Broomsticks and Blossoms

The Slytherin table in the Great Hall was the closest to the large windows that peered over the Hogwarts grounds. Despite being surrounded by all forms of masters of magic, there always seemed to be some sort of breeze that flowed around the table. It was almost soothing, to sit opposite the windows, watching the multicolored leaves at the beginning of the year as they swirled between the panes. He remembered blearily pondering into his orange juice if the leaves were meant to be a sacrifice to raise the sun.

After all, all magic had a price. Currently, the magical bliss of his reconnection with Ron was a scalding hot spit-take of tea over their counter.

"Say that again, Malfoy? And slower, so we both can comprehend what you just said." he snatched a napkin to wipe his mouth. An owl had arrived at their window that morning, and Draco had beaten them all to it-- as if expecting something.

"I said," Draco began, rolling his eyes at Blaise. "We've been invited to the Burrow to play Quidditch on Friday.

"Quidditch. At the Weasley household. Blood traitors, turned friends, turned...something more? He couldn't remember the last time he'd picked up a broom for the sole purpose of fun. His fingers itched to grasp the handle of his old Nimbus 2001. He remembered turning it with the lightest touch, feeling proud of the extra oomph it gave his skills, despite losing to Gryffindor regardless of when the games mattered.

He would be lying if he said the invitation wasn't tempting. Just like the first one. And...it would be nice to get back up in the sky. He couldn't exactly shove this one in the bottom of the desk drawer. Not when they were explicitly discussing it.

"I see no issues," Pansy said, leaning over Draco's shoulder to scan the letter. "We're caught up on orders, this place is the most organized I've ever seen it, and I'm much more interested in following this little...show."

Blaise decided he should probably be more suspicious.

***

Friday arrived shrouded in a heavy cloud of gloom. The air hung still, carrying a weighty dampness that seemed to seep into every corner. This was the weather where Blaise would find himself curled up with a good book by the fireplace to forget about life for a while.

He certainly did not think about Quidditch in any aspect. Yet here he was, broom in hand, swaddled in a thick knit sweater and his Quidditch gloves that he'd dug out of his school chest.

As off-putting as the weather was, Blaise found Draco's energy even more so. The man was bouncing on his toes, exuding a nervous energy Blaise had only seen just before finals or opening a letter from his parents.

They had taken a Portkey to the edge of the Burrow's property, and Blaise could see the haphazard structure in the distance. It was different from the cookie-cutter mansions that Blaise was used to, but it was the openness that took the cake.

It appeared that the entire family made an appearance to greet them. Of course, the Portkey also seemed to have placed them just on the edge of their makeshift field. Rustic hoops, three on each side, stood in the proper formation. A small stand stood off to the side for observers that looked more comfortable than the ones on the Hogwarts field, with many more pillows and a small glass of fire for warmth.

Everyone besides Molly and Arthur was dressed in a combination of Muggle and Quidditch gear pieces. Blaise's favorite was Ron's donning of the stupid Keeper headgear that gave the wearer a squished appearance. Blaise had to admit, he wore it well. Maybe it was the confident smile when he greeted them.

Ron grasped Blaise's hand, squeezing it. "Good of you to make it,"

"Yeah," Blaise squeezed back, flashing a strained smile. Draco nudged him forward. They clambered up the incline to meet the rest of the Weasleys. Harry waved to them with a grin before returning to his conversation with Luna.

"Good to see you, boys. Always nice to expand the teams." Arthur grinned. Ginny bounced forward, eyes glittering.

"All right Zabini-- let's see if your flower job 's softened your skills." she tossed a beaten-up Quaffle in his direction. Blaise caught it just before it smacked him in the chest. The Holyhead Harpies were good to Ginny, it seemed, and set on sending Blaise into an early death with her right swing.

"You're on," He returned the ball to Ginny. She tossed it, far more gently, to her father. They all mounted their brooms and readied for kick-off.

Blaise counted the group in the air. They didn't have enough people for two teams-- that much was obvious. But the Weasley family was one of those families that didn't seem to let silly things like proper numbers stop them.

A man with long red hair braided into a complicated bun and scratches over his right eye hovered off to Ron's right. Next to him was a man with his red hair in a man-bun and the beginnings of a magical tattoo peeking from under his collar.

They quickly divided. Blaise, Harry, Charlie (tattoo-man), and Draco made one team. Ron, Ginny, Bill (braid bun), and George made the other.

"First to five. No jinxes, hexes, or wandless hijinks of any kind," Arthur called from the ground. Then he threw the Quaffle into the air.

Ginny was the first to catch the Quaffle. Bill whooped, taking a lap to set up for a pass. She easily dodged Harry's attempt to knock her around for possession, twirling expertly around Draco. She nearly got away from Charlie before he wrestled the Quaffle away and headed for the makeshift goal on the other side. Soon enough, the air was filled with warm laughter and indignant screeches.

The anxious feeling that had followed Blaise began to melt, laughing with the rest, playfully bumping against one another and playing the most intense game of keep-away that Blaise had ever had.

It was hard to keep track of everything with all the passes and zooming around. It was like dealing with a pack of Golden Snitches instead of fully grown wizards playing backyard Quidditch. But the wind was in his hair, and the mist that tried desperately to stay on his eyelashes felt cool and refreshing.

In the chaos, Blaise nearly fell off his broom twice, only managing to stay on out of pure luck. His hands ached, but it was a good ache that he'd missed.

The prickly feeling returned as he forced himself into the Weasley fray, reaching out. He felt the rough stitches as he just brushed the edge, and then he was tumbling off his broom. He closed his eyes, rolling onto the grass that didn't do a lot to soften his fall. He managed to avoid knocking the air out of his lungs, but he felt the impact in his ribs. And then another body landed on top of him.

Then another. And another. It was as if they were suffocating him out in the open.

He pushed at the closest shoulder, desperate. There were far too many elbows and breaths on the back of his neck, arms, wherever. The breeze that had offered him solace moments ago now felt like an omen. He couldn't see the sky, only the grass. Laughter sounded around him as the doggy pile languished in the chaos.

The icy feeling of displacement had Blaise drowning. He felt like he was a child again, desperate to find some sort of edge to hold on to, a need for some form of power. The roar of white noise rose from somewhere in the back of his mind, unstoppable and paralyzing. The burning in his chest rose to his throat.

He closed his eyes, attempting to control at least one aspect of his senses. Behind his eyelids flashed scenes of the past.

Voldemort above him as he kneeled. The pain of the Mark on his left forearm.

The cracking of sticks and harried pants as his team chased Muggles and blood traitors through the woods the summer before his seventh year.

The sobs of the survivors from the deep prison of the Malfoy basements.

The tenseness on McGonagall's face when the Carrows joined the Hogwarts faculty.

Everything. Everywhere.