Purusu

Chapter the Next

My actual letter read something like, Father, Hogwarts and Slytherin staff have or are about to remove any chances of my continuing to play on the House Quidditch team. I feel this is an immense disgrace to our respected family name, and, if this does take place, I may loose my current connections with other influential persons at my school. (Yes, I spent about half an hour on it. "Hmm.....do you think Father would appreciate "instrumental" over "influential"? Or does "prominent" fit in there better?") -Draco. I was about to put my last name, too, (like he did on one letter to me at the beginning of the year,) but I think I'm supposed to play the subordinate child in this picture.

I didn't get a letter back, but something had happened behind the scenes. I was escorted to Dumbledore's office two days later, where the Headmaster was having a glaring match with my Old Man.

"Hello, Father," I said in an abnormally bright voice. "I'll assume you got my letter." I crossed my arms and waited to see what happened.

Father half-snarled and furrowed his eyebrows. He's not a very attractive man. I thank him for my hair, but I do hope I age a little better than he did. "I was just discussing this situation with Professor Dumbledore," he said without greeting, his voice seemingly out of place at Hogwarts. "It seems several professors here have taken to you so much, they can't stand for you to be playing Quidditch." He turned back to Dumbledore and continued the staring match one-sidedly. Dumbledore looked at me.

"Draco, you fall into a small category of wizards with a rare physiological condition that is not easily helped with magical medicine. We were not aware of this before now, though now that we are, we must attend to the Health Laws on the issue. You are not to compete in House sports until you show signs of significant recovery."

Well, I wasn't expecting that. I waited the few extra seconds for a "However...", but it didn't come. Father was supposed to answer this problem, not come over just to glare at the headmaster and annoy me even more. "'Significant recovery'? What's that?" I demanded, possibly in an inappropriate way to the headmaster of the school.

"You would have to pass physical examination from a qualified Magical Health Board physician." Dumbledore looked directly at me and I was forced to turn my head. "We can import the required medicine from a local....Hospital, and hopefully we can soon find signs of improvement."

From past experience, I knew that I wouldn't be getting much better than I was right now. I'd thought that I was nearly completely recovered as it was. "I'm almost better now," I tried, though loosing faith in my words. What if I was never completely healthy?

"Madam Pomfrey holds the opinion that you are in no good health," Dumbledore replied, staring at me again.

"We want a second opinion!" My father demanded. It was no use, Pomfrey was probably right. I didn't think Father had any contacts in the Magical Health Board--didn't need them--and his reactions seemed to agree with my theory.

Dumbledore calmly nodded his agreement to Father's demand, but it was no use.

I had an idea.

"But...I can waiver the consequences, right? I just sign something and take personal responsibility for myself!" Because, gee, I wouldn't want Hogwarts to get sued, or anything.

Dumbledore slowly nodded his head. "That is true. But legal actions such as personal responsibility are not permitted until the person in question is eighteen years of age."

My eyes shot to my father, then back to the Headmaster. "He's my father--he's in charge of me until then, right?" Oh, I was frantic. I had to play Quidditch. Quidditch was the only cool thing in my life.

Dumbledore nodded again, only slower, and he was looking at Father, too, now. Father was still glaring. Maybe that's his job in the world, to glare like a stupid watchdog at everything that passes through. "Father!" I practically moaned.

He made a guttural noise and snapped his head towards me, which actually frightened me a little. Usually he's not that bad, but I really do hate it when he looks at me like that. I feel like an object. And object that he really, really wants to go at with an axe.

"Your mother," he said, "has already refused to sign the waiver. Both our signatures are required." Ooh, I hate my mum. Before I could start screaming why, WHY and banging my head on the wall, he continued, "It seems she has always felt nervous about your playing in the first place and would rather die than see you stop breathing and take a plunge on broomstick." His scowl softened for a moment. Yeah. But you'd probably get a kick out of it, right Father? Perfect.

I was, again, drawing a blank. Counting, one, two....I wouldn't legally be able to play on a school team until six months after I graduated? No, no, that was insane! My childhood dream of a Quidditch career was ruined in an instant, unrealistic as it had always been. It would never happen. I'd get no practice, no recognition at school, my mum wouldn't let me practice over the summers, and now I had some sort of cardiac blemish on my sports resume--and no professional team would accept a player that had a significant chance of dying on them. Yes, it was over--unless my dad played a hand, like he really, really wanted to.

"I'm not an invalid!" I shouted at one of the two adults in the room with me, mostly Dumbledore. "The strokes don't happen for years at a time! I'm not due for one again until I'm--er--23!"

My father turned back to Dumbledore, his arms crossed like mine--(I realized it and dropped my own arms, only to realize that my best intimidating and angry pose would be with my arms crossed again--must be a Malfoy thing)--and his snarl began to twist back into his furrowed-eyebrow concentration mask.

"Do you realize, Headmaster," he said slowly, in the wannabe-evil drone I was more used to hearing, "what a social and psychological blemish this action might cause for my son?"

Well, I'd go along with it, I guess, if being psychologically blemished was the only way to play Quidditch. I wondered what a psychologically blemished Malfoy might look like, and tried my best to look like one. Anyway, it did not look like Dumbledore was going to take it. Though he never listens, I've told Father about twenty times that Dumbledore is a lot less fogy than he looks.

"I am sorry," The old bearded man said, raising his chin, "but Hogwarts School does not allow that which is legally disapproved by Magical Health Board. I must say good-day to you, Mr. Malfoy, and suggest that your son concentrate more on his academic studies for the next few years--for his own health's sake."

I realized that I was on my Father's side for the first time in years, not that it really mattered. The real problem was that I was not going to be playing Quidditch. And it was Potter's fault for forcing me into that me-or-you situation that started the damned heart attack. Well, if I couldn't convince my mum to sign that waiver through mail, he'd sure hurt for it.

I was turning to leave Dumbledore's office, but Father did not move. He leaned into the Headmaster and said through his teeth, "Well, headmaster, with the curriculum here doing so little to educate him and the absence of a sports elective, I see no pressing reason to even return him here the next few years." He backed up a step and came toward me.

In the hallway, I felt very much like that seven-year-old version of myself as I hurried to catch up with my father. "Father--did you mean that? Not coming back?" Quidditch I could possibly deal with through my mum. This was a little cooler. He whirled on me, and I took an instinctive jump backwards. "I don't say things I don't mean, boy. This was no school for you in the first place; I always tried to explain to that woman but...." He went on mumbling about proper spell casting and curses. Father is not a very flippant person.

Yes! Yes! Durmstrang!

"Can I leave now?!" He was off again and I was chasing after him. He spoke as he walked, "Of course you can't leave now, the year is nearly over. I want you to be studying the Dark Arts more carefully, now and during the summer--I'll supervise that myself." Yeah, can't wait. "I'll be talking with your mother, I'm sure she'll see the sense in it now. You still won't be playing Quidditch, either way--but I've always told you to spend more time with your feet on the ground; you're not built for sports, anyway..." I think I'd heard this one before, so I waited for a good breaking point, said a quick goodbye, and took off toward the dungeons.

And Quidditch was forgotten for a few hours.

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Harry looked across the table at Hermione, who smiled brightly and nodded. Reluctantly, he picked up the potion and drank it.

"What's it taste like?" Ron asked excitedly, on his left. Harry swallowed, his eyes watering, and after a moment burped loudly. Hermione smiled even brighter and bounced happily.

Professor McGonagall, on Harry's right, nodded, her index finger at her chin, and checked something on her clipboard. "Milkweed Sleep Potion accurately transfigured into the very harmless Bubbling Brew. Top marks for you, Miss Granger, and ten points to Gryffindor." Hermione bounced on the balls of her feet, smiling quietly, until McGonagall had moved on to Neville's group, where Dean was now hiccupping and swaying sleepily on his feet.

"Good job, Hermione," Ron said as Hermione happily straightened her books. With a look at Harry, he added, "I hope yours is good, too. I'm going to be drinking it, right?"

Harry nodded and leaned against their table, watching the other students as they either belched or fell over, sleeping. Across the room, Malfoy and Crabbe were doubled over in laughter as Goyle began to burp loudly and unstoppably. McGonagall rushed over and dealt with it, though Harry did not hear anything that was said. Dean began burping in his sleep.

"Still no idea what's up with Malfoy?" Ron said tiredly, packing his books away and joining Harry leaning against the table. "Don't bother with it, Harry, really. He's not worth the brain power. Maybe next time we'll get luckier and he'll blow up, or something." They watched as McGonagall returned to Neville's table, while Malfoy smirked in Goyle's direction again before beginning to fix his transfiguration.

Hermione returned from returning the brew on McGonagall's desk, shouldering her own bag and leaning next to Harry. "Everybody's got problems, you know," she said, following their stare across the room.

"Yeah," Ron grunted, "He's just so troubled about the dress code for Death Eaters. Those hoods really mess up your hair."

Hermione glared at him. "The reason he's so mean is he's got no real friends."

Ron rolled his eyes. "The reason he's got no real friends is 'cause he's so mean."

Harry shook his head. "He has been acting weird, even for Malfoy." He paused, then brightened. "Oh--I completely forgot--I was going to tell you--I bumped into him this morning. He looked like he was in a hurry. Know what he said?" Ron opened his mouth to suggest, but Harry continued, "He said, 'Out of my way, Potter, I can't deal with you right now.' and he stormed off. Not even one insult...I think. It was weird."

"Because he doesn't want you to know about whatever's wrong with him," Ron murmured thoughtfully, "or because he's run out of names to call you. If that's even possible." Harry looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Well, even I can think of one or two," Ron chuckled, ducking as Harry pretended to hit him.

"It's puberty," Hermione suggested. Harry and Ron looked at her. "I'm only kidding," she scowled, then, "Oh, you two, seriously!" a moment later, McGonagall dismissed the class, calling out their homework assignments.

Heading for lunch, Hermione walked quickly to keep up with her longer-legged friends. "Well," she said, "I've noticed he's avoided me lately." When both of her boys stopped and turned to look back at her, she paused and shrugged. "He has."

Harry asked, "So, you usually just run into him all the time, then?"

Hermione scowled. "No. He used to come bother me when I was studying in the library. He stopped. I still see him there most days, but he's left me alone."

Harry looked at Ron, and Ron shifted his jaw. "What if he's planning something?"

With looks from his friends, he shrugged and spread his hands. "Well, you know all this weird--dark stuff has been happening since last year...I mean, really, do you have any doubt he's involved?"

Harry frowned, and they started walking again. "It's hard to say. I mean, he has been acting differently."

Ron snapped his fingers. "That seizure....Harry, maybe it was a, a decoy or something. Maybe something happened then that he was covering up for. Like a distraction."

As they entered the Great Hall, which was slowly filling up, Harry lay down his books and looked across the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables to where Malfoy usually sat. "I dunno," he murmured, "That seizure looked pretty real. And besides, it was hushed up fast enough."

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances, then Hermione patted Harry's back affectionately. "Why don't we all check around? The teachers probably know what happened."

"Yeah," Harry said.