What If? -Drarry

Part Two: Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

'Potter Stinks' badges bombarded Draco as he made his way to the empty seats in the stands, followed closely by about five of his Slytherin cronies, as well as Blaise and Pansy. The air buzzed with the noise of three schools' worth of teenagers as they all eagerly awaited the tournament's start. Draco tried not to bite his nails in worry, as he had been doing obsessively for the past few days. The only time he'd spoken to Harry was in Snape's class (They hadn't had any more potions recently, Harry was too busy), and Harry had barely grunted a reply.

"I'm betting Potter dies!" Pansy's screechingly excited voice almost hurt Draco's ears as he forced himself to laugh along with the other Slytherins, who were all intoxicated with anticipation. Over on the other side of the stands, Draco could make out Granger and Weasley standing together in the stands, looking ashen-faced and worried. Despite his anger at Weasley for deserting Harry, Draco felt an odd urge to join them.

At last, Bagman bounced onto a platform I front of the judge's table and began to talk in a magically magnified voice. Draco heard him as if through water. Dragons... champions... danger... Draco was beginning to feel a little sick. Blaise nudged him.

"You okay? You're looking a little ill."

Forcing himself into his sarcastic, sneering voice, he said "Thanks. Ill was the look I was going for,"

As the first champion fought their dragon, Draco began to feel positively faint. The dragons were so vicious, so big compared to the tiny figure of Cedric down in the arena. And if the seventeen-year-old was struggling, how could fourteen-year-old Harry even hope to succeed? And of course, Draco's fear was worsened by the voice of his father in his mind telling him he shouldn't care, that it wasn't normal behavior to care, that he was a freak because he was worried about this Gryffindor boy who shouldn't even matter.

The competition passed in a blur, and Draco didn't know if he wanted time to slow down or speed up. In the end, he didn't get the choice. Harry was walking into the arena, a mere smudge against the vast, scaly form of the Hungarian Horntail. Draco held his breath with everyone else as they watched to see what would happen next and the stadium filled with an eerie, suspended silence. The dragon had seen Harry by this time and had whipped its long, wicked face round to look at him. Suddenly there came an earsplitting roar and a bout of flames ate up the air only a few feet from where Harry stood. People seemed to wake up, beginning to shout encouragements to both Harry and the dragon. Draco realized he still had to play his part as the Slytherin Prince and, reluctantly, began to shout encouragements with Blaise and Pansy.

"Come on dragon! Is that really the best you can do?!" He made himself grin and laugh, but his eyes never left Harry, who wasn't doing anything. Why wasn't he doing anything? Then, as Draco watched, Harry lifted his wand and made a movement with it, shouting something into the air which was instantly lost in the pressing noise of the stadium. Draco stopped shouting and concentrated on the boy, but still, nothing happened.

"Look!" cried Pansy, in ecstasy, "Potter can't even cast a spell to help himself!" She cackled with laughter, along with Crabbe and Goyle who guffawed loudly. "He's going to die for sure this time!"

The sick feeling grew, but still Draco forced himself to laugh along with the others, eyes still fixed upon the figure in the stadium. The dragon was hunched low, belly crawling towards Harry. A low rumbling growl filled the stadium, making the chairs vibrate, and the watching crowd quieted. Harry threw himself behind a boulder just as the flames filled the air behind him, and heat washed over them.