#of COURSE we'll see more harry&hermione friendship | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

writingmyselfout · 1 year ago

Text

Because I Could Not Stop for Death - Chapter Eleven

Language: English

Rating: Teen+

Pairing: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter

Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, Reptilia28′s Don’t Fear the Reaper Challenge, Manipulative Dumbledore, Black Hermione Granger, Slight Ron Weasley Bashing

Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Chapter 11: We'll Kick It

Summary: Inter-House friendships are hard.

THE change in their friendship changes their routine come the second week of school. For Draco, it results in his spending less time with Crabbe and Goyle, both of whom are easily influenced by the older students who like to whisper about the friendship behind Draco’s back. Few are willing to say it to his face, of course, because of his family name. Lucius Malfoy, after all, is a very important man. However, his friends are another thing, although they seem to tell him less because they want to keep him informed and more because they agree. Harry, after all, is in a rival house and friends with that Muggle-born witch, they remind him. It gets annoying, and after a few days, Draco opts instead to go to breakfast and class with Theodore Nott, whose only comment on the matter is Draco was welcome to befriend whatever weirdos he wanted so long as he didn’t expect him to as well, and Blaise Zabini, who either doesn’t care or at least doesn’t care to share his opinions on the matter, as he says nothing at all about it, not even to share whatever whispers he overhears.

They aren’t the most welcoming, sometimes barely acknowledging Harry’s greetings and other times ignoring him and Neville completely. Not that Harry can complain when Hermione not only ignores the Slytherins as well, but goes so far as to leave Neville and Harry in favor of sitting with the other Gryffindor girls, typically as far from the Slytherins as the class would allow. She makes little effort to disguise her dislike of Draco, more than once leaving as he arrives with barely a word of farewell. Not that it bothers Draco, as he seems just as happy to have her gone as Hermione is to leave. For the life of him, Harry doesn’t know how to get them to get along, and Neville only shrugs when Harry asks him if he has any ideas.

Then their third week of school changes things up on them. First, they find out that Astronomy will finally begin, as the professor has finally returned, and then it’s announced that beginning Thursday, 19 September, the first years will have Flying lessons instead of Magical Theory for a few weeks. Hermione isn’t particularly keen on the idea, and immediately bombards Percy with questions on the way down to breakfast.

“Do we have to take Flying lessons?” She asks. “What if we’d rather just have Magical Theory?” Harry and Neville are walking with them, as usual, and Harry notes Neville’s hopeful look at this question, which quickly disappears when Percy answers.

“The class is mandatory,” he tells them. “It’s to ensure students learn the fundamentals of flying, particularly those who might later be inclined to play Quidditch, but also because some students don’t have the ability to learn at home, but it’s useful knowledge to have even if you aren’t particularly inclined to play Quidditch or take up synchronized flying.”

“Synchronized flying ?” Harry has heard of synchronized swimming, but flying? He wonders how that’s done.

Percy nods his head. “Sure. There’s an international competition that takes place every three years, and you’ll often see teams perform at celebration events, like the ones commemorating the defeat of You Know Who on Halloween.

“Anyway, the class only lasts about a month for most people, and then you’ll be back in Magical Theory. Unless you’re really struggling to get the fundamentals, in which case Madam Hooch might require you to take additional remedial lessons.” He leaves them to go investigate some students who seem to be arguing, and Neville, Hermione, and Harry continue on to breakfast.

Hermione is interested in learning about Flying, but laments that they have to lose a day of Magical Theory a week for it, and for an entire month too. Neville admits his grandmother never allowed him near one, and considering his general clumsiness, Harry thinks he understands why. Most of the others in their year, however, seem just as excited about the new class as Harry is, although Dean Thomas says he still doesn’t quite get how you’re supposed to play Quidditch, probably the result of an older Muggle-born third year attempting to explain it as “football, but in the air” the week before. It results in a few talking over each other to attempt, again, to explain it to him.

Draco is equally excited, although he tells Harry he’s just glad to be able to do something fun as he already knows how to fly, and doesn’t need lessons at all. He’s not the only first year to declare as much. Many of those who come from magical households claim the same, including Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnegan, both of whom tell anyone who’ll listen of adventures zooming around the countryside on their brooms, managing to only just barely avoid being seen by local Muggles.

Thursday could not arrive soon enough. Despite the fact that the Flying lesson for the Gryffindors and Slytherins will be the last class of the day, nearly all of the first years are up earlier than normal, abuzz with excitement. Neville, of course, is a nervous wreck about it. When the mail arrives and the Rememball he receives from his grandmother turns a smoky red just as he explains to Harry what it is, it’s no surprise to find out he’s forgotten something.

Draco is just walking over, and he snatches the Remembrall up, laughing, “Forgotten something again, Longbottom?”

Neville nods, lamenting, “Yes, ‘though I can’t remember what.”

“I’ll give you a hint,” Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Everyone else is wearing it.”

Neville looks at him confused, then around at everyone else before looking down. Suddenly, he jumps up to his feet. “My robe! I forgot my robe!” He takes off back to Gryffindor tower without a second thought.

“Guess I’ll hold on to this, then,” Malfoy says with a laugh, tossing the Remembrall he’s still holding up in the air once before pocketing it. “How long ‘til Longbottom realizes he’s forgotten it?” he asks Harry.

“Draco,” Harry starts to admonish.

But the blond cuts him off, waving his hand. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll give it back to him by the end of the day if he still hasn’t remembered.” Harry rolls his eyes, but agrees to stay quiet for now so long as Draco promises to return it.

Harry doubts Neville will remember any time soon. He’s noticed that the more flustered the other Gryffindor is, the harder it is for Neville to focus on things, which only makes his anxiety worse which in turn continues to make it difficult for him to think straight. Sometimes, he and Hermione can distract him enough to calm him, or help him with something he’s struggling with which allows him to complete a task well enough to pull him out of the cycle, but other times, like today, there is no helping him.

Having forgotten his robes means he arrives in DADA just as class is starting, out of breath and robes askew, and all eyes are automatically drawn to him standing in the doorway. He turns a bright shade of red, then makes his way to the seat saved for him between Harry and Hermione. He slouches down into his chair, pulling his book out and never once looking up until class is over. Hermione helps him straighten his robe before they head to Charms, at which point Harry thinks perhaps he’s calmed down enough to be fine.

They go into Charms and, once they are seated, Professor Flitwick calls for attention. Once they have settled down enough, he begins: “You will recall Tuesday we were discussing locking and unlocking charms. You were to look into what the first widely used spell was; now who can give me that answer?”

This is one of the few times Harry has seen that numerous hands shoot up into the air. Every student who has ever heard the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves–mostly those who have grown up in Muggle households–is eagerly holding their hand up. Harry is among them, although it is Dean Thomas who gets called upon.

“It was ‘Open Sesame ’,” he announces confidently.

“Correct! Two points to Gryffindor. In reality, Arabic wizards first created it, and it was ‘aftah ya simsm ’, but the phrase was translated and adopted by wizards the world over in their own languages, and worked pretty much the same. The problem with this first spell, however, is that it is a rather volatile method. I will demonstrate.” Professor Flitwick points at the classroom door and, with a wave of his wand, repeats the phrase in Arabic. Then, without missing a beat, points at a closet door off to the side and says the phrase in English.

Before their very eyes, the wooden doors are torn off their hinges and then broken down into pieces about the size of firewood, that fall down to the ground in two heaps. “If you were too close when casting this spell, the door might hit you as it came off, or the broken pieces might fall on top of you, so its user ran the risk of injury. Furthermore, well,” he motions towards the broken doors, “it isn’t very subtle, is it?” With another wave of his wand, the wooden pieces on the floor reconstruct themselves back into doors before returning to their places.

“Its successor was less volatile, and certainly less likely to hurt the caster, but it was still rather rudimentary . Can anyone tell me what that spell was, and what the results of using it were?” Significantly less hands are raised this time around. “Miss Granger, if you would?”

Hermione, who had looked distinctly disappointed to not be called the first time around, drops her hand into her lap and says, “That would be Portaberto, which was created by the Galicians, and was used to splinter the lock from a door but sometimes left a smoking hole in its wake.”

“That is correct! Five points for Gryffindor, for knowing the spell and its history.” Hermione sits a little straighter, smiling. “Now, the Unlocking Charm we use today has been in widespread use all over the world since the early 1600s, so nearly four hundred years, and is significantly more subtle than its predecessors. To cast it, you move your wand over the lock in a clockwise motion like so-” Professor Flitwick lifts his wand, drawing a circle that for them appears to go counterclockwise “-and then bring your wand down from twelve o’clock to six o’clock.” Once his wand is back at the starting point of his circle, the professor brings it down in a straight line. “While doing this, you will say the incantation Alohomora . This is the charm you will be practicing in class today.”

Suddenly, a frame with double doors that looks like it belongs in a small castle meant for a child appears between every other person. They’re instructed to work in pairs based on where they are seated and practice the Unlocking Charm, with a stern warning not to attempt the others to avoid any injuries. Harry and Hermione end up working together, while Neville is paired with Seamus. Things start off just fine, except that Seamus goes first and somehow manages to set his and Neville’s little practice door on fire. Then, likely flustered by having the entire class’s attention on them as Professor Flitwick puts the fire out, Neville uses the wrong charm and causes a second fire. The ringing laughter of some of their fellow Gryffindors only increases his embarrassment over the mistake, and no amount of assurances from Harry or Hermione work to ease his mind over the blunder. As is their custom, they go back to the dorms to switch out what they’d needed for the morning with what they need for the afternoon, before heading to the Great Hall for lunch.

Word, of course, has spread about the mishap. Seams, completely unselfconscious as he is, relishes the attention and is ready to regale any and all who ask over the hilarity of their door catching fire not once, but twice ! In fact, he embellishes the story with every retelling, so it goes from the door to their own robes to them setting all the desks on fire! Everyone, especially other Gryffindors well acquainted with Seamus’ penchant for wild stories, know better than to believe the incident was that big but seem to enjoy the tale all the same. Neville, on the other hand, is visibly glum. He remains hunched over the table, picking at his food, and doing his best to avoid making eye contact with anyone. He looks so miserable even Draco, whose initial reason for coming over was likely to laugh about them setting the classroom on fire, changes gears and instead gives Neville's Remembrall back.

“Oh! I-I didn’t even realize I’d lost it,” Neville laments, taking it back with a sigh. Before any of them can try to cheer him up, the prefects start telling students who’ve finished eating to head to their next class.

An uneventful class such as History of Magic at least serves to not further Neville’s worsening day. Especially since, in Hermione’s preferred front row seats, they can’t see who is passing notes. Harry doubts that any notes being passed are about the Charms class, but Neville in this state tends to assume the worst, which Harry learned the hard way the one time he tried to tell him that no one cared that much about his mistakes. Neville understood it as no one cared that much about him and had spent a solitary weekend avoiding everyone until Hermione, confused by the sudden cold shoulder and fed up, made Harry recount the conversation. She’d muttered an exasperated “ Boys ” before dragging Harry over to Neville to clear up the misunderstanding.

At the end of the class, which Harry always struggles to stay awake in, he stands with a stretch. “Finally, Flying!”

Neville heaves a sigh. “Great.”

Harry pats him on the back. “Come on, it’ll be fun! Besides, Hermione and I haven’t used a broom before either.”

“Do you think that will matter?” Hermione pipes up. “Maybe we should have asked Percy if there was a way to practice beforehand…”

Harry looks over at Neville, then makes a point to roll his eyes as they follow after Hermione and her ongoing rant. It works to get a small smile out of the other boy, and they continue out onto the grounds with everyone else.

It’s bright and breezy outside, the sky clear of most clouds. The Slytherin half of the class was already there, having come from Transfiguration on the ground floor, as opposed to the first floor like the Gryffindors. They were grouped together, looking critically at the brooms laying in two neat rows on the grass. The Weasley twins, among other Gryffindors, had complained about the quality of the school brooms, sharing that some had a tendency to drift in one direction or another, vibrating if the rider went too fast or flew too high, and generally lacking in comparison to what most had at home.

Draco is huddled with Blaise and Theodore, the look on his face making it clear he is less than impressed with the brooms before them. When he spots Harry and his friends, he nods his head in their direction. He says something to the other two Slytherins before coming over to Harry and Neville, Hermione pointedly turning away to speak with Lavender and Pansy behind them.

“Hey Draco,” Harry greets. “Neville, I know today’s been kinda bad, but I’m sure you’ll love flying. I mean, Draco can tell you. He’ll do fine, right?”

Draco raises an eyebrow, seeming to disagree with only a look, but Harry frowns, hoping to silently convey that he should just agree. He seems to get the point as he says, “Almost as easy as picking up a wand. Even you can manage that, Longbottom.”

“Any tips?” Harry prompts.

“Lean into it?” It’s almost a question, that Draco follows up with a shrug. He’s never tried to explain broom flying to someone else, so he’s never really thought about it. He tries to think of what his father said when he was learning, and he adds, “It follows where you lead.”

“Lean into it,” Neville nods, repeating it three times when a voice interrupts.

“Good afternoon, class!”

Collectively, they turn to look at the witch coming from the direction of the Quidditch pitch. She has spiky gray hair, and unmistakably yellow hawk-like eyes. She gives them all a brief once over as she comes to stand between the two rows of brooms.

“Welcome to your first flying lesson. I am Madam Hooch, and I will be your flying instructor. Well, what are you waiting for? Come on now, hurry up.” The two groups of students quickly scramble to do as they’re told, the Slytherins taking the row to her right while the Gryffindors take the row to her left, and every student among each side attempting to take a broom that is–at least visually–among those in better shape than others. “Good, now then. Everyone step up to the left side of their broomstick. Stick your right hand over the broom and say, ‘up’!”

A chorus of voices calling out “up” to varying degrees of confidence rings out. Harry is surprised when, upon his first attempt, the broom next to him flies up into his hand. Across from him, Draco’s does the same, and the two boys grin at each other. Hermione on his left stares at him in disbelief, while Neville on her other side is too focused on the broom at his side to notice much of anything. His trembling voice can barely be heard, but his broom is reacting, as it turns over in place a few times. On Harry’s other side, Ron Weasley is frowning down at his broom. It, like Neville’s, shifts in place a few times before he practically growls a final “ up ” and its handle goes flying up, past his hand, to whack him in the face. Harry does his best not to laugh, sputtering, but he does a poor job as Weasley mutters for him to shut up. Draco, across from them, has no such qualms and laughs heartily.

Madam Hooch walks up and down the line, patiently watching for a bit before instructing them, “With feeling !” Explaining to the students that their hesitancy will affect the way the broom responds to them. Hermione’s impatient voice repeats “up” a few times, her broom reluctantly following instructions as it lifts slowly in the air and up into her hands after half a dozen times. Neville’s, too, eventually lifts itself up into his grasp as well.

“Now that you've got hold of your broom, I want you to mount it. And grip it tight, you don't want to be sliding off the end.” There’s a few scattered chuckles at imagining someone sliding off their broom, but they do as they’re told. Once again, she goes up and down the line, correcting a few people’s grips, and encouraging a few white-knuckled individuals to relax. Upon reaching the other end of the line of students, she instructs, “When I blow my whistle, I want each of you to kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your broom steady, hover for a moment, and then lean forward slightly to touch back down. That is it. On my whistle...3...2…”

Harry’s focus is on Madam Hooch, but before she’s put the whistle to her lips or even finished counting down, there’s a gasp to his left from Hermione. He turns in time to see Neville taking off, his grip on his broom tight. He can hear Madam Hooch calling out for him to come back, but it’s as if it’s coming from far away, as he watches his friend helplessly getting ever higher.

Next to him, Hermione’s dropped her broom and is wringing her hands nervously as she calls out to their friend. “Neville!”

“He probably doesn’t remember how,” Harry tells her, knowing the other boy well enough to know how he blanks when he panics.

“Surely Madam Hooch-”

Whatever Hermione is about to say disappears as a collective gasp overtakes all watching, as Neville loses his grip on his broom and falls faster than anyone can react. Or at least, any of the students. Madam Hooch calls something that Harry thinks might sound like a spell, but it’s hard to know for certain when his heart is pounding in his ears. What he does hear is a sickening crunch when Neville lands with a cry, followed by the other boy’s whimpers. He’s landed a few feet behind the line of Gryffindors, but before any of them can react, Madam Hooch is leaning over him, face pale. Harry and Hermione are steps behind her, calling Neville’s name, but she waves a hand to indicate the students should stay back, although the two of them are still close enough to hear her mutter, “Broken wrist”, as she gently rolls Neville over and looks him over.

She gets him to a seated position, ensures there are no other injuries, and then helps him to his feet. “There we go, good boy. Let’s get you to the Infirmary, okay?” Her soft voice turns to steel as she addresses the rest of them. “The rest of you are not to move; keep those feet firmly planted on the ground or you’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘Quidditch’.”

They watch Neville, face red and tear-streaked, hobble off with Madam Hooch keeping a firm arm around him. Soon as they enter, Hermione on Harry’s left and Draco on his right both move, albeit in different directions. Hermione walks somewhere behind him, while Draco moves forward. Harry pays them both only a little attention, frowning as various students from both houses laugh, although the Gryffindors laughing have the decency to stop upon realizing that their rival House is also laughing about it.

“Poor Neville,” Hermione says, coming back to Harry’s side. The broom she’d been holding now lays on the grass, as she has traded it for Neville’s forgotten bag.

Draco is also coming back now, shaking his head. “Forgot his Remembrall again.” He’d noticed it lying in the grass and now tosses it up in the air and catches it again. “Guess I’ll ho-”

Loudly interrupting, Rons demands, “That belongs to Neville, Malfoy. Give it here!” Harry frowns, considering Draco probably talks to Neville more than Ron does, so it is strange that he feels the need to butt in like this.

“Oh yeah, and who’s going to make me, Weasel? You?”

Everyone has stopped to watch and listen to the exchange, a few of them encouraging them to fight. Harry wants to tell Ron to drop it, but somehow before he can get a word in, the redhead makes a dive in Draco’s direction, as if to forcibly take the Remembrall from him.

“Really, that is enough!” Hermione calls out angrily from next to Harry, but her words are lost among others calling out their own words of encouragement or admonishment.

It means that Draco’s response is lost in the noise, as he’d moved further away from Harry when he’d dodged Weasley. Whatever he says, he ends up on a broom and taking off, with Ron close on his heels. Harry instinctively looks towards the castle’s doors, worrying that his friend will be caught. He thinks Percy mentioned the Hospital Wing being on the first floor, in one of the towers, but he’s not actually sure where. How long will it take the professor to get there with an injured Neville and return?

The other students are moving about, trying to keep Ron and Draco in their sights while simultaneously trying not to be underneath them in case there is a repeat of Neville’s accident. Hermione has given up yelling about them all getting in trouble, and instead is muttering under her breath about boys and their immaturity. Watching them, Harry thinks they’re essentially playing a game of cat and mouse, with Ron chasing after Draco in an attempt to make him give the Remembrall but Draco seems to not have been exaggerating when he said he was good at flying. He manages to stay well out of Ron’s reach, and though he can’t hear what’s being said from the ground, Harry can easily imagine the smug look on the Slytherin’s face. He wondered if he should get involved and is just deciding against risking getting himself in any trouble they might face if they don’t finish soon, when he catches sight of one of the other Gryffindor boys Ron hangs out with getting on a broom. Tobias O’Bannion, one of the many who’d claimed he had been flying since before he could walk, takes off into the air to give Ron a hand and now Draco is having to avoid two people getting progressively more aggressive in their attempts at catching him.

“Someone is going to get hurt,” Hermione says, and Harry decides then and there that he needs to even the playing field and help his friend.

Before he can second-guess himself, he gets on a broom and takes off, hearing but ignoring Hermione calling out behind him. As he takes off into the air, he’s exhilarated at the feel of the wind in his hair, and how easily the broom responds to him. He doesn’t necessarily struggle in his classes, but he has to this point not really found anything which he feels comes naturally to him. This, however, feels easy and right, and he takes a moment to relish it before turning his focus back on the reason for his being up in the air.

His fellow Gryffindors have not spotted him, as he comes up into the air behind them. Draco, however, does and clearly understands he’s there to help. He starts to move towards Harry’s left, looking for a way to get around the other two boys, but is forced to go higher up when Ron flies straight at him while Tobias follows after Draco, keeping his attention so that he forgets to account for the redhead. He pulls his arm back to throw the Remembrall towards Harry at the same time that Ron slams into him from behind, and his throw goes wild as he’s forced to focus instead on keeping himself seated on the broom.

Harry’s eyes follow the Remembrall’s arcing path through the air for a second before taking off after it. He watches it start to fall towards the ground and, instinctively understanding what to do, he picks up speed and follows after it. Vaguely, he can hear gasps and thinks someone–Hermione, perhaps?--shouts his name, but he has zeroed in completely on the Remembrall. When he is finally closing in, he reaches his left hand out, using his right to keep control of the broom and snatches the small glass ball out of the air mere feet above the ground. He pulls the broom upwards, quickly changing directions, so that it goes straight and allows him to take a few stumbling steps as his feet touch the ground. Adrenaline pumping, he triumphantly holds the Remembrall up, both impressed with his own accomplishment and somehow completely unsurprised by it, as if it is something he’d known ahead of time he could easily do.

All those feelings, however, drain out of him in an instant when he hears a stern voice call out, “HARRY POTTER!”

Professor McGonagall is coming towards him, moving faster than he has ever seen her move and his heart drops. If there is one person here he does not want to disappoint, it is his Head of House, and he drops his gaze so as to avoid seeing the look in hers as she nears.

“Never, in all my days! How dare you–you could have been gravely injured–” She seems to be struggling to find the exact words she wants to say, jumping from one sentence to another, and somehow it is worse than all the scoldings from the Dursleys combined.

“Professor, it’s not his fault, I–”

“Quiet, Mr. Malfoy!”

“But Professor, they–”

“Enough, Ms. Granger!” There is silence, and Harry cannot bring himself to look at his friends, though he appreciates their attempts to help. “Potter, follow me. Now.”

Harry quietly nods his head, waiting until Professor McGonagall has turned on her heels to finally look over at his classmates. Hermione is wringing her hands, and Draco is frowning. The Slytherins mostly look amused at his getting in trouble, while many of the Gryffindors are frowning. Ron and Tobias are pointedly not looking in his direction, so he can’t make out their expressions. Turning away, he moves to quickly catch up with the professor.

The professor’s silence unnerves him, but he dares not break it, lest he somehow make things worse for himself. He thinks about all the punishments he may get, spiraling from detention to endless homework, until he is suddenly sure that he has earned himself a ban on ever being allowed on a broom again or worse, that he has ensured that he will be expelled. Would they send him back to the Dursleys, even knowing how they had treated him?

When instead, he is introduced to the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain Oliver Wood, with their Head of House praising his innate abilities on the broom, his legs almost give out in relief. Perhaps Hermione’s tendency to assume the worst for rule breaking is starting to rub off.

Both boys are taken to her office, where she informs Oliver Wood of what she’s seen. He’s impressed to hear that aside from reading Quidditch Through the Ages and discussing flying with Malfoy, he’s had no other experience, and is now intrigued enough to support the possibility of a first year being recruited. The plan is for Oliver to hold try-outs as planned, but to watch Harry at some point before or after on his own; she says she’ll leave it to them to figure it out. If he agrees that Harry is their best option, Professor McGonagall says she’ll see about getting it cleared with Dumbledore. That way, if he decides to stick with the rule to not allow first years to play–a rule she seems to not personally be fond of–then Oliver can still decide among the other students interested. If, however, he does allow it, then they can keep Harry’s involvement under wraps to best surprise their biggest competition: Slytherin.

The fact that she thinks so highly of Harry’s abilities makes the Quidditch Captain eager to see for himself, so he gets her permission to drag Harry down to the Quidditch pitch and see him in action. Harry, who is still holding one of the school brooms as he hadn’t thought to put it down, obediently follows the fifth year on his roundabout route back outside. Oliver spends that time alternating between reviewing Harry’s knowledge of Quidditch, and explaining the previous four years of matches.

By the sounds of it, Oliver was recruited onto a mediocre team when he was in his second year and had spent that and his third year playing with a team that was much more casual to their approach to the game than he would have liked. In his fourth year, captainship had gone to a seventh year student who had simply wanted the accomplishment of being both Head Boy and Quidditch Captain, but had no real drive to get the team to win since he was more focused on getting good enough grades to earn an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s, which at his confused look Oliver explained was a wizarding hospital in London. As a result, he made the much more motivated Oliver his Vice Captain and left him with most of the work of recruiting new players and planning their practice schedule.

“He was our Seeker, and he was all right, but just not good enough to make up for the difference in skill with the other teams,” Oliver finishes. “Not to put pressure on you, but I’m looking for the best possible Seeker to round out the team; it’s really the last thing we need and then I’m confident that Gryffindor will have the best team in Hogwarts!”

No pressure, he says . After that spiel, Harry’s afraid of not living up to Oliver’s high expectation for the Gryffindor Seeker, but he figures there’s nothing for it but to at least try. McGonagall seems confident in his abilities, at least, so surely there was something to that. When they get to the pitch, Oliver instructs Harry to go ahead and fly around. It’s not uncommon, he explains, for people to get nervous before a try-out and psych themselves out. Flying around would help him loosen up, relax, and be more prepared to go when he returned. Harry nods, straddles the broom, and kicks up off the ground.

At first, he feels clumsy. Despite his earlier enjoyment and confidence when in class, the thought that Oliver might be watching him and assessing him makes him second guess himself, making it so it feels like the broom has a mind of its own. He wonders if this is how Neville felt when he’d kicked off in class, too early and much too hard, and it makes him even more sympathetic to his ever-anxious friend. He can see how, already upset over a rough day, he’d have panicked too much to control his broom. It reminds Harry to take a breath and relax, he had already proven to himself that he could fly on a broom so there was no need to panic, and soon he’s guiding the school broom around the pitch with ease.

Oliver expresses his pleasure at seeing how, despite being an inexperienced first year, Harry has fairly flawless control. “Do you have a broom of your own at home? No? Well, if you get the spot, we’ll have to talk to McGonagall about getting you one of the newer lines. A Nimbus Two-Thousand would be ideal, with its reported maneuverability, but it’s a lot pricier than a lot pa-, I mean, guardians want to get their kid.” He coughs, seeming embarrassed by the near mention of Harry’s parents, and quickly continues. “But a Comet Two Sixty, or even a Cleansweep Ten like mine, would be good too.”

Having said that, he gets on his own broom holding a bag that Harry has only just noticed. It turns out that inside, he has a number of golf balls that he tells Harry he will be throwing in whichever direction he feels like. Harry’s job is to keep track of and try to catch all of them, allowing Oliver to assess his reaction times, his ability to change directions, and how good he might be at catching small objects, as a Remembrall was slightly bigger than a traditional Snitch, while the golf balls were more or less the same size. He admits he has no idea what Muggles use golf balls for, as he’s never heard of “golf”, but he’s glad at how abundant and easy they are to get.

Then the talking is over, and Harry’s try out officially begins.

~~~

Of course, to an eleven-year old boy with friends for the first time, the thought that his try out is meant to be a secret kept from everyone including his closest friends does not even occur to him. Harry is nearly vibrating with excitement to tell his little group once he is done with Oliver at the Quidditch pitch, especially as Oliver is over the moon with him. He tells Harry that he’ll still hold the try-outs, as discussed with their Head of House, but he’s now very happy with their chances for the Quidditch Cup. Harry, he’s certain, is what they’re looking for, and if anyone is even more skilled than him, then Gryffindor will be unbeatable. It would be especially impressive if Harry is recruited as the rule forbidding first years playing means he’ll be the youngest player in a very long time.

Unfortunately, he’s sorely disappointed when he finds that Neville is still in the Hospital Wing, Hermione is also not at dinner as she had requested permission to keep him company, and he can’t possibly tell Draco while he’s seated at the Slytherin table with his Housemates. Oliver was especially adamant about keeping his new position from the Slytherin Quidditch team, and as Harry doesn’t know who those upperclassmen are, he can’t risk one of them overhearing or being told by one of Draco’s friends.

“So tell us, what happened with Professor McGonagall?” Amos, one of the other boys in his dorm, is leaning across the table. He and Dean were the ones to inform him of Neville’s and Hermione’s absence.

Harry shrugs, “Few of detentions with Madam Hooch down at the Quidditch pitch.” It was the reasoning they–Professor McGonagall and Oliver–decided would make the most sense to explain his upcoming absences once practices started should he end up on the team. If he doesn’t make it, they can give some reason for why they’ve been canceled.

“More than one?” Amos frowns.

“Ron and Tobias are only getting one each. I think Malfoy too,” Dean explains. “Seems a little unfair you were singled out.”

“Probably ‘cause I was the only one she actually saw,” Harry offers. At their look, which he interprets as surprise he’s not more upset, he adds, “But it is unfair. Ron started it all, the git.”

“It really is,” Dean agrees. “Everyone knows you and Neville hang out with Draco. He was just looking to start a fight with him.”

At the end of dinner, Harry tries to catch up with Draco. Theodore and Blaise make a comment about being surprised Potter wasn’t kicked out, but otherwise say nothing else, bidding their friend goodbye without another word or look at Harry.

“You get detention too?” Draco asks.

“Well.” Harry waits until the other two are out of earshot before saying in a lower voice, “Officially, that’s the story.”

“Officially?” Draco looks puzzled, but before Harry can explain, a Slytherin prefect coming out of the Great Hall behind them calls over.

“Malfoy. Professor Snape wants to see you in his office.”

“Be right there,” Draco responds.

“I would go now if I were you,” the prefect advises dryly. “He seemed displeased.” They say nothing else, moving past.

“Fine, fine.” Draco rolls his eyes but says, “Make it quick, Potter.”

Harry frowns, as the growing number of students coming out of the Great Hall now means they’re very likely to be overheard. “It’s okay; there are too many people. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Now Draco is extremely intrigued. “Oh no, if you didn’t get in trouble, I want to know why. Wait for me in the library. I’ll head there soon as I can.”

#Because I Could Not Stop for Death #BICNSFD #Harmony Fic #HP Fanfic #Harry Potter

0 notes

rogue-durin-16 · 4 years ago

Text

THINGS NEVER GO AS PLANNED (Part VI/VII)

"the downfall"

Summary: After Fred's death, George and Y/n lean on each other to carry on. This wasn't the most brilliant idea, though; George was pretty much in love with the girl, and Y/n— well, she had been dating Fred prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Genre: angst mostly

Tags:

Suggested by: @crispykittywitch

Things never go as planned: @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @beautyschoo1dropout @s1ut4georgeweasley @sunshineandshadows @missmulti @accioweaslcy @andreaareynoso @georgeweasley16 @dianarte @skarlettmikaelson

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @just-here-to-escape-from-reality

Warnings: language, allusions to sex

A/N: my apologies for keeping y'all waiting for this one darlings, but here comes the next part YAYY! Enjoy <3

Prologue: the aftermath

Part I: sleepless nights

Part II: candy floss

Part III: shock therapy

Part IV: wrong name

Part V: the perfect excuse

Part VII: apart

Epilogue: I still love you

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

He had left me in the room that morning, alone, with regret and guilt straining my chest, with embarrassment and panic heaving over me, my only company being a terrible headache and a sore body.

I was still waiting for him to come back. Of course, he still lived in the apartment, but the day after, he slept at Shell Cottage because Bill needed help with the chores, and the next night at the Burrow because Molly had asked to keep an eye on 'the kids' —the kids being Ginny, Harry, Ron and Hermione— while she and Arthur were off to visit Andromeda, and at Lee's because Angelina was away and they were going to have a boys' weekend; in summary, he managed to avoid stepping into the flat while I was in there for an entire week.

I would be lying if I said the idea of moving out hadn't crossed my mind, but I knew I was being dramatic— we were being dramatic; we were adults, even if we forgot about it more often than not, and adults talk things out, so I decided to confront him at the only place I would manage to corner him; the shop.

When I descended from the office on the second floor, I spotted the ginger turning the 'CLOSED' to face the glass door. "Oi!" His head snapped to me as I climbed downstairs and he instantly walked to the shelves on the opposite side. "Can I have a word?" I requested, following him, only for George to move on to another shelf.

"Right now I'm quite busy." He replied, seemingly absent-minded as he pretended to check the products in front of him.

"This is important." I insisted, moving to stand besides him.

Not fast enough, though, because he was off to yet another part of the shop as soon as I got close. "I'm sure it can wait."

"You know it can't," I assured intently, stalking after him, only for him to speed up his own pace, moving from product to product without stopping too long in front of him. "George I'm- Oi, stop! We need to talk about this!"

"Well maybe I don't wanna talk about this!" He exclaimed, taking big steps under one of the stairs in order to shamelessly dodge the hand with which I had reached out to stop him.

"George Weasley don't run away from me!"

"I'm not running away from you!"

"You're literally RUNNING AWAY!"

He stopped circling the counter and stood across from me, slamming his palms over the till. "ALRIGHT, LOVE!" for the first time, I didn't like the way the name dripped off his tongue. "Let's talk about how we accidentally FUCKED! That's what you want so badly, isn't it?!" Flush crept up his neck and ears, and I couldn't tell if it was from anger or from timidness. "Go on, darling, lead the bloody way!"

I felt my own cheeks going red, partly because of his straightforward statement but also because I genuinely had never heard George raise his voice like he had just done.

"Cat's got your tongue now?!" My stuttering seemed to fuel his anger more. "C'mon, Y/n, talk! You wanted to talk!"

"SHUT THE HELL UP, GEORGE!" He clenched his jaw as his freckles drowned in a sea of pinkish red. "Yeah I want to talk! 'Cause that's what grown-ups do! We don't know how to act around each other so we just don't spend time together anymore— Fuck, I've barely seen you! AND WE. LIVE. TOGETHER!" I emphasised each word with stomps. "We can either pretend it didn't happen or talk it out to make sure we're on the same page, you choose but for Merlin's sake, don't avoid me!"

"OKAY!" His eyes widened, surprised at his own tone, and then he repeated in a softer, self-conscious one, "Okay." He breathed deeply and then added. "We're on the same page, right?" His eyebrows raised as he looked into my eyes. "It was... A mistake."

I should have noticed the uncertainty and hope in his voice, but I panicked and was too quick to respond, "Yeah! A massive mistake." My words stung my heart and, to my dismay, his own just as much. "Can we go back to being friends? Because I'm going crazy without you." I blamed our watery eyes to the argument we had had, and not to the fact that it had been a mistake.

He circled the counter and walked to me, hesitating before pulling me into a hug. "Can I...?" I tugged him closer, wrapping my arms around his middle. It took a moment for him to ease into my embrace, and I could tell we had fucked up our friendship for good. "It's alright, we'll make it right again." His words made me squeeze him tighter, as if he was about to vanish from my side.

And from then, we tried to make it right, we tried so hard, because it seemed so easy to make it wrong again.

Everytime we stood too close, everytime he leaned on to whisper something, everytime I helped him with his tie, our eyes would fall on each other's lips; I would sometimes drift off the conversation, staring too much at his mouth and hands, wandering if they would feel just as amazing as they had done while we were drunk.

"Y/n are you listening?"

"Uh yeah- I mean, no- sorry, what?"

I was so focused on trying to hide it that I didn't notice George was in the exact same situation, meaning that neither of us could give in, because we would go down together. In all honesty, it was doomed to happen at some point, we were just delaying the inevitable.

The moment came the last night of January, when George showed up in my room due to a really rough nightmare, and I, as always, invited him in so we could lay down together.

"Isn't this... Weird?" He murmured as we scooted closer. We had kept physical contact at bay for obvious reasons, and cuddling had been off the table since New Year.

"It doesn't have to be." I replied, my voice as quiet as his. "We've done this a thousand times."

"Right." He cleared his throat, averting his eyes from mines as we shifted in our places ever so slightly, trying to find a position where the situation turned less awkward.

And it happened, my mind got lost on the way his neck tensed, on the damp locks hanging over his forehead, sweaty due to the nightmare; on his plump lips, which he had just wetted with his tongue in the most subtle way. It was a nervous habit of him, something he would usually do, but that didn't make it any less hot.

"George..." I called his name without noticing, my heart hammering violently against my chest when his gaze landed on my eyes, quickly falling on my lips.

The next thing I knew was that he was holding my thigh over his hip, his other hand on the back of my neck while we shared a hungry kiss that, as soon as my hips involuntarily rocked against his, turned into something more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

GEORGE'S P. O. V.

The next morning we swore to each other that it was just another accident, that it would happen again.

And the next one too.

And the following.

The fifth time that happened, we agreed to call the situation a 'friends with benefits' kind of thing, well aware that it was an euphemism for the downfall of our friendship.

I had longed to be hers for so long, and it that moment, as I lay by her side in her bed, that wish seemed so close yet so far; I could reach out and my fingertips would touch her skin, yet I had never felt that distant towards her.

The moment my eyes were averted from her form, her gaze was laid on me. "You don't have to go."

"I know." I replied in a mumble, already sitting up and reaching for my pants. "But soon we'll have to get up, so I might as well do that and let you sleep." I didn't want to turn around, I didn't want to see her beautiful irises pleading for me to stay by her side, because I knew I would.

I saw on my peripheral vision her fingers attempting to carefully wrap around my wrist, and I was quick to stand up and walk to the door; sadly, I did not miss Y/n burying her face into the pillow, her hands fisting on the fabric ever so subtly.

She tried to hide her tears like that, and I agressively wiped mines as soon as I reached the corridor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Morning, lady!" I light-heartedly greeted Y/n without turning my back to the making of our breakfast when I heard the steps approaching the kitchen.

In the morning it was easier to pretend everything was back to normal; usually, the refreshing sunlight and the drowsiness provided by a night of sleep were enough to wash away the sad truth of our relationship.

"Good morning, sir." She responded with a yawn, rubbing her eyes as she walked to stand besides me, leaning against the counter with her arms folded. "Smells good." She commented, leaning on to take a peek at the scrambled eggs.

I was about to make a cocky, playful comment when it dawned on me what she was wearing; it was my jumper, one of the old ones that I exclusively used for pyjamas.

I knew she didn't do it intently; I had left it on the floor the previous night, and it was probably the first thing she grabbed, but it struck a nerve.

I had seen a similar scene way too many times before; a sleepy, dishevelled Y/n entering the kitchen with an ugly Weasley jumper as only clothing, ready to start the bickering with an almost identical version of me who would be making breakfast.

My head then travelled to the thought that lately crossed my mind more often than not and my heart clenched; In Y/n's eyes, I was, most likely, just a poor replacement for Fred.

"You alright?" That worried furrow appeared between her brows too often lately. We were both walking on eggshells, and it got me on my nerves.

"You don't have to ask if I'm alright every time I'm quiet." I hadn't meant it to come out harsh or curt, but it definitely did.

"You're not quiet, you're overthinking." She responded with a tinge of hostility.

"What's to overthink?" I fought the need to raise my voice.

"Dunno, you tell me." She squinted her eyes with a scrutinising gaze directed to me.

"Can we not do this?" I almost pleaded; heated arguments had become a usual thing between us —yet another sign of the unfixable problem we refused to address.

Y/n was about to reply something that would lead us into a fight when the doorbell rung. "Mister Weasley?" I took that as a cue to go open the door to Verity, already dressed on her uniform. "The Valentine's Day products arrived, should I unpack them or..." Her eyes flickered behind me and her cheeks heated up. "Y/n—" When I looked over my shoulder, I felt my own face flushing out of embarrassment. Y/n was still my employee and Fred's ex, so Verity catching a glimpse of her dressed in my jumper wasn't the best thing for any of us. "I— am I— sorry, am I interrupting?"

"You're not interrupting." I assured her with a reassuring smile. "Leave the boxes on the puking pastries section, we'll be down in ten."

"Alright, sir." Her curious gaze travelled to Y/n one last time, and with that, she was rushing back down to the shop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

READER'S P. O. V.

The ache that had appeared on my chest the day after New Year would end up killing me, or at least it felt like that.

I had a dreadful gut feeling of knowing what caused that pain, but my mind refused to believe it was that, and kept pushing the sensation back into my heart day by day.

George had gone to relocate the puking pastries in the upper level of the shop so I could prepare the section with the Valentine's Day products.

My eyes dawned on the small packages of Amortentia. I knew it was a terrible idea but I needed to know.

I took a look around, making sure Verity wasn't near and George was up still, and brought one of the Amortentias under my nose. It didn't take long for the scents to besot me, and I had to put all my will on not to fall under the potion's spell.

The first smell to reach my nostrils was gunpowder; my heart skipped a bit when the next scent was vanilla.

Then strawberry and chocolate; candy floss cupcakes and George's cologne.

The tiny, heart-shaped bottle fell from my hands, scattering all over the shop's floor. "Shit!" I rapidly kneeled to pick the shattered glass when I realized it had echoed in the empty establishment.

"Oi! What was that?" George descended from the second floor, using the ladder. "Oh shit—" his hands took a hold on my bicep and pulled me away from the pool of pinkish pearl liquid that seemed to be attracting me. "Don't!" He warned Verity, who had attempted to jog in the potion's direction too. "Verity, can you bring me my wand?" The girl complied running up to the office.

In Verity's absence, George took the chance and cupped my cheeks, tilting my head up to check my eyes. "You alright?" I managed to give him a slow nod, my mind buzzing with the newly acquired information. "Getting the Amortentias was a bad idea, wasn't it?" I nodded again, producing a frown between his eyebrows. "No 'told you so'? Are you sure you're alright?" He chuckled nervously, his hands falling to his sides right in time for Verity to rush back to us.

"Here, Mister Weasley!"

"Thank you, darling." He politely replied, taking the wand and restoring the potion bottle in a swift movement. His eyes peeked at me again; I could see the worry growing on him. "Y/n-"

"I'm gonna go wash my face." The words hastily left my mouth before I dashed off to the restroom.

I closed the door behind me and took a look at the mirror; my pupils were blown and my cheeks pink. I ran the tab and splashed the water on my face a few times until the potion's mild effect was gone and my mind clear.

It was in that moment that it dawned on me that I was in love with George Weasley.

127 notes · View notes