In The Eyes of Us [DRACO MALFOY]

II

MATURE CONTENT: Cussing, Underage alcohol, Mention of death

November 1997

Draco.

"So you screwed up," Riddle's voice invades my thoughts, I feel a surge of irritation rising within me. I hurl the quaffle, only for it to snap back with even more force, a frustrating reminder of my current situation.

In the distance, the cheers and shouts of girls echo across the pitch, while a group of stupidly dressed Gryffindor and Ravenclaw girls wave in our direction.

The lanterns surrounding the pitch blaze brightly, almost blinding in their intensity, while raindrops dance in the air, the grass seemed to take on a dual tone, appearing both lighter and darker at the same time.

It was nearly half past seven, and the hallway leading back to the dorms was crowded with students.

We're granted— well not granted we just have it—the  privilege of dining after everyone else, a exception we've secured for ourselves, and Dumbledore wisely chooses not to challenge us, especially in these uncertain times— well not that uncertain, we all know war is coming. Though our days of playing quidditch are over, we still have individual training sessions, away from the Gryffindors' prying eyes.

"I expected nothing," Riddle's laughter grates on my nerves.

Merlin, he's insufferable.

Riddle effortlessly balances on his broom, a smug grin on his face. Suppressing the urge to knock him off, I focus on the task at hand. The quaffle and bludger approach with alarming speed, and I barely manage to catch the latter before it collides with my head, though I'm pushed slightly back in the process. Tossing the glove aside, I return the bludger to its case.

"How's Daddy going to react to this, Malfoy?" Riddle's hand lands heavily on my shoulder. I shrug it off, striding back towards the changing room. Despite my efforts, Riddle's arm snakes around me, an unwelcome presence.

"He won't be impressed, pretty boy," he mutter, taking a swig of water, and I will not to rise to Riddle's bait. Lucius won't hear about this anytime soon; communication with Death Eaters in Azkaban is strictly forbidden— or atleast that's what they say but nobody bothered by it.

"Don't be disheartened. Next time, I'll give you a hand with your aim, Malfoy," Riddle's mocking whisper sends a surge of irritation coursing through me. He wasn't talking about the game.

"Confundus," I mutter under my breath, watching with satisfaction as Riddle is propelled to the far end of the field, his laughter fading into the distance. My this year's resolution is blocking out all negative energy so I block out the main source of all the negativity in the entire planet. I stride back to the locker room, with Riddle trailing behind.