Beater Practice

Draco Malfoy strode onto the Quidditch pitch as the sun set behind the western towers. The stadium was completely empty - no crowd to impress, no teammates to lord over, and no opponents to intimidate. Just him. After all, Quidditch had been cancelled this year.

He still couldn't believe that old fool of a Headmaster, Dumbledore, had called off the Quidditch season for the Triwizard Tournament. He'd spent most of the summer holidays training, and all of his time telling Father why he absolutely had to have a Firebolt, only to have the school go and cancel the whole program for the year. Not that Father had purchased the expensive broom, claiming that it wouldn't send the correct message. How could having an equal or better broom than Potter be sending the wrong message? If anything was wrong, it was Potter having a superior broom!

Expensive broomsticks aside, this was going to have been Slytherin's year, too. Yes, somehow Gryffindor had managed to win the Quidditch Cup the previous year, but the Slytherin team had vowed to return the cup to its rightful place. Marcus Flint, the former captain, had finally scraped up enough NEWTS to leave Hogwarts, but Montague, a burly sixth year, had already taken his place as the new captain and had even started some training over the summer. The team knew that Potter had the superior broom, but what the rest of the Gryffindor team called brooms couldn't compare to the Nimbus broomsticks of the Slytherins. How could they just cancel Quidditch without any warning to the students?

Two months after the decision, it still stung. Especially now that the Champions for the Tournament had been selected. Potter had managed, again, to get around all of the rules to become a fourth champion. A fourth champion! Had anything been done to him for breaking those rules? Of course not. Dumbledore was letting him compete. Four Champions doing three Tasks still didn't have the appeal of six Quidditch games with four teams of seven. From what he'd heard of the Tasks, they didn't exactly sound like great events to watch. They'd be great to participate in, but to watch them, knowing that the only reason you weren't out there yourself was because of a stupid age line would be too much. Now, if the other three Champions teamed up and turned on Potter, that could make it interesting, but it didn't sound like they'd really have the chance. Of course, he reasoned, Dumbledore would protect his precious Potter like he always did. That old fool always made special allowances for Saint Potter.

He looked down at the bat in his hand, and then back up at the empty stadium. The box at his feet was jerking every which way. Flint, as captain, had possessed some weird theories about Quidditch and how to play it. He'd believed strongly that the only way to play Quidditch was to play angry. That was why all practices were held near the end of the day, when all of the anger built up from not smacking the stupid people was at its peak. The ideal way to focus that anger into Quidditch was hitting a Bludger. As Flint had reminded them often, the other teams feared them because of that anger. Other teams had only two Beaters. The Slytherin team had seven. For some reason, Montague didn't seem to understand that, and had actually talked about practicing early mornings or Saturdays. How could that oaf just do away with a vital key to intimidating the opponent? Then again, it didn't really matter this year. They'd cancelled Quidditch.

His fist clenched around the bat, Draco bent down and released a Bludger from its box, giving it a good hard smack almost before it cleared the lid. As it zoomed away, he quickly mounted his broomstick and took off after it. The heavy black ball aimed straight for him, and he gave it another hard hit that bought him enough time to gain altitude.

WHACK! That was for Dumbledore, for canceling Quidditch.

WHACK! That was for the Ministry of Magic, for letting him.

WHACK! That was for Professor Snape, for not reinstating it.

WHACK! That was for Potter, for having a Firebolt.

WHACK! That was for Father, for refusing to buy him one.

WHACK! That was for Potter, for being school champion.

WHACK! That was for Dumbledore's stupid age line.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

Draco had to smile as the Bludger zoomed toward him. Marcus Flint had been right. There was nothing like Beater practice to release bottled up anger.