The Quidditch Final
Chapter 17: The Quidditch Final
The Easter holidays were not exactly relaxing. The third years had never had so much homework. Granger had taken up residence in the library, giving Draco and any other Slytherins the nastiest glares she could manage if they so much as came within three tables of her disaster zone. Draco had to just roll his eyes at the scene: she had parchment and quills scattered over mounds of open and layered books. Her hair frizzed and mirrored her frazzled nerves. She had shadows very similar to Lupin’s under her eyes, and seemed constantly close to tears. He could see the anxiety coursing through her, trying to keep up with their impossible schedules.
He had actually hoped she’d get over the hippogriff by now, and that they could study together. He’d even made a times table for it, but from the looks she’d shot at him not just in the library, but the halls, at meals, and in their shared classes, he knew she’d skin him alive if he approached her now. Draco kept a safe distance, sitting at a less than favorable table that had been pushed into a musty corner. There were a few splinters sticking out of various places, but it would do for now.
Draco and Blaise had long been ahead in most of their classes, and took to revising together, quizzing each other on their more challenging subjects. The only problem was Theo. The lanky boy had little interest in his revision—or theirs for that matter. He took it upon himself to distract any third year Slytherin in sight for as long as possible. If he didn’t want to study, why should they? Unfortunately for Greg and Vince, they were the easiest to distract and the most in need of revision.
I’m the Great Hall, Longbottom seemed close to a nervous collapse, and he wasn’t the only one.
“Call this a holiday!” Seamus Finnigan roared one afternoon. “The exams are ages away, what’re they playing at?” The rest of the Great Hall agreed with his sentiments—even the Slytherins couldn’t argue.
Meanwhile, Draco had to fit in his homework around Quidditch practice every day, not to mention endless discussions of tactics with Flint. The Slytherin-Gryffindor match would take place on the first Saturday after the Easter holidays. Slytherin was leading the tournament by exactly two hundred points. This meant (as Flint constantly reminded his team) that they needed to make sure Gryffindor didn’t win the match by more than that amount to win the Cup. It also meant that the burden of timing this fell squarely on Draco, because capturing the Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty points.
“So you need to catch it as soon as possible—before they even score, really,” Marcus constantly reiterated to Draco. “I don’t even care if they win—got that? Just make sure they don’t catch the Snitch first and definitely not if they’ve got fifty points—”
“I KNOW, FLINT!” Draco snapped.
The whole of Slytherin House was obsessed with the coming match. They were the shoo-in to win with what a large lead they held, but in Quidditch, anything was possible. The enmity between Draco and Potter was at its highest point ever, and all it did was fuel Draco’s need to beat him. If he was being honest, he was still smarting about the mud-throwing incident in Hogsmeade and was even more furious that Potter had somehow wormed his way out of punishment. He was also sure that Potter hadn’t forgotten Flint’s attempt to sabotage him in the match against Ravenclaw with the Dementor stunt.
Never, in anyone’s memory, had a match approached in such a highly charged atmosphere. By the time the holidays were over, tension between the two teams and their Houses was at the breaking point. A number of small scuffles broke out in the corridors, culminating in a nasty incident in which a Gryffindor fourth year and a Slytherin sixth year ended up in the hospital wing with leeks sprouting out of their ears.
Potter, rightfully, was having a particularly bad time of it. He couldn’t walk to class without Slytherins sticking out their legs and trying to trip him up. Vince and Greg had taken it upon themselves to keep popping up wherever he went, hoping to give him a good beating, but they usually just slouched away looking disappointed when they saw him surrounded by people. Draco shook his head the first time he saw it—what did they expect? Draco had his own little entourage to protect him from wayward Gryffindor attacks and he was sure Oliver Wood had set up the same detail for Potter.
The rest of the week was a whirlwind. Draco was shuffled from class to class by teammates and classmates. He had to work twice as hard to sneak off to use his time watch to make it to his extra classes. Thankfully Blaise and Theo helped in that regard, either by distracting anyone following him, or by taking up guard duty for him.
The night before the match, the atmosphere in the Slytherin common room had come to a head. It was so weighted, the anticipation and anxiety was palpable.
“You’re going to be fine,” Pansy told him, though she looked positively bored as she didn’t even look at him while flipping through a copy of Witch Weekly.
“Yeah...” said Draco, his stomach twisting in knots.
It came as a relief when Marcus Flint suddenly stood up and yelled, “Team! Bed! Now!”
Draco fitted to bed, hoping that if he could get some distance between himself and the uncomfortable vibes radiating through the common room, he might be able to finally relax. At first, it seemed to work and his exhaustion dragged him unconscious. It wasn’t long, however, until his subconscious ran away with his mind. He tossed and turned hour after hour fighting off nightmares.
First he dreamed that he had overslept, and that Flint was yelling, “Where were you? We had to use Goyle instead!” Then he dreamed that Potter and the rest of the Gryffindor team arrived for the match riding hippogriffs. He was flying at breakneck speed, trying to avoid a swipe of claws from Potter’s steed’s mouth, when he realized he had forgotten his Nimbus 2001. He fell through the air and woke with a start. A cold sweat ran down his spine, wracking his body with violent shivers.
It was a few seconds before Draco remembered that the match hadn’t taken place yet, that he was safe in bed…and that the Gryffindor team definitely wouldn’t be allowed to play on hippogriffs—although it was questionable with the Potter Effect in full force lately. He was feeling very thirsty. Quietly as he could, he got out of his four-poster and went to pour himself some water from the silver jug beneath the window.
The grounds were still and quiet. There wasn’t even a hint of a ripple rolling through the Black Lake; the Giant Squid, asleep in the depths, was motionless and calm. It looked as though the water was a mirrored glass, reflecting the clear and starry sky above. The scene was so serene it forced Draco’s nerves to ease up a bit. He felt his heart rate slow to a somewhat normal pace, and his eyes fluttered, signaling the imminent return of sleep. He slipped back under his covers and drifted away again, peacefully this time.
…
Potter and the Gryffindor team arrived late to breakfast, as was to be expected, and were given a standing ovation by the other three tables. Naturally, in retaliation, the Slytherin table hissed loudly as they passed. Draco paid them no mind, and continued picking at his breakfast, feeling fully rested but filled with anxious energy.
Flint didn’t even show for the food, he was pacing the Entrance Hall outside keeping an eye on the weather conditions for the match.
“Okay — no wind to speak of — sun’s a bit bright, that could impair your vision, watch out for it — ground’s fairly hard, good, that’ll give us a fast kickoff —”
Flint paced the field, staring around with the team behind him. Finally, they saw the front doors of the castle open in the distance and the rest of the school spilling onto the lawn.
“Locker rooms,” both team captains commanded tersely.
None of them spoke as they changed into their emerald robes—the tension suffocating. Draco knew they all had to be feeling at least a little of his anticipation—maybe not as much, but some. In what seemed like no time at all, Flint was saying, “Okay, it’s time, let’s go —”
They walked out onto the field to a tidal wave of noise. Three quarters of the crowd was wearing scarlet rosettes, waving scarlet flags with the Gryffindor lion upon them, or brandishing banners with slogans like “GO GRYFFINDOR!” and “LIONS FOR THE CUP.” Draco nearly gagged at the disgusting display blinding them.
Behind the Slytherin goal posts, however, two hundred people were wearing green; the silver serpent of Slytherin glittered on their flags, and Professor Snape sat in the very front row, wearing green like everyone else, and a very grim smile.
“And here are the Gryffindors!” yelled Lee Jordan, who was acting as commentator as usual. “Potter, Bell, Johnson, Spinnet, Weasley, Weasley, and Wood. Widely acknowledged as the best team Hogwarts has seen in a good few years —”
Lee’s comments were drowned by a tide of ‘boos’ from the Slytherin end. Draco grinned. If nothing else, he truly enjoyed the house rivalry—the animosity never failed to liven things up and really get his blood racing.
“And here come the Slytherin team, led by Captain Flint. He’s made some changes in the lineup and seems to be going for size rather than skill —”
More boos from the Slytherin crowd. Draco was easily the smallest person On the Slytherin team; the rest of them were enormous—and for good reason. Flint was confident in the team’s abilities, but was heavily relying on the size of the other players for intimidation and physicality if necessary.
“Captains, shake hands!” said Madam Hooch.
Flint and Wood approached each other and grasped each other’s hand very tightly; it looked as though each was trying to break the other’s fingers.
“Mount your brooms!” said Madam Hooch. “Three... two... one...”
The sound of her whistle was lost in the roar from the crowd as fourteen brooms rose into the air. Draco felt the breeze drift through his pale blonde hair; his nerves left him in the thrill of the flight; he glanced around, saw Potter rising just ahead, and sped off in search of the Snitch.
“And it’s Gryffindor in possession, Alicia Spinnet of Gryffindor with the Quaffle, heading straight for the Slytherin goal posts, looking good, Alicia! Argh, no — Quaffle intercepted by Warrington, Warrington of Slytherin tearing UP the field — WHAM! — nice Bludger work there by George Weasley, Warrington drops the Quaffle, it’s caught by — Johnson, Gryffindor back in possession, come on, Angelina — nice swerve around Montague — duck, Angelina, that’s a Bludger! – SHE SCORES! TEN-ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!”
Johnson punched the air as she soared around the end of the field; the sea of scarlet below was screaming its delight.
“OUCH!”
The girl was nearly thrown from her broom as Flint went smashing into her.
“Sorry!” said Flint as the crowd below booed, all except for the Slytherin stands who were snickering at the scene. “Sorry, didn’t see her!”
A moment later, one of the Weasel twins chucked his Beater’s club at the back of Flint’s head. Flint’s nose smashed into the handle of his broom and began to bleed.
“That will do!” shrieked Madam Hooch, zooming between then. “Penalty shot to Gryffindor for an unprovoked attack on their Chaser! Penalty shot to Slytherin for deliberate damage to their Chaser!”
“Come off it, Miss!” howled the chastised ginger, but Madam Hooch blew her whistle and Spinnet flew forward to take the penalty.
“Come on, Alicia!” yelled Lee into the silence that had descended on the crowd. “YES! SHE’S BEATEN THE KEEPER! TWENTY-ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!”
Potter turned the Firebolt sharply to watch Flint, and Draco followed. Marcus, still bleeding freely, flew forward to take the Slytherin penalty. Wood was hovering in front of the Gryffindor goal posts, his jaw clenched.
“’Course, Wood’s a superb Keeper!” Lee Jordan told the crowd as Flint waited for Madam Hooch’s whistle. “Superb! Very difficult to pass — very difficult indeed — YES! I DON’T BELIEVE IT! HE’S SAVED IT!”
Annoyed, Draco zoomed away, moving opposite of Potter, gazing around for the Snitch. It was essential that he catch the Snitch before Gryffindor was more than fifty points up —
“Gryffindor in possession, no, Slytherin in possession — no! Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie Bell, Katie Bell for Gryffindor with the Quaffle, she’s streaking up the field — THAT WAS DELIBERATE!”
Montague, a Slytherin Chaser, had swerved in front of Bell, and instead of seizing the Quaffle had grabbed her head. Bell cart-wheeled in the air, managed to stay on her broom, but dropped the Quaffle.
Madam Hooch’s whistle rang out again as she soared over to Montague and began shouting at him. A minute later, Bell had put another penalty past the Slytherin Seeker.
“THIRTY-ZERO! TAKE THAT, YOU DIRTY, CHEATING —”
“Jordan, if you can’t commentate in an unbiased way —”
“I’m telling it like it is, Professor!”
Draco’s frustration was growing. The entirety of the game depended on his ability to catch the Snitch…and fast. He still hadn’t seen the Snitch — but apparently neither had Draco — or maybe he did — and if Malfoy could beat him to it—
Potter made a look of sudden concentration, pulling his Firebolt around and sped off toward the Slytherin end of the pitch. Draco went haring after him, hoping to catch the glittering gold ball.
WHOOSH.
One of the Bludgers came streaking past Potter’s right ear, hit by the gigantic Slytherin Beater, Derrick. Then again…
WHOOSH.
The second Bludger grazed Potter’s elbow. The other Beater, Bole, was closing in. Draco looked around for the Snitch frantically. Potter had to have seen it over here somewhere — unless…
Potter had a seen Bole and Derrick zooming toward him, clubs raised — He turned the Firebolt upward at the last second, and Bole and Derrick collided with a sickening crunch. Draco wiped an exasperated hand down his face. This game was just sloppy now.
“Ha haaa!” yelled Lee Jordan as the Slytherin Beaters lurched away from each other, clutching their heads. “Too bad, boys! You’ll need to get up earlier than that to beat a Firebolt! And it’s Gryffindor in possession again, as Johnson takes the Quaffle — Flint alongside her — poke him in the eye, Angelina! — it was a joke, Professor, it was a joke — oh no — Flint in possession, Flint flying toward the Gryffindor goal posts, come on now, Wood, save —!”
But Flint had scored; there was an eruption of cheers from the Slytherin end, and Lee swore so badly that Professor McGonagall tried to tug the magical megaphone away from him.
“Sorry, Professor, sorry! Won’t happen again! So, Gryffindor in the lead, thirty points to ten, and Gryffindor in possession —”
It was turning into the dirtiest game Draco had ever played in. Enraged that Gryffindor had taken such an early lead, the Slytherins were rapidly resorting to any means to take the Quaffle. Bole hit Spinnet with his club and tried to say he’d thought she was a Bludger. A Weasley elbowed Bole in the face in retaliation. Madam Hooch awarded both teams penalties, and Wood pulled off another frustrating save, making the score forty-ten to Gryffindor.
The Snitch had disappeared again. Draco decided to keep close to Potter as he soared over the match, looking around for it.
Bell scored for Gryffindor. Fifty-ten. The Weasleys were swooping around her, clubs raised, in case any of the Slytherins were thinking of revenge. Bole and Derrick took advantage of their absence to aim both Bludgers at Wood; they caught him in the stomach, one after the other, and he rolled over in the air, clutching his broom, completely winded.
Madam Hooch was beside herself —
“YOU DO NOT ATTACK THE KEEPER UNLESS THE QUAFFLE IS WITHIN THE SCORING AREA!” she shrieked at Bole and Derrick. “Gryffindor penalty!”
And Johnson scored again. Sixty-ten. Moments later, Weasley (who knows which one) pelted a Bludger at Warrington, knocking the Quaffle out of his hands; Spinnet seized it and put it through the Slytherin goal — seventy-ten.
This was getting bad. Very bad. Draco needed to end this now. At the rate they were scoring and catching penalties, there’d be no league lead left.
The Gryffindor crowd below was screaming itself hoarse — Gryffindor was sixty points in the lead, and if Potter caught the Snitch now, the Cup was theirs. Draco could almost feel hundreds of eyes following him as he soared around the field, high above the rest of the game, with Potter speeding along beside him.
And then he saw it. The Snitch was sparkling twenty feet above him.
Potter lurched on his broom, trying to put on a huge burst of speed; the wind was roaring in his ears; he stretched out his hand, but suddenly, the Firebolt was slowing down —
Horrified, he looked around. Draco grinned, he had thrown himself forward, grabbed hold of the Firebolt’s tail, and was pulling it back.
“You —”
Potter was radiating anger, but couldn’t reach back far enough to actually do anything to Draco. The Slytherin Seeker was panting with the effort of holding onto the Firebolt, but his eyes were sparkling maliciously. He had achieved what he’d wanted to do — the Snitch had disappeared again.
“Penalty! Penalty to Gryffindor! I’ve never seen such tactics.” Madam Hooch screeched, shooting up to where Draco was sliding back onto his Nimbus Two Thousand and One.
“YOU CHEATING SCUM!” Lee Jordan was howling into the megaphone, dancing out of Professor McGonagall’s reach. “YOU FILTHY, CHEATING B —”
Professor McGonagall didn’t even bother to tell him off. She was actually shaking her finger in Draco’s direction, her hat had fallen off, and she too was shouting furiously.
Spinnet took Gryffindor’s penalty, but she was so angry she missed by several feet. The Gryffindor team was losing concentration and the Slytherins, delighted by Draco’s foul on Potter, were being spurred on to greater heights.
“Slytherin in possession, Slytherin heading for goal — Montague scores —” Lee groaned. “Seventy-twenty to Gryffindor...”
Potter was now marking Draco so closely their knees kept hitting each other. Neither Seeker had any intention of letting the other anywhere near the Snitch…
“Get out of it, Potter!” Draco yelled in frustration as he tried to turn and found Harry blocking him.
“Angelina Johnson gets the Quaffle for Gryffindor, come on, Angelina, COME ON!”
Potter crazedly looked around. Every single Slytherin player apart from Draco was streaking up the pitch toward Johnson, including the Slytherin Keeper — they were all going to block her — Harry wheeled the Firebolt around, bent so low he was lying flat along the handle, and kicked it forward. Like a bullet, he shot toward the Slytherins.
“AAAAAAARRRGH!”
They scattered as the Firebolt zoomed toward them; Johnson’s way was suddenly clear. “SHE SCORES! SHE SCORES! Gryffindor leads by eighty Points to twenty!”
Cowards.
Potter, who had almost pelted headlong into the stands, skidded to a halt in midair, reversed, and zoomed back into the middle of the field. While he had been playing bulldozer, Draco was busy finding the Snitch. He’d put an end to this game — now.
Suddenly, Draco was diving, a look of triumph on his face — there, a few feet above the grass below, was a tiny, golden glimmer — even with the Firebolt chasing behind him, Draco was miles ahead.
“Go! Go! Go!” Draco urged his broom. Potter was gaining on him — Bole sent a Bludger at Potter who somehow evaded it — he was at Draco’s ankles — he was level — NO! Draco reached his arm out, mere inches from victory.
This is it! I finally get to beat Potter! No special tricks this time, just the better flyer—
Potter threw himself forward, took both hands off his broom. He knocked Draco’s arm out of the way and —
“YES!”
Potter shouted as he pulled out of his dive, his hand in the air, and the stadium exploded. The Gryffindor Seeker soared above the crowd. Draco felt an odd ringing in his ears. The tiny golden ball was so close. He could nearly feel it held tight in his fist, beating its wings hopelessly against his fingers. But it wasn’t.
Then Flint was speeding toward him, half-blinded by rage; he seized Draco around the neck and punched him hard in the shoulder. In the background they heard waves upon waves of “We’ve won the Cup! We’ve won the Cup!” echoing around them. To their right, tangled together in a many-armed hug, the Gryffindor team sank, yelling hoarsely, back to earth.
Wave upon wave of crimson supporters was pouring over the barriers onto the field. Hands were raining down on the Gryffindor team. Potter and the rest of the team, were hoisted onto the shoulders of the crowd. Even Professor McGonagall was sobbing harder even than Wood, wiping her eyes with an enormous Gryffindor flag; and there, fighting her way toward Harry, was Granger. Of course.
Words failed him. He simply stood there, defeated, as Potter was served up to the stands as though on a platter, where Dumbledore stood waiting with the enormous Quidditch Cup.
If only there had been a Dementor around... As a sobbing Wood passed Harry the Cup, as he lifted it into the air, maybe Potter would be taken down a peg or two…
Another sharp punch to the gut from Flint left Draco on the hard, unforgiving ground—the wind knocked out of him. He clutched his shoulder, feeling the edges of the bruise that was surely blossoming under his Quidditch kit. Once air finally refilled his lungs, Draco slowly walked back to the locker rooms, head hung low. This was one hundred percent on him, and worse yet, everyone knew it.
In the locker room, not a single teammate made eye contact with him. Not a word was spoken between any of them, but that was almost worse. He could take the beating, physical or verbal, but being shunned like that was going to be unbearable. Draco decided then and there that he would take the punishment like a man—he wasn’t weak; he most definitely wasn’t going to let any of them see it break him down. He only wondered how long the freeze out would last…
…
A week, it appeared, was just how long the icy demeanor of the entire Slytherin house lasted. Mostly, it came from his teammates, but a few older students joined in on the disappointment of another Cup lost before they graduate. The shunning dissipated with the building fear of final exams approaching.
Gryffindors celebrated long into the end of term, and even the weather seemed to be celebrating with them—mocking Draco in his failure; as June approached, the days became cloudless and sultry, and all anybody felt like doing was strolling onto the grounds and flopping down on the grass with several pints of iced pumpkin juice, perhaps playing a casual game of Gobstones or watching the giant squid propel itself dreamily across the surface of the lake.
But they couldn’t. Exams were nearly upon them, and instead of lazing around outside, the students were forced to remain inside the castle, trying to bully their brains into concentrating while enticing wafts of summer air drifted in through the windows. Even Vince and Greg had been spotted working—trying to keep afloat long enough to get through the next two years to even take their O.W.L.s (Ordinary Wizarding Levels). Flint was getting ready to take his N.E.W.T.s (Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests), the highest qualification Hogwarts offered. As he hoped to enter the British and Irish Quidditch League he didn’t really need top grades—just to pass. He was becoming increasingly edgy, however, as he never put much effort into anything aside from Quidditch and Draco had ‘gone and ruined any chances of scouts offering him a spot on their team’. Flint’s aggressive attitude kept most of the Slytherins at bay, opting to study in their rooms or the library instead.
Draco, on the other hand, felt moderately prepared. Aside from his unplanned trips through time, he’d had a remotely uneventful school year, and was therefore caught up in most of his classes. The only place he couldn’t get ahead was in his Occlumency lessons with Snape. While he had gotten much stronger, Snape was too familiar with Draco’s book system, and had begun to catch onto his tricks of trying to hide important memories in unassuming book covers. Luckily, the last two Occlumency lessons had been canceled due to Snape having “too many sniveling students begging for extra credit and tutoring” in his Potions classes. While he knew it would come back to bite him in the arse, Draco couldn’t help but feel relieved at one or two less evenings of Severus Snape strolling through his brain.
With the weather being so inviting, Draco, Blaise, and Theo took more frequent trips to see Sirius. The path was much less treacherous sans the ice and wind, and the cave much more comfortable now that Sirius had taken to accepting help from Narcissa and Mippy.
Every visit, Sirius would offer any help he could with revision questions, especially giving them tips on Lupin’s upcoming exam. Apparently the man had not only been close with Draco’s mother but his cousin too, and Sirius insisted that Lupin would never give them a written final. “He’d want you to demonstrate what you’ve learned, not just regurgitate paragraphs out of a book!”
The three Slytherins burst into laughter, immediately picturing Granger’s disappointment. It sparked hope in Draco that he could best her in something other than Potions. He wasn’t exactly sure why he felt the need—he knew they were both brilliant and evenly matched in intelligence, but something about their latest argument had him aching to prove to her that he knew more… was better than…to stick it in her face that he had beaten her. A childish, villainy laugh echoed in his head and he shook it away. He wasn’t the villain Potter and Granger made him out to be. He only wanted justice, and for once to get what he felt he deserved.
“Knut for your thoughts?” Blaise asked quietly, while Sirius and Theo engaged in a very animated debate on when the next lightning storm would pop up so they could complete the Animagus ritual.
“Just that I’ll finally have a leg up on Granger academically. Defense most certainly isn’t her strong suit, and she’ll be completely thrown off guard by having to physically demonstrate what she’s supposed to have read instead of just writing twenty feet of parchment,” Draco said smirking.
“Careful, Draco, that savers strongly of bitterness,” Blaise chuckled under his breath.
“What the bloody hell is that nonsense?” Draco asked in surprise at the odd phrasing.
“Pride and Pre—oh nevermind,” Blaise tried to change the subject, but Draco’s imperious brow told him he’d better finish explaining…it did sound a bit like an insult…”it’s from Pride and Prejudice a—a—well it’s a Muggle novel,” he finished sheepishly.
“You’re reading Muggle books?” Draco asked astonished, but not judgemental—more curious.
“I’ve read a few, yeah,” Blaise tightly grasped his forearms in his hands, waiting for the fallout, but it never came.
“Are they any good?” Draco whispered, looking at Theo and Sirius to make sure they still weren’t listening in.
“They’re brilliant!” Blaise’s face lit up in excitement at sharing his dirty little secret with not just another person, but one of his best friends. Draco could see it had been eating him from the inside—the fear of being disowned by the other Slytherins like he had been after the Quidditch final.
“Can—can I borrow one? Not now, but over the summer maybe?”
“Sure thing, mate,” Blaise chucked an arm around Draco’s shoulders and the two friends grinned at their new secret. It added to the appeal when Theo immediately became suspicious and started begging them to tell him what they were talking about and why they looked so smug. Neither of them caved, and Theo’s desperation to be included left them laughing the rest of the day. Eventually after he had pouted all through dinner, they caved and let him in on the secret. Theo was sorely disappointed.
“All that work into guilt tripping you two, and this was about books?!” He grumbled, sending Draco and Blaise into another fit of laughter.
“You’re the one who has to stick his nose in everyone else’s business!” Blaise cackled even louder. Theo harrumphed but cracked a smile at his friends.
The boy re-convened in their dormitory, trying to figure out when the next lightning storm might pop up. Sirius had said he could feel the electricity in the air, now that the summer heat was in full force. I’m his Animagus form, he could sense the weather changes before any human could. Draco, too, had felt the changes in the atmosphere around them, but had pegged it as relating to the moods of the rest of the school with the approaching exams. Sirius, though, had insisted they start keeping watch at night, so they wouldn’t miss their opportunity to finish the transformations.
“Have you guys started to feel the other heartbeat?” Theo asked cautiously. He had felt his for a while now—it was easy for him to tap into the thrumming of it even when he wasn’t meditating.
“Sometimes,” Draco admitted. He still had no idea what his Animagus form would take, but he tried to remain diligent in the meditations.
“Oh yeah,” Blaise responded excitedly. “I think mine’s gonna be something really cool like a panther or something!”
“Maybe a kitten?” Theo cackled, and it was Blaise’s turn to look put out.
“Oh, come off it, Blaise, you know it would be super rare for someone to actually get a cool Animagus form. Let’s just hope for something useful for now,” Draco reprimanded. They’d never hear the end of it if Blaise didn’t transform into some fierce or magical creature, but knowing him, he’ll end up with something much more innocuous. It’s best to temper his expectations now, then deal with a major mood swing later. Funny, dealing with these two is a bit like dealing with toddlers…not that Draco had any experience with small children, but he could imagine
“Yeah, well you two just watch—when I turn into some magical or vicious creature, you’ll be begging me not to kill you in your ridiculous forms! I bet Theo turns into a little mouse, and Draco you’ll be like one of those damned peacocks that waltz around the Manor!” Blaise said accusingly.
Before Draco could even take offense to that, Theo quirked his lip before announcing that he already knew his form—a wolf.
“Big surprise there,” Draco rolled his eyes with a smile, and Blaise huffed.
“Well, fine! But Draco’s still gonna be a peacock, I’d bet!” The three friends laughed at the thought, but Draco secretly hoped beyond hope that he would turn into something a bit cooler than a stupid bird.