Chapter 5 of The Bubo
In which Seamus takes one for the team.
Tuesday, November 24, 1994
Draco woke up before sunrise, wide-eyed and nervous. By the time the other boys rose, such a knot had tied itself in his stomach he thought he might be sick. He couldn’t bear the thought of food and skipped breakfast altogether, opting to wait outside, at the same spot where he and Potter had stood last night, till the crowd poured out and carried him along. Pansy found him and clung to his arm all the way to the stands that had appeared in the woods overnight, chattering excitedly to his absent nods and smiles, while he imagined the worst. What if Potter were to die, and last night had been the final chance Draco would ever have to… do something? Make his feelings known, for better or for worse?
Vince and Greg had saved him a seat in the best part of the stands, and Draco was relieved to excuse himself from Pansy’s company. Shivering under his cloak, he greedily absorbed the warmth of his friends’ beefy arms and thighs as they closed in around him, though it barely took the edge off his anxiety.
“Alright, Draco?” asked Vince in a low voice.
Draco didn’t deign him with an answer.
And then the first dragon was brought out, and what little blood he’d had in his face drained away as well.
He watched the proceedings in a blur of horror while the rest of the audience cheered and laughed and screamed all around him. It wasn’t fair. He was supposed to have fun too. He wasn’t supposed to care.
When Potter finally stepped into the arena, Draco was shocked by just how boyish he looked, how small he was compared to the three older contestants, let alone the bloody dragon. As fate so often arranged, Draco’s seat was directly in Potter’s line of sight, and against all odds, he looked up, and their eyes met for a fleeting, devastating second.
“Remember, Potter,” Draco muttered into his chin, his words drowned by the din of the crowd. “Intent.”
As if he’d heard it, Potter extended his hand and cried, “Accio!”
Draco held his breath, and he wasn’t the only one. Tense silence spread over the masses as shouts turned to speculative whispers. Draco should’ve been too far to sense the heady rise of Potter’s magic, but he sensed it alright, and it made every single hair on his body stand. He understood now. He knew what Potter had sent for. His broomstick. The bloody fool was about to try and snatch the golden egg from the air.
And if anyone could pull it off, it was Potter. But still. The madness of it, the hubris! Not for the first time, Draco couldn’t tell if he despised Potter or admired him for it.
It took almost a minute—long enough for cold dread to settle in the pit of Draco’s stomach. But at last, to the collective exhale, the Firebolt zoomed into Potter’s hand, and it was all Draco could do to keep from cheering with the rest of the crowd.
But that wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning. As Potter cut through the air, soaring and diving at ridiculous angles, Draco’s insides soared and dived with him until he was fully nauseous. Sympathy and fear mixed with the painfully familiar, bone-deep envy of Potter’s effortless skill into something at once volatile and fragile. He could barely draw breath through his constricted throat. When the wing of the Horntail swung at Potter as he made a run for the egg, Draco almost jumped up, some terrified sound tearing from his lungs to be mercifully swallowed by a thousand other cries. Then Potter emerged, with the cursed egg under his arm, and Draco sagged, unable to keep his spine straight, every last tatter of his self-control invested into holding back relieved tears.
A large, warm hand pressed between his shoulder blades, grounding him. Draco glanced at Greg, but he gazed ahead, even as he rubbed Draco’s back, and said nothing.
“You look about to faint, Draco,” said Vince from his other side. This time, Draco nodded, and rubbed his face, pinching lightly at his cheekbones to get some color back into them. He clung to Vince’s shoulder, getting up, and a good thing he did, because his vision went blotchy, and the deafening noise faded to a slow, deep thrum in his ears. But it passed in a moment, and though his limbs shook with the aftereffects of excitement, he was himself again.
And he remembered the Cloak, which he had brought along in a knapsack under his robes.
“I’m hungry,” he declared as the three of them passed the large tent just outside the arena. “Get me something from the kitchens and bring it to the dorm. I’ll meet you there in a bit.”
“Yeah, alright,” said Greg.
Vince seemed to hesitate, eying Draco with concern, but Greg, who’d always had a better grasp of Draco’s moods, put an arm around Vince’s shoulders and dragged him away.
Draco pulled his hood over his conspicuous hair, casting about for a tree large enough to hide him from the stream of people flowing back toward the castle. He narrowly avoided Theo and Pansy, who seemed to be looking for him, and finally ducked behind a bush.
Even with the Invisibility Cloak on, the inevitable rustling of dry leaves and the cracking of twigs under his feet would’ve given him away in an instant if not for the bustle of all the people who still loitered around. He approached the tent unnoticed. One flap was open, but it was too dark inside to make out much of anything. He was just about to sneak in, when the other flap burst open and Ludo Bagman marched out, missing Draco by the slightest margin. His heart racing, Draco slithered through and immediately ducked behind some crates carelessly deposited along the walls.
The tent was packed with people. They formed four color-coded groups, one for each Champion, and conversed loudly in three languages. Moving carefully behind his cover, Draco soon found himself within arm’s reach of Potter, who still clung to his Firebolt and looked dazed. Flushed from the exertion, with hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, a smoke stain over one cheek and a fresh cut on the other, he was the picture of a warrior returning from battle.
Draco wanted to lick him. Taste the salt and blood and victory.
He cringed. Like wanting to kiss Potter 24/7 wasn’t awful enough.
Potter was surrounded by a whole gaggle of excited Gryffindors. Not only Weasley, who stood aside and looked miserable, and Granger, whose eyes sparkled with joyful tears, but Longbottom too, and Finnigan, and one of the Patil twins. Everyone seemed intent on laying their hands on Potter. His shoulders were patted a hundred times, his hair ruffled about a dozen, and his free hand was being shaken for at least five minutes non-stop while everyone spoke at once. Draco felt ill watching it.
At last, Weasley cleared his throat. Heads turned, mouths stopped yapping, and a path opened between him and Potter. With head bowed and hands shoved into his pockets, Weasley muttered, “I’ve been a bit of an ass, haven’t I.”
“You reckon?” said Potter.
“I’m sorry, alright? I don’t know what else to say.”
Potter shrugged. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Yeah?” Weasley looked up. His watery eyes were bulging with hope. “So, we’re good?”
“Sure.”
Weasley would’ve smiled around his head if he’d had no ears. He offered a hand, but instead of taking it, Potter pulled him into a tight, one-armed hug. Everyone applauded and cheered.
And Draco… Draco fumed. He was abundantly familiar with the burn of jealousy, but this was on a whole new level. It was supposed to be him, damn it. This was supposed to be his. Potter was supposed to be his. What did he see in this shaggy, disloyal, envious weasel? Granger had a brain, at least. But Weasley? How could Weasley possibly stand higher in Potter’s esteem than Draco? Draco wasn’t only smarter, richer and better-looking; he had also single-handedly brought Potter this triumph and likely saved his sorry life. But was he going to get a hug for it? Noooo. The best he was ever going to get from Potter was see you around, Malfoy. Because, that was foul, Malfoy. Weasley could ignore him for two months, leaving him at the mercy of bloody dragons, and be forgiven without so much as a blink, but not Draco. Never Draco. Gods, how he wanted to smack Potter in the teeth right now! Why, oh, why hadn’t he done it yesterday, when he’d had the chance? He could smack himself for being so stupid. And Weasley? He’d roll Weasley around in broken glass. Naked. Death by a thousand cuts for the filthy blood traitor!
The hug could not have lasted more than three seconds, for all it seemed like hours of torment. Weasley awkwardly patted Potter on the back and they stepped apart.
Patil said, “You did so well with the Summoning Charm, Harry! I remember you were having trouble with it, but clearly, not anymore!”
“From what I remember,” said Granger, arching a suspicious eyebrow, “you were still having trouble with it last week.”
“Yeah, I er, had a breakthrough last night, actually,” Potter said. Hoping against hope that his contribution would be recognized, Draco tried to step closer and bumped into a crate that stood between him and the Gryffindors, but fortunately, no one heard. “I was practicing with some stones by the lake,” Potter went on, “and I realized it’s all about intent. I’d been over-thinking it before. You know, focusing on the magic instead of the object I wanted to summon. Once that clicked in place, well… now I feel like I could summon things from the other side of the globe, if I set my mind on it.”
Draco couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. Granger looked about as shocked as he felt, but Patil seemed thoroughly impressed. “That’s very insightful, Harry,” she said, batting her long, black eyelashes at him. “Maybe you can help me master the Repulsion Charm?”
“Er, yeah,” said Potter, reddening. “Sure.” He turned his back on the group, pretending to search for a spot to put his broomstick away, when really he was unable to look in so many eyes full of admiration while lying through his teeth.
“Yes, very insightful,” said Granger in a low voice, following after Potter while the rest of the Gryffindors resumed speaking all at once, each listing the charms that had given them the most trouble. “Won’t you tell me what really happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Potter said. “If you must know, Malfoy threw my glasses in the lake, and it was the only way I could think of to get them back. Without, you know, swimming.” He grinned at her sheepishly.
“Malfoy?” Granger exclaimed, forgetting that she was supposed to keep her voice down.
“Oi, Harry,” yelled Finnigan, and everyone turned to look at him. “Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“Malfoy!”
“Er, no. I was a bit preoccupied.”
Draco rolled his eyes. After what he’d witnessed already, this was hardly surprising, but he couldn’t help feeling the sting of it anyway. To what lengths would Potter go to deny any association with him?
“Oh, mate,” Weasley joined. “You missed out.”
“He was white as a ghost,” Finnigan said, “and twitched every time the dragons moved. We had a blast watching him in the breaks.”
“I bet he’d have pissed his pants if he’d been in the arena,” Weasley said, almost breathless with mirth.
Draco clenched his fists. If Greg and Vince were here—and Blaise and Theo too—he’d show the stupid Gryffindors who’d piss their pants! They were all laughing: everyone except Potter. Standing closer to him than any of his friends, Draco heard him murmur, “Wasn’t far from it myself,” and in that moment, Draco was willing to forgive him everything.
But no one else heard the comment, and Finnigan went on to conclude, “Such a bloody ponce!”
Draco exhaled as if punched in the chest and couldn’t get any air back in. The tent went silent. Krum’s, Delacour’s and Diggory’s groups had apparently gone out at some point, unobserved. Draco was alone with the Gryffindors. All of them stood frozen.
“What?” said Finnigan, spreading his arms. “Don’t tell me none of you think so.”
“It’s a very ugly thing to say,” said Granger quietly.
“Not as ugly as some of the things he says,” Finnigan insisted. “And what do you care, anyway? I’ll call him whatever I like. Poofter, fairy, fag—”
“Mate,” said Weasley, looking queasy.
“What?” Finnigan repeated. “Are you all seriously defending him? He called Hermione a mud—”
“And you wanna be just like him, that it?” Potter said. He didn’t raise his voice but the silence after he’d spoken seemed deeper than before.
Behind the crates, Draco observed the scene in numb horror. He’d had no inkling that anyone suspected, let alone knew. Least of all this scruffy, stupid, low-born Gryffindor. Draco’s own friends didn’t know. He had barely come to terms with it himself!
If bloody Finnigan knew… who else knew? Was the whole school laughing at Draco behind his back? He recalled the conversation with Professor Snape. Had Draco been equally transparent, perhaps for years, without knowing it? His mind flickered back to the confrontation with Potter over the badges, and Potter’s vicious, effeminate pantomime. Draco hadn’t made much of it at that time, but… Merlin’s beard, did Potter know too? Shame burned like branding irons on Draco’s cheeks.
But then a much more horrible thought occurred to him. If the whole school knew… how long before it got to Father?
“How kind of you to remind me,” Granger said. She had grown very pale. Watching her, Draco winced as an odd sense of… kinship… coursed through him, leaving him nauseated.
“Oh, c’mon, Hermione,” Finnigan grumbled. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Granger just gave him a reproachful look.
“Forget Malfoy,” Potter said. “What I’d like to know is if Cho was watching.”
Overwhelmed, Draco couldn’t make sense of it. Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw seeker? What did she have to do with anything?
Granger took air to speak, but Patil beat her to it, with a crafty little smile. “She was… but she left after Cedric was done.”
“Oh,” said Potter, crestfallen.
“Don’t worry, mate,” said Weasley, pushing between the others to clasp a heavy arm around Potter’s sagging shoulders. “She’ll come around.”
Draco understood then, and it was the drop that spilled the glass. His vision swam with tears.
“We should probably get going, if we want to make it back in time for lunch?” said Longbottom.
“Oh, we want to,” said Potter with renewed vigor. “Come on, let’s go. I could eat an erumpent!”
They all burst out laughing, like it was some grand joke, and were gone within seconds.
Draco followed out a bleary minute later, hardly knowing where he was going and what he was doing. He threw the Cloak off his shoulders, caring little if someone would see him, and meant to leave it there in the woods, never to be found again. But the geas of the deal he’d sealed with Potter hooked into his flesh before he made two dozen strides, and he had to return and pick the damn thing up. He held on to his dignity for another minute, but when hot tears rolled down his cheeks, he broke into a run and sprinted all the way back to the castle along a less-known path.
He made it with just time enough to stop by the dorm. A plate piled with sandwiches awaited on his bedside cabinet, and a note from Vince, saying they’d all gone for lunch. With a shaking hand, Draco spelled the mud off his boots, changed out of his sweaty shirt and got his hair in order. His face was still pink from running and his eyes were bloodshot from crying but there wasn’t anything for it.
With his spine rigid and his chin held high, he strolled into the entrance hall like on any other day. He found Pansy and put an arm around her shoulders. She looked at him, and he looked at her, their noses almost touching. Then she smiled and wound her arm around his waist.
“How did you like the show?” she asked.
“I was dreadfully bored without you,” he said, and smiled back.