POTTER'S FLARE
Lucius Malfoy was a cold man.
His lack of inherent care for the milestones of my life had always taken a toll on our relationship. Mother was so happy when I took my first steps and learned to read, write, and play the piano.
Yet, when I sat down at the piano seat at ten and played him Claire De Lune, he didn't cheer. In fact, he barely smiled.
The final note hung in the air, fading into the silence. Mother attempted to clap, but as soon as her eyes landed on my father's withered expression, the beats became sporadic until they, too, faded into the silence.
"What do you think, dear?" She asked hopefully, her tone failing to be cheerful. I hung my head over the piano.
It didn't take a moment for him to reply, tone drained of any sort of joy, "Is this what those stupid teachers are teaching him instead of magic?"
He didn't like playing the piano. That was a House of Black thing, not a Malfoy thing. It was - to him - a complete waste of time. Even if I was a prodigy, and even if it was a prestigious and undoubtedly upper-class skill for me to acquire, nothing would erase the fact every piano piece I'd learned was birthed at the hand of a muggle man.
"I think it was wonderful, darling," mother tried, gently resting a hand on my shoulder, "You play just like my Aunt Walburga."
"Great Aunt Walberga can also cast a music charm that plays the instruments for her," father argued, "Why do we even pay these tutors if they're not going to teach him magic?"
I didn't play for him again. He was disinterested whenever mother tried to persuade him. I overheard how he would bark back something inflammatory through the walls of my study hall.
It wasn't all that bad, I tried to tell myself. Although, we never found common ground over music, there were always other things.
Or, just one thing.
The same thing he spent every morning reading the Daily Prophet for:
If there was one thing that Lucius Malfoy cared for, it was Quidditch.
. . .
"Dad! Dad!"
The warmth hovered thick on the hills. Glistening orange tones shone down on a field somewhere in the Lake District. From across the murmur of a few swarming flies, the chants of a small voice echoed.
"Oh please, Dad!"
"It's father, Draco!" Lucius Malfoy snapped. His sharp voice was notoriously harsh, so cold and unpleasant against the warmth of the evening, "Muggles use the term dad."
He made his way to the centre of the field. I was hurrying after him, strands of sweat-soaked white hair sticking to my forehead. We'd spent almost half an hour up here; him pacing, muttering incoherently, his wand arm extended above his head.
Beneath my feet the soil was cracking and crumbling. The summer had been as golden as the sunset that was now looming on the horizon. As I ran, I kicked a few stones, watching as they landed with dull thuds, forming small clouds of dust from the dry soil."Can I please have a go?" I begged.
"Stop being so whiny!" He scolded, "I'm not done warding."
I was buzzing with excitement, gripping a broomstick between my two hands in the most unnatural of ways. He kept pacing, a droll of cryptic words spewed from his breath like condensation. Ever so often, a small puff of white smoke would spew out from the tip of his wand, dissipating in the air.
On the fence lines of the field, the orange tones of the golden hour sat unnaturally upon a see-through barrier. The ward was practically unnoticeable — the refraction of light only stabbed the corners of my corneas if I caught it at an angle.
I huffed loudly. My father rarely took me out, and if it was going to be like this every time, I hoped this would be the last.
Mother had practically forced him to spend some father-son time alone with me. So, whilst we were on holiday in the lake district, we located a quiet field perched upon a hilltop and set about an awkward half-hour of warding.
If you'd have seen us, you'd have barely recognised him. Button down, collared shirt with the top button undone. Hair tied out of the way in a low ponytail. Seeming satisfied with his work, he finally lowered his arm.
"Broom flying is a wizard's most important form of travel," He began. He slipped his wand back into his pocket and turned around.
"Of course," I nodded eagerly.
"It is not about technique, it's about feeling -- instinct," he explained, "the way the broom moves, the way your body moves. You need to make sure they work as one."
The hand I was holding the broom in was shaking with excitement. I'd been confined to toy brooms that only allowed up to two meters for my entire life, because mother was absolutely certain a seven-year-old was too young to fly.
Father could fly to Ireland and back by age five. He was practically livid when she'd refused, but that was the only thing she'd ever put her foot down for, and despite all his begging, Narcissa Malfoy simply refused to let her son do life-threatening things.
Father had to recruit his personal friend Hamish MacFarlen — Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and ex-Captain for the Montrose Magpies — to explain to her that it was indeed safe to allow your seven-year-old to fly under supervision.
"As long as you're with him — well, I suppose there's no real harm..." she'd finally admitted sheepishly. That was the first time I'd seen my father's eyes light up.
They got me my own Nimbus 1700 that following Christmas. It wasn't the most expensive broom on the market, but father was concerned I'd break it, and I loved it regardless.
"Stay within the field, and don't fly too high," he instructed. He stood in front of me, hands finding his hips. As he looked at me, gaze strict and professional, I felt every innate desire to impress him alight.
This had been my dream — The one thing I wanted ever since I'd watched the Quidditch World Cup. But now, my leg climbing over the broomstick, my trembling fingers clasping the bar as tightly as my sweat-soaked palms would allow, I was terrified.
I'd managed to kick off the ground, my stomach lurching as the grass-littered soil slowly moved further and further away.
Heights weren't a problem. It was the idea of falling that was. The roaring of the wind in your ears as you hurtle towards the ground at an uncontrollable speed, the echoing thud that rolled across the hills, like a boulder falling from a cliff... My stomach rolled again, the sour taste of nausea at the base of my tongue.
No matter how many times Father reiterated that he could simply stop me before I hit the ground, I couldn't help but let my thoughts cascade into all the gruesome ways I could kill myself whilst flying.
"At least we know you're not a Gryffindor," he remarked snootily when I touched down shortly after, "All this preparation just for you to fall on your backside. Pity."
I'd only managed to get a couple of meters up before chickening out, landing on the ground with an ungracious thud and toppling onto my backside. My shoulders sank in defeat, my head lowering to not meet his gaze.
"Useless boy!" He turned around, too ashamed to even look at me. I scrambled to my feet, brushing the soil dust off of my trousers.
I ignored the light stinging of my grazed elbows, reaching forward and grabbing the broom that'd landed pitifully at my side.
"I'll give it another go," I replied quickly.
He didn't turn back. His prolonged stride towards the gate only amplified my desperation to capture his attention once more.
This time I kicked off with more gusto. The floor vanished from beneath my feet even quicker than before. I managed to get higher up, hovering as I shook off my nerves.
Leaning forward to glance down would send me plummeting — I'd deduced. Instead, I directed my attention towards the scenery, trying to ignore the fact only one beam of polished wood lay between me and a ten-meter drop.
My eyes swiftly found the horizon, where a large orange sun hovered, half peaking above the hilltops. A peaceful, statue-still lake lay in the valley between a dozen tall, precipitous hills. It glimmered in the fading light of dusk.
Somewhere by the shore lay a small, innocent-looking stone cottage, smoke billowing from its chimney pot.
"LEAN FORWARD!" A distant voice called through the whooshing of wind in my ears. He'd turned back — although I didn't dare peak to confirm that idea. Trembling from head to toe, I did as he asked, and felt the broom soar forward like a knife through butter.
Past the intial feeling of sickness, I got used to the unsteadiness with every meter I flew.
Flying came with fragility — as all things did, but it turned out it was a lot harder to fall off a broomstick than I'd thought. Once you'd locked your legs together, and found the perfect grip of your hands, your body and your broomstick would work as one. I leaned forward, it went forward. If I even slightly keeled to the side, the broom would whip around swiftly at my command.
This time, when I made it back to the ground, I managed a lot cleaner landing.
From behind came a few hurried footsteps. As I spun in my father's direction, I was almost wiped cleanly off my feet by a... bear hug?
Internally, I was yelling. This didn't happen. Father didn't hug.
And yet he hugged me like he did this every day, the warmth and expensive body spray radiating off of him and onto me, his messy haired son, who was trapped within the gentle, foreign embrace.
My entire body stiffened. I awkwardly stood there, uncertain what to do. Moments later, he pulled away and awkwardly cleared his throat.
"Good job, son," He nodded cordially, tapping me on the shoulder with an uncertain hand.
After a few seconds of rapid blinking, I could only smile.
For once in my life, I did it.
He was proud.
And after that, I flew almost every day until I came to Hogwarts, in hopes that one day I'd receive the same reaction I'd gotten the first time.
. . .
"This is the best day ever," I announced, bouncing on my feet.
"I'm too tired for this excitement," Pansy groaned, brushing her wind-swept hair out of her eyes. It was a clear, breezy day. Not particularly cold, but not at all warm either.
The grass rippled across the smooth lawn, which had twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines. We stood in a group upon the green, awaiting our Professor, who was yet to show.
This was one of the less difficult lessons to locate. The flying field was a large, well-kept square of grass on the castle's right side, right across from the Forbidden Forest, whose dark trees loomed in the distance, swaying lightly in the wind.
The first-year students were mulling about, some looking frightened — an easy indicator of who had Muggle parents — and others looking excited.
They didn't have Quidditch in the Muggle world, I'd learned. Instead, they had various ball games. They all looked rather boring — although I was quite intrigued when I overheard two muggle-borns discussing car racing at dinner.
I'd also seen one of the Ravenclaws sporting a red shirt with a number on the back.
I didn't know what the logo meant. Pansy said it was a football club.
"What's so special about today?" asked Crabbe. The Slytherin group all looked slightly tired. Having all spent our childhoods grasping at things to do day-to-day, having to go through so many hours of lessons every day was getting tedious. Pansy was grouchy, Blaise had turned mean-spirited, Goyle looked like he wasn't even with us.
Theo was sat on the floor, shielding the sun from his eyes.
"Flying lessons!" I answered obviously.
"Beginners Flying Lessons," Blaise corrected.
"So?"
"So, we'll just get to hover and then call it a day," He sniffed indifferently, already bored at the idea. I didn't really care. Any flying evoked that same rush of joy — pure freedom.
"Or see Potter fall off his broomstick," suggested Pansy with an innocent smile.
I liked the sound of that one. My gaze wandered towards the boy in question.
He looked a lot smaller today. Perhaps it'd been the excessive attention that had caused him to shrink in on himself. Hunched by Weasley, as messy-haired and boyish as always, his arms were crossed, his expression uncertain.
"I bet you Longbottom will break a leg," Theo remarked lazily.
We'd already fallen into a routine of picking on the boy at every opportunity. He shook like a leaf half the time. The other times — he spent hiding from us, running away whenever we were near. In class, he sat as far away as possible.
"Arm," I countered.
He raised an eyebrow, "Five galleons."
"Deal."
We shook on it, grinning to ourselves at the idea of winning and getting the moral upper hand.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?"
There was a barking from across the field. Our heads turned, and I jumped out of fright at the sight of a particularly cross-looking woman with vibrant yellow hawk eyes.
She stood rigidly at the front of the group, mouth in a thin line. She had short, choppy, grey hair. Her eyes — weren't even explainable. They glinted in the sunlight like headlights.
She yelled again, this time close enough to hurt my ears, "Everyone stand by a broomstick! Come on, hurry up!"
I practically ran into a spot, followed shortly by Crabbe and Goyle. It felt awfully reminiscent of our summers in the fields back in Wiltshire; us, broomsticks, a massive field. I thought briefly of our games of Quidditch, and how I'd caught the snitch every time.
The broomsticks on the grass were much scruffier than I was used to flying, however. Mine was old and some twigs stuck out at odd angles, but I didn't bother with snobbiness. I just wanted to fly.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch, "and say 'Up'!"
"UP!"
Immediately, the broom sprung from the ground and embedded itself in my hand. I smirked, looking around at the rest of the class. Theo, Blaise and Goyle had all managed to summon it the first time, but not everyone had the same results.
Pansy's bounced up before slamming back into the grass with a painful crunch. Millicent Bulstrode's did a somersault. I glanced at Longbottom, who was staring at an unmoved broomstick with a downtrodden expression. Across from him, Potter was standing triumphantly, broomstick in hand.
Madam Hooch then went on to demonstrate how to mount our broom without sliding off the end. She stalked the aisle, prodding students with unnecessary tips. I rolled my eyes when she attempted to correct my grip, wrenching my hand out of her grasp as she guided it onto a different part of the broom.
"There shouldn't be a right way to mount a broom," I argued.
Unimpressed, she sniffed, "If you mount it like that you'll break your neck, Mr Malfoy."
"My neck has been fine for the last four years," I seethed, realising Potter and Weasley had been snickering at me.
"Five points from Slytherin for your cheek."
That only made the Gryffindors more amused.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," Madam Hooch stormed to the end of the line again and turned around, "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly."
Blaise sent me an 'I told you so' look across the field.
"On my whistle — three — two —"
There was a sound of rushing wind before the whistle had even touched Madam Hooch's lips. I turned around, annoyed, before realising it was Longbottom who'd caused the delay.
He'd shot off like a cork from a bottle. His face paled as he ascended uncontrollably. We all looked up, Madam Hooch yelling for him to come back, but it was hopeless.
Twelve feet — twenty feet — I could see his paper-white, round face turn green at the ground falling away, and then the broom was bucking like a horse. He gasped, slipped sideways and then —
WHAM!
There was a thud and a nasty crack. Neville laid, face down, on the grass in a heap. I saw the faces of everyone around me crumple at the sound. Shattering bones was unpleasant on the ears. If I had any dignity, I would've — too — cowered away. Instead, I felt Theo's eyes on mine, and I turned to him, interested in the smirk that covered his face.
The bet.
Madam Hooch bent over Neville, her face as pale as his.
"Broken wrist," she muttered, "Come on by — it's alright, up you get."
Theo's smile withered. I watched, triumphantly, as he slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out a pile of galleons.
Longbottom managed to get onto his feet, clutching his wrist. For a moment, he sobbed quietly, until his pupils flickered up to the crowd of students watching him, and his cheeks turned extremely red.
Madam Hooch turned to the rest of the class, managing to pull on a professional face, "None of you are to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say Quidditch... Come on, dear."
She wrapped her arm around Neville. Together they slowly hobbled off, his face tear-streaked.
Everyone was deadly silent. I saw Theo's cheeks fill with air at a suppressed laugh. Blaise was looking at him, his lips fighting to remain downturned.
And then, out of the silence, I snorted, "Did you see his face, the great lump?"
As if I pulled the pin, the rest of the Slytherins burst into laughter.
"Shut up, Malfoy," a Gryffindor girl sneered. I raised an eyebrow.
"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" Pansy snickered. She had suddenly appeared at my side, "Never thought you'd like fat little cry babies, Parvati."
"I--" Gryffindor girl began her response, but Pansy seemed to frighten her into silence.
Pansy looked pleased with herself as the girl took a step back into the crowd. In the corner of my eye, I noticed something glint amongst the grass.
"Look!" I plucked it from the ground, and then brought my hand up to my face. Clutched against my palm was a Rememberall, "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."
"Give that here, Malfoy!"
There was a ripple of "ooohs". Scowling, I turned my head to face the source of the sound. Fists clenched at his side and cheeks looking awfully red, Harry Potter was challenging me. A few Gryffindors looked pleased. I saw Blaise elbow Theo, whose eyes darted between us.
"What do you mean, give it here? Is it yours?" I asked pointedly, tossing the sphere up in the air and catching it one-handed.
"It's not yours either," he argued. I smiled.
"Then, I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect — how about — up in a tree?"
"Give it here!" Potter looked like he was about to explode, but by the time he'd yelled, I'd already mounted my broom and kicked off hard from the ground.
The broom I was on was nothing like the broom I had back at home, but I adapted to its slight desire to keel off to one side. Once I made it to the tree line, I spun and hovered, the Rememberall still very much in my hand, "Come and get it, Potter!"
I knew he'd fall. He hadn't flown before, it would've only ended just how Longbottom had — and then he'd look just as useless as I'd told my friends on the train.
He appeared, very much, like a beacon amongst the crowd, glasses glinting in the sunlight. I could still see the redness of his face from all the way up here.
I watched, amused, as he stormed towards his broom and grabbed it harshly.
"No!" Granger shouted, "Madam Hooch told us not to move — you'll get us all into trouble."
Potter ignored her, instead, haphazardly mounting his broom and kicking off with gusto.
He soared upwards, leaning forwards, whooshing towards me with some sort of unspoken eloquence like he'd ridden his entire life.
I felt the disdain on my brow before he'd even arrived. He turned sharply towards me, "Give it here," he called, "Or I'll knock you off that broom!"
There was no Crabbe and Goyle this time. It was just me and him, and his threats — sounding even more pointed and hate-filled than ever.
"Oh yeah?" I replied, swallowing hard.
He didn't respond. He leaned forward, and I saw it coming before it even happened. The broom shot forward like a javelin and I dived sideways, narrowly missing him. The Rememberall almost slipped from my hand. My heart thrummed in my chest, my spare hand grasping onto the stick as tightly as I could.
We were so high up now, the clapping of a few odd students blended uncomfortably into the wind.
"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," he sneered.
I'd lost my nerve. It was almost like he'd read my mind. I felt the familiar gut-wrenching of fear; the presence of the floor so many meters below. He looked as if he were reeling for another charge when I finally had an idea:
"Catch it if you can then," I yelled, trying to contain the tremor in my voice. The ball soared out of my hand, whirling into the distance before he could even turn his broom. I leaned forward heavily, spearing back to the ground. Somewhere in my peripheral, I saw him dart after it.
Once firmly back on my feet, my knees almost buckled under the adrenaline. Theo and Blaise ran over to me, and then both looked up at the same time the Gryffindors began to hoot and applaud.
"Damn it."
"HARRY POTTER!"
Professor McGonagall was sprinting across the pitch. Pansy was at my side, looking somewhere between smitten and horrified.
"Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —" Potter was back on the ground, laying down in a heap, in his hand was the Rememberall. He shot to his feet. Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, "How dare you — might've broken your neck —"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor —" someone yelled.
"Be quiet, Miss Patil —"
"But Malfoy —"
"That's enough, Mr Weasley!" Professor McGonagall replied, "Potter, follow me, now."
We watched as she stalked off towards the castle. Crabbe and Goyle failed to contain their amused guffaws.
Potter, looking downtrodden, shot a loose glare towards me and then hurried after her.