When the Snow Melts

Of Misguided Fools

Author's Note: I demand cookies, lots of cookies. That is all.

The Gryffindors were out on the field practicing when the Slytherin team arrived with self-satisfied smirks plastered on their faces. Harry eyed them suspiciously.

"Do you mind," Katie Bell snarled," we're trying to practice here, and we don't require an audience."

A few of the Slytherins snickered. The Gryffindors tightened ranks and glared back at them. Malfoy's grin widened, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"That may be so," Malfoy revealed. "But now it's our turn to practice. I'm going to need you to leave now." He twiddled his fingers in a mocking goodbye gesture, causing tensions to rise in response.

"Like hell it is," she protested loudly. "Gryffindor gets the field on Mondays and Thursdays."

"And?" he responded with a derisive snort.

Katie clenched her broom tightly, knuckles turning white. "And it's Monday," she growled through gritted teeth. "So, we have the field today."

Malfoy's smug demeaner was rubbing everyone the wrong way. His face was just asking for a beating. Malfoy appeared unconcerned by the anger being directed his way.

"Not according to this wonderful little note from Professor Snape," he taunted, waving a piece of parchment in their general direction.

The Gryffindors shifted nervously on their brooms, most remembering a similar occurrence a few years back. Malfoy looked directly at him, smirking. Harry bristled at the boy's attention, jaw tense, grip tight on his broom.

"My father bought the team new brooms," he explained. "We need the extra practice so that we can get a feel for them."

The Slytherin team held out their new brooms to give the Gryffindors a better view. A few of them paled considerably when they realized what they were – pro-level racing brooms. Harry and Ron knew this was coming, but it had slipped their mind – they should have given Katie a heads up.

"You see," Malfoy continued. "These brooms are the fastest on the market. We have to get used to the speed of them or we could have a fatal accident."

"Good," Ron snarled. "Fall off your brooms and die."

"This isn't fair," Ginny cried in indignation, moving closer to her brother. "We need the practice just as much as you do."

"Don't worry," Malfoy retorted, his smile turning wicked. "All the practice in the world won't help you this season."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Ron challenged.

"What I mean is," the Slytherin explained, smirking at the red-head. "...that this season you won't win no matter how hard you train, especially if they intend to keep you on the team – you're a disaster waiting to happen."

Ron's face burned red, he was shaking, white knuckled on his broom. Harry's blood was boiling as he moved closer to his friend, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder in solidarity. They both glared in unison at their least favorite Slytherin.

As if suddenly becoming aware of his predicament, Draco paled, quickly changing tactics to prevent violence.

"Hurry up and get off the field," he ordered, voice quavering slightly. "Or do I need to get Professor Snape to force you off?"

Upon hearing his name, Professor Snape appeared at the edge of the pitch as if summoned from the darkest pits of hell. All but Harry wilted in defeat under the intensity of the man's glare. There was nothing they could do to change the situation. One by one the Gryffindor team dismounted, each shooting dirty looks at the Slytherins as they passed.