A Confrontation or Two
After having suffered through a year of Snape’s dubious tutelage, Harry had frequently thought that anyone would be better than Snape. Just as long as Dumbledore or Voldemort themselves didn’t take up the position, that is. Needless to say, Harry hadn’t entered his second year with much hope. But it turned out he hadn’t needed to. The new Potions master was far and above anyone’s expectations. Quiet, efficient, and respectful of his students, Ulysses was Snape’s opposite in every way.
One lesson, the Slytherins entered the dungeon classroom to find their ingredients had all been prepared and laid out for them. The ingredients in front of Draco’s usual seat, however, were different. As Draco brushed his fingers across the bottles’ labels, the words announced themselves in clear (though stuffy) accents. Ulysses didn’t acknowledge it as such, but he did give Harry a nod when Harry’s eyes sought him out. And Snape never would have done any of that, Harry thought as he left the dungeon at the end of the day for the library.
Meanwhile, Draco had been getting detention every week for not turning in essays, homework, or anything written in lessons. The only professor who never gave him detention was Ulysses, but there was never written Potions homework anymore. With every sentence of punishment, Draco seemed to sink further and further into himself, refusing to speak to the other Slytherins. Meals had become quiet, nervous affairs, before the others moved on without Draco.
“Again, Mr Malfoy?” remarked a disappointed Professor Flitwick. “It can’t keep happening, boy. This homework truly will be vital at the end of the year… I’m afraid it will be another detention. Sharpen up, please!”
Harry and Draco hadn’t talked since their fight on the Quidditch pitch. So Draco didn’t want his help? Fine. He wouldn’t get it then. This resolve lasted about a week.
“This can’t go on,” Harry complained to Daphne one cold October morning. “He’s our friend, for pity’s sake.”
“Oh, I don’t know. If he wants to be a prick, I say let him,” she replied with a shrug, adjusting her gloves. It was Quidditch tryout day. Adrian Pucey had quit the team just days before, leaving Flint scrambling to find a replacement Chaser with just one week before Slytherin’s first match of the season. He had not been pleased. Daphne, on the other hand, had been ecstatic.
“He doesn’t want to be a prick!” Harry protested. The pair passed through an arch door outside onto the grounds, where the brisk wind hit them in an instant. He burrowed deeper into his Slytherin scarf. “He’s a, a, a victim of circumstances. I mean, he didn’t ask to be blind or have a father like his...”
“Potter, can we discuss this later?” Daphne cut in. “We’re here. I need to get my head in the game.”
“Yeah, all right,” Harry said sourly, as Daphne bounced off to join the ranks of Chaser-hopefuls against the stands. They all looked much more physically intimidating than her. That was Flint’s “type” when it came to choosing players - and boyfriends, too, apparently.
Flint himself appeared on the pitch just then, dressed in full uniform and scowling already. The rest of the team stood to attention involuntarily.
“Right!” Flint declared. “Adrian Pucey has left the team for his political opinions. So if anyone wants to take his place, you’re either going to agree with me about everything, or not let it affect the beautiful game. Got it?”
The gathered line of Pucey-replacements all nodded or agreed, some with more good humour than others.
“Other than that,” said Flint, swinging himself onto his broom. “We’ll play a short, five-minute round with each player in turn for the first round. I’ll call the best ones back for a second trial, then make my decision. May the best man win. Or,” he frowned at Daphne, the smallest in the queue by a large margin, “the best woman, I guess.”
He was still frowning as he took off, but Harry thought it was as good a sign as they were likely to get. He shot Daphne a thumbs up and a grin as he rose to join Flint and the rest of the Slytherin team.
Quidditch was the best remedy Harry knew for a clouded mind. As he lifted off on the school-issued Comet broom, everything else faded away, and there was only the game and the players. Some of the tryouts were confident, some self-conscious. Some dropped the Quaffle four times, one managed to smack a Beater in the face with the back end of his broom. Some were just bad. Harry caught Flint and Cassius Warrington (not only the remaining two Slytherin Chasers, but also the intimidating power couple of the whole school’s upper classes) exchanging looks of horror at some of the flying that afternoon.
Finally, Daphne took to the pitch - the moment Harry had been waiting for. He wasn’t biassed. Daphne flew circles around the other tryouts. She was faster, nimbler, more creative, and more focused than anyone else. Even Warrington had a hard time keeping up with her. When she approached the Keeper, Burton, with all the vigour of a targeted army missile, he shook like a leaf on his broom. She scored over his head into the centre hoop. The resounding THWACK of the Quaffle against the castle wall (some fifty metres behind the goals) shocked the entire pitch into silence. The shock was broken by the steady, grudging clap of Flint’s gloved hands.
“Well done,” he allowed. “You’ve made the team.”
Below, the waiting hopefuls rolled their eyes and began to complain loudly about favouritism. This seemed a bit rich to Harry, seeing as Flint had hired an entire team of his best mates last year before Harry himself messed his system up by being better than them.
“OI!” Flint roared down at them. “She’s better than you lot. Do you want to see Slytherin take the Cup home again? We’ll have to have the best players.”
Daphne beamed like a junior sun at the compliment.
“Greengrass?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Fly like that on Friday,” Flint said gruffly. “Or else.”
“Of course,” Daphne replied, and tossed her shining ponytail over her shoulder.
Walking back to the castle, the match on Friday was all Daphne wanted to talk about.
“Of course you’re the youngest in a century, but I think I might be the youngest girl to play at Hogwarts in a hundred years, maybe longer…”
“Remember Fahima?” Harry asked.
“Who?”
“Gryffindor Seeker.”
“Oh. Oh, yes! What a player. Oh, Merlin, how could I forget about her? She’s so good! I tell you what, Harry, it’s a good thing we’re not playing Gryffindor first this year.”
Gryffindor had played their first match of the season the Friday before, against Ravenclaw, and lost by only ten points.
“Why not?” Harry responded, grinning wickedly over at her. “Would you be too distracted by the Gryffindor Seeker?”
“Shut your bloody - shut up -” She shoved his arm hard, blushing. “No. I’m a very serious Quidditch player. You’ll be distracted, in any case.”
“What?” Harry frowned. “By the Gryffindors?”
It was true; he had used to get in regular fights with the Gryffindors, mostly Weasley. But that had all died down this year, since the Dumbledore situation. He just didn’t feel like provoking the Gryffindors anymore. There was no fun in it. Plus, it had been something he’d done with Draco, who now wasn’t talking to him. What was the point in brawling if you couldn’t do it with your best friend by your side?
They arrived in the Slytherin dorms, where the second years’ rooms lay side-by-side in their section of the wing. In high spirits, Daphne bashed open her dorm room door.
“Guess who made the team!” she sang.
A pillow flew sideways and clipped her across the head.
“Shut up,” grumped a voice from within. “Merlin, you’re so loud.”
“Pansy?” Daphne asked, picking her way through the room over to Pansy’s bed.
Harry poked his head into the girls’ dorm. He’d heard that other houses were more segregated by gender in their dorm rooms - Gryffindor especially - but it seemed like the castle’s wards had largely forgotten about the Slytherins in several regards. Or maybe, Salazar Slytherin himself had laid down spellwork that allowed students easy access between dorms. The girls in Harry’s year kept their room in a greater state of disarray than the boys, because they didn’t have neat-freak-Zabini living with them, but Harry always enjoyed spending time in their room. Their lake-window was south-facing, so a little more light shone there throughout the day. It was cosy.
At the moment, it was fairly empty, as three of the four girls’ four-poster beds were deserted. Only one had its curtains drawn. Daphne was tugging at these drapes and it seemed like whoever was behind them was holding them shut in tight grip.
“Wake up, Pans, it’s literally noon,” Daphne scolded in her posh voice. There was a noise of dissent from behind Pansy’s curtains. “What is going on with you lately?”
But there was no reply. Daphne shook the curtains one last time then gave up. Harry gave her a questioning look and she sighed in reply.
“We’ve no idea what’s up,” she confessed in a whisper. “Maybe she’s sick? She just hasn’t been sleeping well at all.”
“There is some kind of bug going around,” Harry offered.
“Maybe.” Daphne didn’t look convinced. “Anyway, I think I’ll go get lunch. Do you want to come? Then I want to get some more flying in this afternoon.”
*********************************
That afternoon, Harry went to the library to return a stack of books he’d borrowed for Professor Tonk’s latest essay. His mind was fully fixed on the essay that he didn’t notice the loud noises coming from a classroom nearby until a substantial bang emitted, and a desk flew out into the hall, bowling him over.
“Oof,” he exclaimed, all the wind knocked out of him and the books knocked onto the floor. He squinted up at the classroom door. “Er, do you mind?”
There was no reply. Harry listened carefully - a fifth-year throwing an OWLs-induced tantrum? Another psychotic professor possessed by a supervillain? But there was no sound. Getting to his feet, Harry gathered up his books and approached the door of the classroom. “Hello?”
The classroom was a mess. Every book had come off the shelves and lay sprawled like unconscious birds around the chaos of tipped tables and chairs. An astronomical poster on the wall waved its ripped edges slightly. In the centre of it all, a small figure sat on his knees, holding his wand flat in two hands. Harry frowned, and came closer.
“What’s wrong, Draco?”
At Harry's voice, Draco spun around, his scowl firmly fixed on his face.
“None of your business, that’s what, Potter.”
“Why are you mad at me?,” Harry asked.
“What? I’m not mad at you.”
“I just feel like you are. You’re ignoring me, snapping at me-”
Draco had turned away, his focus returned to his wand.
“You’re ignoring me right now! And it’s not just me, everyone’s noticed it.”
“So?”
“So? We’re your friends. We want to help.”
Draco laughed mirthlessly. “Just get out, Potter. I don’t need you being a mother hen.”
“Have you forgotten last year?” Harry insisted. “We were a team. That doesn’t go away just because… because you’re blind now.”
“Just shut up!” Draco exploded. His wand-hand shot out and he fired a spell into the professor’s desk. The windows rattled. “Shut up! Merlin, you’re so annoying!”
Harry had to duck as his pile of books, suddenly animated, flew about his head. One clipped the side of his ear. “Ouch!”
“We’re not babies anymore, OK?” Draco looked manic. His hair was a mess, like he’d been raking his fingers through it. “I can handle myself, and I don’t need you! So get lost!”
“You can handle what?” Harry argued back. “Is it the professors? The lessons? The detentions? Because I’ll do your homework again like last year if you need me to-”
With a weak Levitation spell, Draco sent a book spinning towards Harry’s head. It collided at the speed of a snail on a lazy Sunday.
“Just go away,” said his friend tiredly. “I… Just go.”
Harry waited but Draco was evidently done; he put his wand in his pocket and began to pick up the books around him. Silently, Harry got up and left. He had a tight feeling in his stomach. This wasn’t over.