Purusu

Chapter the Next

I woke up four or five days later, and all I remember was that Pansy was sobbing a river out onto my arm, and my entire body felt like it was decomposing, and then I must have made some noise because Pansy started screaming, and it sort of felt like my brain was melting, and she was jumping on top of me or something.

Anyway, it was somewhat more pleasant the next time I woke up, which was two or three days after that. At least it was quiet; I was alone in the infirmary and my body felt less horrible, and I got to gleefully hope that I'd gotten off from detention by having a heart attack.

The next day I learned that I hadn't, and the Quidditch team had taken the liberty of choosing a hotshot 'backup' seeker in case I never returned, my parents hadn't and weren't coming, and a large stack of schoolwork had been transferred to the bottom of my bed.

One or two of my teachers had been nice--Snape and my Muggle Studies professor, anyway, (though I had already stopped reading his dumb Muggle textbooks in the first place). Flitwick had, in all his little fake caring-ness, lobbed it on, probably for destroying his classroom. McGonagall was no help either, though I noticed that a majority of my teachers came by to see how I was recovering. But even that was probably to figure out when I'd be back and chained to my seat in lectures.

For the most part, I was trying to breathe. Whenever I started to breathe heavy, Pomfrey would scurry over and conjure a tube inside my throat, despite my best protests--and then I would have to sit there, mute, gagging, while Pansy came in for her little daily visit and pour her heart out to me.

That, and there was homework. Lots and lots of homework. Mostly reading, but for the few writing assignments, Pomfrey wouldn't let me use regular ink because of the fumes or something, so I had to use green ink that smelled like cabbage and was supposedly good for the environment. For most of the classes, I was behind in my work to begin with.

Then a miraculous thing happened: my father sent a letter freeing me from the hospital. Though it was not much better, I could at least recover in my own bed and I got a pass that let me be late for classes. Nobody even said anything about Quidditch, though I don't think I would try it if I were allowed to anyway (I'm smarter than to run off and have another attack so soon.)

Perhaps one downside was that I couldn't run or even walk very fast, making it excessively easy to be caught by even the slowest professors. That's supposed to have a double meaning. So laugh.

"Mr. Malfoy?" My Muggle Studies professor, the extremely tall and fat man called Gambini, swooped down on me right as I figured I was safe from confrontation. I was too much of an invalid to get away, and my next class was pretty much on the other side of the school. I kept shuffling, however; I guess I could try going into a bathroom.

"I wanted to check up and see that you've comprehended this past week's reading assignments." Gambini smiled; he had a chubby face but a huge mouth that looked like a very long split in the side of his head. "I wouldn't want you to get overwhelmed now that we've gone into primary transportation!" he seemed to think that was very funny.

"No problems," I managed, trying to think of where the closest bathroom was, then giving it up, knowing he might just wait outside the bathroom to walk me the rest of the way to my class. "Do Muggles have heart attacks?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Of course," he said, sounding excited to actually be asked a question. I had him. "Probably more Muggles have them than wizards."

"Why? They do a lot more work, wouldn't that keep them in shape?"

He frowned, bobbed his head. "Yes and no," he replied, "Many Muggle jobs don't require extreme fitness, and they can't use magic to keep themselves healthy like we can. But there are some interesting differences." He paused and I felt him look over at me. "How long have you had them, Draco?"

It was none of his damned business, and I told him so, sir. Magic had never done much to keep me healthy. He apologized, left me, and I made it to my class; slightly late, as usual.

*^*

When they took away my late-to-class-pass, I decided that it was fair to say they thought I could do anything. I went to Quidditch practice first off and kicked the extra seeker out of there. There was a game in two days and I'd had no practice, but I'd incite another seizure before I let a spunky third year take my position.

None of the professors were too happy about my playing. Even Snape seemed a little nervous about it; he would stop me two or three times every day asking how much I'd played, or plan to play. I explained about the hall pass, and that if they think I'm such an invalid they should give it back, but all that got me was thirty-minute-at-a-time practice sessions and extra bed rest. Nobody mentioned the game.

Until, of course, the day before.

Something happened to Flint--I'm not really sure what, actually, don't really care--attacked by some Care of Magical Creatures creature or something (it could have been me--I knew I was right about dropping it,) but it's not like it matters at all. He was out of the game. We called the replacement seeker back and put her in as chaser, but she had no training there and whined a lot about it. Then, of course, Snape approached me after Defense Against the Dark Arts and told me, with a quite strangled look, that I wasn't to participate, either.

"Flint is out!" I hissed at him, "We're playing Gryffindor tomorrow, all we have is a bunch of brainless bodybuilders and a flaky third year and you're pulling me out too?"

"Yes," Snape growled, his permanently sour face now even worse-looking. "So you might as well return to your dormitory and your books." He stormed off, possibly more furious than me.

But it was ok, because I planned on playing, anyway.

It took quite a bit of trouble to keep out of teachers' way the next morning, especially McGonagall and Snape; if I let one of them corner me and lay it on me again, there'd be no chance of making it to the game. I did my best to look pouty for the prof in Defense Against the Dark Arts--except for the beginning of class, when Weasley mentioned us being down two players, and I was forced into making some off-color comment about how much he knew about Quidditch, or something. Not sure how to avoid McGonagall, I skipped Transfiguration.

And one hour to the game, and half an hour...I hid outside near the field, warming up on my Nimbus by throwing and diving for some poor second-year's yellow-colored SuperBuster Magic Bouncing Ball that Crabbe handed me earlier. Now, I'm no expert, but my heart didn't seem to stop or anything as I did. Before long, the sorry-looking remainder of the team trod over and looked up at me doubtfully.

It was sort of up to me to give the pep-talk as the game drew nearer and the rest of the school piled up in the stands. "Okay, listen," I told my still-sorry-looking team before we left the tent, "You all just try not to get your asses kicked while I get the snitch." So I'm not that good at giving pep talks. "Now move."

On the field, we moved into our starting positions, me facing Potter, his eyes in the sun. I watched him blankly for a moment, gripping and re-gripping my broom's handle, before I realized that it was my cue to say something Malfoy-esque. Hm...I guess could say something about the sun in his eyes....

Hooch blew her whistle, but twice--signaling to stop, not start. I looked at the players in the air above me and then back down at Hooch. "Stop! Sink and Dismount!" She shouted. Below us, a wizard was walking toward the center of the field. The fourteen of us sank and dismounted.

It was Snape.

I'd been pretty sure that he'd be understanding--he got extremely political when it came to Quidditch (or anything else, really) and I thought he trusted me not to die in midair or anything.

Anyway, I was wrong. Snape walked up, grabbed my arm rather brutally, excused me to Madam Hooch and began to drag me off the field.

"Professor--What--Are--You--Doing?!" And please slow down and let go of my very bruised arm.

"I am removing you, Mr. Malfoy, from this Quidditch field, where you have been restricted from for medical purposes." I couldn't tell if he was mad because we were going to LOSE, or just mad at me. Probably both. He let go of my arm, shoving me ahead of him, and we continued toward the tents with his hand rather firmly placed on my shoulder, me trying not to think of a snickering Potter face and the team's eminent loss.

I was embarrassed--I mean, really, who wouldn't be? I still did not know whether or not Potter knew my sad little weakness; the fact that anybody knew about it, especially high-influence teachers like Snape or Madam Pomfrey was bad enough. I had to wonder why I didn't care so much about the people in my house knowing it. Crabbe and Goyle weren't smart enough to realize the consequences of having such a problem, and nobody else who wanted to keep their reputation would dare mention it to anyone in another house. This, however, was bound to raise school-wide suspicion. I could just hope Potter didn't blab about it too much.

Well, Snape certainly knew about it, and he knowingly assigned my very-much-deserved detention accordingly: extra homework. Enough to "keep me busy". Like my brain-fried, Quidditch-Free life wasn't hectic enough already--and beginning to worry about my O.W.L.'s, too?

I didn't even want to know what the losing score was. I wasn't really sure what to do at all; but when I heard teacher-talk of "he shouldn't be playing at all", I knew one thing I probably should do.

When I was seven I knew that the first important thing I needed to do in life was learn everything my father had to teach. Considering his current affairs, I'd say that encompassed most of what I would not be learning at school. (Now, how many little school children are so educationally ambitious? Hmm?) As I said before, one of the most important things I've learned from him yet is the power of one's connections--how to use people, in as many words.

Dear father; may I use you for a moment?