Drarry Oneshots

A Healing Grace

"It's going to be brilliant, mate. The Cannons are going to knock the Falcons out of the sky."

Harry had to smile despite his uncertainty about being here. Ron was always predicting a Cannon victory, apparently under the impression that his words ought to produce a corresponding reaction in the world. It hadn't happened yet, but each time, he would mope slightly and then look forwards to the next time with undiminished hope.

Harry leaned back in his seat, absently crunching the Chocolate Frog he'd bought when they came onto the pitch, and looked around. The fans of the Cannons and Falcons were clearly separated, but even if they'd mingled, Harry thought he could have picked the separate groups out out; they had a tendency to wear the colors of their teams, wave banners with pictures of their favorite players, and yell insults at each other. At the moment, people on brooms who looked big enough to be reserve Beaters were swooping down on a scuffle in the stands opposite them.

"Honestly," Hermione huffed as she squeezed into the seat next to Harry. Pregnancy made it a little harder for her to maneuver, and she grimaced and touched her belly now in a way that let Harry know the baby had kicked again. "Why some people can't just enjoy their hobby instead of getting so worked up about it..."

"You mean, the way you enjoy arguing for house-elf rights?" Ron asked, with an innocence that Harry wouldn't have dared use.

Hermione would have had to reach across Harry's shoulders to hit him. She settled for glaring instead. Meanwhile, Harry was watching the players form up into their teams, soaring and circling in ways that brought a lump to his throat.

It had taken him a long time to start thinking about Quidditch again, and even longer not to feel guilty when he did. People had died in the war. Teddy was an orphan. Wasn't it more important to think about that than a hobby where people chased a tiny golden ball on brooms and swatted other balls back and forth?

Finally, though, Harry had listened to Hermione's advice about rationing out his guilt and not thinking that he had to be miserable because some of his friends were dead. That didn't leave him any time to enjoy those who were still alive. He'd thought about that for a week and managed to accept it.

Hence this Quidditch game.

Harry learned forwards, trying to ignore the way the Cannons wallowed in the sky next to the sleek, circling Falcon players. The one in Seeker's leathers was particularly graceful, like his team's namesake, dashing back and forth in playful little strikes that made it obvious how much speed he could muster when he wanted.

Then he turned broadside to the sun, and it fell on his pale hair at the same moment as Harry's mouth fell open.

"That's Malfoy!" he hissed at Ron.

"Yeah, I know," Ron said, surging to his feet to hoot and clap for the Cannons Seeker, who bowed from his broom and nearly went over the front of it. Hermione snorted loudly. Ron seemed more interested in glaring at her than answering Harry's question. "I told you he was Seeker for the Falcons, didn't I? Yesterday. Or last week."

"No, you bloody well didn't!" Harry knew people were turning their heads to stare at him, but he didn't think he could keep his voice down. He hadn't thought about Malfoy at all since he sent his hawthorn wand off to him, and here he was, dancing above the Quidditch pitch as though he hadn't a care in the world.

"Well, it doesn't matter, because—"

Harry would have liked to hear Ron's explanation for why it didn't matter, but just then the whistle blew, the balls flew up from the ground like suddenly released birds, and the game began.

And Malfoy dazzled Harry.

Harry sank back in his seat, his mouth open, as he watched Malfoy lean to the left and steer himself down in a series of increasingly graceful curves. From that, he rose in a vertical mount that left the Cannons' Seeker floundering helplessly behind him. Then he tipped to the side, wobbled as if in uncertainty—Harry wondered how many people watching would actually know that it was skill, nothing else, producing those tiny movements—and shot to the right. The Cannons' Seeker followed him.