Damage Control

Damage Control

A Harry Potter Universe Fanfic

By Snoozepossum

(but it's all April's fault)

"I've finished with him, Professor. I gave him something for the bruises and scrapes - he's got a few nasty ones - and sent for fresh clothes. Despite his complaining, he should be fine to return to his dormitory." Madame Pomfrey shot a glance toward the far side of the Infirmary, and stepped back into the supply room.

Snape inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, and took a deep breath before turning toward the bed occupied by Slytherin's new Seeker.

Draco was sitting up in bed, frowning at a copy of Quidditch Digest. "This is ridiculous - Runyon's blind, they should make him retire from refereeing . . . Father?" He looked up quickly at the sound of light footfalls, both happiness and apprehension on his pale features. "Oh. Hello, Professor." The expression evaporated, replaced by something a bit more relaxed.

The Head of Slytherin House gazed down impassively at him. "Madame Pomfrey tells me you sustained no injuries beyond some contusions, and you obviously had the wind knocked out of you." Snape's head tilted slightly as he appraised his charge. "Is that all we need be concerned with?"

Draco put an appropriately pitiful pout on. "It's Potter's fault I crashed, sir. He deliberately hit me and . . . ah . . . I. . . um . . . " the boy faltered as the potions master's eyes narrowed with displeasure.

Snape gathered his robes around him, crossing his arms on his chest. "Am I to gather then, Mr. Malfoy, that you are claiming Potter's superiority as a Seeker as your excuse?" he asked pointedly.

Draco's eyes widened. "No, sir!"

"Would it not be more in reason to suppose that the outcome of the match was adversely affected by the presence of a hexed bludger? One that did considerable structural damage to the stands?" He continued in a more casual tone, watching Draco's face carefully.

Flickers of suprise, suspicious interest, and realization crossed the boy's face in quick succession. Good. He hadn't known about it, then. That meant it might not be Lucius' doing. Might not. He wondered if the dawning thought had been the possibility that his father might have just put his own son in danger to get to Potter, or that his Head of House had just given him a semi-viable excuse for failure to offer when his father did address the incident.

"And my new broom, sir. My old one was, of course, excellent, but the newest model is even more powerful than I thought. Should I ask Flint to reserve extra practice time for me?"

The latter, then. And a thoroughly logical additional reason, for good measure, that would appeal to Lucius' vanity and pride. The hint of fault at lack of preparation being nudged aside by the clear evidence that a Malfoy would have only that which outshone everything else. He was learning.

Snape moved the forgotten Quidditch Digest aside to perch on the edge of the bed and nodded. "See that you do. Natural talent is worthless unless one hones it."

"Yes sir." Draco blinked. "Sir? You think I have real talent?"

Ah, yes. The remarks being tossed about regarding Draco's "qualification" for the team. Even some of the teammates who had profited from Lucius' "generosity" had joked that the Malfoys' money itself would probably be as good on a broom as it's heir. But that had been quite a performance this afternoon. . . he had lead a similar chase in the twisting obstacle course of beams and supports when he was a bit older than Draco, with much worse results. He rubbed the crooked bridge of his nose in recollection, and the corners of his mouth curled up in a smirk. "You aren't spending the night regrowing the bones in your arm, are you, Mr. Malfoy?"

The boy broke into a mischievious grin. "No, sir. And I wouldn't've let Lo . . . Professor Lockheart touch my arm, in any case."

"Astute of you. I expect to see an improvement in your control by the next match, then." Snape drew a length of ash from an inside pocket. "I retrieved your wand from your practice room locker. After Madame Pomfrey releases you, see Marcus Flint to reclaim your broom."

"Yes sir, thank you." He took the proffered wand, laying it on the neatly folded robe beside him as his Head of House stood and turned to leave. "Sir?"

Snape stopped, eyebrows raised in question.

"Is my father coming?"

"The elder Mr. Malfoy was unable to stay. I believe he had urgent business to attend to." Snape's voice was blankly neutral.

Draco's face clouded with a peculiar combination of relief and disappointment. He dropped his eyes to the bedclothes, twisting the blanket in his fingers. "I see, sir." He didn't look up until he heard the light click of the door falling shut. He chewed his lip for a moment, then blew his mussed hair up with a sigh. He heard voices in the hall, and sat up straight as Madame Pomfrey bustled in with a bundle and a small jar.

"Here you are," she said shortly, "just leave your quidditch robes there. I'll have one of the house elves repair them." She plunked the clean clothes down in the bed, and handed him the squat container, full of a thick yellow paste. "Slather on a light coat of that four times a day for the next three days. The bruises should be gone by then. If not, or if anything else starts to hurt, come see me." She stepped back a bit, looking him over. "Well, I suppose you're lucky you didn't break your neck. Supper will start in a few minutes. Do you want to go down, or wait here for your father? I saw him at the match, didn't I?"

Draco slid out of bed and lifted his chin haughtily. "My father will not be coming. He had urgent business to attend to. Am I dismissed?"

Poppy put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to take him to task for his manner, but stopped short. She gave him a long, searching look. "Yes, yes. Go eat a good meal, and get a good night's sleep." She pulled the privacy curtains around the bed, and left.

He switched the hospital robe for his own clothes, picked up his wand, and walked to the Infirmary door. Frowning, he turned back, pulled the blanket aside, and picked up the discarded magazine.

Hidden under it, a splash of color against the soft gray wool, was a Chocolate Frog box. He stared at the door for a moment - not the one to Pomfrey's office, but the one to the outside hall. Then he snatched it up quickly, shoved it deep in his school robe's inside pocket, tucked the magazine under his arm, and sauntered out into the corridor.

Fin