HATRED
Hatred is a strong word, but sometimes, emotions are stronger.
One thing I'd learned from that Flying Class: I hated Harry Potter.
Although... I couldn't remember a time when I particularly liked him.
Not on the train, not in the clothes shop. Not even when I only knew of him. My father had rambled for hours about his hatred for him — how he would've throttled the baby with his dying hands.
And now, here I was: emulating my father.
I'm sure he would've been so proud.
As Pansy and I returned to the Common Room after dinner, I was still going on and on about it.
How he caught the Rememberall, how the Gryffindors cheered like they'd won the House Cup. In my head, I replayed the moment again and again: the slight messiness in my landing, the loud thud. Did he catch it? I hadn't been able to turn around in time.
Theo and Blaise were quick to run over to me, but I worried they pitied me.
What was McGonagall's expression? Bewildered, maybe even impressed.
Potter had embarrassed me in front of at least twenty people. I'd hoped he'd be on the train home by morning, but from the smug look on the weasel's face at dinner — it seemed futile.
"What about luring him near the Whomping Willow —" I suggested.
Pansy looked bored as she responded, "You'd be the one getting expelled — Oh, and no one's that stupid. It's a massive tree."
"What about my father? He's on the school board, he could always —"
"Draco," she looked at me with narrow eyes, "you've been rambling all evening."
"Because Dumbledore can't keep him at school if —"
"You know the old fool wouldn't get rid of the Boy Who Lived even if he killed the entire student body," Pansy smiled at her own imagined massacre, "Knowing McGonagall, after that little stunt with the Rememberall, she's probably already put him on the house team."
I stopped dead in my tracks, the soles of my shoes screeching against the cobblestone, "What did you say?"
She looked slightly startled, "I said, knowing McGonagall..."
In the back of my head, I was recalling how my eyes trailed two twins as they hurried across the hall. They said something... He smiled proudly in response. I didn't catch anything else, Theo had conveniently scooted into my line of sight, obscuring the rest of the interaction.
"That's impossible," I denied flatly, "First years aren't allowed."
I'd known that already myself. The first thing I'd done when I'd learned Marcus Flint was the Slytherin Team Captain was beg him to give me a chance. He'd tried to invite First Years to try-outs, but conveniently, Hooch put her foot down, and Dumbledore only echoed her sentiments.
"I didn't mean literally," Pansy rolled her eyes, "They may treat the red cloaks better than us, but there's no way the school board would let that slide."
Part of me thought Gryffindor was more than willing to overturn the rules for someone as... unique as he. The other tried to be reasonable. He wasn't even that good at flying.
I was good at flying. I'd done it practically every day, in every weather. I'd even flown in a thunderstorm, over the sea.
So why did he get rewarded? I hadn't seen the catch. Was it that impressive?
A small voice in the back of my head echoed the sentiments of my father, he was useless. Incompetent. A mistake.
"Potter did seem happy at dinner," I sniffed, growing suddenly less certain.
"Maybe that's just how he is," she replied logically and continued on her way back to the Common Room. I walked by her side, still trying to convince myself there was no way it was possible, "What is this sudden obsession with him anyway?"
"He thinks he's better than me," I scowled. I wouldn't have admitted I felt somewhat ashamed.
The idea of him doing anything even slightly better than me was an insult. It was so out of the realms of belief I could almost laugh at it — although there was nothing explicitly funny about it.
She glanced at me, "That doesn't mean you can duel him."
Oh right, that part.
From the look on my face, she cocked an eyebrow.
"You're not actually going to, are you?"
I broke out into a mischievous grin, feeling the pride well in my stomach.
That's what I wanted Potter to think. I'd watched in amusement as he'd nervously looked to his blood traitor of a friend for help, how the redhead looked briefly puzzled before his eyes filled with resolve.
"Don't worry about it."
"How am I not to worry?" she replied; before quickly adding, "—You're going to lose us house points."
But I'm not going to get caught, I wanted to tell her. I glanced around, I didn't trust anywhere outside of the Common Room. Not when Potter could've been around any corner at any given time.
Pansy was annoyed when I sealed my lips and picked up my pace.
It wasn't that I didn't trust her — I just really wanted my plan to work.
By morning, he'd be on the train home, and then the flying class incident would be a moment of the past.
I was certain.
The second thing I'd learned from that Flying Class: I was going to do everything in my power to prove I was better than him.
. . .
Misplaced confidence. It was quite ironic.
I seemed to carry a lot of it.
Morning greeted the hills of the Scottish Highlands slowly.
From the moment the overhead windows filled with the cracks of dawn, I sprung from bed, changing as quickly as I could into my robes.
When Crabbe, Goyle and I arrived at the Great Hall that morning, my eyes searched the rows of tired students immediately. And then, disappointedly, I saw them.
They'd sat in their usual spot. Potter's eyes fleeted towards me before his head turned toward his friend. I saw his shoulders rise and fall with the chuckle of someone who definitely wasn't suspended.
"I'm not hungry," I announced, stopping suddenly in the middle of the doorway. Crabbe and Goyle almost walked straight into the back of me.
"But we are," whined Crabbe.
"Then grab some food yourselves, I'll be in the hallway," I dismissed. I didn't really care if I had to be alone again. I spun on my heel and made my way back out of the hall, my brain already rushing through all the possible scenarios of what'd happened that evening.
Had they not even bothered to show up? Perhaps I'd underestimated them.
I thought of all the ways I could one-up him again. I'd found a spot to sit down in the Entrance Hall, crossed my arms and sat down. I spent a little time running over more plans, more ideas of what I could do without threatening my own place at the school.
The room was quiet. A few scattered students filed in and out of the hall. I leaned against the wall, glaring up at the high vaulted ceiling. Distantly, there was laughter from somewhere -- perhaps down a hallway.
I didn't feel like laughing. In fact, I probably could've spit venom.
Crabbe and Goyle joined me again shortly, their hands clutching two plates of food each. I wasn't sure they were even allowed to eat out here, but they didn't seem to care.
"Are you sick?" Goyle asked as he plonked himself down. He seemed vaguely concerned as he tucked into his sausage and eggs.
"No," I answered vaguely, my mind elsewhere as I stared across the hall. I couldn't see the boy in question from this angle. If I could, I'd have hoped from how hard I was staring I could've at least set his cloak alight.
"Did Potter get suspended?" he asked again.
I shook my head, clenching my teeth together.
"Bugger," said Crabbe.
"Well, there's always another time, I suppose," Goyle tried.
I continued to look away, loosely gazing towards the Great Hall archway for any signs of Pansy, Theo or Blaise.
Part of me wanted to skip the lessons and go outside. It was a cold, cloudless day. If we were lucky, we could've caught Longbottom by the green-houses and had some fun. I could've imagined Snape's rage when he realised I skipped Potions. Would he have hung me from the dungeon ceiling by my ankles?
That was when I spotted Potter and his weasel hurrying out of the hall. Feigning disinterest, I went to look away when I noticed a broom-shaped package clutched tightly to his side.
First years were not allowed to buy brooms. It'd practically been underlined in the acceptance letter. I'd tried to find a loophole, but none existed. We simply weren't allowed them.
I practically leapt to my feet, eyebrows furrowed. As they beelined through the room, I shot over towards them. It took only a moment for Crabbe and Goyle to discard their plates and shadow me.
"That's a broomstick," I accused. I had managed to catch them before they made it to the foot of the grand staircase.
The pair stepped backwards, looking more than annoyed by my interruption. With one hand, I snatched the package from Potter, feeling satisfied when his attempt to hold on failed.
The shape wasn't exactly discrete. It was unarguable.
Weasley briefly looked like he was trying to stop a frog from leaping out of his mouth. After a moment of clear deliberation, he couldn't seem to help himself.
"It's not any old broomstick," he grinned at Potter, "It's a Nimbus Two Thousand! What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty? Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus."
My nostrils flared, "What would you know about it, Weasley? You couldn't afford half the handle."
I felt along by the handle, and muttered a "no way," when I recognised its signature shape. I glared down at the brown wrapping paper. He wasn't boasting. It was indeed a Nimbus model.
After years of being obsessed with brooms, it was glaringly obvious.
By the time I'd looked up again, Weasley's cheeks had turned bright red. He opened his mouth to respond before closing it again, his eyes searching for some insult to throw back. Yet, by the time he'd seemingly come up with one, he'd been cut off.
"Not arguing, boys, I hope?" squeaked Professor Flitwick. He'd appeared out of seemingly nowhere.
"Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," I replied quickly, holding up the package. Flitwick stared at it for a moment, and then, suddenly, a wide smile grew across his face.
"Oh right. Yes, of course! McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances," his eyes twinkled knowingly, "What model is it?"
Briefly, my mind flickered back to the discussion with Pansy.
"That's impossible," I'd said. Now, my face was painted with the stark realisation that it had, in fact, been possible after all.
Potter was looking at me, pursing his lips to hold in a laugh, "A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir," he replied boastfully, "And it's really thanks to Malfoy here that I've got it."
If I hadn't hated Potter before, I sure did now.
My fists bawled at my sides — suddenly my legs felt like lead. He'd made it to the top of the staircase by the time I'd snapped out of my horror. If I'd had any control over my reaction, my first thought would've been to draw my wand and cast one of the few horrid hexes I knew.
Flitwick vanished just as abruptly as he'd appeared, scurrying off towards another group of students. I turned around slowly, grovelling in the feeling of hatred that'd washed over me abruptly and uncontrollably.
Now it was just me, Crabbe and Goyle, looking equally dumbfounded at the foot of the staircase.
And again, I felt the sudden urge to kick something.
. . .
"Impossible."
I'd returned to the Common Room as soon as classes were over. We'd been set a nasty essay on Herbicide, and yet I couldn't care less about it. My mind had been in one place all day — Quidditch, and how Potter seemed to have outdone me, again.
Pansy had attempted to comfort me at Lunch, "If Snape saw what happened, he would've totally done the same thing," but I simply sulked into my food, making an effort to leave for classes earlier than the others.
Blaise lounged on the leather sofa, staring up at the ceiling hard.
I glared at the floor, "I told you, I saw it."
"But our Captain..."
"Yeah, well, Flint is a Slytherin," I responded.
"Youngest Seeker in a century — Flipping Dumbledore," grumbled Theo, covering his face with his hands, "Flipping red collars."
With an effort to sound reassuring, Blaise sat up, "There must be something we can do," he insisted.
The possibilities were very minimal. I leaned back in my chair, looking resigned.
"Like what?" I asked.
"I don't know — if McGonagall can make exceptions, surely Snape..."
"Come on," Theo replied, "Do you think Snape cares enough to give us a chance?"
"If Flint wasn't a Chaser, they'd be begging for Blaise," said Theo, his eyes glossing over as he thought back to Summer. We did all have scarily similar childhoods. I'd learned — just like Crabbe, Goyle and I — he and Blaise often played with their brooms up in the fields, "You haven't seen him fly. It's incredible."
"We should play this summer," Blaise responded certainly, "All of us."
I felt the corners of my lips tempt a smile. The idea of a summer with them was something to look forward to.
. . .
By the end of the week, the entire school was talking about Gryffindor's youngest seeker.
In the halls, during class...
Someone had let it slip — and although Potter seemed to glare at me from across the hall when the first student approached to marvel at him, it wasn't me. I'd have rather died than given him his glory.
"They're serious about him," I'd overheard Marcus Flint grumble at breakfast, "Training him three times a week. Wood conveniently boasted about how "great of a seeker he is" as I walked past him in the halls — wanted to break his ankles, slimy git."
"Not better than Higgs, surely?" another Slytherin boy responded.
Flint looked uncertain, "He's not in form," he sniffed, "He was doing well last year, but he's had all sorts of trouble over Summer."
Theo was looking at me from across the table. We'd heard the same thing. My head ducked as I smiled, feeling re-energised as I returned to my homework.
I wanted to get on the team more than anything. If not this year, next year, for sure.
If Potter was a seeker, I'd become a seeker too, and then we could see who's better.