Chapter Text
“So how was ‘more advanced lessons’ with Snape?” Harry asked sullenly as Draco walked in to their dormitory. He was trying to read about the wormroot, but was still too miffed with Ron, and confused about why everyone hated Hermione. She was bookish, but she was nice. She didn’t seem to want anything from him, which was a really nice change. Draco was fine, but he was honest about associating with him solely because of his fame and house. And Ron seemed to have weird hang ups about the fame thing too. Harry wished it would just go away.
“Well, not bad, really. He’s actually not as bad as you think, he’s just really into potions. I think when people do something wrong it physically hurts him. Also, of course, a decent letter of recommendation from him could get me into a position at St. Mungo’s, so it’s best to keep on his good side.”
“Well no hope for me there.”
“No, but there’s hope for me.”
“Prat.”
“Shut up. You’re already ‘famous Harry Potter,’ what do you need to be the greatest healer of all time for?”
“True,” Harry said. He didn’t feel up to keeping the witty banter Draco liked. There was silence for a moment as Draco pulled out his homework and settled in his favourite winged armchair he had had Goyle and Crabbe drag in from the common room. He was only first year, but he was quickly commanding an insane amount of respect Harry couldn’t quite figure out. The chair was so large it dwarfed him, but when he assumed a cold, focused face it looked as though he was sitting in a throne.
But Harry wasn’t thinking about Draco and his throne-chair. He was watching a poster someone had hung up. On it there were a few men and women flying on broomsticks, tossing a ball, and dodging each other.
“Is that...” Harry tried to remember the word, then found it “quidditch?”
Draco looked up.
“Yeah, right, I forgot you don’t know anything. Yes, muggle-brain, that’s quidditch.”
“How does it work?”
“Well you see the ball they’re passing around? Yeah, that’s the quaffle, chasers score points through the hoops. The little black balls flying around are bludgers. There’s beaters on each team to try to hit the other team and protect their own. There’s another little gold one that the seeker catches, they basically rule the game, it ends once they’ve caught it, and their team almost always wins because it’s worth 150 points. That’s my position, when I make the team next year.”
“How can you be so sure you’ll make it?”
“Because I’m good and I’m going to make it happen.” Draco smiled with a steely glint of focus in his eye that disconcerted Harry.
“Professor McGonagall mentioned that tryouts would be posted in the common rooms. Are you going to try out?”
“Of course. First-years never get in, but you have to know the field, know the competition. And get your name in as dedicated, make sure they recognize you the next year. But you also have to be careful not to make a prat of yourself so they don’t remember you and think “no way.” I mean, that won’t be a problem for me, of course, but obviously you’re thinking of trying out too, and I’m just looking out for you.”
“So how do I avoid making a prat of myself?” Harry asked, concerned it would happen. He wasn’t too concerned, though, recalling Professor McGonagall’s raving about his skill in catching the rememberal.
“Well, first thing’s first, we’ve got to nick the balls and a couple brooms and practice, how else?”
“Won’t we get in trouble?”
“Only if we get caught.
“But look what happened with the rememberal, the professors generally have a pretty good sight of the pitch!”
“Here’s what we do, we nick some Slytherin Quidditch team robes, dress up in them, say the team’s practicing, get Crabbe and Goyle to watch the doors and beat up anyone who doubts us. And we have to book the pitch for the team, without the team getting wind of it. Easy as pie.”
“You know, pie’s actually very difficult to make, Aunt Petunia could never get it right, but our neighbor-”
“Word of advice, Potter, no one cares about your muggle past. Here, in the real world, pie is a spell on the ingredients, and there it is. Easy as pie. And seriously if you mention anything muggle again I’m going to have to have Crabbe and Goyle beat you up.” Draco grinned. Harry wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious, but he nodded and smiled back all the same. He’d have to watch that. It wasn’t like he had another past to draw conversation from. Harry guessed he’d have to keep muggle-talk with Hermione. Hermione...he grew sad. Then he got angry. Ron was a...nope. Not worth it. He had quidditch to think about.
“So let’s do it!” He said eagerly.
“Not so fast, this is going to take a couple day’s preparation.”
Harry sighed impatiently. He wanted to be flying again. It had felt so amazing, he had to get back up there. It was as though he had discovered who he was that day. More so than when Hagrid had told him he was a wizard.
“So are you going to help me with this essay or not?”
Draco sighed and started explaining the potion as though it was all very obvious and Harry was making a real imposition boring him like this. It was only from the slight glint in his eye that Harry could tell that this was what Draco lived for - being superior, and having that superiority acknowledged.