C3: Choked Up
The second time Draco Malfoy “saved Ginny’s life” had been an accident. He insisted that his every move that night had been deliberately calculated, but Ginny knew better. She knew Malfoy, and Malfoy was not the type of person to save her life on purpose. So what if he’d come to her rescue four other times before and after the accidental incident? The second one had been the one that was unintentional.
And Ginny would defend this position until the day she died. If Malfoy ever let her.
They’d both appeared at a fundraising event sponsored annually by the British and Irish Quidditch League. The money collected that night had been split between each team’s chosen charity, and Ginny had been overly excited when the final earnings of the night had been tallied and announced—to her detriment.
The Harpies supported Protego, an organization that provided shelter and resources to victims of domestic violence. At the end of the event, a grand total of nearly 300,000 Galleons raised had been announced by the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The large, shocking number had set a record for the league, and in the midst of the pleased shock that spread through each person in attendance, Ginny had made the unfortunate decision to stuff an eclair in her mouth.
Gasping and chewing at the same time were not conducive to breathing. Feasible, maybe, if one was careful. But Ginny hadn’t been careful—she’d been surprised. And then panicked as the pastry lodged in her throat, prohibiting her ability to breathe.
She laughed because the adrenaline from the great news continued to course through her. Then she coughed, trying to dislodge the obstruction. Then tears pierced the corners of her eyes, and some of the other players sitting at her table began to notice her distress.
She stood up as if a vertical position would help the food continue down her esophagus, but gravity decided to fail her in this instance. Outside of her table, no one else seemed aware of her predicament, assuming, she supposed later when she wasn’t dying, that she had stood up to applaud the amazing outcome of the fundraiser like many others had. It had been unfortunate that at the same moment she’d risen to her feet, everyone else gave a standing ovation, their applause both self-congratulatory and succeeding in masking Ginny’s alarm.
The women at her table finally rushed to action, but before they could do more than push back their own chairs, Ginny was shoved from behind. The force of her abdomen colliding with her chair did just the trick, the collision putting enough pressure on her diaphragm to shoot the chunk of eclair out of her mouth and onto her dinner table.
While Ginny coughed and breathed, her friends stared behind her with expressions of awe. Effusive gratitude spilled out of her lips as soon as she’d caught her breath, and then died on those same lips, much like her eclair, when she turned around.
“I was going to apologize,” Malfoy said.
“And?”
He shrugged. “Now I’m not.”
Ginny began to fume, and her outrage only burned hotter as her friends finally got out of their seats to converge on her. Only, they didn’t actually go to Ginny. No. In fact, they swarmed right past her and surrounded Malfoy, praising him and patting him on the back and explaining in vivid and embarrassing detail what he’d done for Ginny. Again.
“You realize this is the second time I’ve saved you, don’t you?” Malfoy had asked, his eyes sparkling with glee.
Ginny wanted to claw his face to wipe the smug smile off it. Or pick up the hunk of eclair sitting cold, sad, and moist on the table and stuff it in his mouth to shut him up. Her temper continued to rise until she began to shake, and it occurred to her, suddenly, that her reaction was disproportionate to the situation. Maybe Malfoy was annoying for soooo many reasons she would have been glad to list, but the fear she’d felt while she’d been choking had been real and all-encompassing, and whether it was an accident or not, whether it was Malfoy or not, she should have been grateful. She should have thanked him.
But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t.
As Ginny came out of the memory, the team medic, Lloyd, patted Ginny down, watching her carefully for twinges and winces that might indicate pain and injury. Ginny considered the anger that Malfoy elicited from her.
“Is this how an adult woman should act?” she asked herself.
“Er, yes?” Lloyd said, a puzzled furrow in her brow.
“Not you. But thank you for answering.”
Ginny had the feeling it had been the wrong answer. But what did Lloyd know, anyway?
On the other side of the pitch, Malfoy, too, was being poked and prodded, and as though he had felt her eyes on him, he turned his head to look back at her. The goggles were perched on top of his head now instead of over his eyes, so Ginny saw when he winked. She looked away, her cheeks flushing, her hands balling into fists.
“Are you in pain?” Lloyd asked, too observant for her own good.
“No, I’m fine, honestly.” Ginny forced herself to relax, to release the tension in her hands, her shoulders. To slow her breathing and her heartbeat. The last thing she needed was to be taken out of the game because her anger was misconstrued for injury. If she was forced to sit out, she’d go mad with her outrage. Quidditch was the best outlet she had for emotions she couldn’t control.
Lloyd didn’t seem convinced by Ginny’s answer, but she nodded and banished away the monitors and numbers that floated in mid-air, informing her of Ginny’s physical state.
Gwenog forced herself through the wall of players that surrounded Ginny and Lloyd and stopped next to the cot Ginny was sitting on. “Well? Can she play?”
“Certainly. I detect no injuries, and I suspect that’s thanks to Malfoy’s quick reflexes. He didn’t hesitate to go after her. If it weren’t for him—”
Ginny jumped to her feet, and the cot disappeared in a lilac cloud with a soft poof. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We get it! Malfoy’s amazing. All hail Malfoy!”
Gwenog and Lloyd both cocked their heads to the side, their expressions scrunched up in bemusement.
But another voice floated through the air, much too close for comfort.
“It’s about time you recognized my brilliance,” Malfoy said.
All the hair on Ginny’s body stood up. It was as though his name was Taboo’d, the mere mention of him enough to summon him to her side.
He came up beside Gwenog, his lips curved in a smile, his eyes wide with surprise or mischief or accusation. Ginny wasn’t sure because she couldn’t make eye contact with him. She stared at his feet instead. A two-inch thick line of mud covered the hems of his robes. How strange. She couldn’t imagine Malfoy allowing himself to become dirty. She’d always thought him fastidious about his clothes, the way she expected most rich people would be.
Or maybe he didn’t care about a bit of mud because clothes were expendable. He had enough money to replace them if need be.
Ginny shook her head, her gaze rising from his hem up, up, up to that face that made her shiver in revulsion. No, it wasn’t revulsion. It was just anger that the sight of him inspired in her, and maybe that was part of the reason she was so angry. He no longer disgusted her. When had that happened?
“I’m glad to see you’re injury-free,” Malfoy said, his smile transforming into that sneer that she loathed. The one that she always interpreted as You’re alive because of me. Your life belongs to me.
He held his hand out to her for a handshake, and Ginny stared at that open palm. Gwenog and Lloyd were still there, silent witnesses to this interaction. It would be unsportsmanlike to refuse his hand. It would be ungracious not to express some form of gratitude.
At the moment, Ginny didn’t want to analyze why Malfoy made her so angry. She wanted to get back on her broom and fly back up into the air, fighting the wind and the Tornadoes for the Quaffle and every last point. The game couldn’t restart until she acknowledged him.
She met his eyes and shook his hand. But she didn’t thank him.
The second time Draco Malfoy “saved Ginny’s life” had been an accident. He insisted that his every move that night had been deliberately calculated, but Ginny knew better. She knew Malfoy, and Malfoy was not the type of person to save her life on purpose. So what if he’d come to her rescue four other times before and after the accidental incident? The second one had been the one that was unintentional.
And Ginny would defend this position until the day she died. If Malfoy ever let her.
They’d both appeared at a fundraising event sponsored annually by the British and Irish Quidditch League. The money collected that night had been split between each team’s chosen charity, and Ginny had been overly excited when the final earnings of the night had been tallied and announced—to her detriment.
The Harpies supported Protego, an organization that provided shelter and resources to victims of domestic violence. At the end of the event, a grand total of nearly 300,000 Galleons raised had been announced by the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The large, shocking number had set a record for the league, and in the midst of the pleased shock that spread through each person in attendance, Ginny had made the unfortunate decision to stuff an eclair in her mouth.
Gasping and chewing at the same time were not conducive to breathing. Feasible, maybe, if one was careful. But Ginny hadn’t been careful—she’d been surprised. And then panicked as the pastry lodged in her throat, prohibiting her ability to breathe.
She laughed because the adrenaline from the great news continued to course through her. Then she coughed, trying to dislodge the obstruction. Then tears pierced the corners of her eyes, and some of the other players sitting at her table began to notice her distress.
She stood up as if a vertical position would help the food continue down her esophagus, but gravity decided to fail her in this instance. Outside of her table, no one else seemed aware of her predicament, assuming, she supposed later when she wasn’t dying, that she had stood up to applaud the amazing outcome of the fundraiser like many others had. It had been unfortunate that at the same moment she’d risen to her feet, everyone else gave a standing ovation, their applause both self-congratulatory and succeeding in masking Ginny’s alarm.
The women at her table finally rushed to action, but before they could do more than push back their own chairs, Ginny was shoved from behind. The force of her abdomen colliding with her chair did just the trick, the collision putting enough pressure on her diaphragm to shoot the chunk of eclair out of her mouth and onto her dinner table.
While Ginny coughed and breathed, her friends stared behind her with expressions of awe. Effusive gratitude spilled out of her lips as soon as she’d caught her breath, and then died on those same lips, much like her eclair, when she turned around.
“I was going to apologize,” Malfoy said.
“And?”
He shrugged. “Now I’m not.”
Ginny began to fume, and her outrage only burned hotter as her friends finally got out of their seats to converge on her. Only, they didn’t actually go to Ginny. No. In fact, they swarmed right past her and surrounded Malfoy, praising him and patting him on the back and explaining in vivid and embarrassing detail what he’d done for Ginny. Again.
“You realize this is the second time I’ve saved you, don’t you?” Malfoy had asked, his eyes sparkling with glee.
Ginny wanted to claw his face to wipe the smug smile off it. Or pick up the hunk of eclair sitting cold, sad, and moist on the table and stuff it in his mouth to shut him up. Her temper continued to rise until she began to shake, and it occurred to her, suddenly, that her reaction was disproportionate to the situation. Maybe Malfoy was annoying for soooo many reasons she would have been glad to list, but the fear she’d felt while she’d been choking had been real and all-encompassing, and whether it was an accident or not, whether it was Malfoy or not, she should have been grateful. She should have thanked him.
But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t.
As Ginny came out of the memory, the team medic, Lloyd, patted Ginny down, watching her carefully for twinges and winces that might indicate pain and injury. Ginny considered the anger that Malfoy elicited from her.
“Is this how an adult woman should act?” she asked herself.
“Er, yes?” Lloyd said, a puzzled furrow in her brow.
“Not you. But thank you for answering.”
Ginny had the feeling it had been the wrong answer. But what did Lloyd know, anyway?
On the other side of the pitch, Malfoy, too, was being poked and prodded, and as though he had felt her eyes on him, he turned his head to look back at her. The goggles were perched on top of his head now instead of over his eyes, so Ginny saw when he winked. She looked away, her cheeks flushing, her hands balling into fists.
“Are you in pain?” Lloyd asked, too observant for her own good.
“No, I’m fine, honestly.” Ginny forced herself to relax, to release the tension in her hands, her shoulders. To slow her breathing and her heartbeat. The last thing she needed was to be taken out of the game because her anger was misconstrued for injury. If she was forced to sit out, she’d go mad with her outrage. Quidditch was the best outlet she had for emotions she couldn’t control.
Lloyd didn’t seem convinced by Ginny’s answer, but she nodded and banished away the monitors and numbers that floated in mid-air, informing her of Ginny’s physical state.
Gwenog forced herself through the wall of players that surrounded Ginny and Lloyd and stopped next to the cot Ginny was sitting on. “Well? Can she play?”
“Certainly. I detect no injuries, and I suspect that’s thanks to Malfoy’s quick reflexes. He didn’t hesitate to go after her. If it weren’t for him—”
Ginny jumped to her feet, and the cot disappeared in a lilac cloud with a soft poof. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We get it! Malfoy’s amazing. All hail Malfoy!”
Gwenog and Lloyd both cocked their heads to the side, their expressions scrunched up in bemusement.
But another voice floated through the air, much too close for comfort.
“It’s about time you recognized my brilliance,” Malfoy said.
All the hair on Ginny’s body stood up. It was as though his name was Taboo’d, the mere mention of him enough to summon him to her side.
He came up beside Gwenog, his lips curved in a smile, his eyes wide with surprise or mischief or accusation. Ginny wasn’t sure because she couldn’t make eye contact with him. She stared at his feet instead. A two-inch thick line of mud covered the hems of his robes. How strange. She couldn’t imagine Malfoy allowing himself to become dirty. She’d always thought him fastidious about his clothes, the way she expected most rich people would be.
Or maybe he didn’t care about a bit of mud because clothes were expendable. He had enough money to replace them if need be.
Ginny shook her head, her gaze rising from his hem up, up, up to that face that made her shiver in revulsion. No, it wasn’t revulsion. It was just anger that the sight of him inspired in her, and maybe that was part of the reason she was so angry. He no longer disgusted her. When had that happened?
“I’m glad to see you’re injury-free,” Malfoy said, his smile transforming into that sneer that she loathed. The one that she always interpreted as You’re alive because of me. Your life belongs to me.
He held his hand out to her for a handshake, and Ginny stared at that open palm. Gwenog and Lloyd were still there, silent witnesses to this interaction. It would be unsportsmanlike to refuse his hand. It would be ungracious not to express some form of gratitude.
At the moment, Ginny didn’t want to analyze why Malfoy made her so angry. She wanted to get back on her broom and fly back up into the air, fighting the wind and the Tornadoes for the Quaffle and every last point. The game couldn’t restart until she acknowledged him.
She met his eyes and shook his hand. But she didn’t thank him.
Author notes:
I think I am INCAPABLE of writing pure humor/fluff/crackfic. I always devolve into some sort of angst.... Anyway, I hope it's enjoyable angst. ;)
Leave a Review