WILD FLOWERS ✿ d.malfoy

28.

Adira tells me about her OWLs. We're in the Girls' changing room, getting changed – obviously.

"It'd actually be easier if we didn't have a sword hanging around our neck all the time," she huffs, getting into her jumper.

I nod, "how much did you get? If, you don't mind me asking."

"I got three 'E's, an 'A' and six 'O's," she says, braiding her hair.

"That's really good," I affirm.

"Thanks," she grins, "also, I got more 'O's than, Andy."

"Always that competition between siblings," I chuckle.

"Always," she confirms.

I wear my shoes and do my hair, pumped up for this practice.

"You've an amazing broom," she says, marvelling the Firebolt.

"Thank you," I beam.

"Kinda jealous," she smirks, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Let's show them girl power, shall we?"

"Right on it," I give her a fist bump and walk out.

I'd like to think that Montague was happy to see me early for practice, but that wasn't it. He was happy to see my broom. More than happy; jovial.

After ten solid minutes of the team admiring my broom, we finally got to practice.

"Our first match this year," Montague says in a very authoritative voice, "is against Gryffindor." Some people snigger.

"This year's Captain is Angelina Johnson. She, after Wood, is probably the most enthusiastic about Quidditch in the whole of Gryffindor. Now, it is in my best interest to remind you that since 1991, there has not been a single game against Gryffindor that we have won," his voice is getting gruffer and stronger, filled with determination, "This year, we need to change that. I have been staying up late and planning strategies. And let me tell you, if I think that any one of you is not up to the mark, you are out."

I suck in a deep breath and clench my jaw.

"We're going to start off with some basic drills. Keep your brooms aside," he commands. "All of you will run a lap around the whole pitch, individually and as per your number. Meaning Morgana, you're on."

Huh, perks of being no. 1.

I walk forwards, getting into the start position: palms on the ground, feet in runners position. I look at the track and gulp in the sickening feeling of people's eyes on me. I hate being stared at, but I love running. Or I used to. Well I still kinda do.

Running had become a survival tactic urged by my gut instincts. Fun fact: gut instincts suck, yet they are the only ones you should rely on.

I gulp in as much air as my lungs could possibly fill – eyes trained on the track. Montague blows the first whistle; I get ready, my heart's already beating fast, supplying as much blood as quickly as it possibly could without tearing up my vessels. Preparing my muscles for the run. Like it has done so many times before.

Montague blows the second whistle and I push myself off the ground. I run across the uneven ground with a great galloping gait that could have easily suggested that my ankles were made of tightly coiled spring rather than sinew and bone like the rest of the human population. My strides are long as I run, feet hitting the ground like tsunami crashing on the shore. The wind blows my jet-black hair as it falls free from my hair tie and laps behind me like a mane. My muscles quickly grow sore, pushing myself further and further. My lungs demand air as I feel my heart throbbing in my chest.