NOTES:
1. Hi, this is the part where I disclaim.
2. This story starts out primarily about Ginny, Draco, and Quidditch. I don't know very much about Quidditch, except what the HP Lexicon can tell me, so I am either a) making things up, or b) using American baseball as inspiration. Please correct me if I mess up something about Quidditch that I really should have known.
3. A thousand worthless points for anyone who spots my fairly obvious Green Day reference. I felt kind of clever about it.
4. Many thanks to my beta, the lovely and talented BlueJeanJunkie, without whom my run-on sentences might take over the world.
5. I love reviews with the passion of a thousand burning suns, and so on.
6. Enjoy! And then tell me about it!
_____________________________________________________________________________________
For not the first time in my life I bemoaned the fact that procrastination and I got along so dreadfully famously.
It didn't help matters either that the WWN was playing one of my favourite songs, causing me to temporarily halt my very frenzied, last-minute packing in order to rock out accordingly. In the wonderful world of Ginevra Weasley, this usually means a lot of unrestrained flailing and knocking into things.
It may be worth mentioning that my room is free of breakables because I've already broken all of them, mostly due to said flailing.
I've a glaring lack of coordination in everyday life, but, oh, put me on a Quidditch pitch and I'll fly gloriously graceful circles around you. It's about the only thing I excel at, so it's a good thing I was scouted by the Appleby Arrows at the Hogwarts' Alumni Charity Game two years ago, after the war. I'm the best Chaser you've seen since Angelina Johnson. No kidding.
"And that was 'Warning' by the Sage Knights. I'm Glenda Chittock, and you're listening to the Witching Hour on the Wizard Wireless Network. Here's your latest news update. Ministry officials have arrested the top suspect in a bizarre string of small crimes involving missile-projecting Muggle toasters - "
Half-listening to the news, I unsuccessfully reorganized the Quidditch gear in my trunk to make space for everything else I had to pack.
"Good news for Arrows fans this season- "
My ears perked up.
"After coming off a devastating defeat last season in the final game against the Falmouth Falcons and losing both their starting and back-up Seekers to injuries from a wayward Bludger, word is the Appleby Arrows have signed a new star Seeker to a very lucrative contract, though the upper management remains tight-lipped about the newcomer's identity."
"Argh," I said, upset with Glenda for not having pried any more information out of our manager than we could. Honestly, what manager refuses to tell his players who he's just picked up for the most pivotal position on the team a week before spring training?
"And the society pages are abuzz about a couple reportedly getting quite cozy last night at the grand opening of the Museum of Magical History," Glenda continued.
"Gnah," I said, picking up my wand and waving the WWN off. Once Glenda got to the 'Society Pages' it usually meant gossip about some rich, pimply layabout like Draco Malfoy and what tarty minx had been seen on his scrawny arm the night before. Nauseating, really.
...
Oh, who am I kidding? Draco Malfoy's bloody gorgeous these days and I half-wish I was the tarty minx on his arm. I mean, look, the bloke looked like a scowly rat back in school, but god, he got pretty. Suddenly, instead of pale and pointy, he's gone all fair and chiseled (if the rags are anything to go by, anyway). But he's Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy is a right bastard. And as far as I'm concerned, right bastards ought not look like sex on a stick.
Don't tell my mum I said that.
Speaking of which, "Mum!" I yelled out my doorway.
"Yes, dear?" her voice floated up from the living room.
"D'you know where my old school trunk is?"
"Try the attic, dear!"
"Thanks!"
I ascended the stairs to the attic, which our beloved ghoul had vacated a few years earlier. He claimed that since I was the only Weasley child still living there it had become far too quiet, and he couldn't very well be expected to shoulder the whole burden of making a jolly din all the time, now, could he?
He had a point, I suppose. My brothers all moved out years ago. Bill and Charlie are still overseas, of course (and both happily married), and Percy's got his own flat in London - says he wants to be closer to work and whatnot. Fred and George built an addition on top of their Diagon Alley shop (interestingly enough, to be closer to work as well). Totally illegal, of course, but they charmed the whole thing invisible and it seems to have worked out all right so far. They haven't had to use Fugue Floss on their lessor, at any rate. And Ron and Hermione are flatmates now - well, that's the official line, anyway. We all know they're shagging like bunnies over there.
Erm, don't tell my mum I said that either.
But as I was saying, I ascended the stairs to the attic and located my old school trunk. As part of the "sweeping reform" our manager, Andrew, is making to the team, instead of having us Apparate to the pitch three hours before games like everyone else, he's decided to rent a chalet, where all the players will live for the entire season. Andrew insists this is key to "fostering unity and a team atmosphere".
All right. Look, I'm all for reform. The Arrows have been languishing at the bottom of the league for three years running, even with a management overhaul last season. But I seriously doubt we're going to do any better if all we want to do is kill each other for leaving toilet seats up, talking about periods, or eating each others' Nutella.
Andrew says we all have very legitimate concerns and wants us moved into the chalet by today.
So I levitated my trunk out of the attic and into my room and proceeded to empty it of whatever contents I'd neglected to unpack after I graduated. My dragonhide gloves, scales, a few quills, some sheaves of parchment...
"Oh, Merlin," I groaned, picking up my old Charms notes. There, all too visibly in the margins, a very silly younger me had doodled hearts and proclamations of love to - well, who else? The Boy Who Lived (and Then Defeated Voldemort Some Years Later, in case you were wondering).
I glanced around furtively, expecting one of the twins to jump out and tease me mercilessly about my notes. They'd do that, you know. You can be sure they gave me hell for that stupid singing valentine first year. No one ever conclusively proved it was me who sent the thing, and I neither admit nor deny it, but let me just say, eleven year olds who fancy themselves in love can be exceedingly silly sometimes.
"Well, no need for these to ever see the light of day again," I said decisively. "Incendio."
Not that anyone would try to push me and Harry into a relationship anymore these days, besides my mum, I mean. She's notoriously thick-headed that way. Harry got engaged to Luna Lovegood last year. Damn near broke Mum's heart, that she couldn't have Harry officially in the family. She's still a bit standoffish to Luna when they come by for Christmases and birthdays, but she'll come around, I'm sure. Luna's a darling, of course, if a bit, erm, loony.
I threw the last of my clothing into the trunk and brought it downstairs, where, now that it had come time for my departure, my mum promptly threw her arms around me carrying on about empty nests and why didn't I "just take that offer from the Ministry to work under Percy instead of getting such a hazardous job throwing balls about and having to move away from home?"
"That's what you get for raising six Quidditch-crazy boys before me, Mum," I quipped, giving her a tight hug. "Besides, if I worked for Percy, he'd probably make me live in the office anyway. Y'know, just to make sure no cauldron escaped intense scrutiny."
"Now, you stop that. Percy's job is very important," Mum said, swatting me on the shoulder. She hugged me again. "Now, are you sure you're all right taking the Knight Bus by yourself? I could get your father to take some time off, make sure you get settled in."
"I'll be okay, Mum."
"Well... all right. But do remember to give us a Floo as soon as you get there."
"I will, Mum." I edged my way out the door.
"Are you sure - "
"Bye, Mum!"
I practically ran out the garden and to the edge of the road to catch the Knight Bus. I stuck out my wand hand, and within seconds, the big purple bus came screeching down the lane. Stan, still the conductor after all these years, took my trunks and sat me down, and then we were off.
After an uncharacteristically painless journey, I arrived at the chalet, gaping openly. The place was fucking huge. But I suppose it'd have to be, for all sixteen of us, one of whom came out to greet me. Natalie McDonald, Beater, a former fellow Gryffindor and the sweetest girl you ever knew, but with the most insane killer instinct once you got her out on the pitch.
"So?" I asked, giving Natalie a hug. "Is our Seeker here yet?"
"No," she replied with a grimace. "But Andrew's been dropping bloody hints all day. I think he thinks he's being cryptic. Anyway, he's waiting for all of us to get here before he unveils his new toy. Left just a minute ago to go fetch the prodigy."
"Showy bastard," I said, as we entered the foyer with my luggage. "So what are the clues?"
"Well, it's a male, for one," Natalie said, leading me to the room we would share for the next year. "And talented, obviously. But apparently, in spite of his skill, he's never gone pro."
My hormones very briefly entertained the impossible thought of Oliver Wood turning out to be our new Seeker. But, unfortunately, Oliver, still Keeper for Puddlemere, is, of course, gay. The best-looking ones always are, the jerks.
I finished unpacking, Flooed my parents ("Are you all right, dear? Are you sure you've got everything you need?"), and made my way down to the living room, where the rest of the team was slowly gathering. I had barely gotten comfortable in one of the armchairs when the front door swung open.
"Oh good, you're all here," said Andrew, leaning casually on the doorjamb. Andrew Pickering, Manager, former Slytherin, my parents' age, and often too smug when his unorthodox managerial decisions pay off.
"Finally!" one of the reserve Beaters grumbled. "Where's the new guy?"
"And how lovely to see you too, Mark," Andrew said pointedly. "Well, I suppose we can all skip the formalities. Meet your new Seeker," Andrew said, ushering our newest teammate in.
"Oh dear god," I muttered amidst the others' gasps and murmurs.
Draco Malfoy, Seeker, former Slytherin bane of Ron's existence, and Witch Weekly's Sexiest Wizard Alive three years running for having, among other assets, "smouldering grey eyes that can melt a witch's knees at thirty paces and a social and financial status reaching far beyond the knowable universe."
"Hello," he said to everyone and no one in particular.
I swear someone to my left about swooned. The rest of us just stared like fools.
"Well," said Andrew, rubbing his hands vigorously together and trying to save our collective face with an apologetic look at Draco. "Looks like almost everyone's settled in nicely. Ah, let's let Draco here get unpacked and we'll have our first team meeting. Uh, Red, show him to his room?"
"Fine," I said.
I got up and walked upstairs, throwing back a glance every once in a while just to make sure Malfoy was still following me.
"Here's your room," I gestured stiffly. "You're sharing with Anthony. He's one of the Chasers."
"Thanks," Malfoy said, pulling in his luggage (Swedish dragon hide, no less) and giving the room a brief survey. Having apparently deemed the room satisfactory, he turned back to me and inquired politely, "Now, what did you say your name was again?"
I could have strangled his lily-white throat. Weasley! Ginny Weasley! The brilliant witch who cast such a hex on you it would have made Godric Gryffindor weep with pride! The girl who rushed to Harry Potter's defense every time you were within a fifty mile radius! The girl whose brother you -- Gah! Settle down, Ginny.
"Ginny Weasley. I hexed you once, my fourth year," I said laconically, in an admirable attempt at controlling my temper.
"Oh. Well, that explains the hair. But you'll have to forgive me if I don't remember you; I got hexed quite a bit in school. People didn't like me much; can't imagine why." He punctuated the last bit with a soft, wry smile.
"Right," I said curtly and turned on my heel, before my brain could adequately process the idea of Malfoy actually being capable of smiling. "See you around," I said, not quite over my shoulder, before walking back through the corridor to join my team.
"So," Natalie said when I slid in next to her on the couch. Around us, the rest of the team was still discussing our new arrival in fervent whispers.
"Malfoy," I said, almost dejectedly. Knowing I had to train, play, and good holy crap, actually live with the pond scum for the next year made me want to howl and stamp my feet.
Natalie let out a commiserative sigh.
The rest of the girls on the team actually looked excited. As luck would have it, Malfoy was loads more attractive in person than what the likes of us mere mortals got to see in the magazines. But Natalie and I, oh, we were close enough to Malfoy's age to know what a shit he was in school. And being armed with that knowledge made me quite certain that the next year was going to be hell.
Malfoy ambled down a few minutes later, hands in pockets, and everyone immediately stopped talking mid-sentence, doing their best to look nonchalant and non-gossipy.
"Ah, good. Have a seat, Draco," said Andrew, gesturing to the gaudily upholstered assortment of couches and chairs.
I must have shot a look of unbridled horror at Andrew when I realized there was an empty space next to me because Malfoy approached but then remained standing to the side.
"Welcome back, everyone. Glad to see you all looking in fine health," Andrew enthused. Sometimes I wondered if the Sorting Hat had gone a bit wonky in placing him because our manager seemed entirely too cheery for the dungeons. "As you all know, this lovely place will be your home for the next season. Some of you have voiced concerns about being in such close quarters, but it worked for the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, and by Merlin, it'll work for us too. To make this a success I must ask you to follow a few house rules."
He passed around a small stack of parchment detailing the rules.
"First, unless you have a very good reason or have received exemption from me, you are not to leave the grounds after ten." A chorus of loud groans and protests failed to deter him, and he ploughed right ahead. "Also, please do try to keep any, ah, consorting to a minimum. Though I suppose if you must, at least give me some sort of warning so I can have our PR people at the ready." He directed a pointed look at two of our reserve players whose tumultuous and short-lived affair last season made scandalous headlines on the sports pages almost daily while it lasted. "I have a few house elves in our employ so you are not explicitly required to pick up after yourself, though I suggest you do for the sake of everyone else's health and sanity. And other than that, standard team rules apply. Questions?"
We shook our heads silently. No point arguing when we were all already here and unpacked.
"Good then! Now, most of you know each other, but I don't believe Draco here knows much about any of you as he has told me that he doesn't follow the Quidditch scene. So let's go around the room and introduce ourselves, shall we?" Andrew said in a tone that suggested we might have been students on the first day of primary school.
Obediently, each of us said our names and what position we played. When it came round to Malfoy's turn, the air shifted just a titch, and everyone leaned forward expectantly, as if he would say something far more brilliant than, "Draco Malfoy, Seeker." So it was somewhat disappointing, it seemed, when he did say just that. I hoped it meant he was a man of few words, because the less I heard his voice the better, no matter how velvety it was.
"All right, excellent," said Andrew. "Well, I shall leave you to get settled in. Tomorrow morning we start training, and I expect you all at the practice field at 8AM sharp. Turn in early, everyone!"
With a crack, he Apparated out of the living room, leaving us looking at each other in an awkward, uncertain silence.
1. Hi, this is the part where I disclaim.
2. This story starts out primarily about Ginny, Draco, and Quidditch. I don't know very much about Quidditch, except what the HP Lexicon can tell me, so I am either a) making things up, or b) using American baseball as inspiration. Please correct me if I mess up something about Quidditch that I really should have known.
3. A thousand worthless points for anyone who spots my fairly obvious Green Day reference. I felt kind of clever about it.
4. Many thanks to my beta, the lovely and talented BlueJeanJunkie, without whom my run-on sentences might take over the world.
5. I love reviews with the passion of a thousand burning suns, and so on.
6. Enjoy! And then tell me about it!
_____________________________________________________________________________________
For not the first time in my life I bemoaned the fact that procrastination and I got along so dreadfully famously.
It didn't help matters either that the WWN was playing one of my favourite songs, causing me to temporarily halt my very frenzied, last-minute packing in order to rock out accordingly. In the wonderful world of Ginevra Weasley, this usually means a lot of unrestrained flailing and knocking into things.
It may be worth mentioning that my room is free of breakables because I've already broken all of them, mostly due to said flailing.
I've a glaring lack of coordination in everyday life, but, oh, put me on a Quidditch pitch and I'll fly gloriously graceful circles around you. It's about the only thing I excel at, so it's a good thing I was scouted by the Appleby Arrows at the Hogwarts' Alumni Charity Game two years ago, after the war. I'm the best Chaser you've seen since Angelina Johnson. No kidding.
"And that was 'Warning' by the Sage Knights. I'm Glenda Chittock, and you're listening to the Witching Hour on the Wizard Wireless Network. Here's your latest news update. Ministry officials have arrested the top suspect in a bizarre string of small crimes involving missile-projecting Muggle toasters - "
Half-listening to the news, I unsuccessfully reorganized the Quidditch gear in my trunk to make space for everything else I had to pack.
"Good news for Arrows fans this season- "
My ears perked up.
"After coming off a devastating defeat last season in the final game against the Falmouth Falcons and losing both their starting and back-up Seekers to injuries from a wayward Bludger, word is the Appleby Arrows have signed a new star Seeker to a very lucrative contract, though the upper management remains tight-lipped about the newcomer's identity."
"Argh," I said, upset with Glenda for not having pried any more information out of our manager than we could. Honestly, what manager refuses to tell his players who he's just picked up for the most pivotal position on the team a week before spring training?
"And the society pages are abuzz about a couple reportedly getting quite cozy last night at the grand opening of the Museum of Magical History," Glenda continued.
"Gnah," I said, picking up my wand and waving the WWN off. Once Glenda got to the 'Society Pages' it usually meant gossip about some rich, pimply layabout like Draco Malfoy and what tarty minx had been seen on his scrawny arm the night before. Nauseating, really.
...
Oh, who am I kidding? Draco Malfoy's bloody gorgeous these days and I half-wish I was the tarty minx on his arm. I mean, look, the bloke looked like a scowly rat back in school, but god, he got pretty. Suddenly, instead of pale and pointy, he's gone all fair and chiseled (if the rags are anything to go by, anyway). But he's Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy is a right bastard. And as far as I'm concerned, right bastards ought not look like sex on a stick.
Don't tell my mum I said that.
Speaking of which, "Mum!" I yelled out my doorway.
"Yes, dear?" her voice floated up from the living room.
"D'you know where my old school trunk is?"
"Try the attic, dear!"
"Thanks!"
I ascended the stairs to the attic, which our beloved ghoul had vacated a few years earlier. He claimed that since I was the only Weasley child still living there it had become far too quiet, and he couldn't very well be expected to shoulder the whole burden of making a jolly din all the time, now, could he?
He had a point, I suppose. My brothers all moved out years ago. Bill and Charlie are still overseas, of course (and both happily married), and Percy's got his own flat in London - says he wants to be closer to work and whatnot. Fred and George built an addition on top of their Diagon Alley shop (interestingly enough, to be closer to work as well). Totally illegal, of course, but they charmed the whole thing invisible and it seems to have worked out all right so far. They haven't had to use Fugue Floss on their lessor, at any rate. And Ron and Hermione are flatmates now - well, that's the official line, anyway. We all know they're shagging like bunnies over there.
Erm, don't tell my mum I said that either.
But as I was saying, I ascended the stairs to the attic and located my old school trunk. As part of the "sweeping reform" our manager, Andrew, is making to the team, instead of having us Apparate to the pitch three hours before games like everyone else, he's decided to rent a chalet, where all the players will live for the entire season. Andrew insists this is key to "fostering unity and a team atmosphere".
All right. Look, I'm all for reform. The Arrows have been languishing at the bottom of the league for three years running, even with a management overhaul last season. But I seriously doubt we're going to do any better if all we want to do is kill each other for leaving toilet seats up, talking about periods, or eating each others' Nutella.
Andrew says we all have very legitimate concerns and wants us moved into the chalet by today.
So I levitated my trunk out of the attic and into my room and proceeded to empty it of whatever contents I'd neglected to unpack after I graduated. My dragonhide gloves, scales, a few quills, some sheaves of parchment...
"Oh, Merlin," I groaned, picking up my old Charms notes. There, all too visibly in the margins, a very silly younger me had doodled hearts and proclamations of love to - well, who else? The Boy Who Lived (and Then Defeated Voldemort Some Years Later, in case you were wondering).
I glanced around furtively, expecting one of the twins to jump out and tease me mercilessly about my notes. They'd do that, you know. You can be sure they gave me hell for that stupid singing valentine first year. No one ever conclusively proved it was me who sent the thing, and I neither admit nor deny it, but let me just say, eleven year olds who fancy themselves in love can be exceedingly silly sometimes.
"Well, no need for these to ever see the light of day again," I said decisively. "Incendio."
Not that anyone would try to push me and Harry into a relationship anymore these days, besides my mum, I mean. She's notoriously thick-headed that way. Harry got engaged to Luna Lovegood last year. Damn near broke Mum's heart, that she couldn't have Harry officially in the family. She's still a bit standoffish to Luna when they come by for Christmases and birthdays, but she'll come around, I'm sure. Luna's a darling, of course, if a bit, erm, loony.
I threw the last of my clothing into the trunk and brought it downstairs, where, now that it had come time for my departure, my mum promptly threw her arms around me carrying on about empty nests and why didn't I "just take that offer from the Ministry to work under Percy instead of getting such a hazardous job throwing balls about and having to move away from home?"
"That's what you get for raising six Quidditch-crazy boys before me, Mum," I quipped, giving her a tight hug. "Besides, if I worked for Percy, he'd probably make me live in the office anyway. Y'know, just to make sure no cauldron escaped intense scrutiny."
"Now, you stop that. Percy's job is very important," Mum said, swatting me on the shoulder. She hugged me again. "Now, are you sure you're all right taking the Knight Bus by yourself? I could get your father to take some time off, make sure you get settled in."
"I'll be okay, Mum."
"Well... all right. But do remember to give us a Floo as soon as you get there."
"I will, Mum." I edged my way out the door.
"Are you sure - "
"Bye, Mum!"
I practically ran out the garden and to the edge of the road to catch the Knight Bus. I stuck out my wand hand, and within seconds, the big purple bus came screeching down the lane. Stan, still the conductor after all these years, took my trunks and sat me down, and then we were off.
After an uncharacteristically painless journey, I arrived at the chalet, gaping openly. The place was fucking huge. But I suppose it'd have to be, for all sixteen of us, one of whom came out to greet me. Natalie McDonald, Beater, a former fellow Gryffindor and the sweetest girl you ever knew, but with the most insane killer instinct once you got her out on the pitch.
"So?" I asked, giving Natalie a hug. "Is our Seeker here yet?"
"No," she replied with a grimace. "But Andrew's been dropping bloody hints all day. I think he thinks he's being cryptic. Anyway, he's waiting for all of us to get here before he unveils his new toy. Left just a minute ago to go fetch the prodigy."
"Showy bastard," I said, as we entered the foyer with my luggage. "So what are the clues?"
"Well, it's a male, for one," Natalie said, leading me to the room we would share for the next year. "And talented, obviously. But apparently, in spite of his skill, he's never gone pro."
My hormones very briefly entertained the impossible thought of Oliver Wood turning out to be our new Seeker. But, unfortunately, Oliver, still Keeper for Puddlemere, is, of course, gay. The best-looking ones always are, the jerks.
I finished unpacking, Flooed my parents ("Are you all right, dear? Are you sure you've got everything you need?"), and made my way down to the living room, where the rest of the team was slowly gathering. I had barely gotten comfortable in one of the armchairs when the front door swung open.
"Oh good, you're all here," said Andrew, leaning casually on the doorjamb. Andrew Pickering, Manager, former Slytherin, my parents' age, and often too smug when his unorthodox managerial decisions pay off.
"Finally!" one of the reserve Beaters grumbled. "Where's the new guy?"
"And how lovely to see you too, Mark," Andrew said pointedly. "Well, I suppose we can all skip the formalities. Meet your new Seeker," Andrew said, ushering our newest teammate in.
"Oh dear god," I muttered amidst the others' gasps and murmurs.
Draco Malfoy, Seeker, former Slytherin bane of Ron's existence, and Witch Weekly's Sexiest Wizard Alive three years running for having, among other assets, "smouldering grey eyes that can melt a witch's knees at thirty paces and a social and financial status reaching far beyond the knowable universe."
"Hello," he said to everyone and no one in particular.
I swear someone to my left about swooned. The rest of us just stared like fools.
"Well," said Andrew, rubbing his hands vigorously together and trying to save our collective face with an apologetic look at Draco. "Looks like almost everyone's settled in nicely. Ah, let's let Draco here get unpacked and we'll have our first team meeting. Uh, Red, show him to his room?"
"Fine," I said.
I got up and walked upstairs, throwing back a glance every once in a while just to make sure Malfoy was still following me.
"Here's your room," I gestured stiffly. "You're sharing with Anthony. He's one of the Chasers."
"Thanks," Malfoy said, pulling in his luggage (Swedish dragon hide, no less) and giving the room a brief survey. Having apparently deemed the room satisfactory, he turned back to me and inquired politely, "Now, what did you say your name was again?"
I could have strangled his lily-white throat. Weasley! Ginny Weasley! The brilliant witch who cast such a hex on you it would have made Godric Gryffindor weep with pride! The girl who rushed to Harry Potter's defense every time you were within a fifty mile radius! The girl whose brother you -- Gah! Settle down, Ginny.
"Ginny Weasley. I hexed you once, my fourth year," I said laconically, in an admirable attempt at controlling my temper.
"Oh. Well, that explains the hair. But you'll have to forgive me if I don't remember you; I got hexed quite a bit in school. People didn't like me much; can't imagine why." He punctuated the last bit with a soft, wry smile.
"Right," I said curtly and turned on my heel, before my brain could adequately process the idea of Malfoy actually being capable of smiling. "See you around," I said, not quite over my shoulder, before walking back through the corridor to join my team.
"So," Natalie said when I slid in next to her on the couch. Around us, the rest of the team was still discussing our new arrival in fervent whispers.
"Malfoy," I said, almost dejectedly. Knowing I had to train, play, and good holy crap, actually live with the pond scum for the next year made me want to howl and stamp my feet.
Natalie let out a commiserative sigh.
The rest of the girls on the team actually looked excited. As luck would have it, Malfoy was loads more attractive in person than what the likes of us mere mortals got to see in the magazines. But Natalie and I, oh, we were close enough to Malfoy's age to know what a shit he was in school. And being armed with that knowledge made me quite certain that the next year was going to be hell.
Malfoy ambled down a few minutes later, hands in pockets, and everyone immediately stopped talking mid-sentence, doing their best to look nonchalant and non-gossipy.
"Ah, good. Have a seat, Draco," said Andrew, gesturing to the gaudily upholstered assortment of couches and chairs.
I must have shot a look of unbridled horror at Andrew when I realized there was an empty space next to me because Malfoy approached but then remained standing to the side.
"Welcome back, everyone. Glad to see you all looking in fine health," Andrew enthused. Sometimes I wondered if the Sorting Hat had gone a bit wonky in placing him because our manager seemed entirely too cheery for the dungeons. "As you all know, this lovely place will be your home for the next season. Some of you have voiced concerns about being in such close quarters, but it worked for the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, and by Merlin, it'll work for us too. To make this a success I must ask you to follow a few house rules."
He passed around a small stack of parchment detailing the rules.
"First, unless you have a very good reason or have received exemption from me, you are not to leave the grounds after ten." A chorus of loud groans and protests failed to deter him, and he ploughed right ahead. "Also, please do try to keep any, ah, consorting to a minimum. Though I suppose if you must, at least give me some sort of warning so I can have our PR people at the ready." He directed a pointed look at two of our reserve players whose tumultuous and short-lived affair last season made scandalous headlines on the sports pages almost daily while it lasted. "I have a few house elves in our employ so you are not explicitly required to pick up after yourself, though I suggest you do for the sake of everyone else's health and sanity. And other than that, standard team rules apply. Questions?"
We shook our heads silently. No point arguing when we were all already here and unpacked.
"Good then! Now, most of you know each other, but I don't believe Draco here knows much about any of you as he has told me that he doesn't follow the Quidditch scene. So let's go around the room and introduce ourselves, shall we?" Andrew said in a tone that suggested we might have been students on the first day of primary school.
Obediently, each of us said our names and what position we played. When it came round to Malfoy's turn, the air shifted just a titch, and everyone leaned forward expectantly, as if he would say something far more brilliant than, "Draco Malfoy, Seeker." So it was somewhat disappointing, it seemed, when he did say just that. I hoped it meant he was a man of few words, because the less I heard his voice the better, no matter how velvety it was.
"All right, excellent," said Andrew. "Well, I shall leave you to get settled in. Tomorrow morning we start training, and I expect you all at the practice field at 8AM sharp. Turn in early, everyone!"
With a crack, he Apparated out of the living room, leaving us looking at each other in an awkward, uncertain silence.
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