jerked back on it so roughly Draco was nearly flung forward off of it. But an instant later, with a splintering crack so loud it wrought from the entire stadium a collective gasp of fright, the two bludgers collided right where his head should have been. Angelina hovered just above him, white-faced, aware that the balls had been meant for her.

Trying to shake off the shock, Draco reached dumbly behind him and felt a trembling arm still clutching his broom. It had all been the work of a moment, but he knew exactly to whom he owed thanks for saving his skull from being crushed. Slowly, forcing his emotions behind a mask of defiance, he turned around. “I thought I told you to fuck off,” he said quietly.

Harry’s face was ghostly pale, and an expression of genuine fear was quickly fading from his eyes. Malfoy’s heart did flips but he forced himself to focus on the game, not Harry, or how it felt to know he’d wanted to protect him from getting hurt. Harry bit his lip and conquered whatever emotions he was fighting. “I’ll let you get what’s coming to you, then.” He looked as though every word were turning to bile in his throat.

“You mean the Snitch?” Malfoy leered, inwardly marveling at his ability to sound so suave when still frightened half-senseless. “By all means. By the way, we’re winning.” Harry whirled around. In the shock over the near collision, and with Angelina momentarily stunned, Slytherin had posted twenty more points on the board. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a very excellent chaser to eliminate.” Harry’s mouth fell open in silent astonishment, and Draco flew over to Goyle, who had just batted a bludger out over the lake away from human contact. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We aimed for Angelina, and we nearly took your head off!”

“Well, so the fuck what? Is it your fault if I fly in front of a bludger? Let me worry about my head—just go after Johnson.”

“But—”

“Just do it. We need her out of the game.”

Goyle swallowed and nodded. As if proving Malfoy’s point Angelina put a smart shot through the hoop just then right under Blaise’s nose; Malfoy, satisfied at the new look of determination in his friend’s face, set about looking for the Snitch. He flew back up to Harry and hovered facing the opposite direction, feeding off the rage in his opponent’s countenance. They scouted the field in silence for a long moment, the wind virtually knocking the two Seekers against the wall of tension between them. In the midst of this the memory of Harry’s lips on his suddenly broke through Malfoy’s resolve to remain immune to the boy next to him, and the wind suddenly knocked Harry’s glasses off his sweat-streaked nose.

Harry reached but it was Draco who caught them. For a moment he stared into deep emerald, rendered brighter and wider without the barrier of the frames. Harry looked vulnerable, and Draco knew that he could crush the lenses now and effectively ruin the game for his opponent. He toyed with the idea, intrigued more by the way Harry's unguarded eyes glittered in the sunlight than by the idea of winning so easily; in the end, he calmly handed the glasses back, pressing them firmly into Harry's fingertips and noting a faint blush starting in the other boy's cheeks. “This is as nice as I get, Potter,” he said quietly. “Be grateful.”

Harry’s retort was lost as someone screamed: Goyle’s resolve had done its job; Angelina was sinking to the ground, clutching her shoulder in agony. Harry whirled on Malfoy, seized him by the collar, and called him a very terrible name before pushing him roughly away and zooming after Angelina as Gryffindor called a time out. It looked like a long one as the other team huddled around its star player; Malfoy made the rounds, congratulating the beaters, encouraging the chasers, and reprimanding his keeper for failing to block the last two Gryffindor scores.

“You’re one to talk, Malfoy,” Blaise hissed in retort. “You’re too busy playing footsie with Potter to notice what’s really going on down here.”

“What?”

“You and Potter—all you’re doing is showing each other up, flying around and fighting like the Snitch don’t even exist.”

“That’s competition, Blaise.”

“Yeah, but it’s not Quidditch.” She tossed her head and eyed him appraisingly. “If beating Harry Potter’s the only reason you play, Malfoy, you might as well stick to your little wizarding duels.”

Draco knew Blaise was jealous—she desperately wanted to be the Slytherin Seeker, and made no attempt to hide her ambition—but he also felt a stab of truth that pierced something deep within him. As he flew back to center field, watching Harry confer with Angelina down below, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been obsessed with beating Harry.

He’d forgotten what it was like to play Quidditch without that feeling.

The wind jolted his broom, revitalizing and rejuvenating him as it whipped across his face. Ah, yes. This was Quidditch—this feeling of freedom, battling the currents of the wind, soaring over the stadium, searching for gold. He circled the field once on his broom, a little jauntily. His team was up ten points. My name is Draco Malfoy, captain of the best team Slytherin House has ever seen. (Well, maybe not…)

Harry was gathering his team together, a look of stormy, determined passion on his face. Draco loved looking at him at such moments. It wasn’t only because Harry was so intensely physical then, but because he seemed to infect everyone around him with the power of his emotions. Watching him Draco was reminded that while he, Malfoy, could provoke a team into playing well, Harry truly inspired people. He was inspiring Draco now in spite of himself: inspiring him to play, for the first time in oh, so long, the way Harry did: for joy and glory and fun; not for the purpose of beating his archrival, but simply for himself.

Angelina was walking off the field, still clutching her shoulder, which looked badly swollen even from here. As applause followed her exit, the timeout ended, and Harry took to the sky, his eyes blazing with fury. He didn’t bother speaking to Malfoy, just glowered. Draco suddenly realized the tables had turned: now Harry was the one playing for revenge—and Draco could feel deep in his soul who was going to win.

Blaise blocked a shot from Katie and rebounded to Morse, who was halfway down the length of the field before a Gryffindor came near him. Dean was ready this time, and blocked the shot easily. Up above, Harry honed in on Malfoy and paced him as closely as always, their thighs and knees knocking together. “You just can’t leave me alone, can you?” Draco growled.

“Try leaving your dirty hands off my teammates,” came the dark, measured response.

“It’s Quidditch, Potter, not tiddlywinks!” Malfoy snapped. “If she can’t play rough she needs to get off the field.” He paused, then added with deliberate malice, “Besides, you liked those hands this morning.”

“Fuck you!” Harry snapped, abandoning his composure and desperately fighting the note of torment in his voice. “Fuck you, you absolute son of a—I should’ve let those bludgers crush your skull.”

He was gripping his broomstick in serious fury, but a tremor of uncertainty shook him, and Draco, seeing how torn he was, experienced a wave of yearning that wracked him inside and out. No, Malfoy, don’t you dare. Not this time. You’re Draco Malfoy. He’s your opponent, and you’re about to win this game. Keep it together—god, keep it together just until you’ve won…

He felt a cloud of anger and resolve descend on him and he snapped, “Well, maybe you should have, Potter, but don’t blame your weakness on me!”

A look of rage so explicit it floored Draco shot into Harry’s face—but a moment later it was irrelevant, for the Golden Snitch bounced right in front of their noses and zoomed headlong into the furious wind.

They hurled their Firebolts after it, each with his hand gripping the other’s leg, flesh pressing violently into flesh in a wildly sensual effort to keep the other Seeker at bay. The onslaught of the gale full in their faces was making it incredibly difficult to keep up with the Snitch, not to mention bitterly, breathtakingly cold. Beside him Draco knew Harry’s blood was pounding, his breath speeding up as he flattened himself out on his broom; but he sensed rather than saw this, for his eyes were fastened to the Snitch. The wind was blowing so hard that the bewitched ball was struggling to fly against it, and was compensating by varying its angles, dipping and bouncing in the air erratically. Harry was just ahead of Draco, following the curves and moves of the ball so closely it almost sickened Draco to know that anyone on earth could fly so well; but suddenly, as he raced alongside the Gryffindor Seeker, an impulse flashed into his brain, an anticipation so strong he didn’t even think about it, he just did it: taking his hand off Harry’s thigh he slowed his broom and dove sharply. He didn’t have time to know how Harry reacted to this: he was falling a few feet underneath the Snitch, Harry was rushing ahead, Draco was closing in from below… and the Snitch, an arm’s length away from being caught, turned and veered straight into the wind—

—heading for Draco, who was right in front of it..

Harry’s eyes were satellites as he hurled his broom around—they collided into each other as Draco reached the Snitch, which was instantly smashed between them as they fell to the ground. His fingers fumbled with the fluttering jewel as they plummeted to earth, arms, legs, and brooms entangled. They didn’t have far to fall but instinctively Draco reached his arm around Harry in a wild moment of protectiveness, and as they hit the ground his first thought was Harry’s safety even as his own body reeled from the pain. They rolled against each other and then lay there for a moment, recovering, until finally Harry looked down and gasped.

Malfoy had caught the Snitch.

Draco’s eyes widened. He’d done it. He’d beaten Harry. He had no time to wonder when the exultant sensation of triumph was supposed to hit because he was too engaged in the fact that Harry was still lying on top of him, and because at that instant Harry grabbed Draco by the shirtfront, the strength of his grip surpassed only by the hardness of his eyes.

“You dirty little bastard, do you want me or do you just want to be me?”

His words left him quickly, and upon hearing them Harry drew back as though he hadn’t meant to say them aloud. In the blinding roar of the moment, the Snitch still fluttering wildly in his hand, Draco was too dazed to quite comprehend what Harry meant. He started to form a reply when he felt it: Harry’s very noticeable erection pressing into his thigh.

Harry’s eyes widened in shock at the exact moment as Draco’s. Horrified, they stared at each other’s dawning expressions of comprehension; then Draco shoved away from Harry with all his might and started to get up, and Harry’s stupor switched into fierce loathing. With a strangled cry, he seized Malfoy’s Quidditch robes and dragged him back to the ground underneath him.

The heated combination of hate, desire, and torment etched on Harry Potter’s face was beyond description. Draco registered the expression at the same instant he felt the thrill of being pinned against him, of being perfectly aligned under Harry’s heaving body. He was momentarily knocked breathless, not by the force of it, but by how good it felt.

He wanted more. Much more. He shoved his thigh up against Harry, who instinctively pushed against him, unable to contain a sharp gasp at the way his hard-on must have felt bearing down on Draco’s own. Draco grappled for control as he tried to wrestle Harry underneath him, his fingers digging welts in Harry’s shoulders. “Are you angry because I’ve got the Snitch,” he seethed, saliva flying up in Harry’s face, “or because my beating you turns you on?”

Harry’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open in rage and confusion. He clenched his fist and clung to Draco harder, wrapping his leg underneath Draco’s ass to pull him up even more tightly against him. He looked as though he couldn’t make up his mind about beating Draco to a pulp or screwing him senseless; and in the split-second that his hard emerald eyes blazed with the possibility, Harry Potter was the most erotic vision of Draco Malfoy’s life.

Suddenly Draco turned a corner in his mind, and there, as if he’d been waiting all along, was Harry.

Confusion turned to clarity, loathing to absolute yearning, and two things flashed through Draco’s mind:

Don’t let go of the Snitch.

and

I should be on top.

Draco then had a crazy blur of a dream in which he tried to get it on with Harry Potter while the whole school watched. Shoving his leg between Harry’s to give him leverage he gripped Harry’s shoulder and rolled over, trapping a surprised and still deliciously hard Harry to the ground. He was on the point of pressing himself down against the erection screaming for attention between his knees—when Harry did it for him, gripping his shoulders and forcing him against him with a gasp, before instantly shoving Draco to the side and landing on top of him again. “Did you like that, you son of a bitch?” he muttered half-crazily, eyes glinting. “Is this what you want?”

In response, Draco bit down, hard, on Harry’s shoulder, Harry’s warm flesh stifling his moan of arousal, but not Harry’s own. It was very much what Draco wanted. He was on the verge of wrapping his tongue around the place where his teeth had just sunk in when he felt Harry’s own mouth tearing at his neck, his hands wildly going for a stranglehold around Draco’s throat. Harry’s kiss was over in an instant but it was enough to make Draco mad with desire. “Give it to me!” he spat up at Harry, his voice seared with hate and lust, indecision and desperation.

Just then he heard an angry, far-away voice yelling at them shrilly. Uh-oh, he thought. I’d better make this look like a fight. And with the fist still holding the Snitch he punched Harry, hard enough to surprise him but not hurt him.

Harry was thrown back, and an instant later he was roughly pulled off of Malfoy, still looking lustfully murderous. Draco now realized the whole school was on its feet screaming in emotion. It was a rather ironic soundtrack to the emotions coursing through him now as he looked at Harry, who was frantically tugging at his robes, making good and sure they covered him—all of him.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, I am ashamed of both of you!” Madam Hooch was yelling hoarsely. “Never in Hogwarts history have I seen two Seekers behave with less decorum than you have today…”

I thought Harry’s décor was just fine, thought Draco dizzily.

“You will each receive penalties, and 100 points will be taken from both houses.” A cry went up from all sides, only to fade into a giant, suspenseful pause.

“Slytherin wins the match!”

Instantly a calamitous roar arose from the stands—rapture from the Slytherin section, dismayed disbelief from everyone else. Draco wasn’t really aware of anything except the stunned, horrified look on Harry’s face, until suddenly his teammates swept their captain up onto their shoulders in triumph—

And Harry was lost from his view.

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