Warning: The Author's Notes at the end of the chapter contains information on Draco's psychological state of mind. Please skip right on over this if it is of no interest to you or interferes with your enjoyment of the fic.
The much anticipated Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match was two weeks away. Both Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were training their teams hard with daily practices, double practices on weekends. Draco had not spoken to Scarhead since the incident on the pitch three weeks prior nor had he seen the Weaselette come off the sidelines to participate in a Gryffindor practice session. This was just as well because the loss of the little Weasel would be another small advantage in Slytherin's favor. She was their best Chaser, and with her out of the picture, they might just have a chance at that Cup...
He was striding off the field after their double practice session that morning, hot, sweaty, and feeling more and more confident about his team. They had been an undisciplined but competent mess just two months ago. However, with the rigorous training sessions and strict adherence to certain rules, he had managed to pull together a true Cup contender. Then he heard the jeers and snide comments coming from both sides as they exchanged the practice field with the Gryffindor Team.
He looked up just as a certain package of red silk and freckles, dressed in crimson and gold Quidditch robes, passed him on the field, broom casually hoisted over one shoulder. His eyes locked onto her and would not let go. They followed that package all the way to the center of the pitch and watched her mount her broom. He only looked away when Zabini knocked him in the shoulder to keep him moving off the field.
Draco brushed aside his fellow team members and slid into a seat in the stands, alone. What the hell was she doing? He followed her as she took several practice laps around the field with her teammates, then Potty started running his infernal series of Gryffindor drills. His silver grey eyes were completely and totally focused on a certain redheaded Chaser now sitting on her broom, tossing the Quaffle to her fellow Chaser and then running it back and forth between the two of them as they headed toward the goal posts. After watching thirty minutes of their practice, he felt his tense body relax, the Weaselette looked surprisingly good. Hoisting his Firebolt onto his shoulder, he made his way to the Slytherin locker room and that shower.
"Of course I was staring at the Weasley bint, you idiots, which is what you trolls should have been doing as well." Draco snarled at Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle. "She's their best Chaser, and she's back. We've got two weeks to adjust our strategy to take her antics into account. I needed to see what she was up to, that's all." Without waiting for their affirmations, Draco Malfoy strode off to the castle, scowl firmly in place.
Many days later, Draco made an appearance at the Quidditch stands a few minutes early for practice. Noticing a handful of his team members sprawled out mid-stand and watching the Gryffindor Team finishing up, he stepped over to them and took a seat. Amid the occasional Slytherin taunt or two, he became aware of a certain line of conversation between Crabbe and Goyle, among others.
"She's obviously their weakest link now."
"Spooked by that fall, I'll bet."
"She's only been back at their bloody practices for a week now."
Draco said nothing, just sat and watched the Gryffindor Team file off the field, one package of red silk and freckles among the bunch. Then he glanced at his watch, mounted his broom, and roared at his team to follow suit as he took off flying over the pitch.
What did he care if his Beaters took the little Weasel out? It was the Slytherin way. They played as dirty as they could. It was common knowledge. If she took it upon herself to take to the pitch and play on Saturday, it was on her head. He had a win to concentrate on. The Slytherin Team needed this goddamn win against Gryffindor. Draco was focusing all of his time, attention, and plotting on how to grab that bloody Snitch out from under Golden Boy's nose. It was all that mattered to him, nothing else mattered.
And so he didn't notice that package of red silk and freckles take to the lower bleachers in the stands and watch a certain Team Captain and Seeker run his team ragged with a brutal practice session. She watched him flying, in his single-minded pursuit of that elusive Snitch, the golden object of his desires. He was elegant and flawless and beautiful in the air. When his time was up, his Snitch firmly in hand for the third time, and he was walking by that particular seat in the lower bleachers, he never noticed her eyes following his form all the way across the field and into the shadows of the locker room.
The crowds were roaring as he and Potty were neck and neck, diving for that elusive mother of a Snitch. Both Seekers were streaming head long toward the ground, one gloved hand outstretched, neither letting their eyes lose contact with that golden lady, only feeling and sensing the presence of the other Seeker. When her scream rang out through that chilled winter's afternoon, he consciously blocked it out and dove even faster, snatching the Snitch right out from under Scarhead's nose for once.
He turned in triumphant to gloat but heard the crowd's collective shudder. Then he saw her fallen body with its ever growing pool of crimson: crimson hair, crimson robes, crimson blood. His heart exploded, shattered into a million bloody fragments, right there on the Quidditch pitch; in front of the entire school crowd, in front of his fellow Slytherins, in front of the whole goddamn wizarding world.
Draco Malfoy awoke in a panic: eyes wide and dilated, heart racing, gasping for what little air there was in his stifling room. He scanned his dark surroundings frantically before slowly relaxing, one tense muscle at a time. That goddamn sorceress of a Gryffindor bint would not leave him alone. This was his third night's interrupted sleep this week, and he was bloody well sick of it. Was this some type of twisted hex she had cast on him? Cursing his package of red silk and freckles, Draco Malfoy pulled up his bed covers, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Author's Note: Draco's PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) continues as evidenced by his hypervigilance and preoccupation with a certain redheaded Witch's safety as well as his persistent nightmares. Now, that part about his heart breaking, hmmm... Nope, it doesn't say anything about that in the DSM IV-TR. Rock on.