Who: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy When: After dinner Where: The Quidditch Pitch What: It's about time these two had some snark, yeah? Also Draco reveals some information to be used to the DA's advantage Rating/Status: Eh, somewhere between PG and PG13 depending on the language. / Incomplete
With no practices that evening, the Quidditch pitch was empty save for one young man laying across the bench Madam Hooch sometimes sat on during matches when she wasn't flying around. Draco was sprawled on his back, looking up at the evening sky. It was dark, and plenty of stars were visible above. He was half-looking for his constellation, and half just staring blankly. Time was passing, and things were getting worse, getting scarier. He'd finally received a letter from his father detailing the events carried on at his home, all of which sounding horrid. It was disturbing, and made him even more loathe to go home for Easter. The part that had shaken him up the most, however, was how different his father's handwriting had looked. It was clearly his father's, but the usual almost calligraphy in which he wrote had been shaky, with some of the ink even a bit smeared. After so many years of Lucius making Draco write lines and lines of the same sentences over and over again to perfect his own penmanship, it was disheartening to see that his father's had declined so drastically. Draco would not allow himself to think about what could have happened to his father's hand to cause it to shake so much. Truthfully, he wasn't sure which was worse. Being away from the prison his home had become and left to wonder the fate of his parents, or being immersed in it, tortured and held prisoner to fill whatever whim the passing Death Eaters who roamed his home possessed.
The worst part of it all? Most of them were his family. Cousins, relatives, and people who came to his home for celebrations and special occasions often in the past. His own Aunt was at the head of it all, getting the most pleasure out of the situation. It was enough to make Draco sick. He was also still lamenting over the events of the last year, and how deeply he was trapped within this violent and frightening situation. Draco truthfully wasn't even sure why he was still alive. Punishment? It sure felt like it.
That night at dinner, Draco had no taste for the food. That was nothing new; he barely touched his food as it was. He'd apologized to Pansy and excused himself, leaving the Great Hall and walking absently until he found himself on he pitch. Quidditch was never something he really enjoyed. He did it to make his father proud and gain more of a reputation, but he hated physical exertion, honestly. This was where his feet had taken him, though, and he didn't feel like walking back to the castle yet. So there he was, miserable, laying there with no intent of getting up until he absolutely had to.