Clashes on the Pitch

Harry stared on awkwardly as Wood and Flint argued.

"Flint!" Wood bellowed at the Slytherin team captain. "This is our practice time! We booked the pitch specially! You can clear off now!"

"Plenty of room for all of us on this fine Saturday afternoon, Wood."

Harry sighed. This was the part of Quidditch that he hated. The competitiveness; the testosterone. It was just so...tedious. He had to feel a bit bad for the three girls on the Gryffindor team, what with all the male bravado they had to put up with. The Slytherin girls were constantly scoffing at the boys (well, the boys they didn't fancy, anyway), as though they were offended by their very existence – Harry couldn't imagine what Pansy Parkinson would be like if she had to participate in Quidditch practice. He shivered at the thought.

"I booked it!"

"Ah," Flint said smugly, "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape." He held up the note, flourishing it dramatically. "'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practise today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to train their new Chaser'."

"You've got a new Chaser?" Wood asked, frowning. "Where?"

In response, Draco Malfoy sauntered pompously up to the much larger Gryffindor captain with his chin up and a smug smirk on his face.

"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" Fred Weasley said warily, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint, as he and Malfoy grinned at each other conspiratorially. Several other players smirked along with them. Harry didn't smile. He resisted groaning out loud, though. This was going to turn out so well.

"Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."

Flint proudly held out his broomstick, and gestured to the others. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words 'Nimbus Two Thousand and One' graced the hands of the Slytherin team. Harry was honestly surprised that Mr. Malfoy had bought him a broom too, considering that he'd broken his son's leg last year. Actually, a year ago to date. It was Halloween, and the three o'clock air was crisp and tasting just a little bit bitter, perhaps owing to present company.

"Very latest model. Only came out last month," Flint was drawling carelessly, flicking a nonexistent speck of dust from the end of his broom. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps," he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives, "Sweeps the board with them."

It was getting really hard to not smother his face in his hands shamefully, and the more uncomfortable Harry got, the more Malfoy smirked. At this point he was smirking so broadly his grey eyes were reduced to slits.

"Oh look," Flint commented suddenly, glancing to their right. "A pitch invasion."

Sure enough, Ron and Hermione (who'd no doubt been watching Ron's brothers practice) were traipsing over the field to see what was going on.

"What's happening?" Ron asked his brothers, glancing at Harry. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?" He was looking at Malfoy now, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes with a scowl.

"I'm the new Slytherin Chaser, Weasley," Malfoy returned self-importantly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team."

Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb-looking broomsticks in front of him.

"Good, aren't they?" Malfoy said. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives, I expect a museum would bid for them."

Flint, Pucey, and Bole chuckled quite loudly at that.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," Hermione retorted sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

The self-satisfied smirk on Malfoy's face flickered away. "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat at her nastily.

Excellent, just excellent. Just what they needed.

Predictably, there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him, while one of the Gryffindor girls shrieked, "How dare you!"

Meanwhile, with a furious look on his face, Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" as he pointed it fiercely under Flint's arm at Malfoy's face. "Eat -"

Immediately, Harry moved, panic fluttering in his chest as he rushed over to Ron and seized his wrist tightly with his hand.

The red-head looked at him with betrayal in his eyes.

Harry glanced over at Hermione, who was just looking rather puzzled and worried. Good, he thought to himself, she didn't know.

"Hexing him won't help anything, Ron," Harry said. "You're just going to start a fight – someone could get hurt...like Hermione." He narrowed his eyes at Malfoy, who had paled a few shades. "You don't have to worry about it," he said lowly, "I'll talk to Malfoy later. We'll have a nice long chat."

The Slytherin team, who still remembered Harry's display in the Common Room a year ago, was silent, and Higgs sent a pitying look Malfoy's way, while the blonde boy all but cowered behind Flint.

The Gryffindors obviously didn't know what was happening, but reading the atmosphere, they stayed silent as well.

Ron nodded curtly.

Pleased that he had successfully diffused the situation, Harry let go of Ron's wrist and walked over to Hermione, pulling her into an embrace.

.....

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