HP -- Getting a Life VII: Red and Green
Title: Getting a Life
Chapter: 7. Red and Green
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,651
Warnings: Quidditch, oh, Lord!
Summary: Hermione Granger loves metaphors. Draco Malfoy loves Muggle cigarettes. What happens when the king of Slytherin and the queen of the library collide?
Author's Note: You little masochist, you. 8D
HERMIONE
I looked down at my finger and realized that the hangnail I’d been chewing on bemusedly had given way to a respectable gush of blood. Whoops. I retrieved a tissue from my supply and dabbed at it absently. I didn’t munch on my cuticles very often; it was an activity I reserved for times of genuine need: final exams, standardized tests, and personal crises. This particular instance fell into the lattermost category.
Draco Malfoy needed help. That much was unequivocally clear. What was just as plain to the perceiving eye was that he wasn’t going to get it anywhere else. His “friends,” such as they were, didn’t seem to like him for anything more than his lofty status, and they were concerned enough with almost failing out of school without having to worry about their ringleader’s dirty little secrets. Malfoy wasn’t one to go to a teacher, and he and Madame Pomfrey weren’t on the best of terms either. The only professor he didn’t routinely vilify in the first place was Snape, and the idea of Severus Snape comforting a student in need was ridiculous to the point of being laughable. No, Draco Malfoy had an aura about him, a buffer zone, a layer of empty space around his person, trespassers into which would be shot on sight. He repelled friendship. He rebuffed kindness. He repulsed consolation.
I was all that he had, and he didn’t even know it.
Or perhaps he did-subconsciously, even. Perhaps he had stumbled upon the revelation that I, and I alone, it seemed, was willing to look past and through the Slytherin stigma and the deterring demeanor and the haughty hostility. Perhaps he had seen that I would help him if he asked, even in the quietest whisper, for a moment of my time. Perhaps that was why he’d come to me.
But then again, maybe I just wanted to think that I was special. Don’t we all?
The next afternoon, as I was strolling towards the Great Hall for dinner-alone; I’d been finishing an assignment and had given Harry and Ron express permission to go on ahead before all the good stuff was taken-Malfoy appeared as if from nowhere, having concealed himself behind some wall or in some doorway and now darting out to materialize beside me as I made my way innocently down the corridor. The trick earned him a melodramatic gasp and a breathless “Don’t do that!”
My histrionic reaction earned me a smirk. “Do what, Granger?” he inquired, his drawl even more pronounced than usual.
“You know perfectly well what,” I replied primly, playing along.
He grinned. “I’m sure I don’t,” he responded guilelessly.
We reached the double doors to the Great Hall, doors that were securely shut before us. The passages were empty but for a few second years meandering in our direction-too young to know us by reputation; too far away to see our opposite badges and express their shock.
“I…” Malfoy began hesitantly, stopping a safe distance from the doors. “I…don’t think we…should.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. Indomitable and everlasting love? A vow to disregard the disbelief, overlook the astonishment, and overcome the outrage? His pledge that he wouldn’t abandon me for anything-not for status, not for standing, not for any sum of money in the world? What did I think this episode was, a page ripped from a fairy tale? The only thing we had in common with that page was the ragged edges.
“I guess not,” I acceded quietly. I was looking at the ground, because I couldn’t bear to look into his eyes and see in them that he cared more about what people thought than he cared about me. It was lunacy, and I knew it-to want his affection so badly. He’d given me a taste of it, a sample, and now I felt entitled to a ten-course meal. I wasn’t entitled to anything.
He paused, and then he pushed the doors open a little bit and slipped in between them-presumably to join his friends, to laugh raucously with them, to enjoy himself, to act just as unconcerned and boorish as the rest of them. Devil-may-care; Draco didn’t.
I turned around and went back to the Gryffindor common room to finish up my homework. Reality had just about killed my appetite.
--
The next morning was better. A new day, a new chance, a new world of opportunities. I maneuvered my way through my classes with relative ease and avoided looking in the direction of one blond Slytherin lest I get all moping and emotional again. Besides. It was selfish to think about futile teenager “relationship” things when he had a genuine problem.
But it is hard not to be selfish sometimes.
That evening was a Quidditch game, Slytherin versus Gryffindor. Harry and Ron were psyched about it to a degree that was almost ludicrous-mapping out ideal plays, pacing like caged tigers, pitching a metal ball about the size of a fist back and forth as fast as they could and incurring some bruises in the process. When it came time to go down to the field and dress, they’d almost sweated straight through their street-clothes in anticipation.
I wandered down early enough to secure myself a decent seat. I wasn’t too big on Quidditch, but it grew on you. Once you were down there, with the announcer shouting at the top of his lungs into the microphone, the stands painted with people dressed in their team’s colors, the crowd buzzing and rolling like ocean waves with the excitement its members couldn’t contain, the players zipping by at breakneck speed, sometimes inches from your nose-it was hard not to get caught up in it. The enthusiasm was infectious, and staying in your seat when the score was tight and everyone else was up and screaming, their voices rising as one and their arms thrust in the air as if they might make the winning catch, verged on impossible.
I always hoped, privately, that no one would get hurt. Today, that oft-disappointed hope was even more desperate, because I had one more player to worry about. But it looked like this particular game would see even more disappointment than usual. The murderous glares passing between the two teams were visible even from the stands, and there was no shortage of knuckles to be cracked threateningly.
There was always too much testosterone on that field, to be quite honest.
Then the game started, and the crowd produced a roar that could have raised a grand cemetery’s load of the dead. The announcer was thundering about this player and that player and this foul and that brilliant pass, and green and red people were flickering around the great field like hummingbirds. The red-haired one was by the goal; he caught the Quaffle deftly to the whooping cheers of the scarlet-clad mass on my side of the stadium. The black-haired Seeker hovered hesitantly above the fray that whirled closer to the ground, coasting around occasionally, as if looking for some object he’d lost. There was a white-blond boy not far away. For a fraction of a second I imagined that he looked right at me, but that was impossible.
I tried to focus on the flurries of motion that occurred in the midst of the main portion of the field, but the two players that interested me most were up above that main portion, watching and waiting, trying to see a little golden ball before the other. They trailed each other carefully, the follower matching the leader’s weaving path, their roles changing constantly. I tried to direct my attention momentarily to the primary game. Gryffindor scored. A few minutes later, Slytherin did. They traded off goals, and with each triumphant howl from the green half of the stadium, Ron’s face grew a little closer in color to his hair, the insuppressible reddening of his cheeks noticeable even from this distance. Still the Seekers circled like vultures.
Watching Harry, I caught sight of the slightest shift in his body language-his shoulders went a little more rigid, his back went a little straighter. I thought I might have been exaggerating given that he shortly started into the familiar pattern of tailing his opponent cautiously, but then he chose a moment when Malfoy’s eyes were elsewhere to peel away and plummet towards the Earth like a falling stone.
I didn’t have time to search the air below him for the glint of gold that he saw, and I didn’t even have time to look for Malfoy’s reaction, which would likely have been a mixture of horror, frustration, and unadulterated anger. There was time only to draw in a breath as Harry sliced through the air towards the unforgiving ground, his hair whipped back, his robes crackling as if imbued with electricity. He passed within feet of my place on the balcony, within sixteen inches of my white knuckles clenched around the guardrail, and I knew, knew, knew that he was going to miss his mark and splatter on the ground like an overripe tomato. Blood everywhere.
Of course, he didn’t. That would have been extremely anticlimactic. Instead, he swooped out of his guided free-fall with an aptitude that took my breath away and rose like an ascending angel, a tiny golden sphere with feebly flapping wings clutched in one hand. His grin was like a beacon.
The game ended then, per the rules. The Slytherins went off glumly, muttering sullenly among themselves about cheating, shooting glances portentous of gory death in the direction of the celebrating Gryffindors. A boy with lightning blond hair dressed in green and silver touched down gracefully, slipped off of the field, and disappeared. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had to go find Draco Malfoy as soon as humanly possible.
[Chapter VI] [Chapter VIII]
Chapter: 7. Red and Green
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,651
Warnings: Quidditch, oh, Lord!
Summary: Hermione Granger loves metaphors. Draco Malfoy loves Muggle cigarettes. What happens when the king of Slytherin and the queen of the library collide?
Author's Note: You little masochist, you. 8D
HERMIONE
I looked down at my finger and realized that the hangnail I’d been chewing on bemusedly had given way to a respectable gush of blood. Whoops. I retrieved a tissue from my supply and dabbed at it absently. I didn’t munch on my cuticles very often; it was an activity I reserved for times of genuine need: final exams, standardized tests, and personal crises. This particular instance fell into the lattermost category.
Draco Malfoy needed help. That much was unequivocally clear. What was just as plain to the perceiving eye was that he wasn’t going to get it anywhere else. His “friends,” such as they were, didn’t seem to like him for anything more than his lofty status, and they were concerned enough with almost failing out of school without having to worry about their ringleader’s dirty little secrets. Malfoy wasn’t one to go to a teacher, and he and Madame Pomfrey weren’t on the best of terms either. The only professor he didn’t routinely vilify in the first place was Snape, and the idea of Severus Snape comforting a student in need was ridiculous to the point of being laughable. No, Draco Malfoy had an aura about him, a buffer zone, a layer of empty space around his person, trespassers into which would be shot on sight. He repelled friendship. He rebuffed kindness. He repulsed consolation.
I was all that he had, and he didn’t even know it.
Or perhaps he did-subconsciously, even. Perhaps he had stumbled upon the revelation that I, and I alone, it seemed, was willing to look past and through the Slytherin stigma and the deterring demeanor and the haughty hostility. Perhaps he had seen that I would help him if he asked, even in the quietest whisper, for a moment of my time. Perhaps that was why he’d come to me.
But then again, maybe I just wanted to think that I was special. Don’t we all?
The next afternoon, as I was strolling towards the Great Hall for dinner-alone; I’d been finishing an assignment and had given Harry and Ron express permission to go on ahead before all the good stuff was taken-Malfoy appeared as if from nowhere, having concealed himself behind some wall or in some doorway and now darting out to materialize beside me as I made my way innocently down the corridor. The trick earned him a melodramatic gasp and a breathless “Don’t do that!”
My histrionic reaction earned me a smirk. “Do what, Granger?” he inquired, his drawl even more pronounced than usual.
“You know perfectly well what,” I replied primly, playing along.
He grinned. “I’m sure I don’t,” he responded guilelessly.
We reached the double doors to the Great Hall, doors that were securely shut before us. The passages were empty but for a few second years meandering in our direction-too young to know us by reputation; too far away to see our opposite badges and express their shock.
“I…” Malfoy began hesitantly, stopping a safe distance from the doors. “I…don’t think we…should.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. Indomitable and everlasting love? A vow to disregard the disbelief, overlook the astonishment, and overcome the outrage? His pledge that he wouldn’t abandon me for anything-not for status, not for standing, not for any sum of money in the world? What did I think this episode was, a page ripped from a fairy tale? The only thing we had in common with that page was the ragged edges.
“I guess not,” I acceded quietly. I was looking at the ground, because I couldn’t bear to look into his eyes and see in them that he cared more about what people thought than he cared about me. It was lunacy, and I knew it-to want his affection so badly. He’d given me a taste of it, a sample, and now I felt entitled to a ten-course meal. I wasn’t entitled to anything.
He paused, and then he pushed the doors open a little bit and slipped in between them-presumably to join his friends, to laugh raucously with them, to enjoy himself, to act just as unconcerned and boorish as the rest of them. Devil-may-care; Draco didn’t.
I turned around and went back to the Gryffindor common room to finish up my homework. Reality had just about killed my appetite.
--
The next morning was better. A new day, a new chance, a new world of opportunities. I maneuvered my way through my classes with relative ease and avoided looking in the direction of one blond Slytherin lest I get all moping and emotional again. Besides. It was selfish to think about futile teenager “relationship” things when he had a genuine problem.
But it is hard not to be selfish sometimes.
That evening was a Quidditch game, Slytherin versus Gryffindor. Harry and Ron were psyched about it to a degree that was almost ludicrous-mapping out ideal plays, pacing like caged tigers, pitching a metal ball about the size of a fist back and forth as fast as they could and incurring some bruises in the process. When it came time to go down to the field and dress, they’d almost sweated straight through their street-clothes in anticipation.
I wandered down early enough to secure myself a decent seat. I wasn’t too big on Quidditch, but it grew on you. Once you were down there, with the announcer shouting at the top of his lungs into the microphone, the stands painted with people dressed in their team’s colors, the crowd buzzing and rolling like ocean waves with the excitement its members couldn’t contain, the players zipping by at breakneck speed, sometimes inches from your nose-it was hard not to get caught up in it. The enthusiasm was infectious, and staying in your seat when the score was tight and everyone else was up and screaming, their voices rising as one and their arms thrust in the air as if they might make the winning catch, verged on impossible.
I always hoped, privately, that no one would get hurt. Today, that oft-disappointed hope was even more desperate, because I had one more player to worry about. But it looked like this particular game would see even more disappointment than usual. The murderous glares passing between the two teams were visible even from the stands, and there was no shortage of knuckles to be cracked threateningly.
There was always too much testosterone on that field, to be quite honest.
Then the game started, and the crowd produced a roar that could have raised a grand cemetery’s load of the dead. The announcer was thundering about this player and that player and this foul and that brilliant pass, and green and red people were flickering around the great field like hummingbirds. The red-haired one was by the goal; he caught the Quaffle deftly to the whooping cheers of the scarlet-clad mass on my side of the stadium. The black-haired Seeker hovered hesitantly above the fray that whirled closer to the ground, coasting around occasionally, as if looking for some object he’d lost. There was a white-blond boy not far away. For a fraction of a second I imagined that he looked right at me, but that was impossible.
I tried to focus on the flurries of motion that occurred in the midst of the main portion of the field, but the two players that interested me most were up above that main portion, watching and waiting, trying to see a little golden ball before the other. They trailed each other carefully, the follower matching the leader’s weaving path, their roles changing constantly. I tried to direct my attention momentarily to the primary game. Gryffindor scored. A few minutes later, Slytherin did. They traded off goals, and with each triumphant howl from the green half of the stadium, Ron’s face grew a little closer in color to his hair, the insuppressible reddening of his cheeks noticeable even from this distance. Still the Seekers circled like vultures.
Watching Harry, I caught sight of the slightest shift in his body language-his shoulders went a little more rigid, his back went a little straighter. I thought I might have been exaggerating given that he shortly started into the familiar pattern of tailing his opponent cautiously, but then he chose a moment when Malfoy’s eyes were elsewhere to peel away and plummet towards the Earth like a falling stone.
I didn’t have time to search the air below him for the glint of gold that he saw, and I didn’t even have time to look for Malfoy’s reaction, which would likely have been a mixture of horror, frustration, and unadulterated anger. There was time only to draw in a breath as Harry sliced through the air towards the unforgiving ground, his hair whipped back, his robes crackling as if imbued with electricity. He passed within feet of my place on the balcony, within sixteen inches of my white knuckles clenched around the guardrail, and I knew, knew, knew that he was going to miss his mark and splatter on the ground like an overripe tomato. Blood everywhere.
Of course, he didn’t. That would have been extremely anticlimactic. Instead, he swooped out of his guided free-fall with an aptitude that took my breath away and rose like an ascending angel, a tiny golden sphere with feebly flapping wings clutched in one hand. His grin was like a beacon.
The game ended then, per the rules. The Slytherins went off glumly, muttering sullenly among themselves about cheating, shooting glances portentous of gory death in the direction of the celebrating Gryffindors. A boy with lightning blond hair dressed in green and silver touched down gracefully, slipped off of the field, and disappeared. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had to go find Draco Malfoy as soon as humanly possible.
[Chapter VI] [Chapter VIII]