(no subject)
Title: "Flight of the Draco Malfoy"
Author: ZS
Rating: G
Words: ~ 2000
Disclaimer: All JKR's.
Summary: The seventh years try their hands at Animagus Transfiguration.
Notes: ahahahaha. This was so much FUN to write. I hope you enjoy it. eta: tracy_loo_who wonderfully illustrated one of the scenes, which you'll find linked in the story. <333333.
What is the purpose of the Animagus Transfiguration? Is it to be useful in a fight? To communicate with a certain species? Must it be practical? The decision is extremely personal. Remember, however, as a wand chooses a wizard, the creature, to some extent, chooses you.
~ The Animagus Handbook, Foreword, by D.P. Hoogenstein
*
After his broomstick flight around the Quidditch pitch, Draco was finally ready for bed. He needed this physical exertion to wind down every night. Otherwise, he could spend the entire night cloaked in perfect silence and darkness with his eyes wide open and sleep more than just elusive.
Professor Snape had allowed him this privilege after declaring Draco’s liver one Dreamless Sleep potion away from a complete meltdown. As Draco preferred his organs in their non-liquefied state, this was their compromise. It hinged on the condition that Draco not be seen after hours by other students who would no doubt demand special privileges themselves; this was the only reason why Draco didn’t leap out from behind the shed where he was putting away his broom to confront Weasley, Granger and Potter on their after-curfew excursion the moment he heard their voices.
“I bet you’re a phoenix, Harry. You could fly and swallow Death, too. Voldemort couldn’t hurt you like that. The way the Killing Curse rebounded off you makes you practically a phoenix anyway.”
Draco could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat from even the mention of that symbolic tripe. But his interest was piqued. They were discussing their impending one-week long Animagus Transfiguration class. All seventh year students had had the option of attending it, and naturally, these three had been the first in line to sign up.
“Besides,” Weasley continued, “you’d be able to heal people by crying on them. Bloody brilliant if you ask me.”
At this declaration, Potter turned a fabulous shade of green.
*
“I want to be beautiful,” Pansy said on Monday morning. Draco didn’t blame her for being choosy; all of the Slytherins enrolled in the Animagus Transfiguration class were being as meticulous in their specifications. One had to be careful about what one asked for; like all magic, it could be devastatingly literal if not phrased properly. “But not a sea creature,” she declared. “That would be terribly inconvenient. Draco, darling, would you like to practice the Query with me?”
Draco shook his head and pretended to take notes.
The Query was a complicated incantation designed as a question that would allow the caster’s Animagus form to be revealed. After that, it was merely a matter of practicing the Transfiguration itself. Draco, however, wasn’t sure what he’d ask for. His father, naturally, would have suggested something powerful and awe-inspiring, yet graceful and revered. He would not approve of a two-ton silver-backed gorilla lumbering about the Manor; that is, if he was not currently rotting away in a six foot deep hole.
*
On Tuesday, Pansy cast the Query and transformed herself successfully into a grey fox. After class in the Slytherin Common Room, she preened for a good thirty seconds before curling up in Draco’s lap. Draco shook his head, but scratched behind Pansy’s ears anyway, enjoying the feel of her silky, thick fur. So far, Pansy had had the only successful Animagus Transfiguration in Slytherin. There had been a Hufflepuff orangutan and a Ravenclaw reticulated chipmunk today, too. Crabbe’s accidental Transfiguration of his nose into an elephant’s trunk didn’t count.
“Malfoy, when’re you showing us your Animagus form?” Crabbe said, reaching over with his nose and extracting an ear of caramel corn from the pile of sweets.
“When I want to, obviously,” Draco snapped.
“Obviously,” Goyle parroted, which, unfortunately, was as close as he was likely to get to an Animagus Transfiguration.
*
On Wednesday, Weasley managed a successful Transfiguration. To his abject horror, however, he became a tarantula: hideously brown, orange and hairy.
*
On Thursday, Crabbe Transfigured his left hand into a lobster claw, which he said didn’t hurt at all, as long as he soaked it in a brine solution for thirty minutes every four hours.
Potter still hadn’t shown his form yet; neither had Draco.
It wasn’t that Draco was incapable of performing the spell; on the contrary, his enunciation of the Query and his wand movement were flawless. But he’d never synchronized the two, despite having permission from Professor Leftbridge to proceed.
Truthfully, he was skeptical about the entire concept of Animagus Transfiguration. What if he sent the Query and the answer was ‘a head louse’? He wasn’t particularly eager to take that chance. The next logical course of action would be to quit the class, but there was one thing he didn’t want to miss out on.
Harry Potter’s Animagus form.
*
On Thursday night, by the Hogwarts Lake, Draco came across Potter, alone. Potter was kneeling close to the edge and staring at his reflection. A pile of silvery material was at his side, and his wand was in his hands.
“That’s a little narcissistic, even for you, Potter.”
Draco watched Potter’s shoulders tense up defensively.
“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Potter said, not even bothering to turn around.
“I, unlike you, have permission to be out here after hours. The question is, what are you doing?”
“It’s none of your business,” Potter said, which was entirely the wrong thing to say to curtail Draco’s interest.
Draco tossed his broom onto the grass and approached. He spotted Potter’s Animagus handbook half-hidden under that pile of silvery material and realization suddenly dawned upon him.
“Having a few problems with the Query, are you?” Draco was positively delighted at the prospect of Harry Potter having difficulties with magic.
“The Query isn’t the problem.”
Potter stood up abruptly as Draco neared him, averting his eyes.
“Transfiguration problems, then.”
“No,” Potter said. “Not exactly.”
“Meaning what?” Draco snapped. Patience had never been one of his strong points. “Spill it, or I’ll tell Professor McGonagall you were out here.” Nevermind that Draco risked having his own flying privileges revoked; Potter’s secrets would be worth a few sleepless nights.
“Fine,” Potter said. “Want to see? Look at me. Look at what chose me.”
Potter turned around. Draco wasn’t sure what he was expecting with a qualifying statement like that. Antlers, maybe, or a furry face. Tusks, perhaps. But Potter remained Potter.
With red eyes.
Potter turned away, blinking. When he met Draco’s gaze again, his eyes were green.
“I can’t tell them. I can’t tell anyone.”
“Tell them what, Potter? That you need remedial Animagus transfiguration lessons as well as Potions?”
Potter shook his head. “Voldemort has red eyes.”
Draco was thrown for a moment. Recovering, he said, “Oh, honestly. Voldemort is not a valid Animagus transfiguration. Maybe you’re an albatross with pink eye. That would be deliciously symbolic. Or maybe you’re a lamb with a hangover: a sacrificial lamb, catch?”
Potter looked far from amused. In fact, he looked positively distressed.
“Forget it, Malfoy. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“And yet, you showed me anyway. Really, what is there to understand? You’re not turning into the Dark Lord. You’re just afraid to go all the way, which, if I may observe, is entirely against your nature. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Fine.”
“What?”
“I said, fine.” Potter whirled on him-Draco had to admit that the red eyes were rather unnerving, given the context of clenched fists and a scorching expression-and stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “You want to watch? Then watch.”
Potter took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and transformed.
It happened fast, the blurry reshaping, rending of limbs and spine and bone, redistribution and reduction of mass.
Draco’s hand moved before he was aware of it, a reaction ingrained into his muscle memory, and he snatched Potter out of the air before he could hit the ground.
He opened his hand slowly, revealing a palm-sized puff of golden, downy feathers and a startled look in Potter’s red eyes that Draco knew was reflected in his own.
“Snidget,” Draco gasped, pleased and jealous and astonished all at once.
Then, with a rustle of feathers and a squawk, Potter launched himself into flight; Draco Summoned his broom and gave chase.
Predator and prey. Draco’s heart thrummed as he sped after the nearly invisible slip of a bird. He loved this feeling, the one of sheer exhilaration, and that it was Potter he was pursing seemed to focus his mind and his reflexes even better than a greedy bite of Honeyduke’s Sextuple Shot Espresso Chocolate Bar.
Potter led him on a wild tour of the castle grounds: they sped along the earth of the Quidditch pitch, leaving the grasses bending in their wake; they dipped and looped and zig-zagged between the spires of the castle; they careened into a perpendicular ascent over Hogwarts Lake and then plummeted straight at its surface before turning away at the last moment.
It was then that Draco lost sight of Potter. He had to pause, anyway, and touched down on the Quidditch pitch before flinging his broom aside and flopping down on his back, spread-eagling under the starry sky. He was sweaty and breathless and thirsty, and his skin was chilled and had been flayed by the wind, and he’d never, ever felt so alive. After a moment’s respite, he Summoned his water bottle from the stands and took a long drink. He was startled by a flash of gold, and the sudden appearance of Potter perching precariously on the back of his hand to steal a quick drink, too.
When Draco lay back in the grass once more, Potter transformed. He sat down with one knee on either side of Draco’s body. His chest was heaving, but his eyes were luminously bright.
“Given up already?”
Draco snorted. “Forget that I’ve already caught you?”
A slow smile crept across Potter’s face.
“I haven’t forgotten. Let’s go again.”
“Are you serious?”
Potter grinned and transformed once again, trying to cajole Draco into forgetting abut the time, and his aching muscles, and proper decorum, with a trill of notes that sounded more flute than bird. Potter fluttered about, tugging at Draco’s hair, until Draco shooed him away and held out his hand.
“Accio broom.”
Potter took off first again, but the mood had changed. This time, they matched each other trick for trick: sheer drops, tight turns, steep banks just to catch the tail end of generous thermals, and riding them till Draco was giddy from the thrill of surpassing the tops of the tallest castle spires. Potter called out to him at intervals, and Draco could swear that he could discern in his strange, beautiful flute-voice a challenge, an inquiry, an invitation.
He found it odd that when they were both speaking the same language, they never had the same easy understanding.
*
By Friday, Crabbe had managed to return all of his body parts to normal, and had been strongly encouraged by Professor Leftbridge to pursue other avenues of magic. Pansy had won Slytherin dozens of points for her seemingly effortless Transfigurations. Granger, Weasley and Potter had each quit the class, but for different reasons: Granger, because she had failed to receive an answer to any of her multiple Queries; Weasley, because he couldn’t seem to maintain a state of consciousness during any of his arachnidial Transfigurations, and Potter, because-well, he had better things to do with his free time.
Draco quit the class, too, for much the same reason.
*
On Saturday night, Draco went flying.
Potter flew, too.
The End.
As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
~ Jane Hirshfield, “Rebus”
Author: ZS
Rating: G
Words: ~ 2000
Disclaimer: All JKR's.
Summary: The seventh years try their hands at Animagus Transfiguration.
Notes: ahahahaha. This was so much FUN to write. I hope you enjoy it. eta: tracy_loo_who wonderfully illustrated one of the scenes, which you'll find linked in the story. <333333.
What is the purpose of the Animagus Transfiguration? Is it to be useful in a fight? To communicate with a certain species? Must it be practical? The decision is extremely personal. Remember, however, as a wand chooses a wizard, the creature, to some extent, chooses you.
~ The Animagus Handbook, Foreword, by D.P. Hoogenstein
*
After his broomstick flight around the Quidditch pitch, Draco was finally ready for bed. He needed this physical exertion to wind down every night. Otherwise, he could spend the entire night cloaked in perfect silence and darkness with his eyes wide open and sleep more than just elusive.
Professor Snape had allowed him this privilege after declaring Draco’s liver one Dreamless Sleep potion away from a complete meltdown. As Draco preferred his organs in their non-liquefied state, this was their compromise. It hinged on the condition that Draco not be seen after hours by other students who would no doubt demand special privileges themselves; this was the only reason why Draco didn’t leap out from behind the shed where he was putting away his broom to confront Weasley, Granger and Potter on their after-curfew excursion the moment he heard their voices.
“I bet you’re a phoenix, Harry. You could fly and swallow Death, too. Voldemort couldn’t hurt you like that. The way the Killing Curse rebounded off you makes you practically a phoenix anyway.”
Draco could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat from even the mention of that symbolic tripe. But his interest was piqued. They were discussing their impending one-week long Animagus Transfiguration class. All seventh year students had had the option of attending it, and naturally, these three had been the first in line to sign up.
“Besides,” Weasley continued, “you’d be able to heal people by crying on them. Bloody brilliant if you ask me.”
At this declaration, Potter turned a fabulous shade of green.
*
“I want to be beautiful,” Pansy said on Monday morning. Draco didn’t blame her for being choosy; all of the Slytherins enrolled in the Animagus Transfiguration class were being as meticulous in their specifications. One had to be careful about what one asked for; like all magic, it could be devastatingly literal if not phrased properly. “But not a sea creature,” she declared. “That would be terribly inconvenient. Draco, darling, would you like to practice the Query with me?”
Draco shook his head and pretended to take notes.
The Query was a complicated incantation designed as a question that would allow the caster’s Animagus form to be revealed. After that, it was merely a matter of practicing the Transfiguration itself. Draco, however, wasn’t sure what he’d ask for. His father, naturally, would have suggested something powerful and awe-inspiring, yet graceful and revered. He would not approve of a two-ton silver-backed gorilla lumbering about the Manor; that is, if he was not currently rotting away in a six foot deep hole.
*
On Tuesday, Pansy cast the Query and transformed herself successfully into a grey fox. After class in the Slytherin Common Room, she preened for a good thirty seconds before curling up in Draco’s lap. Draco shook his head, but scratched behind Pansy’s ears anyway, enjoying the feel of her silky, thick fur. So far, Pansy had had the only successful Animagus Transfiguration in Slytherin. There had been a Hufflepuff orangutan and a Ravenclaw reticulated chipmunk today, too. Crabbe’s accidental Transfiguration of his nose into an elephant’s trunk didn’t count.
“Malfoy, when’re you showing us your Animagus form?” Crabbe said, reaching over with his nose and extracting an ear of caramel corn from the pile of sweets.
“When I want to, obviously,” Draco snapped.
“Obviously,” Goyle parroted, which, unfortunately, was as close as he was likely to get to an Animagus Transfiguration.
*
On Wednesday, Weasley managed a successful Transfiguration. To his abject horror, however, he became a tarantula: hideously brown, orange and hairy.
*
On Thursday, Crabbe Transfigured his left hand into a lobster claw, which he said didn’t hurt at all, as long as he soaked it in a brine solution for thirty minutes every four hours.
Potter still hadn’t shown his form yet; neither had Draco.
It wasn’t that Draco was incapable of performing the spell; on the contrary, his enunciation of the Query and his wand movement were flawless. But he’d never synchronized the two, despite having permission from Professor Leftbridge to proceed.
Truthfully, he was skeptical about the entire concept of Animagus Transfiguration. What if he sent the Query and the answer was ‘a head louse’? He wasn’t particularly eager to take that chance. The next logical course of action would be to quit the class, but there was one thing he didn’t want to miss out on.
Harry Potter’s Animagus form.
*
On Thursday night, by the Hogwarts Lake, Draco came across Potter, alone. Potter was kneeling close to the edge and staring at his reflection. A pile of silvery material was at his side, and his wand was in his hands.
“That’s a little narcissistic, even for you, Potter.”
Draco watched Potter’s shoulders tense up defensively.
“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Potter said, not even bothering to turn around.
“I, unlike you, have permission to be out here after hours. The question is, what are you doing?”
“It’s none of your business,” Potter said, which was entirely the wrong thing to say to curtail Draco’s interest.
Draco tossed his broom onto the grass and approached. He spotted Potter’s Animagus handbook half-hidden under that pile of silvery material and realization suddenly dawned upon him.
“Having a few problems with the Query, are you?” Draco was positively delighted at the prospect of Harry Potter having difficulties with magic.
“The Query isn’t the problem.”
Potter stood up abruptly as Draco neared him, averting his eyes.
“Transfiguration problems, then.”
“No,” Potter said. “Not exactly.”
“Meaning what?” Draco snapped. Patience had never been one of his strong points. “Spill it, or I’ll tell Professor McGonagall you were out here.” Nevermind that Draco risked having his own flying privileges revoked; Potter’s secrets would be worth a few sleepless nights.
“Fine,” Potter said. “Want to see? Look at me. Look at what chose me.”
Potter turned around. Draco wasn’t sure what he was expecting with a qualifying statement like that. Antlers, maybe, or a furry face. Tusks, perhaps. But Potter remained Potter.
With red eyes.
Potter turned away, blinking. When he met Draco’s gaze again, his eyes were green.
“I can’t tell them. I can’t tell anyone.”
“Tell them what, Potter? That you need remedial Animagus transfiguration lessons as well as Potions?”
Potter shook his head. “Voldemort has red eyes.”
Draco was thrown for a moment. Recovering, he said, “Oh, honestly. Voldemort is not a valid Animagus transfiguration. Maybe you’re an albatross with pink eye. That would be deliciously symbolic. Or maybe you’re a lamb with a hangover: a sacrificial lamb, catch?”
Potter looked far from amused. In fact, he looked positively distressed.
“Forget it, Malfoy. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“And yet, you showed me anyway. Really, what is there to understand? You’re not turning into the Dark Lord. You’re just afraid to go all the way, which, if I may observe, is entirely against your nature. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Fine.”
“What?”
“I said, fine.” Potter whirled on him-Draco had to admit that the red eyes were rather unnerving, given the context of clenched fists and a scorching expression-and stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “You want to watch? Then watch.”
Potter took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and transformed.
It happened fast, the blurry reshaping, rending of limbs and spine and bone, redistribution and reduction of mass.
Draco’s hand moved before he was aware of it, a reaction ingrained into his muscle memory, and he snatched Potter out of the air before he could hit the ground.
He opened his hand slowly, revealing a palm-sized puff of golden, downy feathers and a startled look in Potter’s red eyes that Draco knew was reflected in his own.
“Snidget,” Draco gasped, pleased and jealous and astonished all at once.
Then, with a rustle of feathers and a squawk, Potter launched himself into flight; Draco Summoned his broom and gave chase.
Predator and prey. Draco’s heart thrummed as he sped after the nearly invisible slip of a bird. He loved this feeling, the one of sheer exhilaration, and that it was Potter he was pursing seemed to focus his mind and his reflexes even better than a greedy bite of Honeyduke’s Sextuple Shot Espresso Chocolate Bar.
Potter led him on a wild tour of the castle grounds: they sped along the earth of the Quidditch pitch, leaving the grasses bending in their wake; they dipped and looped and zig-zagged between the spires of the castle; they careened into a perpendicular ascent over Hogwarts Lake and then plummeted straight at its surface before turning away at the last moment.
It was then that Draco lost sight of Potter. He had to pause, anyway, and touched down on the Quidditch pitch before flinging his broom aside and flopping down on his back, spread-eagling under the starry sky. He was sweaty and breathless and thirsty, and his skin was chilled and had been flayed by the wind, and he’d never, ever felt so alive. After a moment’s respite, he Summoned his water bottle from the stands and took a long drink. He was startled by a flash of gold, and the sudden appearance of Potter perching precariously on the back of his hand to steal a quick drink, too.
When Draco lay back in the grass once more, Potter transformed. He sat down with one knee on either side of Draco’s body. His chest was heaving, but his eyes were luminously bright.
“Given up already?”
Draco snorted. “Forget that I’ve already caught you?”
A slow smile crept across Potter’s face.
“I haven’t forgotten. Let’s go again.”
“Are you serious?”
Potter grinned and transformed once again, trying to cajole Draco into forgetting abut the time, and his aching muscles, and proper decorum, with a trill of notes that sounded more flute than bird. Potter fluttered about, tugging at Draco’s hair, until Draco shooed him away and held out his hand.
“Accio broom.”
Potter took off first again, but the mood had changed. This time, they matched each other trick for trick: sheer drops, tight turns, steep banks just to catch the tail end of generous thermals, and riding them till Draco was giddy from the thrill of surpassing the tops of the tallest castle spires. Potter called out to him at intervals, and Draco could swear that he could discern in his strange, beautiful flute-voice a challenge, an inquiry, an invitation.
He found it odd that when they were both speaking the same language, they never had the same easy understanding.
*
By Friday, Crabbe had managed to return all of his body parts to normal, and had been strongly encouraged by Professor Leftbridge to pursue other avenues of magic. Pansy had won Slytherin dozens of points for her seemingly effortless Transfigurations. Granger, Weasley and Potter had each quit the class, but for different reasons: Granger, because she had failed to receive an answer to any of her multiple Queries; Weasley, because he couldn’t seem to maintain a state of consciousness during any of his arachnidial Transfigurations, and Potter, because-well, he had better things to do with his free time.
Draco quit the class, too, for much the same reason.
*
On Saturday night, Draco went flying.
Potter flew, too.
The End.
As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
~ Jane Hirshfield, “Rebus”