DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all other characters and locations belong to J. K. Rowling.

Chapter Two - The Broom Shed

At this time of the morning, on a Saturday of all days, the library was dead, which was exactly what Harry wished he was. He smothered a yawn against the back of his wrist, the tip of the quill he held in his other hand drawing long swooping swirls across the bottom of the empty parchment stretched before him. Luckily enough, he'd failed to dip the tip minutes ago, meaning the trailing point of the quill left nothing but faint scratches on the creamy paper. Blinking heavy eyes, Harry settled his chin in his palm and stared at his companion across the width of the table. He still didn't exactly know how Hermione had talked him into this, because he was almost positive he hadn't agreed to get up at the crack of dawn to work on an assignment that wasn't due for another five days.

And where was Ron? Harry asked himself, glancing at the empty chair next to his. How had the redhead managed to avoid this cruel form of torture? He shifted his gaze back to Hermione, studying the bushy-haired witch as she busily scribbled away. "Why isn't Ron here?" He demanded, sounding extremely whiny even to his ears.

Hermione didn't look up, just paused momentarily in her writing before carefully dipping her quill and resuming her work. "Ron obviously isn't as committed to his education as you are," she replied, finally lifting both her quill and her chin. Her gaze met Harry's across the table, one brow lifting at the expression on her companion's face. "He also wasn't moaning into his mashed potatoes in apparent ecstasy when I invited the pair of you to the library this morning."

Harry's face went bright red and he immediately began to sputter in indignation. "I was not," he snapped defensively, quickly scanning the surrounding tables for anyone who appeared to be eavesdropping. Finding the closest desks vacant, the dark-haired wizard whipped back around and leaned forward in his chair. "I was not," he repeated in a much calmer voice. At least not that he remembered.

"If that's how you want to remember it," Hermione said with a smile. The witch laid her quill down alongside the parchment and slowly straightened her back, stretching her arms over head. "I'm happy to see you feeling better, Harry." She reached out and gave his hand a light pat before picking her quill back up and giving it a small twirl, the indigo feather fluttering lightly at the movement.

Harry, unsure of how to respond, smiled through his teeth and reached out to dip his quill into the bottle of black ink sitting in the center of the table. Unfortunately, he misjudged the distance and bumped the small bottle, sending the dark liquid inside sloshing over the lip of the glass to pool lazily on the wood. "Sorry," he exclaimed, reaching for the pocket he normally kept his wand in. He patted his robes frantically, and then the events of yesterday afternoon all came rushing back. With a heavy groan, he dropped his forehead onto the tabletop, enjoying the thud and brief rush of pain that provided a momentary sort of relief from real life. And then he sat up and stared at his gaping companion. "I have to go."

"What?" Hermione asked in surprise, giving her own wand a quick wave that had the creeping ink vanishing. She watched in confusion as Harry shot to his feet and began jamming his books into his bag. "Where are you going?"

Harry froze in the process of trying to cram his book into his bag, staring blankly at the witch before resuming his harried packing. An excuse, he needed an excuse for his sudden departure. Preferably something believable that wouldn't raise any questions – like how Malfoy had come to possess his wand. "Breakfast." He practically yelled at Hermione. The frown that blossomed across the witch's face had him drawing a deep breath and replying in a much quieter voice. "I'm going to go and get something to eat. Feeling quite peckish, you know."

"Oh," Hermione replied, biting her lip as she looked down at her nearly finished assignment. "Well-"

"That's great, I'll save you a seat." Harry mumbled, giving up on shoving the book into his bag and jamming it under his arm as he fled the library. He practically ran to the Great Hall, silently praying he'd beat Malfoy there and not have to confront the blond in front of half the student population of Hogwarts. Unfortunately, he arrived just in time to watch Malfoy saunter into the large hall, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle. Harry spent a second silently cursing before trotting after the trio of Slytherins, halting between the massive doors to scan the interior of the Great Hall. His shoulders slumped in relief at finding only a handful of students seated at each House table, a much smaller audience then he'd been anticipating. Shooting a predatory look at Malfoy, the dark-haired wizard dumped his bag and book off at the Gryffindor table before whirling around and marching across the hall.

He gathered the renowned courage he was supposed to possess as he entered enemy territory, noting that his approach wasn't going unnoticed. Swallowing, he lifted his chin and halted just beyond the second line of benches, ignoring the almost tangible wave of animosity that greeted his arrival. "Malfoy, a word, if you please," he said politely. He balled his hands into fists when the blond lifted a single brow in response to the question, knowing that whatever came out of the Slytherin's mouth would most likely begin an argument and end with them both in detention.

Draco, staring intently at the Gryffindor, gracefully lifted his teacup to his lips and took a precise sip. When he lowered the dainty porcelain cup with its intricately swirling Slytherin emblem, it was to answer the request in a tone as precise as that carefully measured sip. "No." His reply earned him a series of snickers from the handful of students seated around him, but it was the Gryffindor's muted growl that had him leaning forward.

"What?" Harry spat, taking an unintentional step forward.

"No," Draco repeated, exaggerating the pronunciation of the word. Both brows arched as the raven-haired Gryffindor sputtered in apparent disbelief, taking obvious pleasure in his foe's upset. "You asked for a word and 'no' is the word I'm giving you." His lips curled upward, a baring of teeth easily misconstrued for a smile. The surrounding Slytherins laughed in delight, their loud guffaws drawing the attention of the other students enjoying an early breakfast.

Shooting an annoyed look over his shoulder, Harry took a step forward and placed his palms firmly down on the tabletop, nearly overturning a jug of pumpkin juice in the process. "You have something of mine and I want it back," he hissed angrily. He ignored the interested looks that suddenly appeared on the faces of Malfoy's companions, choosing instead to lean threateningly closer to the blond. "And I want it now."

Draco appeared nearly ecstatic at the demand. Leaning forward, the blond placed his elbows on the table and took another delicate sip of tea as he peered at Potter. "I have no idea as to what you're referring too," he said.

"My wand!" Harry bellowed, slamming balled fists against the tabletop. The impact rattled dishes and sent juice lapping at the edges of the closest pitchers. It also brought a sudden wave of silence to the Great Hall, an almost tangible quiet as if every individual in the massive chamber was holding their breath. That overwhelming silence caught Harry's attention, making him realize what he'd just done. Undoubtedly, he'd just raised many eyebrows and more than a few questions. Drawing a deep breath, he slowly began to straighten, stilling when Malfoy returned his teacup to its saucer.

"This wand?" Draco purred, producing Potter's wand from the draping sleeve of his robe. He dangled the eleven inches of holly just beyond the Gryffindor's reach, giving it a taunting twirl that caused the dark-haired wizard's face to flush. "But how could I possibly have come to possess your wand?" The Slytherin slowly lowered the dangling wand until the very tip rested between a plate of bacon and a large bowl of oatmeal, giving it another pointed turn that dragged a deep growl from the Gryffindor.

Harry lunged forward, his hand closing just below Malfoy's on the shaft of the wand. What occurred next was a small tug of war that threatened to send one or both wizards sprawling across the crowded surface of the table. It was a battle that was short-lived, halted by the loud clearing of a throat from just behind Harry. Both males stiffened at the sound, though neither of them released their grip on the wand or bothered to look away from the individual across from them.

"Mister Potter. Mister Malfoy. Would one of you care to explain what's going on?"

Harry could hear the exasperation in McGonagall's voice, could imagine the hard-pressed expression on her face as she stared in bewilderment at the back of his head. Of course, even he could imagine the picture he and Malfoy presented: the Slytherin and Gryffindor once again squabbling over seemingly nothing. "Professor," Harry muttered through grit teeth, fingers tightening on the shaft of his wand. "I was just about to go and find Hermione."

"And yet somehow you've found the Slytherin Table . . . and Mister Malfoy." McGonagall returned, clearly nonplussed with Harry's story. The Transfiguration Professor moved closer to the Gryffindor student, peering over his shoulder, apparently curious over exactly what the two were fighting, and nearly heaved a displeased sigh at finding them both clutching the same wand. "Who's wand is that?"

"Mine," Harry said quickly, shooting Malfoy a triumphant look. A look that vanished when the Slytherin met his gaze and smiled slowly.

"It's mine, Professor," the blond replied. Widening his eyes innocently, Draco pasted the most apologetic look he could possibly manage on his face and tried not to gloat too obviously.

Minerva McGonagall couldn't contain the sigh that finally escaped her mouth. With a glance of longing in the direction of the Head Table, she extended an arm over Harry's shoulder and held out her flattened palm, giving a small wiggle of her fingers as the duo stared uncomprehendingly at her hand. "The wand, if you please," she said calmly.

Draco, obviously noting the expression of extreme weariness the Transfiguration Professor was currently wearing and fearing the possible repercussions, released his grip on the wand immediately. The blond then watched in unexpected delight as Harry staggered backwards and slammed into McGonagall, who in turn stumbled backwards only to collapse upon the bench at the Ravenclaw Table – which rocked dangerously on two legs before settling. Yelps and screeches from the handful of students seated on the bench were nearly lost in the crashing of platters and silverware on the stone floor, the cacophony drawing the attention of every individual currently in the Great Hall.

Harry, still clutching his wand, felt very much crying. Instead, he hung his head in mortification and slowly turned around, cringing at the sight before him. With her arms draped across the table and her bottom hanging in limbo, the Transfiguration Professor couldn't possibly appear anymore uncomfortable, and yet frighteningly serene. Scrambled eggs were slopped in her lap, the platter they'd occupied on the floor at her feet. The draping sleeves of her robes were soaking up the rivulets of orange juice that were creeping along the tabletop. But it was her hat that had Harry taking a retreating step, the urge to run warring with the need to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness high as he watched the plumed cap slowly sink deeper in a large pitcher of maple syrup. "Sorry-"

"It would be in your best interest to remain quiet at this moment, Potter." McGonagall stated, somehow managing to sound calm. The expression upon her face remained oddly pleasant as a trio of Ravenclaws hauled her to her feet, though it began to darken as her favourite cap was offered to her by the tip of the drooping feather. She stared at the hat for one long minute before carefully accepting the sticky mess, her gaze rising to meet that of the Gryffindor cowering before her. "I'll see you in the Transfiguration Classroom in thirty minutes, Mister Potter."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall," Harry mumbled. His hands balled into fists at the soft snicker that emanated from behind him, Malfoy's enjoyment of the entire situation enough to set the dark-haired-wizard's teeth on edge. He was seconds away from whipping around and levelling his wand on the blond when McGonagall's voice rang out, the words bringing a satisfied smirk to his face.

"And I'll expect you, Mister Malfoy, ten minutes after that." Turning on the heel of one boot, McGonagall began to slog away but came to a squelching halt. She stood there for a moment, a small puddle forming beneath the feathered cap dangling from her fingertips before she spun abruptly around and glared angrily at the duo. "Just once I would like the pair of you to get along! For my sanity, just once." The aggravated sound that followed the statement was oddly feline, and heralded the Professor's brisk departure from the Great Hall.

It was a heavy silence that filled the massive chamber after the Transfiguration Professor's exit; one of which Harry was very aware of. Deciding that perhaps now would be the most opportune time for retreat, the dark-haired wizard turned on the heel of one boot and began a solemn march back to the Gryffindor Table. He had just skirted the head of the Ravenclaw Table when Malfoy's angered screech caused him to still, his chin dropping to his chest in quiet acceptance. The argument which was about to occur was inevitable, after all.

"This is your fault, Potter!" Draco snarled, slamming his palms down on the Slytherin Table hard enough to make the closest dishes jump. The students seated nearest him shifted on the benches, putting space between themselves and the enraged wizard, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire of this newest battle. "Potter!"

Harry cringed at the clatter of silverware on porcelain, his hands knotting at the sound of sheer fury in the Slytherin's voice. He lifted his chin and prepared to turn around, freezing when his eyes locked with Hermione's. The Gryffindor witch stood several feet away from him, her bag dangling from her fingertips and the expression of disappointment she wore rivalling that of the one McGonagall had worn on her departure. He supposed he should just tuck his chin back down and slink over to the Gryffindor side of the Hall, and he may have done exactly that if Malfoy had chosen that moment to sit down and shut up. But the blond did neither, and Harry reacted accordingly. "If you had just given me my wand back, none of this would be happening. So this, Malfoy, is all your fault."

Draco straightened and gasped incredulously, appearing extremely offended by Harry's snarled comment. "You don't even deserve to have a wand, you mudlood-loving-freak." The hissed insult caused an audible rash of gasps to echo around the Great Hall, and Malfoy revelled in every one of them.

Harry would have charged back around the Ravenclaw Table if it weren't for Hermione's hand on his shoulder, the Gryffindor witch's grip keeping him pinned to the spot. His nails bit into his palms and his body practically vibrated with barely contained rage. Unable to react as he would have loved too, he allowed his anger to boil over and opened his mouth on a wordless shriek. Though he never made a sound, a sharp crack rang out and Malfoy's head snapped to the left. Before his eyes, and the eyes of everyone in the Hall, a scarlet stain blossomed across Malfoy's cheek. Harry's mouth snapped closed as he stared in horror at the creeping splash of crimson, his heart beginning a slow spiral into his stomach. He'd just assaulted Draco Malfoy with wandless magic. He was dead.

Lifting a hand to gingerly probe his stinging cheek, Draco stared in growing fascination at Potter. The blow had been quite unexpected; in fact, he doubted even the wizard who had dealt it had gotten past envisioning it before it had occurred. Narrowing silver eyes, Draco dropped his hand to caress the pocket that held his wand, obviously considering drawing the length of wood. But there was a time and place for everything, and here and now was not it. "This is a petty argument in which I'm choosing to no longer participate," the Slytherin announced. With a disdainful sniff, he reclaimed his seat and lifted his teacup from its saucer, ignoring the room full of students silently staring at him in confusion.

Harry's brow furrowed and he turned his head to look at Hermione, mouthing the words Malfoy had used to just casually end what could have been a marvellous fight. The witch, however, appeared less concerned about the Slytherin wizard's sudden turnabout and more focused on his current predicament. And wasn't this, Harry thought, a wonderful way to start his Saturday. After the lecture McGonagall had given him, the dressing down he was about to receive from Hermione was going to be the icing on the cupcake.

"A bit peckish?" Hermione hissed, her fingers digging into Harry's shoulder. "Were you planning on saving me a seat at the Slytherin Table, or the Gryffindor Table?" She released him with a sharp shake of her head and stormed away, leaving the raven-haired wizard to follow at her heels.

Perfect, Harry thought glumly as he trailed after Hermione, he'd managed to infuriate one of his best friend's, his sworn nemesis, and his Head of House all within a matter of minutes. If Ron had been there to complete the package, he could have spent the remainder of his day sulking in solitude. But nope, the redhead was just now wandering into the Great Hall with a sunny smile on his face looking none-the-wiser. "He started it, Hermione," Harry called after the witch, nearly flinching at the glare she shot him over her shoulder. He halted at the Gryffindor table next to Ron, the pair of them watching as Hermione stomped from the hall.

"What did I miss?" Ron asked, glancing at Harry. The redhead seemed rather unconcerned with Hermione's angry exit; instead his focus was seemingly on the fact that he'd missed something interesting.

"Malfoy and I destroyed McGonagall's favourite hat," Harry muttered. He turned around and flopped down on the bench, ignoring the curious gazes of his housemates. Instead, he blindly reached for the nearest platter, heaping scrambled eggs onto his plate until he could no longer see the metal beneath the yellow mound. Then, he picked up a gold fork and preceded to simply stare at the plateful, his stomach beginning a slow roll in protest. The appetite that had returned last night had vanished just as quickly, leaving him feeling nothing but disgust at the veritable feast before him. With a low groan, he pushed the plate aside and dropped his forehead to the tabletop, attempting to ignore the bile-inducing smell of scrambled eggs.

"That git," Ron mumbled around a sausage. "It was probably his fault, too."

Harry didn't think the statement required an actual reply, so he simply nodded his head as best he could while examining the wood of the tabletop. He wished he could go back to this morning, to that moment when he was laying in bed still half-asleep staring at the crimson canopy above him, simply marvelling at the life he was living. Rather then in the here and now, where he was merely waiting for the minutes to pass so he could report to McGonagall for the detention du jour.

"You were up early," Ron said, nudging the dark-haired wizard with a boney elbow.

Harry grunted at the comment, figuring the non-verbal response was adequate. He lifted his forehead from the top of the table minutes later and dragged his hands down his face before rising to his feet. "I'm going to drop my bag off in the dorm room before reporting to Professor McGonagall," he grumbled. "I'll catch up with you when I've done my time." Forcing a smile at the redhead's consoling rumbles, he plodded from the Great Hall. He, in fact, plodded all the way up to the Gryffindor Common Room and then back down.

Harry then dragged his feet all the way to the Transfiguration Classroom. It was just his luck, he thought, to get detention on a Saturday – the unwritten day of studious procrastination. The single most exalted day of the week, which all little witches and wizards spent in frivolous merriment and overall gaiety free from the responsibilities of life; until Sunday happened, that soul stealing bitch. Heaving a sigh and mourning the loss of his Saturday, Harry slumped his way through the door into McGonagall's classroom. He scuffed his way all the way up to the front of the chamber before halting before the Professor's desk, his attention firmly on the toes of his beat up trainers. It seemed like a lifetime of waiting before McGonagall finally addressed him, her tone laced with enough disappointment to make him cringe.

"Mister Potter, it's Saturday, and I'm beginning to wish very much that I had remained in my chambers for an extra twenty minutes rather than take an early breakfast." Minerva McGonagall stared over the rims of her glasses, watching the young wizard practically sink into stone floor beneath her gaze. To further make her point, she produced the feathered cap she'd jauntily worn for as long as she could remember, placing it on the desk before her. The once proud chapeau sat limp upon the dragon skin blotter, the dark satin stained unforgivably and the feather splintered and matted. For a long moment the pair simply stared at the hat, one in fond reminiscence and the other with a growing sense of dread. "But here we are . . . again."

"Yes, Professor," Harry agreed, because even he was clever enough to realize that saying anything else at that point might have unimaginable consequences.

"And as it is Saturday, and because I have no wish to spend my free time watching you preform even the most mundane and repetitive task I could possibly imagine," the Transfiguration Professor pronounced, reaching a hand out to stroke the air lovingly over the crumpled cap. "You shall spend the day with Madame Hooch, who I believe has some mundane and repetitive task for you to perform in my absence."

Harry had to bite his lip to hide the sudden smile that threatened to overtake his features. Detention with Madame Hooch? Perhaps his luck was finally changing. Not only was he not going to have to spend the day groveling before his Head of House, but chances were high he was going to spend his day on the quidditch pitch – and Harry couldn't think of a better way to spend a Saturday. Suppressing the urge to thank the Professor profusely, Harry coughed lightly to clear his throat and lifted his chin. "Yes, Professor." Somehow the words managed to sound contrite rather than cheerful, though considering the expression on McGonagall's face, he was quite certain she wasn't at all fooled.

"Off you go, Mister Potter." The Transfiguration Professor ordered, dismissing Harry with a flutter of one hand.

Harry managed to restrain himself from skipping from the classroom, walking sedately out the door with his head hanging and his feet dragging until he was well beyond the Professor's line of sight. Then, and only then, did he allow a triumphant smirk to curve his lips. He'd just been given the best detention of his Hogwarts career. Still smiling, he turned a corner and ran headlong into Malfoy, the impact sending them both stumbling backwards. When he recovered his balance and straightened, he found a wand tucked beneath his chin. His gaze ran the length of wood and elegant fingers all the way up the Slytherin's arm to the pale slash of teeth visible between parted teeth. "I dare you." He breathed, aware of McGonagall's opened door just around the corner.

"Tempting, Potter, very tempting," Draco replied in a velvety purr. He slid the tip of his wand from the dark haired wizard's throat and stepped past him. "Later, perhaps." With one final sneer, the blond vanished around the corner.

Shoulder's slumping in relief, Harry inhaled deeply before resuming his course. After his brief encounter with Malfoy, the rest of his trek through the castle was rather uneventful. The corridors were just beginning to show signs of life, small groups of students wandering to their destinations. Nodding and smiling to a laughing quartet of Hufflepuffs, Harry stepped free of the castle and inhaled deeply. His eyes drifted closed at the sweet smell of winter in the air, the scent an intangible testament to the changing of the seasons. Even the morning air had a bite to it, the unexpected briskness causing him to the shoulder deeper into his cloak as he followed the well worn path to the quidditch pitch.

As it always did, the sight of the pitch made his heart leap, his breath catching at the thought of the freedom that came only with flying. Rubbing his palms together, he strode over the emerald grass, his trainers growing damp from the dew that had yet to be chased away by the sun. The long draping cloth that covered the stands fluttered lightly in the morning breeze, each ripple of jewel tone fabric a silent bid to come and play. Harry halted in the center of the pitch and closed his eyes. It was so easy to imagine himself up there on a broom, dipping and diving amongst the clouds with all the freedom and grace of a bird. The wide smile that curved his lips vanished when someone spoke his name sharply, the voice disrupting his reverie.

"Madame Hooch," he mumbled upon opening his eyes and finding the flying instructor standing before him.

"Potter, got yourself in a spot of trouble this morning, eh?" Hooch queried with an amused flash of teeth. "Well, come with me," she said, spinning around and heading off the pitch. She led Harry to a small discreet building that stood behind the Hufflepuff stands.

"The broom shed?" He asked, staring at the closed door.

"Yes, it needs a little cleaning. A little organizing. I was planning on doing it myself, but Minerva volunteered you and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have one of our star players do some of the dirty work for a change." With a large smile, Hooch pulled open the door, revealing the interior of the broom shed in all its glory.

Harry peered through the portal in dismay. When Madame Hooch had stated the nature of the task she'd needed completed, he'd nearly sobbed with relief. Cleaning out the school's broom shed and sorting through its contents had sounded like a walk in the park – a long walk on a warm sunny day with your best mates. However, Harry hadn't had cause to put a foot in the Hogwarts broom shed since his first year, and it appeared his fond memories of those days had clearly not included the jumbled mess he was currently peering into. It was like a much smaller version of the Room of Requirement, the only difference being that everything in the shed was flying or Quidditch related.

"It's a bit of a mess," Hooch said cheerfully over his shoulder. "But if it wasn't, it wouldn't be punishment would it?" With a hearty clap on the back, the Flying Instructor turned and left him to it.

With a growing sense of trepidation, Harry eased into the doorway of the shed, placing his palms gingerly on the frame. Brooms of every brand and design were strewn about the squat building and the floorboards were almost concealed beneath a layer of broken bristles. He didn't know where to begin, he realized, easing further into the shed. From the depths of the building came a soft rustle, and Harry had to bite down the yelp that threatened to spill from his mouth. Dragging his wand from a pocket, he whispered lumos and stepped boldly forward, almost tripping over the shaft of a broom in the process. He was peering into a heavily shadowed corner when a loud scuff sent him careening around with a racing heart.

"I can't believe McGonagall expects me to spend my Saturday with you," Malfoy spat from the doorway. The blond's nose was in the air and his arms were crossed at his chest, his entire demeaner one of frosty disgust.

Harry didn't quite know how to respond, besides gaping at the Slytherin in stunned silence. What could McGonagall possibly be thinking? Unless she was hoping the pair would do each other in, there really was no good outcome to this situation. "There has to be a mistake," Harry said, fingers clenching around his wand

"McGonagall assured me there wasn't," Draco replied in an angry hiss. The blond swept the interior of the broom shed with a dismissive glance, the brief scan accompanied by a disdainful sniff. With a curled lip, the blond dragged his wand from a sleeve, tapping the point against his fingertips. His gaze slid from the jumbled mess to the raven-haired Gryffindor, his lips pursing as he obviously considered his options. With a fierce smile, he gave a swish and flick of his wand, lifting one of the small trunks to the left of Harry. The narrow chest almost struck the Gryffindor in the hip, would easily have clipped him if he hadn't jumped out of the way.

"Git," Harry muttered, glaring at the smirking Slytherin. He watched in confusion as Malfoy floated the crate out the doorway, following closely behind it until both had vanished around the edge of the door. Frowning, because the thought of the blond actually helping in any way at all was mind boggling, the dark-haired wizard crossed the floor on silent feet and leaned around the door frame. His mouth fell open at finding the Slytherin seated on the trunk next to the door, the blond's back against the wall and his head tipped back. "What do you think you're doing?" Harry demanded, stepping out of the broom shed.

"I helped," Malfoy said, gesturing at the trunk he had gracefully perched himself upon. "And now I'm done helping."

Harry opened his mouth but shut it with a click of teeth. Rolling his eyes, he stepped back into the broom shed and dropped a hand to the knob. He would have loved to slam it in anger, but that would have left him standing in the dark, and with how his day was going, he'd probably trip over a broom handle and knock himself out, leaving him at Malfoy's mercy. He released the knob along with the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and grabbed the nearest stack of brooms, dragging the lot outside and dumping them on the grass. He repeated the trip two more times before pausing to study the untidy stack, considering the best way to sort the odd assortment of brooms. Brow furrowed, he began to pick each broom up and examine it carefully before standing it up against the side of the shed, quickly establishing several different groups based on age and brand and allover appearance. Of course, the entire procedure was done under Malfoy's mostly disinterested gaze, the Slytherin having only made the softest of mumbles at Harry's choices. But Harry didn't expect that that would last forever, so he was more then prepared for when the blond finally spoke.

"That's rubbish," Malfoy stated from his place on the trunk.

Harry dropped his eyes to the broom he was about to add to the row leaning against the wall, his brow creasing as he found nothing noticeably wrong with the Cleansweep. "It's fine," he snapped, shooting a glare at the blond. With a wag of his head, he added the broom to the row, his fingers hesitating on the handle when Malfoy made a soft scoffing noise. "There's nothing wrong with it," he reiterated.

"If you think so," the Slytherin murmured.

Perhaps it was the blond's tone of voice, or the slight pursing of his lips, but Harry's hand balled into a fist and a small growl rose in this throat. Before he had a chance to reevaluate his train of thought, the Cleansweep was back in his hand and he was marching toward the Quidditch pitch. He spared only a second to shoot the Slytherin a sneer of his own before throwing a leg over the broom and ordering it up. The Cleansweep rose with a noticeable shudder, it's heavy vibration so far from the smooth purr of his own broom that he couldn't help but cringe. Still, to prove Malfoy wrong, he kicked off and began a slow ascent, halting when he hovered alongside the lowest goal hoop. He attempted to swing the broom back around so he could properly glare at Malfoy and almost lost his balance when the Cleansweep was slow to respond. And for the love of Merlin, the Slytherin had noticed. "See?" Harry said confidently, ignoring the satisfied smirk the blond wore. "It's fine."

"Uh-huh," Draco said, putting enough condescension in his voice to make the raven-haired wizard's jaw tighten noticeably. He folded his arms and leaned his head back against the wall of the shed, continuing to stare up at the Gryffindor wizard with an expression of bored disbelief on his face.

Harry's hands tightened on the handle of the broom and his teeth began a slow grind, the urge to return to earth and shove the Cleansweep up the blond's arse almost overpowering. Still, he was already serving detention, and he really didn't want to spend anymore time than necessary with Malfoy. Swinging the broom around, Harry eyed the nearly empty pitch and felt that tickle of excitement at the prospect of speeding across its length. Without a second thought, he leaned forward and felt the Cleansweep respond lethargically, the broom slowly gathering speed as he flew over the neatly manicured lawn. That increased velocity came at a cost, though. What had been a heavy vibration turned into a full on shudder, the Cleansweep practically bucking between his thighs. Doubt over the broom's ability to maintain their current trajectory caused Harry to slowly circle back toward the broom shed, straightening up when he hovered a short distance from the Slytherin. "It's perfectly fine."

And that's when he felt the surge in his palms. It was like being struck by lightning, a rush of unimaginable power that raced up his fingers into his chest and sent his heart leaping. As his vision darkened and stars sparked behind his lids, he felt the broom beneath him give a weak jump before plummeting downward. He had time only to tuck himself into a ball before he struck the ground, the impact sending him tumbling over the grass. The air rushed from his lungs and he lay blinking up at the blue expanse above him, vaguely aware of Malfoy's gloating voice carrying across the short distance between them, the words chasing him into darkness.

"I told you so."

A/n: A short excuse: I had a baby. Babies are time consuming. Sorry, and thank you, as always, for the reviews.