Twisted Tales

Weasley Is Our King

I spend the better part of the next two weeks helping Draco make buttons for the upcoming Quidditch match. Glowing green, they bear a crown reading Weasley is our King and change to Potter Stinks if pressed. He's enchanted them with an ingenious little spell, making it impossible for them to say anything pleasant about Harry. If tampered with, the messages grow nastier; including Potter really stinks.

Harry, who makes a point to avoid me whenever Draco is around, has taken to slipping notes into my bag or my pockets when we pass in the halls. Mostly it's questions about what we should move onto now that people have gotten a pretty good handle on the Disarming Charm. While mostly uninteresting, there are a few notes worth keeping. Harry asks questions concerning my knowledge of reoccurring dreams. When pressed, he describes the dreams as if there is a maze in his head, always leading him up the same hallway, always ending in the same door. While Harry seems to pass these dreams off as an annoying inconvenience, it gives me all the information I need; it's working.

As the first Quidditch match of the year quickly approaches, the intimidation tactics turn nasty. It's no surprise to see a Gryffindor Quidditch player splayed out in the hallway, under a jinx by someone in Slytherin. After discovering the professors turning a deaf ear to this dirty play, the Gryffindors retaliate. Draco, who claims Ron is about a good a Keeper as a troll, takes to imitating him dropping the Quaffle or sliding off his broom whenever Ron is within earshot. Despite the pleading looks for help from Harry and Hermione, I laugh along with the rest of my house. It's all in good fun. Nothing brings out the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin house quite like Quidditch.

The Great Hall is full of energy on the morning of the Slytherin versus Gryffindor Quidditch match. From my seat next to Draco, I spot Luna Lovegood. It's actually quite hard to miss her. She's wearing a large hat in the likeness of a lion's head. Every few minutes it lets out a monstrous roar heard even over the excited chatter. Ron is harder to spot. I find him between Harry and Ginny, sitting so low on the bench it looks like he's trying to disappear under the table. He's taken on a rather green look, his eyes not lifting from the floor.

"Maybe he'll get sick and they'll have to forfeit," Blaise says hopefully, following my gaze across the Great Hall.

Draco sets his glass of orange juice down, "I don't want to win against Potter by default. Walk me down to the pitch, Bell?"

"Delighted to."

Almost four years ago I made this same walk from the castle with Draco. Then he was a bundle of nerves, nearly tripping every other step as he tried to talk himself up. For the time leading up to that first game he ever played as a Seeker, he was bombarded by people telling him he couldn't do it, that he bought his way onto the team. He let it get to him; the pressure only added by knowing his father would be in the stands. In an attempt to take his mind off of things, I'd made up this silly little dance. We stood just outside of the changing room door, bouncing from foot to foot, one fist thrown into the air. They might not have won that game, but Draco played valiantly. Now, he considers the stupid dance a good luck charm. We sneak down to the stadium before anyone else to perform the ritual before each game.

How silly we'd look to anyone on the outside, both fifteen now, hopping from foot to foot, spinning around in little circles. It's worth it to see Draco laughing and happy. "Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Both. One fist in the air for Slytherin's win."

Draco falls into my shoulder, "Thank you. I dread the day you tell me we've grown too old for this."

"We'll never be too old for this," I smile back as the rest of the team begins to appear.

Tipping up on my toes, I press a kiss to each of Draco's cheeks, ending on his forehead; my own little good luck ritual. "Kick arse. I'll see you after the game."