Draco's Delicate Condition

Chapter 12 - Salazar's Heart

Draco's Friday classes were over for the day and he raced to the Slytherin dorms. He dumped his rucksack full of texts onto his four-poster and quickly changed into his Quidditch uniform. He pulled his gleaming new Starshotz 6000 out of his wardrobe, allowing himself a full minute to stare at the sleek magical broomstick in rapt admiration.

The best racing broomstick in the world! Potter, eat your Gryffindor heart out!

Grinning broadly, Draco snatched up a cloak from his closet and broomstick in hand, raced away.

Tearing out of the Commons entrance, his mind on the fast approaching Quidditch match, Draco nearly collided with Hermione, who waited for him outside. It never dawned on Draco that Hermione even knew where Slytherin Commons was located within the dungeons of Hogwarts castle.

"Hello Draco," said Hermione with a shiver. Although flame torches burned to light the corridor, the deep subterranean passages were always chilly. She shifted her school bag on her shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" Draco said tersely. "What do you want?" Draco's feelings were gravely conflicted. On the one hand, he was on his way to deliver his team one last dressing down before the big game. He considered an adequate chewing out to be vitally important to the team's success, so he wanted to race off. On the other hand, he and his 'Petals' spent the past week enjoying highly entertaining, post fight, 'make-up' snogs, during which someone's nipples were pinched, fondled and kissed so much, they were sore and tender to the touch.

"Can't you see I'm busy witch? I've told you the Hufflepuff game is my first priority," Draco barked, his face set in an annoyed frown. He fought to constrain himself from sweeping up Hermione in his arms and smothering her with kisses. Such action would both ruin his fierce façade and muddy the lines of just who controlled whom.

"Draco," asked Hermione with a cute giggle. "Are your nipples still sore? Next time I'll search until I find something else to kiss."

Staring dumbly at Hermione, Draco's heart beat faster and he distinctly felt it flip-flop. Constraint and control were far easier to seek than obtain.

"Damn it, witch! My nipples... my manly nipp... my little pink bits are nothing for you to giggle about! Thanks to you I'm wearing plasters on my nipp... pink bits. If my team sees plasters on my nipp... my pink boy-bits, my reputation is down the toilet!" Draco stepped away from Hermione and marched off briskly down the corridor, his Starshotz over his shoulder. Gritting his teeth it momentarily crossed Draco's mind to wonder if he should even dream of living long enough to require a plaster over his genitals.

Shouldering her school bag, Hermione trotted behind. "Draco, it's sunny but rather cold out. I hear it might rain later today."

"I don't need a weather report Petals," Draco growled and picked up his pace as he marched, his steps echoing down the long corridor towards the stairs. "It is so like you make an unnecessary fuss. Have you learned nothing from me?"

"You weren't in the Great Hall for lunch," Hermione insisted as she followed along behind him. "I looked for you. Now don't be stubborn Cocoa. Come with me and have something to eat. You can't play Quidditch on an empty stomach,. You know how cranky you get."

Still walking rapidly along, Draco turned his head to bellow at Hermione. "Yes, heaven forbid I go up against the Hufflestuffs while CRANKY!"

Quickening her pace again to match Draco's, Hermione was persistent. "If you come with me now I can feed you some lovely hot soup and a chip butty. Your favorite!"

"Chip 'flaming' butties?" snarled Draco. The concept of the 'chip butty' - was a sore point with him. Earlier in the week Hermione insisted he try one - a thickly buttered white bread sandwich filled with plump golden chips. Draco considered himself a connoisseur of impeccable gourmet tastes. To the chagrin of his conceited soul, he discovered a chip butty was a little bit of heaven.

"How many times do I have to tell you I have a reputation to protect? I can't be seen eating, a 'chip butty' like, like..." Draco sputtered, finding it a tricky thing to fuss while salivating. "...being fed a chip butty like some blasted chip eater!"

"But you love chips. And you have to eat something," murmured Hermione. "We can go to our hideaway for a bit. Please, do it for me so I won't have to worry about my big hot cup of white Cocoa, all stirred up?"

Ignoring his singing heart Draco snarled, "Fine. But only to keep you happy." He stopped walking, allowing Hermione to catch up to him. He took her hand and made a point to keep a stern look on his face. "And damn me if I understand why keeping you happy is so important," he lied.

Hermione granted Draco an unlady-like kiss. The two moved along the corridor, arm in arm, lip to lip. At the bottom of the stairwell, they looked upwards, preparatory to ascending the steps.

"AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!"

The corridor echoed with the screams of Draco and Hermione. Draco, quivering with fright, shoved Hermione behind himself, spreading his arms, keeping his body protectively between his love and the silhouette of his 'mudblood' hating father, Lucius Malfoy.

That Draco was made in the image of the figure in the doorway was obvious - Draco and his father shared the same eyes, so palely ashen, so pallid, that to look into their eyes was to gaze into bottomless waters. The stern looking wizard loomed at the top of the stairs so tall that his head, from which flowed long platinum hair, nearly brushed the top of the doorway. He looked so tall perhaps because of his proud stance, and his sweeping charcoal robes. Two cold grey eyes glared down at Draco and Hermione. Slowly the stern figure descended the stairs.

"Father! You, you startled me," said Draco loudly. That much was obvious. Draco fought to gain control of himself as he stood, quailing in his imported Green Common Welch dragon leather boots.

The face of Lucius wavered between anger and deep disappointment. His frown deepened.

Draco's seeker trained eyes caught a glint - a silver glint - and he momentarily dropped eye contact. Draco gasped; his father's right hand grasped a wicked looking, curve handled flaying knife. Even in the dimly lit stairwell the sharp knife-edge glittered like a ten-carat diamond. Slowly, as Lucius descended the stairs, Draco pushed Hermione behind him, back down the corridor. The tall figure reached the bottom of the stairs and continued to walk slowly towards the young and terrified lovers.

"Father... you look well," said Draco as brightly as he could manage, prattling on, dead fast, to help steady his voice. "You came to see the big Quidditch match today Father? Super! See my broomstick here? We all got our new Starshotz 6000s, and the team looks great on them! Only you could pull off getting so many cutting edge racing brooms to the team on such short notice." Draco shrugged nervously and felt queasy with fear for Hermione. "Oh, did you know, I've made a great start at my O.W.L.s. We all have studying partners. Funny, I study with... you'll roll your eyes for this one Father... I study with Granger here for Potions! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Imagine, me studying with a mud... I'll bet you thought we were having a snog just then? Actually... ummm...uh... I had to bite her on the lip. You know. Keep her in line. Ha, ha! You know Father, spare the lip, spoil the witch!"

Draco continued stepping backwards, herding Hermione behind him, his eyes glued to the piercing grey eyes. "So, Father. How's your new two-headed postal eagle... 'Rocker' you call it? How is Rocker working out?" Draco abruptly stopped walking backwards, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

"GREAT GRANDFATHER'S GAMMY GOOLIES!"

At Draco's sudden outburst, Hermione jumped with such fright, she tripped, tumbling to the floor behind Draco.

Swiftly Draco tossed his broomstick down to Hermione, pulled his wand. Swirling his wand twice over his head, Draco took aim and swing it towards his father's image. "Riddikulus!" With a deafening cracking noise, the image of Draco's father stood, naked but for a huge old-fashioned cloth nappy knotted at the hips, a frilly baby's bonnet on his encasing his platinum hair, and large pink knit booties with large shiny satin bows encasing his feet. Eyes wide with surprise, the image of Lucius gawked at Draco. The boggart Lucius sheepishly shook a massive silver rattle tied with a green pastel bow.

"Ha, ha, ha! Father.... ha, ha, ha, ha!" Draco could hardly get the words out for his laughing. "Didn't know you were prone to fetishes!" Draco turned his head. "Petals, any talcum powder handy for baby's big bum?"

Somewhat in shock, but cottoning on to Draco's direction, Hermione burst into laughter. "Why Cocoa? Is the ikle babykins wet? Or worse?"

Unable to deal with the confusing laughter, the boggart exploded and a shower of blue talcum powder floated downwards, dousing the fire in a nearby torch. The boggart was gone.

With a sharp sneeze, Draco's laughter extinguished as quickly as the fire in the torch. "OUTRAGEOUS!" he fussed. He waved a hand to clear the fine blue powder out of the air. "ACHOOO! Damn me, if that useless Filch can't keep this castle cleared of boggarts, what the hell good is he anyway? The fecking half wit ought to be sacked!" Draco helped Hermione up from the floor and handed her school bag to her. He dusted blue talcum powder from her skirt and took back his Starshotz. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Still a bit shaky, Hermione patted Draco's shoulder raising a small blue cloud of powder. "No... no... achoo! No harm done Draco. You know as well as I do a boggart in Hogwarts has nothing to do with Filch." She looked quizzically at Draco. "How did you know the boggart wasn't your father?"

"Easy." Draco's hands still shook a bit as he pocketed his wand and took back his broomstick. "Whenever someone mentions one of father's stupid postal eagles, Father's eyes dilate with ecstasy! At the thought of his precious postal eagles, Father he comes all over with a grin like he just laid a golden dragon egg. The boggart did not look at all pleased."

Still fuming, Draco took one step up the staircase but Hermione took one of his arms with both hands and pulled him back down. Making a studied point of keeping any hint of pity from her voice, Hermione asked gently, "Cocoa, are you that afraid of your father?"

"How DARE you!" Draco exploded. In the face of Draco's fury, Hermione released his arm and fell back a couple of steps.

"I am NOT afraid of my father! That stupid boggart tapped into a random thought I had. That's all. Or, or maybe the boggart tapped into your head. You're afraid of my father, aren't you?" Draco stared into Hermione's face, daring her to contradict him. But seeing fear in Hermione's eyes he immediately regretted his harshness. His eyes held a hint of remorse as he took her hands and held them to his lips kissing them softly. "Me afraid of my father? What nonsense. Now Father's postal eagles are another matter altogether - those feathered fuckers scare the snot out of me. But afraid of my father? Petals, where do you pick up such rubbish?"

Hermione placed her arms around Draco's waist, pulling the fussing boy against herself. She leaning into him so heavily, Draco was forced to brace himself or fall back.

"I'm sorry I implied you are afraid of your father, Dray-cocoa," Hermione said soothingly. "I know how very much you love him." They looked into each other's eyes. Each knew full well that fearing and loving were not mutually exclusive, but neither dared to say so.

Shutting his eyes, Draco hugged Hermione tight, burrowing his nose into her hair and breathing deeply. The feel and scent of the witch's chestnut hair always calmed him far more readily than his Chinese breathing exercises. They stood quietly for a time and finally Draco spoke. "Right. We're wasting time here Petals, I have a team to scream at. Now are you going to feed me some hot soup and one of those 'chip arsey' things or what?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a sunny winter day but the sun had to work hard to outshine the smiles on the face of every student and teacher headed for the Quidditch stadium. The Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff match was eagerly anticipated since Draco's attack of vanity lost the match for Slytherin some weeks earlier. Things had changed since that early game and now Hufflepuff was seen as the new bully on the block. Everyone was eager to learn which team, Slytherin or Hufflepuff, would fly the lap of honor at game's end. Harry and Ron hurried along with their fellow Gryffindor classmates, across the great sweep of lawns towards the stadium.

"Harry!" exclaimed Ron "I've waited a long time for this match. I mean, either Abbott gets her little bum booted or Malfoy gets his arse kicked. Either way, we can't lose!"

"Right," Harry said in a distracted voice.

"Harry, this is going to be the match of the year. What's wrong with you?" Joking, Ron felt Harry's forehead, which was in fact, rather warm. "You feeling all right?"

"I'm fine. I want to ask you Ron, would you mind... much..." Harry sounded as if he was about to ask for the loan of both Ron's kidneys. "If I ask Ginny to Hogsmeade?"

"What for?" Ron was plainly puzzled by Harry's request. "Ginny usually tags along with us to Hogsmeade."

"No, you see," explained Harry. "I mean I want to ask Ginny to go to Hogsmeade with just me. By ourselves. Alone. By ourselves...only us. No one else. Just me. Oh, right, and Ginny too."

Ron stopped walking and grabbed Harry by the shoulder. He looked curiously at Harry. "Ginny's my sister Harry. My baby sister."

"I'm aware of that Ron," said Harry still sounding atypically timid. "That is why though I would ask for your permission first."

"Here, what have you in mind Harry?" Ron said, his tone threatening.

"Lunch with Ginny at the Three Broomsticks. Maybe to Honeydukes afterwards? Buy her some sweets?"

"Then what?" Ron seemed unconvinced about something.

"Bring her back to the commons? A game of wizard's chess? Do our homework together? Read the bible? Is that moving too fast?"

Ron looked at Harry solemnly for a minute. Suddenly his face relaxed and he broke into a smile. "No, not at all Harry! Sure, take the undeserving girl out. Have fun." Ron's laughter suddenly died out again. "But not too much fun. She's just a kid you know. Have you asked Fred and George yet?"

Having reached the stadium, Harry and Ron began the long climb up to the Gryffindor section to join their teammates and friends. Both were somewhat abashed when many of the witches seated in the stands called out, "look, Captain Potter and Weasley!"

A sizable little faction of witches waved frantically at Ron. "Weasley! Oi, Copper top!" They jostled and encouraging each other to speak to the redhead. Apparently, like his brothers Fred and George, Ron had a small but dedicated following. Understandably cheery, Ron thrilled to the sight of his own batch of bouncing Weasley fanciers. Harry was delighted that Ron for once, enjoyed a well-deserved share of the fuss.

Ron poked Harry in the ribs. "Harry, just look at all these pretty witches waiting for nice Quidditch chaps like us to ask them out." He gave Harry an encouraging wink and pointed to where Hermione sat with Ginny. Ron and Harry climbed up the steps, and squeezed into a crowded row to empty seats behind the girls.

"Hello Ginny, Hermione," Harry and Ron greeted them. Hermione and Ginny returned the greetings, but neither turned to look at the boys.

"Oi," sang out one bold forth year witch. "Are the rumors true Weasley?"

"Yes," asked another witch slyly. "Is it true, the rumours why Gryffindor wizards call your... you... 'the pride of the boys dorm'?" And explosion of titters broke out from witches all around.

Ron turned around and raised an eyebrow - just so. "I only care what beautiful Gryffindor witches such as yourselves think. And you know what everyone says, seeing is believing." The witches in the immediate section exploded into gales of giggles in a high enough pitch to allow communication with bats and dolphins.

Poor Harry covered his ears, concerned his eardrums might shatter under the decibel load. "Ron," Harry whispered, "you have one snog a couple of weeks ago with Hermione and now you're Casanova?" Harry, was wholly ignorant of Ron's clandestine activities over the past weeks.

Ron smiled cryptically. Without taking his eyes from the girlish eye candy in his immediate reach, he whispered discretely, "Harry, really. You're so naive."

Harry was about to tell Ron off, when he felt something, several things actually, soft and yet hard, creeping up his spine. Startled, Harry reached behind his back and grabbed what felt like a petite, stocking clad foot. Harry shifted around as rapidly as he could, but lost his grip on the foot. He turned and stared at the row of robed witch knees immediately behind him. There was no telling which set of knees sent out little feet to bedevil Harry.

"Morning Captain Potter!" giggled the bank of witches. Harry's cheeks burned scarlet. Giving the row of witches a polite, if bewildered smile, Harry turned around and hunkered down. All around Harry giggles and titters merrily tinkled like Christmas bells.

With disapproving looks, Hermione and Ginny turned to face Harry and Ron.

"Stop flirting and making all that racket!" Hermione entirely blamed the boys for the noise and disruption.

Ron looked insufferably proud of himself and gave Harry poke in the ribs. But poor Harry. He looked humiliated at Hermione's accusation that he was being foolishness. Hermione snorted and turned her back on the boys, her eyes glued to her evil Slytherin captain, down on the pitch, waiting for match to begin.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time Madame Hooch walked out onto the pitch, the Slytherin and Hufflepuffs teams were standing opposite each other, clutching their wands. The teams seemed only moments away from flinging hexes at each other.

"HERE," shouted Madame Hooch. "Stop that squabbling now! There's a match to be played and I want to get started. There will be a change for today's game but I think I'll just keep you all guessing what the change might be." Leaving the teams guessing as to her meaning, Madame Hooch signaled captains Malfoy and Brockland to the sidelines for the usual pre-match instructions. Draco slung his Starshotz over his shoulder and rolling his eyes in annoyance, he followed Hooch and Brockland.

Here we go again. Same stupid lecture from Eagle-eye Hooch every game. 'Mr. Malfoy, Make nice with the ikle Huffy Puffees, they bruise sooooo easily! Old cow...

Hooch, the 'old cow', stopped mid-pitch and stoically eyed the two captains. Brockland stood calmly enough but Draco glared with annoyance at Madame Hooch. The witch reminded Draco of his father's former Harpy Eagle - the same insane amber stare, the same inability to see reason.

"Now young man," snarled Hooch. "I have had it with your players and your methods."

Draco was about to open his mouth with his usual protest to Madame Hooch's reprimands, but she stunned Draco by cocking her head towards Captain Brockland instead.

"Captain Brockland, mark me well. Competition is well and good but this is not the lower east side and your team is not the Rochester Roaches. Brockland, if your team break any heads on the field today, I will have the lot of you skinned and fed to Hagrid's next crop of blast-ended skrewts. Now, are we clear on the matter?"

Brockland did not raise an eyebrow. "Professor," Brockland said quietly, evenly. "It seems to me, if the 'Slime-erin' haven't the balloc... I mean, if Slytherin can't take the occasional bludger hit, then really - perhaps they ought not have a team in the first place. And besides..."

Draco was so shocked at Brockland's words, he nearly fell over backwards. Almost before the meaning of the words reached his brain he threw down his broomstick and lunged for Brockland. But Hooch expected as much and stepped quickly between the two captains. Draco bumped into Hooch and was about to lung again but Hooch turned and elbowed the furious blond boy back. She scolded loudly. "Captain Malfoy, stop that!" Returning her attention back to Brockland, she fixed a warning stare at the confident Hufflepuff captain. "You watch your language young man. As you were saying, Captain Brockland?"

"I was only wondering Madam." As Brockland spoke he smiled dismissively at Draco, then carelessly trained his attention back on Hooch. "May I suggest that you allow Hufflepuff to spot Slytherin 100 points? It wouldn't alter the outcome of the game, and it might give Slytherin," Captain Brockland fixed his steely eyes on Draco. "Some guts."

Draco went ballistic. "YOU STOLE THOSE INSULTS FROM ME CAPTAIN BREAKWIND...!"

"Captain Malfoy, quiet!" Madame Hooch waved a hand to shush Draco.

She turned and shot Brockland a look that could have backed a werewolf down, but had no effect whatever on the Hufflepuff captain.

"Captain Brockland, I'm neither amused nor impressed by your cheek. I'm used to such tactics." She glared briefly at Draco and back to Brockland. "I've given my last warning Captain Brockland. Keep your team under control. If you don't, I can assure you there will be unhappy consequences for you and your team."

Captain Brockland stood his ground and gave Hooch a quick bob of his head as if to say, 'As Madame pleases.' Then, grasping his glittery Starshotz 5001 broomstick, Captain Brockland turned and strode back across the pitch where his team stood jeering, and insulting the Slytherin team. The Slytherin team stared back at the Hufflepuff team with expressions of hatred on every bullish Slytherin face. Somehow the tables seemed turned from 'usual' matches with Slytherin goading their opponents who feared Slytherin brutalities to come. The match had not begun and it already had all the earmarks of 'one for the books'.

That fecking mis-sorted show-off... Hooch hates ME the most, not Brockland!

Draco seethed with resentment as he watched Brockland walk away. The imaginary meter that measures the therms of Draco Malfoy's anger, spun past 'DANGER' and whipped around the dial. Throwing down his Starshotz, Draco sprinted across the pitch and launched himself at the retreating back of Captain Brockland.

"BROCKLAND YOU BADGER BOLLOCKED..."

That was all Draco managed to scream before an adeptly aimed Full Body Bind Curse hit him full on, dropping him to the sand like a sack of serpents. The Slytherin and Hufflepuff teams ran over to stare in amazement at what for most of them, was the only time they ever saw a teacher 'take the wand' to an unruly student - and a captain at that.

A tumultuous applause greeted the quick wand work and around the stadium students leapt to their feet waving red, yellow and blue house flags. Professors however all thoughtfully looked away, diverted their attention from the little 'difficulty' on the pitch. The professors whistled, hummed or chatted amiably among themselves. Their own personal dreams of really disciplining the Malfoy lad, giving him 'what for' was being lived out by a rather daring professor. No one wanted to interfere with the professor who in front of the entire school didn't mind the breaking of a rule. Many of the professors took the opportunity to discuss what a ruddy shame it was thumbscrews were unlikely to be removed from the prohibited list of acceptable means for disciplining unruly, inattentive and incorrigible students.

DAMN ME! Could today get any worse?

A foot clad in a black trainer wedged itself under Draco's shoulder and effortlessly flipped the furious boy onto his back. A pair of hands grasped the Draco tightly at the neck and raised him to a sitting position. Draco's eyes were still pinched shut and he coughed and spat out sand. Angrily Draco opened his eyes and looked up, not into the golden eyes of Madame Hooch, but into the glittering coal black eyes of Severus Snape. Draco's eyes went wide with surprise then quickly narrowed into dark, angry slits. He looked remarkably like the angry image of his father he'd started out his unfortunate afternoon confronting.

"Surprise Captain Malfoy," Snape hissed in a monotone. "Did not expect to see me here did you?" Snape's narrow lips formed a tight smile as he looked down on the petrified boy.

"I had to call in a few favors to get Madame Hooch to extend permission for me to referee this game. I imagined you and I have a few matters to settle such as 'who is in charge'? I thought perhaps this might be an entertaining way to make a start of it. I refer to my entertainment of course, not yours." Snape dropped to one knee, and spoke softly to Draco. "I warn you boy. If I see you or the team performing any illegal stunts here today, YOU are going to pay for it. Would that be to your liking Captain Malfoy? Speak up boy."

Of course Draco could not speak at all, but his furious face spoke volumes. He hadn't experienced rough handling from a teacher since the previous school year when Mad Eye Moody turned Draco into a ferret and gave him a neat little lesson in bouncing. Rumour held that Draco retained a souvenir of the bouncing incident, a tiny knot of skin tissue just above Draco's bum crack where his ferret tail once wagged. Anyone who asked Draco about the matter came to regret having done so.

Snape released Draco's collar, and the boy's head fell back onto the sand with a thud. Gripping his wand tightly, Snape held it steady at Draco's face. "Now Captain 'hanging-on-to-his-captain's-title-by-a-hair' Malfoy. I will release you from the spell. I am in no mood for your nonsense, so any theatrics on the pitch today and Hufflepuff wins by default. And if my house loses you are will pay dearly. Now, can you handle yourself like a captain?"

Livid at his 'mishandling' by a teacher, Draco did not want to nod, and anyway, even had he wanted to do so he could not. Snape stood back and with a wave of his wand, removed the Body Bind Curse from Draco.

Quickly scrambling to his feet Draco stood staring at Snape and dusting himself off. Neither he, nor anyone else ever observed Snape dressed in such a way, in trainers and a black tracksuit. The black garb was pretty normal for Snape as were his black robes, but who even knew Professor Snape owned athletic wear? And Professor Snape's broomstick was a silver and green Nimbus 2000, possibly borrowed from Hooch.

Returning his wand to a robe pocket, Snape addressed Brockland. "Captain Brockland I've watched your team play all year and I want it clear I will punish any illegal moves with detentions and loss of house points."

"You can't do that," protested Brockland looking as unrepentant as Draco. "Give detentions for actions taken during a Quidditch match!"

"Is that so?" Snape said. "You take Potions, do you not? Annoy me today and who can say what breech of rules I might imagine you to perform in my classroom over the coming weeks." Snape called out. "Captains! Shake hands like gentleman."

Grudgingly, Draco and Brockland took each other's hands, but instead of glaring at each other, they glared at Snape. They shook briefly with expressions as though being forced to shake hippogriff droppings and not hands.

"PLAYERS ON YOUR BROOMSTICKS," Snape barked.

The Slytherin and Hufflepuff teams shot upwards into the air, green and yellow blurs. Only stadium spectators armed with omnioculars set to slow motion stood a chance to view the action with any accuracy. To those without omnioculars watching the game would prove to be a matter of judging which objects, the green blurs or the yellow ones, were up to the most mischief.

Draco's mind was a sullen mix of anger at Snape, fury at Brockland, and revengefulness at Hooch for placing him in such a predicament in the first place. He took a position above the pitch and sat angrily watching the proceedings, now a routine part of any game in which Hufflepuff took part.

With the usual exception of Slytherin, across the stadium, all raised their fists in the air along with Captain Brockland. Onto the pitch below walked a wizard clad in black robes trimmed in yellow. The wizard walked heavily, holding a cumbersome burden in his arms under cloak cover. At his side serenely walked a witch, clad in yellow robes trimmed with black. A noise of excited whispers echoed through the stadium, sounding like wind blowing through the winter trees. Draco peered down at the witch and wizard, frowning as he realized what the excitement was all about.

High over the pitch Captain Brockland led the ceremony.

"REMEMBER CEDRIC!"

.

"REMEMBER CEDRIC," echoed back the call.

"AGAIN," bellowed Captain Brockland. "FOR CEDRIC!"

"FOR CEDRIC!" Roared the crowd.

By now most of the students knew the solemn wizard and witch as Mr. And Mrs. Diggory the parents of the cruelly slain Cedric Diggory. The Diggorys would observe the pivotal Quidditch match.

From under his robes Amos Diggory pulled an unusually large, full-grown badger. Mr. Diggory hoisted the massive animal high above his head. Mascot to Hufflepuff house the silvery badger snarled like a Grizzly bear. A minute of silence was observed during which the only sounds in the stadium were yellow and blue streamers whipping in the wind and the sound made by the badger images blazoned across the yellow Hufflepuff flags. The badgers on the flags snarled as though calling to their live brother badger down on the pitch. As the Diggorys walked from the pitch, the air split with the sound of Snape's shrill whistle, and the Quaffle was released.

The red ball flew straight up into the air then spun westward as though attempting to avoid capture. Right off the top, Radgerman kicked a Hufflepuff player, nabbed the Quaffle and passing the red ball back and forth with teammate Derrick, the two zig-zagged at insane speed towards the fifty foot high Slytherin goal rings. The Slytherin and the Dawn Brawn groupies seated throughout the stadium, went wild, cheering and screaming 'GO RADGERMAN! GO DERRICK!'

The Hufflepuff chasers responded, immediately drawing themselves into a fleur-de-lis pattern, an aerial cleaver. In strict formation they flew above Radgerman and Derrick, pressing from above. Simultaneously, the Hufflepuff beaters entered the fray from the opposite direction, flying straight towards the oncoming Radgerman and Derrick. The two Slytherin found themselves flying on a collision course with the oncoming knot of club bearing Hufflepuff beaters. Hufflepuff, forced Radgerman and Derrick towards the pitch, blocking the two whichever way they attempted escape. Radgerman made a break, if he was going to be forced down, he was going to take a Hufflepuff chaser with him. He careened into a yellow robed chaser and the two crashing into the pitch, throwing up a cloud of sand that looked like a bomb blast.

"OH! What a move!" screamed Lee Jordan, commentating. "Hufflepuff forced Radgerman to a dodgy spot. Radgerman and Cooper are DOWN!"

The match was less than three minutes old and two players were down. The stadium hummed with excitement as Snape blew his whistle and sped on his broomstick to the fallen players. As Snape landed he smoothly pulled out a small leather bound parchment pad and stood over the unfortunate, groaning Hufflepuff beater. "Mr. Cooper... illegal blocking the opposing team's beater. I'd say that's good for three days of detention when you are released from the infirmary. So. Tell me Mr. Cooper, do you imagine you will enjoy scraping spitballs off of my dungeon walls?"

High overhead, Draco held his breath as he watched Radgerman sprawling on the sand. Slowly Radgerman regained his feet, and shook his head. He stumbled a few dizzy steps and then raised both arms triumphantly into the air. Slytherin supporters around the stadium exploded with cheers.

That Radgerman couldn't fly straight with a ruler tied to his sorry arse, but by Salazar, he comes through in a pinch! I might just buy the bastard flowers.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Off the pitch, up in the Gryffindor stands, the action was nearly as exciting. Harry watched mystified as Ron leaned backwards against a tangle of toes, perfectly happy to receive a tickle-toed back massage. Ron was in his element chatting with adoring witches like a playwizard at a local pub on Saturday night.

It puzzled Harry how Ron could be so calm in the face, or foot, of so many aggressive witches. No matter, it was time for action. As Harry sat on the stadium bench he was unaware that symbolically as well as factually, he was about to leave the bench and enter the game as it were. He sat, looking at the back of Ginny's head, musing over her bright scarlet hair and trim athletic figure; things that even under the girl's winter cloak were mesmerizing to Harry. Harry wished he were facing Ginny so he could admire her other noteworthy features; her kind face, her lovely brown eyes, and her pair of cute little... 'you knows'. Harry was not yet comfortable with any breast related words particularly if in reference to the young Miss Weasley. But as Hermione had been, Harry was going to be a quick learner. With a little luck and perseverance, Mr. Potter intended to become familiar enough with Miss Weasley's 'you knows' to be able to pick them out of a line up of like 'you knows'. Harry stiffened - and not in a fun way either - and involuntarily whimpered. Feet, annoying little feet, suddenly engaged in a 'toe-tal' assault energetically kneading Harry's bum. Harry did not consider himself a prude, however, earlier in the term he'd been unnerved by a particularly aggressive witch that fancied him and would not take 'no' for an answer. Harry's forehead broke out with little beads of sweat, but help was pending. Surviving the Crucio Curse seemed a trip to Honeydukes in comparison to dealing with the persistent and unwanted attentions of the fair sex.

"Harry," called Hermione looking back, managing to tear her eyes from Draco soaring overhead for a second or two. She flicked her eyes to indicate Ginny by her side. "You know Harry, there's room for someone to sit here, between Ginny and myself," said Hermione in a blatant lie. There was not enough room between her and Ginny to comfortably seat a creature the size of Pigwidgeon.

"Really? Well, if you insist." Grateful, Harry stood and stepped down onto the bench before him. He quickly dropped down and squeezed his rear end into the barest trace of space between Ginny and Hermione. He left behind two pair of stocking feet attached to two disappointed witches. With Ron's ok on the matter of Ginny, Harry's mind was made up and he made his move.

"Hello Ginny," said Harry feigning confidence he did not feel as he jiggled in the confines of the narrow space. His shoulders were hunched unnaturally close to his ears. He was pleasurably squished against Ginny, so close he could smell her scent, which made him giddy. Ginny smelled better to Harry than anything he'd ever imagined, even better than the pitch dotted over with morning's early dew. Using the close proximity as an excuse and calling upon his courage, Harry sucked in a deep breath for courage and placed an arm over Ginny's shoulders. Snuggling closer to the girl he untied his Gryffindor scarf because the cold windy stadium seemed to have come over with balmy summer time warmth, particularly in the region of Harry's trousers.

"Hello Harry," said Ginny, not turning her head to look at Harry.

It was a start. Feeling a poke at his back, Harry gasped and twisted his head round. He was deeply relieved to see Ron grinning at him. "Go on Harry," whispered Ron, giving Harry an encouraging double thumbs up. Encouraged, Harry loudly cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the young lady in question.

"Hermione?" asked Ginny curiously. "Why does Malfoy keep attacking his own player there? See... that tall, handsome Slytherin boy your Malfoy nearly knocked off his broomstick a bit ago?"

"Oh, that's Radgerman," said Hermione with a bit of a frown. "He and Draco quarrel like a pair of Siamese fighting fish. Only yesterday in the Great Hall, Draco dumped a flagon of pumpkin juice on Radgerman's head."

"But then why does Malfoy keep Radgerman on the team?" Ginny asked in a puzzled voice. She seemed unaware that Harry held her shoulders in a near death grip.

"Draco says Radgerman plays a wicked game and that's all he cares about. He'd let a Mountain Troll on the team if it were Slytherin and could swing a Quidditch bat. You know, the way Draco and Radgerman fight it will be touch and go if either make it to the end of term in one piece. I wish they'd stop that rubbish."

"Ummmm," said Ginny wistfully. "I could fancy Radgerman in a pair of green tracksuit shorts like your Draco wears at practices."

"Ginny, you wicked girl," laughed Hermione. "You've attended Slytherin 'Dawn Brawn' practice haven't you? I'm the one bought that silk track suit for Draco, a late birthday present - for myself!"

The two girls giggled while Harry fidgeted unhappily. Harry's hand, increasingly sweaty and a tad shaky still rested across Ginny's shoulders. Ginny flicked her eyes to Harry as though only just noticing him sitting there.

"Oh. Sorry Harry. Forgot you were here," said Ginny in a voice filled with studied nonchalance.

"Apparently," muttered Harry feeling unsettled. There was nothing for it but action, so before he could change his mind he blurted out, "Listen. Ah, Ginny, I was thinking if, I mean, if you aren't too busy. I thought if you'd enjoy going, with me that is, going with me to... to... I mean, I was thinking if..."

From the row behind, Ron interrupted.

"For Merlyn's sake Harry! Don't fanny around, get on with it!" Ron took the situation in hand. "Listen Ginny, 'Mr. 'Boy-Who-Lived' here wants to take you to Hogsmeade on Sunday next so he can fawn on you a bit, and waste his good brass on you, you ungrateful girl." Ron reached forward, poking Harry in the back. "Really Harry, like a fellow can't just open his mouth and say what's on his mind."

What Harry had on his mind at this point involved Ron, at least a dozen or so rapier sharp arrows and Hagrid's crossbow. Considering Ron's recent history with Hermione, Harry did not think Ron was qualified to give advice on saying what was on one's mind. Harry's fuming was interrupted seconds later when he felt Ginny shifting enticingly under his protective arm. Harry forgot all about Ron. Feeling pleasingly stupid, Harry leaned closer to Ginny. A thought flashed across Harry's mind, involving taking up Ginny's soft plump hand, removing her mitten and stroking it, kissing it, and finding other interesting things to do with it; the hand that is, not the mitten. Harry began to realize he was enjoying a most interesting sensation from the most firmly entertaining portion of his anatomy - emphasis on 'firmly'.

"Oh Harry," said Ginny in a somewhat twee voice, again acknowledging Harry's existence. "Am I to understand you are asking me to go to Hogsmeade? With you?" Ginny's soft red lips parted in a smile. "Sunday next?"

"Yes...eeessss!" Harry blurted, half in response to Ginny, but mostly from a new foot assault on his rump. "Pardon me Ginny," said Harry politely. He turned around and gave all the girls behind him a monstrously angry look, but the happy witches only poked each other and giggled louder. Poor Harry. He wished himself someplace safe, perhaps standing on a tight rope above a bubbling lava pit blowing spitballs at an angry Voldemort.

Harry faced Ginny again and the girl's gentle brown eyes were a tonic for him, and his anatomy took over his thought processes. Harry entertained myriad Malfoy-quality, nasty boy thoughts. In all of his fifteen years Harry never felt so uncomfortably happy. If Ron had any idea what Malfoy quality - or Ron-quality for that matter - thoughts were dancing in Harry's head, their friendship would have been seriously compromised.

Mind still detached from reality, Harry moved his mouth almost into Ginny's ear. "Uh, well, yes Ginny. I did ask if you would go, I mean if you want to go to Hogsmeade. I mean with me to Hogsmeade. I mean on Sunday. Well, not this weekend, I mean next weekend. Day after tomorrow is Quidditch practice. I'd love to take you the day after tomorrow but..." Harry reddened further as his gob refused to honor his personal desire to shut the hell up. And Harry would have continued rabbiting away under the influence of his internal 'happy hormone' soup, except he gradually became aware that Ginny was speaking.

"Oh Harry, I'm afraid I've already received an invitation to Hogsmeade for Sunday next." Elements of regret were absent from Ginny's voice. "I have a date." So there be no misunderstanding her meaning, Ginny added in an enthused voice, "a hot date."

As the words 'hot' and 'date' struck his eardrums, all of Harry's nasty boy thoughts and physical boy joys 'deflated' in an instant. Uncomfortable memories of the previous December returned in a rush; Harry had asked Cho Chang to the Yule Ball only to be politely informed, by Cho, she already had a date. Harry realized Cho's 'rejection' was a skip in the park compared to how he currently felt from Ginny's rejection. After all, Cho let him down sympathetically, gently, and possibly even regretfully, whereas Ginny cheerfully dropped Harry from the height of migrating geese.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The first hour of the Quidditch match held excitement in the open viciousness of the teams struggling for superiority - more reminiscent of ancient battles of Roman gladiators than a 'harmless' match between students. By the second hour of the match, spectators of weak constitution returned to the castle where vicious spectacles stayed in the pages of textbooks where violent debacles belong. By the match's third hour it was obvious the excitement leading up to the match was not overblown, and if anything, didn't quite prepare everyone for intense competition of the match. Slytherin and Hufflepuff were evenly matched, if not in brawn, then in determination and willingness to win at any price. Professor Snape had his work cut out for him.

The snitch disappeared into the air at the start of the game and remained hidden. The first hour of the game, Draco and Abbot seemed to be taking turns one tailing the other, as they searched in vain for the snitch.

Draco seriously wondered if the magic that kept the snitch confined in the stadium had failed and the damned little thing was flittering about lost in the nearby Forbidden Forest. Professor Snape thought along those same lines and he sent Hooch's assistant to check the equipment box to double check the snitch was released at the start of the game and that the golden ball did not double back and return to its case as the tiny spheres did on rare occasion.

"Stop following me!" Draco yelled to Abbott. The girl was always just out of reach, hot on Draco's tail. "I'm warning you, stay away!" The girl followed Draco like a gull tailing a pelican with hopes of stealing a fish, or in this case, the snitch.

"Don't like someone who plays your game, do you?" yelled Abbott in a sassy manner. "You don't mind tailing after Potter like a dog sniffing his rump."

Draco pulled his Starshotz around and shot after Abbot. A glint caught his eye and he whipped his broomstick up and barreled vertically upwards after the snitch. A Hufflepuff launched bludger grazed off Draco's shoulder, sending him spinning through the air like a corkscrew. The Starshotz 6000 was going so fast that within a split second Draco opened his eyes and realized he was turned around and headed directly at the teacher's section of the Stadium. Pulling up his broom he skidded into a sharp turn and his head pivoted as he frantically searched for Abbott. To his immense relief, Abbott was hovering mid pitch, the snitch having put in its appearance was gone.

"The snitch is mine Malfoy!" called Abbott. "And the day will go to Hufflepuff!" She turned her broom and sped off for another spin around the stadium.

"OH WHAT A MOVE! HUFFLEPUFF CUT OFF ANOTHER RUN FOR THE GOALS BY SLYTHERIN AND RAN THE QUAFFLE THROUGH THE HUFF GOALS FOR ANOTHER TWENTY POINTS!" hollered Jordan. "This is one long game folks, but the snitch will show soon and decide which team takes the lap of honor today... Everyone is wondering what spectacular display Hufflepuff will perform when they take the snitch..."

Disgusted, Draco looked at the scoreboard. The Hufflepuffs were forty points up. For the first time all day, the match was no longer an even call. He looked at his team realizing their energies had begun to flag. If even one more goal went to the Hufflepuffs, he could catch the snitch, and win the game, but lose the Quidditch cup and come in third, if not forth place for the year. Unless something changed, the Quidditch cup would go to Hufflepuff.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The game still raged overhead and down in the Gryffindor section of the stadium spirits were high. The entire section had taken on Ron's attitude that whomever won, or lost, Gryffindor would benefit. If Hufflepuff won that was one thing, but at least it would insure Slytherin would have no chance for the Quidditch cup. All that, plus they had the joy of watching Snape and his little detention parchment pad 'unleashed' on a house other than Gryffindor for a change. Fred, George and Dean returned from a raid on the Hogwarts kitchens and pumpkin juice filled every little mug. Each score by Hufflepuff, or for that matter, each Slytherin score, was greeted with a pumpkin juice salute and dancing in the aisles. Gryffindor really knew how to appreciate a good game.

Harry had things on his mind and would not have shown interest in the game if his Aunt Petunia turned up to fly as seeker for Hufflepuff. Harry sat, his arm frozen on Ginny's shoulders. Harry'd failed in his attempts to dissuade the witches seated behind him to keep their toes off of him. He felt himself under nearly as much attack as Draco. Harry's face and neck were beetroot red, which had more to do with Ginny at his side than the embarrassment of witches to his rear.

Out of the blue Ginny said, "Harry, you probably don't know my date for my trip to Hogsmeade Sunday next. You know? The boy I'll be going with instead of you? Dirk is a 6^th year Ravenclaw, a prefect."

Under his breath, Harry muttered to himself. "Ah, dagger right in the heart, but botched job, the hilt's still showing."

"Dirk Firmwood," added Ginny as an after thought.

"What?" Harry asked in a shocked voice.

"My date. His name is Dirk Firmwood. Perhaps you do know him? Prefect?" Ravenclaw Quidditch team keeper? Wizard's Chess pro?"

"Much better. Hilt's proper sunk in now," Harry mumbled in a sulky tone.

Hermione placed her arm around Harry's neck, which made him jump. She pulled him close and whispered sympathetically into Harry's ear. "Now, Harry, don't fret about Ginny. She fancies you. She's only sulking a bit. Giving you a taste of your own medicine."

There was no response from Harry. There was nothing of Ginny's behavior that impressed Harry as being 'sulky'. In fact, Ginny seemed absolutely jubilant, as she rebuffed his offer. And anyway, what 'medicine' might Hermione refer to? He'd certainly never gone to Hogsmeade with any girl with an impudent name like 'Sarah Sweettwat' or 'Dora Dirtypillows'.

Dirk Firmwood - probably a colossal twit.

From behind, Ron poked Harry in the shoulder and shouted in a stage whisper, loud enough for the surrounding six or seven rows to catch. "Sorry Harry! Little sister's playing hard to get then? But no worries, she'll come 'round. You'll just have to keep at Ginny is all. The girl is that stubborn. Cheer up mate! Want some pumpkin juice? Some crisps?"

No. Harry felt put out. He thought the only thing on a plate he was likely to derive pleasure from would be Ron's head.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The match was living up to all of Professor Snape's expectations. His dungeons were going to be free of spitballs or dust, and glistening like a newly hatched dragon. Snape was giving serious consideration to halting the game while he returned to his dungeons to fetch a larger parchment pad in which to record the monumental amounts of detentions, demerits, and points removed from Hufflepuff and Slytherin students. As Headmaster Dumbledore had once told Snape when the potions professor first began his career so long ago - teaching was indeed a marvelously rewarding career.

For Draco things were not so marvelous. He was now seriously pondering the prospect that his team was going to lose the match. The score stood 320 to 260 in favor of Hufflepuff. Not for one minute did Draco think Hufflepuff a superior team by any means. He would back his team against any of the other school houses, even Gryffindor at its best, and against Durmstrang and against Weasley's ridiculous Chudley Canons come to that. There was a problem this game however. Hufflepuff had inspiration, in the form of Mr. and Mrs. Amos Diggory and the memory of their son Cedric Diggory. As the game progressed Draco watched the spirit of his team falter, stall and begin to drop. If Draco had thought it would do any good to provide his team with a martyr, he would have gladly killed Radgerman - one makes what sacrifices are needed. But as it was, if things kept up, nabbing the snitch would only end the match without winning the game. If something didn't happen soon, Draco feared the match was lost.

"Hufflepuff is sweeping the pitch with Slytherin," shouted Jordan into the commentator's charmed megaphone. "Yes, it's a challenging match but Hufflepuff is sweeping the skies of their opponents, clearing their way of all challenges to this year's Quidditch cup. But I must say, at the rate this game is proceeding, we could all still be here hanging tinsel on the goal hoops come Christmas!"

Draco was zooming around the upper reaches of the stadium, swinging wide at the Slytherin end of the pitch when he realized Lee Jordan was screaming.

"Abbott is climbing... YES! She's spotted the snitch!" Jordan hollered. The boy's locks bouncing as he jumped up and down. "Look at the figure the girl cuts as she speeds after the snitch!"

For one sickening moment Draco took in the hellish sight - Abbott closing in on the snitch. Flattening himself on his broomstick, Draco shot after Abbott. No one could help being impressed how deadly fast Draco closed in on Abbott, the two were quickly racing side by side. But just as quickly Draco realized that Abbott's small size meant less wind resistance, just enough to give her a distinct edge, even as they flew into the wind barreling after the snitch. Abbott's arm reached out for the snitch. Draco tore his attention from Abbott for a split second to spot Professor Snape's location and deliberately place himself in the line of view between Snape and Abbott. Then Draco crashed sidelong into Abbott in a deliberate foul, locking his broom handle with hers, 'accidentally' pulling the girl off course. This was a new foul Draco practiced for weeks, and he was pleased how well the illegal move worked. Abbott, her broom tangled with Draco's and face to face with the leering bad boy, screamed for him to let her go. But no matter - it was already too late, the snitch was once again, gone.

"The snitch wins that round!" shouted Jordan with disappointment. The stadium, Hufflepuff and Slytherin supporters all, roared with disappointment. They were missing their dinner and as a group, were becoming rather tetchy. The Gryffindor section sent Fred, George and a small company took off for the castle kitchens, to request curried chips by the bucket and two more rounds of pumpkin juice.

"YES," Draco laughed and leered at Abbott. He shoved Abbott and her broomstick away from himself. He'd saved the day for Slytherin at least for the time being. "AARRRGGGHHH," Draco yelped unhappily as Abbott spun on her broomstick about and smacked Draco sharply on the head with her broom's tail. Abbott leered right back at Draco, giving as good as she got. Draco couldn't believe a girl would show such daring. Angrily he lunged after her.

"Malfoy!" hissed Abbott as she reversed her broom. "You may as well resign yourself to third place for the Quidditch cup, and perhaps last for the house cup." Abbott dove sharply, leaving Draco lunging at empty air space. Draco was about to dive after Abbot to 'teach her a lesson' when he saw it again - the snitch. The ridiculously minuscule glint of gold hovered just below Brockland mid stadium. By now, Abbott was dodging a Slytherin launched bludger on the far side of the field and was obviously unaware the snitch had re-appeared. Draco leaned forward and dove for all he was worth.

"Malfoy is diving for the snitch!" Lee Jordan flung a mug of cocoa in the air in his excitement, giving McGonagall an unexpected and unappreciated chocolate shower. "CAN THE MATCH FINALLY, AT LONG BLOODY LAST BE OVER?"

WHAM! A bludger hit Draco in the ribs with the force enough to throw him off track and partially unseat him. He clung to his broom by both legs, arms swinging wildly about like an Australian cowboy on a wild bucking brumby, his broom swerved crazily out of control. Draco fought to get himself upright.

"BOLLOCKS!" Draco roared like a tiger hit with a rusty dart.

Disappointed Slytherin supporters also roared out their disappointment. The remainder of the stadium cheered weakly. Slytherin hadn't won, but the game wasn't over.

Refusing to clutch his side and possibly give Snape an excuse to pull him from the game, Draco gamely waving his arms about. His entire body was bathed in sweat from the hit to his ribs.

The snitch that twinkled so brightly only moments before vanished like a twinkle of light on uncertain seas.

~*~*~*~*~*~

What daylight managed to shine through the heavy cloud cover by day, faded and was gone. The night sky was starless, and the moon made only intermittent appearances. The ever-burning magical torches around the stadium were lit and they threw a flickering light, bright enough to watch the match. Students and teaching staff sat huddled in the chilly stands watching the match.

Hermione sat as though hypnotized watching the frightening game, yelping with fear when Draco took hits. Harry, patted Hermione's shoulder with one calming hand, while clinging to Ginny with his other hand. He stubbornly clasped Ginny, as though hoping to earn a date by wearing the girl down with his persistence.

Lunch seemed days ago. Ron, Harry, Hermione and Ginny had passed up the opportunity to stuff themselves with bean and curry coated chips, as had the rest of the Gryffindor sections. The dorm rooms would in all likelihood be rather aromatic that evening. Ron, very much in high spirits, volunteered to fetch proper dinners for the little group of friends. Back at the castle Ron discovered to his delight, the ever-helpful house elves set the Great Hall tables with boxed dinners, from which wafted the tempting scent of hot drinks, hot soup and sandwiches. There were small pots of pudding for dessert.

Returning to the Gryffindor section, Ron passed hot-boxed meals from his school bag to Harry and Ginny. Timidly, Ron tapped Hermione on the shoulder. "Hermione? Nice hot beef sandwich, nice mug of," Ron hesitated briefly before saying, "hot cocoa." Ron thought Hermione had more than enough 'hot cocoa' in her life.

Far more eagerly than anyone had expected Hermione took a sandwich from Ron and thanked him profusely. Pleased, Ron smiled shyly back at her. Then to everyone's further surprise, Hermione climbed nimbly up on the bench and began to scream out like a fishmonger's wife on market day.

"DRACO! HERE DRACO!" She waved a wrapped hot sandwich high over her head.

Draco was on the far side of the arena and seldom did five minutes pass without him looking to see Hermione was all right. He did not hear her over the stadium noises, but spotted her jumping up and down on the bench. Like a well-trained falcon flying to the lure, he went straight for Hermione. Harry, Ginny and others in Hermione's immediate vicinity quickly scurried out of the way. Hermione bravely and trustingly - very trustingly - held the sandwich high as she could. As the green blur that was Draco swooped by, the sandwich vanished; a blast of air set up a breeze that set Hermione's cloak to fluttering around her tights clad legs. Happy wizards in the vicinity enjoyed the lovely view and sighed happily. Ron's sigh was the loudest of all.

His snack secured Draco peeled the wrappings from the sandwich and stuffed half of it into his mouth. He chewed, looking like an albino hamster with full cheeks. Draco was famished and grateful for the 'feeding'. Turning, Draco hovered, searched the air space for Abbott. He wanted to harass the girl and hopefully have some negative effects on her team's high flying spirits.

Draco yelped. Abbott flew up from behind and gave him yet another infuriating sharp smack to the head with her broomtail. Draco was getting tired of having his head used as target practice. The hit was a distraction, and Abbott, graceful as a swift, corkscrewed over Draco, snatching the remaining half of his sandwich right out of his hand. Abbott bit into the sandwich and just as she flew one last loop around Draco she opened her mouth full of chewed sandwich and thickly shouted at him, 'SEA FOOD! GET IT MALFOY? SEA FOOD? SEE FOOD?" Then with a laugh even more maniacal than Draco's the tiny girl shot off into the dark sky like a vampire bat out of hell.

Draco seethed anger, and not only over the loss of his sandwich. He eyed his team, scattered about the pitch, taking a beating and realized he had called in every last reserve player to rest his first line players. Even so, he had four players who sustained injury and were out for the duration of the game. He took a minute to do a breathing exercise, so he could continue to think clearly and guide his team.

Below in the Gryffindor section, Ron leaned forward to whisper in Harry's ear. Harry turned, and saw Ron's eyes were glued to the aerial spectacular overhead. "Harry," said Ron thoughtfully, "that Abbott. I suspect she may not be as bad as I... as we first thought. I mean, she may be brutal on snitches, but she has the right stuff where Malfoy is concerned, doesn't she?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco circled the pitch, watching the depressing scene below of his team, getting their rears kicked by a team he had always considered a joke. He wondered how he could ever face his classmates, his father, or a mirror for that matter, following a humiliating defeat. He had fought his way back to the top after the last Quidditch fiasco, but he wasn't a phoenix; how many times could he rise from the ashes? Draco was on the verge of conceding defeat. He stayed high over the stadium, not wanting anyone to see his face, which he was sure his Slytherin teammates would be decipher instantly.

A sharp whistle blew several short blasts, calling in both teams. Draco wondered if perhaps Snape planned to call off the game. It was well after curfew and nearly half past ten. The day had been grueling and now the night was colder, and proving far more exhausting than he would have ever imagined.

The players for both teams were silent with fatigue as they landed on the pitch. The Slytherin team coming in was a sorry sight for the 'Dawn Brawn' supporters. All day Draco rotated in the reserves to keep his players relatively fresh but the long hours were telling on his team. By contrast, the Hufflepuff team perhaps because of their success still looked relatively fresh for the playing. The Hufflepuff and their supporters considered a win as only a matter of time.

The teams stood in the cold, and the wind, surrounding Professor Snape who looked wet and even paler than he usually did. To everyone's surprise, Snape announced, "I've decided to call a mandatory break so both teams can have a bit of a rest. And then the game will resume, tonight," said Snape.

"I object," shouted Captain Brockland taken aback. His team was on a roll. He didn't want a break that might spoil his team's momentum, and worse, he didn't want a break that might allow Slytherin to get a second wind. "We want to play this match out now," demanded Brockland.
"Only a matter of time before Abbott catches the snitch."

Hufflepuff team members sniggered at the implication that Draco had no chance of getting to the snitch over the Abbott. It was a blow to Draco's ego that his team did not defend him against the personal insult to his skills as team seeker.

"Unfortunate," said Snape loudly and without a hint of embarrassment. "Unfortunate indeed, because even if your team does not require a meal or a break, I do. I will not hear any more objections, and if I do, I will scrub the game and neither team will win." Snape's voice had a 'if you don't play this game my way, I'll take back my Quaffle and go home' edge to it. "Go on, all of you. Go to your dinners and have a little rest. The match will resume in about an hour or so."

Snape stood, his arms crossed and watched as the teams shouldered their broomsticks and left the pitch. When the teams were gone, only Draco remained. Standing alone, even without the tall burly Slytherin team to dwarf him, Draco looked almost petite, and far paler than usual, nearly as pale as Snape.

"What do you want Mr. Malfoy?" asked Snape.

"Nothing," said Malfoy. That was not exactly true only he didn't really know what he wanted. He certainly didn't expect to hear anything good from Snape at this point. After all, he, Mr. 'big shot' Malfoy was losing a second game in a row to the Hufflepuff. Draco shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the Slytherin locker room. He dragged his no longer shiny Starshotz 6000 on the soggy pitch sand like a child tired of playing broom horsie. He reached the Slytherin locker room and realized there was no sound coming from within. He peeked through a crack in the door and saw the disheartening sight of his team, standing silent in their misery and the assumed oncoming defeat.

"Mr. Malfoy," called Snape.

Draco turned to see Snape walking briskly in his direction. "Yes, Sir?"

"I want a word with you Mr. Malfoy," Snape gestured for Draco to follow him a few paces away from the locker room door.

"You are forcing me to repeat myself. At start of school term I told you something you already knew. There is nothing more important to a Slytherin than his rank among his fellow Slytherin. And then, as now, you know the truth of that better than any of your classmates. And yet, once again you stand there, your face longer than a hippogriff's, feeling... dare I suggest... sorry for yourself?"

"And that would be your business because...?" Draco's self pity was replaced instantly with annoyance the Snape would give voice to the humiliating and the obvious.

"Watch yourself Malfoy," said Snape promptly. "We aren't in the commons where you can speak without reservation, and rest assured I am in no mood to listen to your spoiled boy insolence. If you would like to accrue additional detentions today then just keep up your rudeness."

Draco stood quietly.

"Listen to me Malfoy. You are feeling sorry for yourself because the Hufflepuff have an edge over our team... for now. You ought to view the situation as a challenge, not a defeat. The Hufflepuff have an edge only because you have allowed them to have one. You must find the Slytherin edge in the situation, and trust me, if there is one thing I've learned, there is always an edge. And as team Captain your job is not to slink around with your pillowcase hanging between your legs like a whipped house elf. Your job is to find the edge, hone it to a fine point and ram the bastard to the your opponents." Even in the dark shadow of the stadium, Snape's eyes glittered menacingly. He turned to leave. "Now. I am off to Hooch's stadium quarters to warm up with a nip of the poteen she offered me earlier today and which I foolishly refused."

"But there is no edge!" Protested Draco as Snape moved to leave. "The Hufflepuff are beating us at our own game. It's not my fault we're going to lose. I can't help..." Draco silenced himself as he saw Snape turned to glower at him, with more even ire than before, if that was possible.

Speaking through gritted teeth, Snape growled, "Fine then, you over-privileged little shite. You are right. The day is lost. Go cower in your office. Owl your father that you have failed." Slightly bent over from his exhausting eight nearly continuous hours over the pitch, Snape turned around sharply and limped off.

Draco never heard a Snape speak so coarsely before. He stood and watched Snape limp off into the shadows.

So Snape was angry with him for losing the game. Well, everyone was going to just have to learn to live with loss. Shouldn't that build character or something? Edge. What edge? There was no edge. The Hufflepuff had beaten Slytherin at their own game. There was no edge. Hufflepuff was now a stronger team. How was that his fault? Draco turned and dragged his Starshotz back to the locker room. He didn't look at the team, and the team did not look at him. They were busy eating hot box lunches left for them by the house elves. The locker room, usually filled with the raucous chatter of rowdy boys was silent.

Marching past his team, Draco flung open the door to his locker room office, and slammed it shut behind him. The vibrations flipped a picture off of the wall and its glass shattered. Draco hated Snape for speaking to him like that. Hadn't he done everything he could to insure the team had an edge over the Hufflepuff? Hadn't he blackmailed his father to secure not seven, but fourteen, spanking new Starshotz 6000s? He could only imagine how much lighter Gringott's was now his father purchased those racing brooms. He could only shudder in fear at how furious his father would be once Slytherin lost. Draco looked at his broomstick, such an inspiration to him only that morning, now didn't look good enough to use to sweep up the broken glass.

Draco froze. "DAMN ME, that's it. One more reason for Father to kill me, but damn me, that's it!" He raced out of his office, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

"YOU CLODS LINE UP ON THE BENCH OVER HERE! Forget your dinners, you'll stuff your lazy selves later."

Draco stood facing his team, his hands on his hips, and his face as grim as it had looked when he entered the locker room. But his grey eyes glittered with determination.

The team grumbled, not wanting to stop their meal, but they also did not want to cross Draco while he was obviously in a snit. Draco watched his team file past, their heads were down, their steps leaden, and their voices silent. As things stood, it was obvious that Draco's earlier assessment of his team was correct for in their minds the match was as good as lost; but not for long.

Draco walked up and down the locker room line-up, his hands clasped behind his back, his head down. The locker room was chilly. Even Ghengis Khan allowed his hordes of raiders a warm fire in their yurts, but Draco thought warmth lead to soft constitutions. So the team sat bundled up in cloaks and in oversized pea-green towels, looking like house elves suffering from hyperactive thyroids. The whole lot of them looked cold and miserable to the last soul.

"Gentleman," Draco began quietly. "We are up against it."

Several of the more naive members of the Slytherin team, called out 'Too right!" or "Here, Capt'n!" Wiser team members kept their mouths shut.

"I've been thinking," said Draco pensively. "An activity I know most of you are woefully unfamiliar with. I've wondered, what it is the Hufflepuff have out there that we do not?" Draco stopped walking and looked from one face to the next, expectant. Even Radgerman held his tongue.

Draco's face perked up. "Inspiration. The Hufflepoofs have inspiration. As I speak, the inspiration of the Hufflepuff team, the Diggorys, are about now enjoying a late night snack as honored guests with Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick and the others. And I know you are thinking, 'but we haven't any inspiration'. 'Oh the Huffs have all the luck, their team captain was murdered, the lucky things.' And I say you are wrong. We are far luckier than the Hufflepuffs. We don't have to wait for some old duffer and his sweet, old, bit of skirt to floo in from Devon to find our inspiration. The whole of the time you were flying around out there today you lot HAD your inspiration right under your arses only you were to thick to know it."

The nervous team stared at Draco, their faces blank.

"Come on," coaxed Draco. "One of you swots. What were you sitting on today other than your persistently flabby buttocks?"

A single hand rose gingerly into the air. Draco pointed to his reserve keeper.

"CAPTAIN... we were sitting on the team... broomsticks, CAPTAIN DRACO MALFOY SIR!"

"YES! Precisely! Today, your bums and tadgers rested on the greatest racing broomsticks ever created from the days of the noble Salazar Slytherin until now.

And why are those lovely broomsticks your 'inspiration'?" Draco broke into his trademark smirk. "We need forty points over Hufflepuff if we are to stay in the running for the cup. I tell you, we need to win the match tonight, forty points up before I catch the snitch. If that happens, you lot will be traveling home on the Hogwarts Express at Christmas holiday with your own... individual... Starshotz 6000 deluxe racing brooms, tucked away safely in your school trunks. Assuming, that is, you can bear to part with your precious broomstick for the long journey home."

Several team members stuck their fingers in their ears and twisted them energetically. They could have sworn they'd heard Draco say they could keep the outrageously expensive Starshotz 6000s if they won the match forty points up. As if. Still, those that dared, whispered to each other.

"You mean that CAPTAIN DRACO MALFOY, SIR?" asked the slack jawed, dumbfounded reserve goalkeeper. "If we win, even the reserve players, we keep the team's racing broomsticks? We'll each own a Starshotz 6000? You mean that?"

"Yes, that's what I said," snarled Draco testily. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"NO, NOT AT ALL, CAPTAIN DRACO MALFOY SIR," belted out the unfortunate keeper.

"Yes. You heard right mates. Do as I tell you to and you will each own a spanking new Starshotz 6000 deluxe edition, professional, elite wizard's racing broomstick. Can you begin to imagine the effect owning such a broomstick will have on your status in boring little towns and villages? When your parents see the classy broomstick their young man is sporting between his legs I'll bet they'll write your older siblings right out of their wills! Now, I ask you. Isn't that more inspiration to you than a badger bite on the arse?"

The change in the team was instantaneous. The stooped shoulders, slack jaws and hangdog expressions of the team, were replaced by the greedy, joyous look of boys who were going home for the holidays with gleaming sleek Starshotz 6000 racing broomsticks in their hands. The wizards in their home towns were going to be dragon-green with envy. But more important, the witches of their home towns were going to be impressed - mightily impressed. Team members would need forty-eight hours in a day to woo the witches who would pursue them. No doubt about it, girls were going to line up to do wicked and sinful things to them that would feel indescribably good. Yes. These were the faces of lucky young men would greet the new year with plasters on their genitals. The funereal atmosphere of the locker room drained, replaced by rising excitement, enthusiasm and eager grins.

Draco nodded at his team. "Yes. I can tell once again, you lot of wankers found your inspiration right under your arses. And while we're on the topic of arses, something has puzzled me for some time now." Draco tapped a finger on his chin. "I argue about a certain point with my Gryffindor girlfriend all the time. She has her ideas, and I have mine, so I put it to you lot. Can any of you tell me just what is the purpose of my well-bred, aristocratic, lily-white arse?"

"FOR KISSING UNTIL TERM'S END IF WE DON'T WIN THIS GAME CAPTAIN DRACO MALFOY SIR!"

"Good! For a while out there earlier today I thought you might have forgotten. Excellent!" said Draco approvingly. "And mind - mark my words because I'm not joking -lose this game and there will be no broomsticks for you. Lose this game and you will all kiss my blue-white arse until you owl home to your mothers begging for hampers of lip balm." Draco smiled with raised his eyebrows. "I put it to you. Can you all possibly imagine how hellish your lives will become if I have to bare my precious, my noble, purebred bum to you gruesome bastards? Let me assure you of one thing. Lose this match, and the hellish, brutal training you've experienced so far this term will seem like pleasant naps, nestled in the arms of your mothers compared to what I will put you through the second half of the school year. Do I make myself clear?"

"YES, PERFECTLY CLEAR CAPTAIN DRACO MALFOY SIR!"

"Ah! So I'm understood, and you lot are now as 'inspired' to win as the bloody Pufflehuffs?"

"YES CAPTAIN DRACO MALFOY SIR!" chimed the delighted team.

Draco paused for dramatic effect.

"Now, before you go naming your broomsticks 'Fluffy' or 'Widow-maker', remember - either Hufflepuff goes down or my trousers do. If the Huffs go down, you all stand tall as wizards, whose mothers despair for your salvation at the greedy nimble hands and other soft portions the naughty witches who will continue to pursue you!

The now cheerful team members snickered and crudely laughed, poking each other in the ribs with their elbows.

But let me warn you all. If Slytherin goes down, so do my trousers. And if my trousers go down I am not going to be my usual sweet self. If Slytherin loses, those darling witches that hang on you will disappear, off chasing Hufflepuffs. What few witches do hang around you will be stupid and easily mistaken for Goyle or Crabbe in a dark alley.

Now," continued Draco in conclusion. "Finish the meals the house elves left for you, and sit on your newly inspired arses and have a lovely rest. And if it matters to you, I would think kindly on any lad what wants to name his new Starshotz 6000 'Malfoy'. But if you do, I better not catch you sitting on it!" With a wink, Draco marched off out of the locker room to a standing ovation and hardy round of backslapping.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Gloomily, Hermione sat in the stadium stands feeling bad for Draco whom she knew was going to take the loss of the Quidditch match badly. He would be in foul mood for days and she hoped they could avoid having a row until he rallied. Turning her head, she looked next to herself at stubborn Harry and standoffish Ginny. It was so annoying to watch the two insist on participating in the maddening mating ritual rather than admit they fancied each other. Harry was at least more open about things than Ron. Hermione wondered if an inability to own up to one's feelings was in fact a Weasley family trait. Hermione jumped to her feet. Draco was climbing the Gryffindor section stairs and to Hermione's joy, Draco was not frowning but grinning wider than a jack o' lantern. The blond boy shoved his way unapologetically along the bench row to Hermione.

"Hello," Draco greeted Hermione when he reached her. "'Scuse me," Draco shoved Harry aside and cast the obligatory nasty look to Ron in the row behind.

"You're team sucks out there Malfoy, and you're going to lose," Ron announced. Harry readied himself to break up the oncoming row.

Draco smiled pleasantly. "No. Just allowing the Hooplepuffs their little moment of glory before we break the lot of them over our knees like second rate kindling to feed the glorious Slytherin flames of victory..."

Harry interrupted Draco. "I've always wondered... do you rehearse comments like that? Or do they just come to you?" Harry was honestly curious about the matter, but Draco ignored him.

Ignoring everyone out of a desire to maintain her temper, Hermione trilled, "Draco! Are you all right?" She was overjoyed to have Draco off the pitch. Every bludger blow struck at Draco was an arrow through the girl's heart.

"Never better," Draco lied. He whispered, "Whatever you do, don't squeeze me on the left side and watch out for my shoulders. And be careful of...." But it was too late. Hermione had beat him to the hug, squeezing him in a well-intentioned snog. Squealing with pain under his breath, Draco threw his arms around Hermione with the intention of impressing the Gryffindors with a tremendous tonsil-tossing snog. The two got off to a good start with lots of wet sucky noises and moaning, but the effect was largely spoiled by a massive yawn that overtook Draco. The crowd was treated to a nice view of Draco's epiglottis.

Hermione looked distressed. She softly cooed into Draco's ear, which was but one of the many bits of him that ached. "Poor Cocoa, you're tired. Have a seat."

"If you insist," said Draco. He kicked Harry out of the way, gratefully plopping down on the bench. Draco pulled his emerald Quidditch cloak around himself and Hermione and with a happy sigh he granted Hermione another kiss. Hermione indulgently tempted her hero with another sandwich, which he gratefully accepted.

"Do you mind very much that Professor Snape is the referee?" whispered Hermione.

"Not much, but Snape doesn't seem to know which house is his out there on the pitch," fussed Draco unwrapping the sandwich and hungrily stuffing half of it into his mouth. "Phee's as wikely to penalizzze Sssllytherin assp thossse fffocking cheating Hufffffllefuffs."

"You mean he's being fair?" asked Hermione.

"Yessssp, thammmn it!" Draco gulped.

Ignoring Draco's contrary assessment of Snape's referring skills Hermione asked, "You wicked thing, why do you insist on provoking Snape by grabbing Abbott all the time?" She rebuked Draco with a tug at his fringe.

"Ow! Honestly Petals," Draco said chewing a small bite of sandwich. "Isn't the entire point of Quidditch to catch the 'golden bitch'?" Draco hugged Hermione to himself while eating, and the two chatted happily for several minutes, but as Hermione chattered on, soon Draco stopped talking and dozing off. The long hours on the pitch did him in.

The rain that threatened over the past hour or two began to gently fall. Although views among magical folk varied from community to community, on Hogwarts grounds nature was largely allowed the freedom to do as it pleased. So although magic might have been used to shield the stadium from rain, the wet essence of nature itself was allowed to drum upon students and teachers alike. The unhindered rain was homage to the vast superiority of nature over human kind, magical and muggle. However, those with umbrellas opened them. Surprisingly, the Divinations teacher Professor Trelawney did not bring her umbrella. She claimed that her foresight was clouded owing to the position of Jupiter and Pluto and therefore she did not foresee the storm. All those seated around Trelawney thought her quite wet, and soon enough, she was.

In spite of the rain, hardy students were still of good cheer and excited as word spread they would be allowed to stay and watch the game run to its completion. The night had all the earmarks of an all night study session in the commons during exam week, save for the conspicuous absence of anyone studying. Even Hermione, who never attended a Quidditch match without text or parchment to set upon her knees, settled for Draco's head on her lap instead. Draco snoozed on, gradually ending up prone; his head snuggled in a near nasty way on Hermione's lap. It might have hailed Grindylows for all Draco knew or cared.

Wet and cold and like a huddled covey of partridge waiting out a storm, the little group of friends... and a foe... sat waiting for Snape to call up the game again. Before Draco managed to make a sizeable drool puddle on Hermione's lap, and absolutely before Harry gave up trying to somehow ingratiate himself on Ginny by virtue of allowing all the blood to drain out of his arm, Neville Longbottom splashed up the stadium staircase, tripping in his excitement. "FIGHT! FIGHT!" Neville screamed. At least a dozen students leapt up and raced down the stairwell at first cry of 'fight'.

"What? Where? Who?" Asked Harry and Ginny looking over with mild interest. Hermione held a finger to her mouth, and shushed Neville. She wanted nothing to disturb Draco, but Neville was excited and would not be shushed.

"A FIGHT I tell you! Harry," shouted Neville "Come help me break them up, Ron is fighting and...!"

"Go on Neville," fussed Harry, unconcerned with Draco's rest but annoyed at Neville's poor taste in practical jokes. "Get lost," Harry peered around for Ron, and for the first time realized that Ron was indeed missing. "Anyone see Ron take off just now," asked Harry, mildly concerned. "Did he go back to the Great Hall?"

"No," said Hermione quietly, holding up a finger to her mouth to shush everyone.

"Fight?" Asked Ginny from under Harry's protective arm. "Ron fighting? Harry, whom would Ron fight?" Whom indeed. It was obvious that Draco was out cold and within spitting distance, so whom could Ron possibly be fighting?

"You can make them see reason Harry, come on," pleaded Neville, but Harry did not budge. Deeply disappointed, Neville turned and yelling, "I'll do it myself!" He splashed back down the stairs.

"Harry, do you think...?" asked Ginny in a worried voice. She grasped Harry's hot, sweaty hand in hers.

"Gin-ny," said Harry, his voice cracking like a prepubescent pup. "Um... Ron, he's probably, you know Ron, he's probably off raiding the 'you knows', I mean, off raiding the kitchen with Fred and George."

A third year Gryffindor boy raced up the stairs and announced in a loud happy voice, "Oi! There's a Gryffindor vs. Gryffindor fight, you're all missing it! Finnegan, Weasley, fighting over that Slytherin girl. That really pretty one, you know, Messalina Zabini!"

"WHAT?" Harry sounded as though he'd never heard the word 'fight' before in his life. In seconds he was streaking down the stadium steps with Ginny close to his heels.

Meanwhile, like a faithful spaniel guarding its master, Hermione watched the Gryffindor section empty down the stairway. She refused to leave her self-appointed post with slumbering Draco. One of his grey eyes opened slightly and his mouth hung slack; a string of drool flapped in the wind.

"No wonder Fang loves you so much Draco," said Hermione thoughtfully. "He thinks you're one of him."

"WHA'?" Draco asked, not quite awake. "Flight? Someone say flight? Wha' plight Fetals?"

"Nothing Cocoa, go back to sleep," said Hermione. "Only a couple of boys having a row over some totty... I mean, some witch." Hermione's cheeks reddened with self-incrimination. It dawned on her that as she, amazingly enough, was the last one that ought to throw stones.

Meanwhile Harry barreled downward, taking the rain slicked steps three at a time. He skidded, taking the final half dozen steps on his bum. Leaping up and limping somewhat, Harry raced along ducking under the Gryffindor area scaffolding. Harry found himself facing the backs of a tightly packed crowd of excited, shouting students from all four houses. The students shouted encouragement to the 'duelers'. Harry didn't hesitate to fling himself headlong into the fracas. As Harry pushed his way towards the center of the crowd the shouting struck him as odd. Wizard's duels were quiet affairs. Protocol required spectators remain silent, so all could hear whatever clever spell or charm was cast by the duelers.

Up ahead, at the crowd's center, stood Augustus MacIntyre; the sovereign seventh year Slytherin towered over the other students.

"THE ODDS STAND AT TWO TO ONE ON THE FIREY GINGER-HEAD! WHO WANTS A BIT OF THE ACTION?" belted out Augustus, taking bets on the outcome of the impromptu 'Gryffindor' event. "Here you go lad, three to one, bit of a tight call, but still, the best odds you're likely to see all term!"

Reaching center, Harry burst through the crowd and an involuntary yelp escaped him. As he feared, there stood Ron and Seamus battling, but the two were not wizard dueling. There was not a wand in sight. Nor were the two boys scuffling about, taking wild pot shots at each other as Draco had with Harry and Ron on the Quidditch pitch back in September. Ron and Seamus were far too angry to waste their blows. They stood face to face, circling, taking careful aim before throwing punches meant to injure. The fistfight was the sort of that erupts when two boys discover they each fancy the same notorious, beautiful, highly sensuous, and exceptionally devious girl; Messalina Zabini was all that and a bag of crisps.

Enraged, Ron stood square. His stance resembled a throwback, a muggle pugilist from the 1800s. Ron was oblivious to anything other than his opponent. Seamus was no less furious, looking like a boxer silhouette from the lid of an old cigar box. Seamus kept one murderous eye set on his rival, his other eye was already purple and swollen shut. The young wizards circled each other like prize fighting cocks. Seldom does an allegory so completely fit a situation.

Seamus threw his fist. Seeing Seamus' arm move, Ron ducked but the punch was low and Ron was took a blow above the eye. Blood spilled across Ron's white forehead. Witches shrieked. Wizards cheered on their favourite to win the battle.

Harry darted out to separate his friends, but his legs tangled, and he landed heavily, face down in the sand. Looking up, Harry saw Augustus grinning down

"Sorry Potter, had to stop you," Augustus said almost apologetically pulling back the foot he'd used to trip up Harry.

"SEAMUS!" Harry screamed. "RON, NO!" amiably at him.

There might have been a dozen Harrys present and Ron would have taken no notice. Ron reeling slightly as he circled Seamus. He darted towards Seamus whipping his fist upwards, with force into Seamus's diaphragm, making the Irish boy grunt loudly. Seamus made an angry, incoherent noise and parried with another powerful blow to Ron who staggered back a couple of steps but quickly rallied. The crowd of students roared with delight at the exhibition before them.

"STOP! ARE YOU TWO MENTAL?" Harry scrambled to rise but could not. Augustus's foot weighed heavy on Harry's back.

"Now laddie," said Augustus. "Why would you be wanting to stop these lads? This is their business. Before they stop they must to come to an agreement over the little lass." Augustus spoke basic Slytherin sensibilities. "Even if one of them is killed."

"They're friends!" shouted Harry, still trying to rise. "We're all dorm mates. Been together forever!"

Augustus continued pinning Harry to the ground. "All the more reason to let the lads fight it out," said Augustus patiently. "Get all their frustrations out in the open. Heal faster that way, inside and out. They'll be friends again in the by and by."

"We're not bloody Slytherin!" yelled Harry. "Let me up!"

"No laddie," said Augustus laughing. "I think not." Augustus lightly lifted Harry's wand from a robe pocket.

"Give that BACK!" Harry's face was red with fury, but Augustus held Harry firmly down with his booted foot.

Shoving and forcing her way to the center of the crowd, Ginny gasped at the frightening sight of Ron's bruised and bloodied face. Looking around for help amongst the crowd, she spied Harry on the ground. She pleaded, "Harry, make them stop!"

Bidden by his intended, Harry attempted to stand but Augustus increased pressure on Harry's back, pinning the boy down like an overlarge butterfly. Seeing Harry was in trouble himself, Ginny pulled her wand.

"Witches!" laughed a 6^th year Slytherin boy who pulled Ginny's wand from her fist and shook his head in disgust. "Get away with you 'Ginger top'. This fight's the best action we've seen since Malfoy decked Radgerman a while back!"

"Now you Potter, Miss Weasley, relax. Enjoy the fight," said Augustus amiably, approving the other Slytherin boy's action.

A surprised sort of noise went up near the opening to the area under the stadium section and the crowd parted like the Red Sea in days of old. In strolled Draco; pompous, confidant. He was also notably wet, dirty, and did I mention pompous? Draco held himself like Lord Gengreelar of the third Goblin War returning in triumph to Derrynaflan. He spotted his cronies Crabbe and Goyle who were watching 'the action'. Draco called to them, "get over here right now!" As the Crabbe and Goyle answered Draco's call, Seamus took gut punch and countered with a vicious slam to Ron's chin. The crowd thundered their support.

"Fist fighting at a school function," snarled Draco disgustedly to Harry on the ground. "You Gryffindor lot have no more finesse than pissed house elves left without chores on a Saturday night."

"This is YOUR doing!" shouted Harry angrily at Draco. There was no evidence whatsoever for Harry's to blame anything on Draco, but then, if there was fighting afoot, blaming Draco was always a safe bet.

"Shut the devil up Harried Potter," said Draco with an arrogant tone. "Be grateful I am allotting some of my invaluable time to assist your ridiculous sparing classmates in their base pursuit of nefarious nookie."

"You really don't rehearse your comments then Malfoy?" asked Harry, still impressed by Draco's verbal skills.

Draco ignored Harry and turned to face his companions Crabbe and Goyle.

"Goyle, Crabbe I want you both to see this, but mostly you Goyle. Now can you understand why I am glad you broke up with Messalina? The witch is naughty and very, very dangerous. She plays bad, bad games with boy's heads. See how she's used these poor buggers? Could have been you and Crabbe come to blows, or you Goyle with the Weasel there. Course Goyle, you'd have pulled Weasel's head right off." Draco paused while his words made their way into Goyle's head. "And if you killed a wizard, even a poor shite like this one, you'd be off to - Azkaban!"

Goyle gasped in horror, his face a mask of tragedy.

But Draco remorselessly pounded his point home. "You know Goyle, naughty boys imprisoned in Azkaban do not have pudding after their dinner. Now't but bread and water, full of rat hair. You'd wouldn't like that, would you Goyle?"

Lower lip trembling, Goyle looked at Draco and shook his head sadly. "No pudding?"

Poor Goyle. I would have liked to spare him this. Nearly as tough as last week, explaining to him there is no Father Christmas. Thought he'd never stop crying.

"That's right Goyle. Nor sweets," said Draco sympathetically. "There, there. You're safe enough now. Go on. Both of you, Crabbe, Goyle, go enjoy yourselves. One doesn't see a nice fight like this everyday."

Goyle, who was sniveling a bit, and Crabbe, still rather on the jolly side, walked off to watch the battle.

A small hand clutched Draco's arm. He turned to see Hermione, quite indignant because a wizard at the back of the crowd had lifted her wand before she could smite binding spells on Ron and Seamus.

"I can't stand this Draco, Ron, Seamus fighting! I don't understand," Hermione looked quite distraught. Hermione spoke carefully, not quite sure if Draco was over his jealousy of Ron; and for the record, he was not. "Look at Ron, the poor thing."

"Petals," scolded Draco quietly. "Have you learned nothing? Never shame a wizard by pitying him in public, even if the wizard is a poor shite like the Weasel there, and his face looks like a kilo of calf's liver. Bad enough that I insult him, but that's what I do. A witch pitying a wizard is too appalling." Draco shook his head in exasperation at his girl, who like so many other hapless souls was in dire need of his guidance. Draco sighed heavily. "Since you care about your blasted friends so much, tell you what. I can sort this all out for you Petals. Give me a minute."

Draco walked away from Hermione back into the crowd, quickly disappearing from sight. Momentarily Draco reappeared shoving forward the lady of the hour - Messalina Zabini. Draco held Messalina cautiously from behind by her arms. It wouldn't do for him to return to the Quidditch match with a busted shin or shredded lip courtesy of the enraged Miss Zabini. Messalina, far more sensitive than one would expect, was unable to bring herself to watch the battle between her Gryffindor lovers. She opted instead to stand outside in the rain.

"Let go of me Malfoy!" Messalina shouted, struggling against Draco's his tight grip on her arms. She spat at Draco over her shoulder, hitting him on the cheek. Many of the observers gasped at Messalina's daring. But with a surprising amount of forbearance Draco only wiped Messalina's spittle from his cheek with a corner of Messalina's expensive silver scarf.

A loud grunt echoed as Ron staggered under a blow from Seamus. Ron leapt forward to deliver a volley of blows to Seamus's gut. A bloodthirsty roar of approval went up from the watching crowd.

Messalina forgot all about Draco. Her face went pale and she looked on the battling Gryffindor boys in stunned revulsion. "No, both of you please stop!" She cried out in a hysterical voice. "Ron, my Strawberry Trifle! Seamus my Irish Cream Parfait!"

"I should think it is too late to take their well being into consideration," Draco scolded Messalina, pushing her forward. Draco's face abruptly changed to a look of indignation. "Hang on here! Strawberry Trifle? Irish Cream Parfait? Damn it Messie, I'm a Malfoy! Why I was only ever your blasted Vanilla Tapioca?"

At the first sound of Messalina's voice, both Ron and Seamus abruptly ceased fighting. They stood dazed, ignoring each other. They only had eyes for their beloved, willful and darling girl - Messalina.

"'Selina," croaked Ron, dropping his fists. "Selina, my girl!"

"Oh 'Lissy," Seamus yelled. "Me darling, darling girl!"

The formerly encouraging screams of the crown turned into disappointed shouts and catcalls. The excitement and exhilaration of the battle was over and there was no winner. Certainly neither Ron nor Seamus exactly looked the part of a winner victorious. But as Draco was present, the crowd expected things would shortly liven up again. Highly disappointed, Augustus finally took his foot off Harry, who scrambled back onto his feet. In chagrined deference, Augustus walked off. The seventh year had a piece of work to do, sorting out the lost bets.

For Ron and Seamus, Messalina was the only living creature under the stadium. The sad girl focused her attention on the battle worn boys, her ripe cherry lips forming a little surprised O. Each and every boy under the stadium scaffolding stared, awestruck by Messalina; they looked like innocent startled calves on the way to market. There was no denying Messalina made a quite a sight, clasping her delicate white hands together. Even under cover of her sea-green cloak, her breasts petulantly rose and fell attractively with each and every passionate breath she drew. Her wide forget-me-not blue eyes darted from Ron to Seamus and back again.

Draco called to Ron and Seamus. "Oi, Weasel, Shameless! Why don't you each call for Messie here? Whomever the bitch, I mean, whomever the witch runs to that'd be her dearly beloved, or one of them anyway."

"Draco!" Hermione rebuked indignantly. "How mean spirited, you can't just...!" But one look from Draco and Hermione stopped mid sentence. She ceased her rant and stood by Draco's side like obedient cocker spaniel.

"What a good girl!" praised Draco, smiling contentedly at Hermione.

Father always says, consistency, consistency, consistency; the only way to properly train hounds, postal eagles and witches.

Pushing Messalina forward, Draco dropped his hold on the girl and rapidly stepped backwards as though releasing a she-wolf from a holding trap, which was more or less, what he was doing. Messalina stood frozen, as though unaware Draco had released her. Gingerly, Draco reached over to gently push Messalina forward a bit more.

"Messie, go on girl," Draco said with great condescension. "You're free now. Go to the one you like best and he'll be all over you. I mean, he'll be all yours. Go on!"

"Come 'Selina!" urged Ron encouragingly, spreading his arms and calling to Messalina.

"Well then, 'Lissy, me rose!" called Seamus. "Come to your Seamus."

Frantically Messalina held one delicate white hand to her lips, the girl looked from Seamus to Ron, all the while whimpering softly.

"Shut up Seamus the witch is MINE," Ron snarled at his rival. "Ooooh, poor little 'Selina! Ron's sweet girl! Come to Ron, and we'll have a lovely game with Miss C and Mr. T!"

With a hopeful little cry, Messalina took a couple of steps towards Ron.

Ron shouted energetically. "That's my pet! Come on 'Selina! Come here!"

"Shut your pie hole you rusty knackered git!" growled Seamus at Ron. Seamus's face softened as he turned back to Messalina. "'Lissy, you'll be after coming to your Seamus now won't you me fine girl? Come, walk to me darlin'!"

Messalina took a careful step forward in no distinct direction. She looked as confused and lost as Mary's little lamb.

"Selina!" called randy Ron. "Oh, 'Selina, I have a new game for us to play. All we need is a small pot of melted Honeyduke's toffee and an owl feather."

"AMATEUR!" Seamus yelled at Ron. "Don't listen to that pillock 'Lissy me darling," shouted Seamus shamelessly. "Now I've three lovely games indeed that I picked up just for yourself, using a shot glass, and a handful of chilled mushy peas!"

Messalina stood frozen. It was difficult to believe this was the same witch who tried out for the Quidditch team back in October. She seemed delicate now, not the same witch who kicked arse and gave the entire Slytherin team a run for their Knuts - no pun intended of course.

"Place your bets! The galleons stand four-to-one on the Irish lad to reclaim his sweet slapper!"

Augustus MacIntyre had rallied and now took bets on which of the passionate boys Messalina would choose. The crowd shouted out their preferences as though watching contestants vying for a prize on a muggle game show.

'Go for Rusty Britches!'

'No, better dead than red, take the lewd one!'

Above the excited chattering shouts of the crowd boomed a loud, clear and deeply masculine voice.

"I love you Messalina."

Messalina started, and a look came over her eyes as she scanned the crowds looking past Ron and Seamus, to spot a tall burly boy. With a cry of anguish, Messalina flew to the source of the voice, her long chestnut hair floating behind her on the air. "Gregory!" screamed Messalina, running and leaping up, entangling her long legs about the boy's thick waist. "Gregory!" she squealed, "You are the one who loves me, out of all of them, aren't you my Greggors?"

"Messalina!" said Goyle. "I love you," he wrapped his arms around the happy girl and pressed his wide face to her cheek. "I know a game too," Goyle said shyly nodding his head. "Patty-cake."

"How could I have allowed that shite Malfoy to persuade me to leave you my sweet Greggors?" Messalina said plaintively.

Goyle said, "It all right Messalina. Please don't cry. All of that does not matter now. Not one jot." Goyle held his cheek pressed to Messalina, hugging the wayward girl.

Goyle was like a small boy who told there is no Father Christmas finds a box of Dungbombs in his stocking on Christmas morning, and rejoices; his faith in goodness restored.

The crowd was now so quiet, one could have heard parchment drop. Goyle was speaking in full sentences - simple, but largely intelligent, full sentences. The laws of nature were turned upside down.

"What the..." Draco was flabbergasted. Hermione took Draco's arm to stop him, but Draco stubbornly shook her off and marched over to Goyle and the wayward Miss Zabini.

"Goyle! Are you out of your mind?" Draco fumed. "Messie here will make a fool of you! You really have no grasp of what 'infidelity' means do you? Listen to me. Messalina does 'no no' with other boys when your back is turned! Messie has already made a fool of you. Look at her up there in your arms. She looks like a squirrel up a nut tree!"

Goyle's eyes darkened and his deep voice boomed. "Malfoy DO NOT call Miss Zabini bad, bad names and DO NOT ever, ever again call her 'Messie'. Messalina and Me love..."

"Messalina and I, Greggors," said Messalina sweetly, quietly. "Remember, my sweet, 'Messalina and I.'"

"Yes. Messalina and I love each other Malfoy," said Goyle, gesturing towards Hermione who ran over to stand by Draco. "Granger and you love each other. Like that for 'Messalina and I'. You understand Malfoy?"

"But that's different!" Draco insisted. "Granger is... well, she's different from that blasted Zabini girl! Messie... Messalina here is a boy-killer! She leaves the poor besotted buggers piled up like broken wands in her wake." Frantically, Draco spun around, calling out to the crowd.

"All right! How many lads here have had a snog or shag at one time or the other with Miss Zabini here? Yes, let's have them up, your hands, your willies, whatever."

Hands of shot up all over the place as smiling boys recalled stimulating memories of stolen moments spent with Messalina in caretaker's closets, behind statues, under staircases, in the Astronomy Tower, cloakrooms, ad infinitum. The number of boys that raised their hands was to say the least, staggering. Even Harry's face grew pink and his hand slowly crept skywards. Then Harry noticed Ginny, standing nearby so he quickly he set his hand to work, innocently scratching his chin. No. Sorry, but honestly, you really don't want any details on what happened between Harry and Messalina. Suffice to say it took Filch a full week to repair and scrub out the broom closet after that ill-fated meeting of incompatibles.

Anyway, assuming that many boys were too timid to raise their hands - Neville Longbottom comes immediately to mind - the numbers of former Messalina snog/shaggers was impressive indeed.

"I am like sooo touched by the show of hands," said Draco. "Goyle, can you just feel the love Miss Zabini here has spread around Hogwarts? Hogsmeade? Great Britain and the European Union?"

"Does not matter," said Goyle. Messalina's wet, tear streaked face was buried on Goyle's thick neck. "I love sweet Messalina and pretty Messalina loves me."

Another startled gasp went up from the crowd. Goyle was slinging verbs, toying with adjectives and for Merlyn's sake, he used a conjunction.

"Messalina is a friendly girl," said Goyle with pride.

"Friendly?" said Draco, totally taken aback. He indicated the vast number of hands and other boy type features, still raised. "Friendly? You call that little slut's inclinations 'friendly'?"

Goyle's eyes darkened. "Malfoy, SHUT UP," Goyle barked.

Draco looked up at Goyle, stunned.

Insubordination and full sentences all in the same year; my little Goyle is growing up.

"Now see here Goyle. I'll overlook your naughty behavior this one time, you great, overgrown puss... AAAARRRGGGHHHH!" Something hit and bounced off the back of Draco's head and he spun around. There stood a host of likely suspects - Harry, Dean, Hermione, Neville, Fiona, Ginny and even Messalina's sister, Blaise.

Gingerly touching the painful and fast rising knot on the back of his head, Draco looked at the thing that hit him - an jar of vanilla tapioca pudding, leftover from someone's box dinner. Livid, Draco addressed the suspects. "Out of the goodness of my heart I perform a good deed by ending this stupid Gryffindor battle. I set everyone to rights and this is my reward - tapioca pudding?"

Somehow Draco's meaning did not come across. "BOLLOCKS!" Draco bellowed. Ignoring the sniggering, and marshalling all of his remaining dignity, Draco nabbed Hermione's hand and marched off with her in tow.

Meanwhile, Messalina and Goyle off in a corner, engaged in a heart throbbing snog.

"Messalina..." said Goyle, breaking off from a kiss. In a sad voice he said "Malfoy don't understand us."

"Malfoy doesn't understand us, Goyle," corrected Messalina sweetly.

"I know he don't Messalina," said Goyle with his first ever smirk. "Maybe I will tell him again, really, really, really slow."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The rain fell heavier now as Draco led Hermione out from under the stadium seating. He raised his Quidditch cloak sheltering them both from the rain. They splashed through puddles as they trotted along through the rain. Draco led Hermione under the Slytherin section of the stadium. Sheltered from the pouring rain, flinging back the wet cloak, Draco stood for several seconds, staring at Hermione. Then he began to laugh out loud. "Damn me but that was amazing!" He shook his wet fringe and laughed at Hermione's scrunched up face when the wet hit her.

"Draco," said Hermione smiling and wiping her face with the end of her sleeve. "I for one think Goyle and Messalina will be very happy together. People can change you know, and I think Miss Zabini will..."

"My dear, sweet, naive Gryffindor," said Draco condescendingly. "I'm telling you, Messie is one for Salazar's book. I'd have gotten a similar response back there if I'd asked, 'How many lasses here snogged or shagged Miss Zabini?'

"Oh!" Hermione covered her mouth, giving Draco a funny look.

"Oh, Petals," Draco asked seriously. "Would you have raised your little hand back there too?"

Laughing, Hermione playfully pushed Draco for his insolence. "Fiend. You must admit Cocoa, Goyle seems... improved with Messalina at his side. And the whole thing is rather romantic in a twisted sort of way. Like you!" she laughed. "You can't fool me, I know you're happy for Goyle. Somewhere inside of you anyway. Cocoa," quickly she changed the subject. "It's wet and cold and the game has gone on forever. You needn't go back on the pitch. The match can be called off, and no one would think the worst."

"Not on your knickers Petals," said Draco by way of another broad yawn. "And speaking of your enchanting knickers..."

Hermione smiled and managed to look shy. "Draco, really," she murmured. "You're too tired to pull anyone's knickers, up or down. Even your own pants... if you wore any."

"Maybe. Maybe not," said Draco gently pushing Hermione back against a broad stadium stanchion. He stared into her hazel eyes and slowly brought his face to hers. Kissing her, he lazily opened up her cloak, flinging it back from her shoulders. He lifted the ends of his Quidditch robes to cover them both in folds of emerald cloth. They looked like a pair of bats settling down to rest. Slowly Draco traced his lips along Hermione's and shuttered involuntarily as he pressed himself tightly against Hermione as though trying to occupy the same space as the girl. Draco was tired but he was a long way from whipped.

"Petals..." Draco's voice was ragged, fraught with despair. He swallowed hard, his lips by Hermione's ear.

"Cocoa," said Hermione, startled as always by the mercurial change of Draco's mood, his sudden upset. "Is it the game? Even Harry says there is a chance for Slytherin ..."

"You're so cute when you lie to me," said Draco. The movement of his thin warm lips tickled and heated Hermione's ear. Draco swallowed again. "It's not the match at all Petals, we are going to win, the match is in the bag. It's just... I swear by Salazar's Heart, I..."

"You've never sworn by Salazar's heart before..." It never occurred to Hermione that the Machiavellian Salazar even possessed a heart.

"Shusssh... Swearing by Salazar's heart is only for important wishes. Wishes one would die for. And I am swearing by Salazar's heart Petals... Miss Hermione Granger, as Merlyn is my witness, one of these days I will make love to you. I have no idea how, but I will."

"Draco? But you make love to me all the time," Hermione was in earnest.

"No," said Draco. "I mean proper love. Not like I make love to you now. Like some slave stealing a grape and pretending he drinks wine. I want to show my love to you the proper way, with my whole body and my soul. I want you, Petals. And if it's the last thing I ever do I will love you, proper."

"No, don't say 'if it's the last thing you ever do'. I don't like the sound of that." Hermione sucked in her breath as she felt Draco pressing against her harder still, kissing her about the neck. "Draco, I don't mind, really. You love me splendidly, with your heart and as much as you can with," She gasped as she felt Draco's chilled hand slip, under her robes.

"Petals" Draco lifted his head and perked up. "You are still wearing the skirt!" He hated when Hermione wore what he called her 'boy-proof' jeans.

"Well, duh," said Hermione playfully. "I've learned a thing or two from my nasty Slytherin." To prove her point, she nipped Draco's ear making him squeal.

"Yes," growled Draco. In his excitement, a blue fireball, the size of a bludger, involuntarily shot from his mouth.

To avoid the thick flame burning her nose or setting her hair aflame, Hermione popped her head backwards, hitting the stanchion. She gave a tiny pained cry. Draco volatile temper snapped again as he blamed himself for Hermione being hurt on his account.

"I'm so sick of the spell! Always hanging between the two of us, like a bloody great chastity belt, on ME!" For the second time that day, Draco buried his face in Hermione's bushy brown hair and sought its calming effects. He stood breathing deeply, gathering control over himself. He rallied. Recklessly, roughly, Draco slipped his hand under the soft material of Hermione's dress, smoothly raising the garment upward until the soft materials bunched at their necks just as the hateful remaining spell pressed against Draco's heart. Quickly, with his free hand Draco pulled up his Quidditch shirt and vest, laying his bare chilled skin against his girl, who fluttering beneath his touch. Draco thought Hermione's skin was soft to the touch, like petals clutched tightly in a lover's hand. Hermione pressed back against Draco with pressure equal to his. Their skins warmed quickly. They stood slowly rubbing against each other. They moved in a soft tactile dance to the music of their breathing, and the melody of the soft moans they sang into their lover's ears. Hermione's hands persistently dropped to Draco's trouser waistband. Again and again he scolded the girl lovingly as though she were a beloved but naughty child caught with her hands at the biscuit tin. He patiently, persistently removed her soft, deadly hands before she could seek her goal.

Although the sand under their feet was damp, the air about them cold and the ambiance lacking, they experienced as much of heaven as they'd ever shared with each other.

Although tightly bound by his Quidditch trousers, Draco pressed against Hermione. He kissed Hermione's petal soft lips. He jerked suddenly and cried out with an anguished sound that ached of thwarted pleasure and deep deprivation. Draco and Hermione both knew 'the problem' and long ago they resigned themselves to 'the solution'. Burying his face in Hermione's comforting locks, Draco concentrating on his breathing exercises. Holding still he fought to fend off the primal urges pulling at his groin, tearing at his heart; an urge that would bring him exquisite pleasure he dreamed about, and death. They were near accustomed to the torture and both stood quiet for as long as it took Draco to regain physical control, and for as long as it took for his ardor to ebb. When Draco had control and the two were again safe, they were also in a place of profound disappointment. There was little reward. The two were well practiced at the torment.

Draco spoke, embarrassed, just above a whisper. "Petals... I'm all right now. When I get like that, so close to..."

"We both know that atrocious virginity spell is not your fault Cocoa," said Hermione, as always careful to keep pity from her voice. "We can just..."

"Petals, it won't always be like this. On my life, I swear to you, it will NOT always be like this."

Hermione gasped again as Draco ran his now warm hand over Hermione's breasts and freed them from the baffling brassier contraption that his girl insisted on wearing instead of a corset, like any proper Slytherin witch. Draco chuckled softly, kissing the tender pair. He enjoyed feeling Hermione gently quivering at his touch. As he cooed and planted kisses on the two plump mounds, his hand followed the curve of her body downwards. Teasingly his hand hesitated at the waistband of his Gryffindor's tights. Sometimes Hermione wore the annoying underclothing, but then again, sometimes she didn't. Draco loved the surprise whichever way it went. Their eyes half shut, the two rested their lips softly against each other as Hermione seductively squirmed in anticipation.

Draco chuckled softly; pleased that at least Hermione could take some pleasure even if he couldn't. He pressed his mouth against Hermione's and kissed her. All the while he slowly, lovingly caressing her in an area he thought even softer than her pink lips, sweeter. A place where Hermione could not mirror the favor back to him. Draco fought to keep his mind off his own body, off his own needs.

"Go ahead," whispered Hermione breathlessly, recklessly. "Just for a minute Cocoa... What if? Just this one time, what if we took a chance? You would know when to stop." Hermione always wanted to push their luck, her common sense on hiatus when she was with Draco. The girl's hormones, the sensations on her skin controlled her actions. She begged Draco to take more risks, to go a bit farther in their lovemaking. Each time it was like begging the boy to tread harder still upon a deadly sleeping serpent.

"I can't..." said Draco, even as Hermione's hand again toyed with the leather ties of his Quidditch trousers. Draco might be willing to risk his own life, but he would not risk Hermione's. He roughly jerked her hand away and increased his gentle attentions to her. Distraction of the spirited girl remained Draco's best defense and he'd grown adept at it. With Draco's attentions Hermione's breathing grew ragged, and her movement and sounds more and more intense and finally, Draco thrilled to the feel of his Petals crying out and shuddering against the skin of his bare chest. She felt to him like a bird bursting free from his grasp. The feel of his girl tremulous against him was as much pleasure as he himself could dare to enjoy in her company.

Draco whispered into the girl's ear again, solemn. "You won't have to do that for the both of us forever my girl." Then, as always, Draco shut his eyes and cursed first the cloth and the materials that restrained his sensuous boy bits. Then Draco blasphemed the onerous magic that kept him from honoring his precious 'Petals' with his physical love and loss of his virginity, least they both be simultaneously struck dead. "I promise you Petals, the day will come when my lips and my long fingers will be made redundant by my staggeringly long, thick, incredible ..."

A sound from the pitch, Professor Snape's agitated voice, blasted angrily in the cool damp air.

"TIME IS UP MR. MALFOY! YOU WILL BE ON THE PITCH IN THREE MINUTES OR FORFEIT THE GAME!"

Draco dedicated a few seconds to swearing at Snape. As though he were suddenly overtaken by modesty Draco spun around, his back to Hermione. Frantically Draco tightened the lashings of his trousers as Hermione giggled softly behind him and ran her hands under his shirt, fondling his plastered nipples.

"Granger, this isn't funny!" Draco complained. "I can't go out there all riled up, like... like THIS! There are impressionable youth out there. Can't go out there with my trousers stuffed full of... full of me!"

"ONE... TWO...!"

"DAMN ME!" Draco turned, quickly giving Hermione a peck on the cheek, and dashed off into the rain. As he raced away, his voice rang out. "My life is RUBBISH!"

Hermione, a stupefyingly sexually satisfied, yet poignantly disappointed young witch stood, trembling against the stanchion, smoothing down her skirt, her blouse, her cloak.

"Mine too Cocoa," she muttered. "Mine too."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Over the mandatory break, it seemed surprising that the levels of excitement did not die down because of the late hour or the number of hours spectators had spent on their rumps. The day had proved exciting and all were thrilled at the prospect that at any minute the match would end with the snitch in hand. As the score stood 420 to 260 in favor of Hufflepuff, no matter who caught the snitch, it was a 'troll simple' conclusion that Hufflepuff would carry the day.

So went the common knowledge until the game resumed under the starless and rainy night sky when Slytherin and Hufflepuff entered the arena. It was immediately obvious that something was different. The Slytherin team flew into the game with new resolve, seeming as fresh as though the game were only an hour in.

As soon as the red Quaffle was released, the battle began, yet again, and in earnest. The Hufflepuff chasers seized the Quaffle, pelting towards their goal in a tight formation. Relentlessly the Slytherin flew in for the attack. The Hufflepuff beaters launched bludgers at the Slytherin chasers, but with almost a sixth sense, the Slytherin beaters were on the spot, repelling the bludgers with well aimed blows. Meanwhile Draco loosened up, and flew rings around Abbott and the two looked like a pair of swallow fighting in the air.

A Slytherin chaser battered his way into a mob of Hufflepuff and took control of the Quaffle.

"SLYTHERIN SCORES TWENTY POINTS!" bellowed Lee Jordan, now fully awake. "Flying nearly all day and the Slytherin look as fresh as daisies! ANOTHER TWENTY POINTS TO SLYTHERIN! We aren't all up this late for nothing folks! This game is still on!"

The stadium went wild. The Dawn Brawn supporters screamed themselves hoarse, dancing in the aisles and chanting naughty slurs at the Hufflepuff team. Even the rain did not stop the more enthusiastic supporters from pulling their shirts over their heads. Damn the rain! There was always a dose of Madame Pomfrey's Pepper Up Potion to fall back on.

A squabble was on and Snape blew his whistle and wished he'd not insisted on playing referee. High overhead, Draco spotted a faint glimmer below. At first he thought what he saw was a Galleon thrown to the pitch. But through the rain he could just see the blur of beating wings. He averted his eyes and tried to lead Abbott away, because Slytherin had not brought the score up sufficiently to secure a clear Slytherin win. It was no good, Abbot shot down towards the pitch, bee lining for the snitch. Draco stooped into a dive after Abbott. It all took place in seconds, but as Draco caught up with Abbott, he managed to reach back, pull off one of his Green Common Welch Dragon hide boot and heaved it with all his strength at the girl. Abbott yelped as the force of the thrown boot tipped her off course. The Hufflepuff supporters roared with indignation, and the snitch shot away into the wet night sky, gone again.

"Malfoy," bellowed Snape, flying over, his sodden black hair plastered against his angry pale face. "What do you think you are doing?"

"She stole my boot as she flew past me Sir," yelled Draco lying out of his arse. "My Father paid good gold for that boot and..."

"Your father?" yelled Captain Brockland understandably indignant. He'd flown over to hover alongside the very angry and very sore Abbott. "We've forgot all about your father Malfoy. You haven't brought up your father since dinner, we thought he up and died. We nearly altogether forgot about your precious father, Mr. Ludicrous 'kiss my golden arse' Malfoy."

Professor Snape automatically flew between Draco and nabbed his arm to prevent him from flinging himself at Brockland. "Malfoy... steady. Save it for the game," Snape whispered in Draco's ear. "I have no idea what you could have possibly told the team over the break, but... good work." Snape pulled out his parchment pad. "Five points from Hufflepuff for Brockland's cheek. And courtesy of Malfoy, a total of ten points from Slytherin - five points for losing his footgear and five points for Malfoy's lack of control over himself." Snape blew his whistle and the game resumed.

Abbott darted upwards and the battle took up where it left off. Draco shot after Abbott, feeling embarrassed that his cheeks were red, not from the wind buffeting his broomstick about, but because he had just heard the only kind words he'd heard from Snape since the previous school term. Draco hadn't realized how very much he missed hearing the potion professor's praise and he longed for more.

Since the game resumed, Draco scotched a total of three of Abbott's attempts to catch the snitch. Hufflepuff fought hard, but the newly 'inspired' Slytherin fought as though their lives would end if they lost the match; depending on Draco's mood at game's end, such thoughts were probably valid. Finally, at a quarter past one in the wee hours of Saturday morning, the score was tied, and Slytherin was forty points up.

Feeling as though the whole of his life was spent flying over the soggy pitch, Draco squinted, peering through the sheets of rain searching for the snitch. He was beginning to hold his eyes half shut with exhaustion. Draco's fingers grew stiff from clutching his broomstick in readiness and for the first time in his life he understood what adults meant when they claimed their bones ached from the wet and cold. Draco stopped his broomstick, hovering at the far end of the field near the Slytherin goals. Sitting upright on his broomstick, Draco stretched his head back and his eyes bugged open as a golden glint shown through the wet and wind. Not only did he see the snitch, the accursed thing floated motionless. Exaggerating his stretch, Draco pushed his arms up over his head as though he saw nothing of interest and set himself back in a ready position. He peered through the gloom and to his immense relief, spotted Abbott far on the other side of the pitch. The girl was so low to the ground she could have leapt to the ground. Draco wasted no more time, he shot after the snitch.

Seeing Draco shooting upwards, Abbott, who never let 30 seconds pass without checking Draco's whereabouts, blasted after him. Unfortunately for Draco, his huge head start towards the snitch only lasted a matter of twenty seconds. The snitch seemed to have plans of its own and turning on a Knut into a near one hundred eighty degree turn, the snitch spiraled downward, on a collision course with Abbot.

Like a well-trained cowpony pursuing a steer, Draco's Starshotz 6000 turned, headed after the snitch almost before Draco could think to do so. He saw the glint of the snitch hovering in center pitch for seconds as though the unthinking tiny ball possessed a macabre sense of humour. Draco and Abbott hurtled towards each other as though in a dangerous game of chicken. Neither seeker dared to slow down and give the other valuable seconds of time. Snape blew his whistle but they paid him no heed.

"THE SNITCH IS DARING THEM TO COLLIDE! WILL THEY CRASH?" Lee Jordan screamed. He closed his eyes momentarily as did most of the students in the stadium, and when he opened his eyes, all three - snitch, Abbot and Draco were gone from view. Peering upwards, Jordan screamed again, "NO BLOODY WAY! THE SNITCH IS LEADING THEM SKYWARD! ALMOST TOO FAR TO SEE!"

Draco was livid as he found himself once again, neck and neck with Abbot. He took valuable seconds to kick at Abbott and swore as he realized all he'd accomplished was to waste time during which Abbott gained several inches distance, and every inch was going to count. Draco stretched forward on his broomstick, his boot tips barely in contact with the stirrups. His stretched his fingers and felt his arm muscles pull over his bones like canvas stretched over a frame. He opened his hand to grab the golden ball. The leather of his glove was wet and the snitch slipped from his grasp. Swearing, Draco pulled off the glove and reached his cold bare hand as far as he could. He could barely see through the rain, but he saw Abbot's tiny white bare hand, stretching alongside his own. He wanted to break Abbot's hand off at the wrist, but that would take too much time and anyway, Hermione would murder him.

Draco and Abbott made their third swing around the pitch and the snitch still maintained inches of distance ahead of them. Abbot crawled up her broomstick like a monkey on a pole, her hand was now eight or nine inches closer to the fleeing snitch than Draco. Draco trusted his broomstick to remain on course. Grasping the broomstick tip he pulled himself forward along the handle. Soon, he was stretching his bare wet hand a full foot closer to the snitch than angry Abbott. Stretching farther still, Draco smiled, the snitch's wing beats slowed, he was overtaking the walnut ingot.

Come to me you damned, beautiful, stupid flying walnut! I won't hurt you, I would never tear your wings off.

Just as Draco's fingertips brushed the surface of the wet, slippery orb, he saw it coming; an intensely bright string of light that blinded him. A sharp pain stabbed the back of his eyes. The world was dazzling white like a torch lit inside of his head. He was aware of a tingling sensation as every muscle in his body twitched involuntarily at the same moment and as he felt his clothing ignite, he resigned himself to a fiery death. He heard the start of Abbot's high-pitched scream but the girl's voice was drowned out a fraction of a second later as the air exploded with the sound of thunder blasted all around them.

The snitch veered off, and pelted back toward the pitch, trailing smoke like a tiny muggle skywriting airplane, only it was not letters, words that trailed out behind the snitch, only confusion, and the stink of singed hair and flesh.