Soaring On Clipped Wings

The stadium was already nearing capacity and booming by the time the four finally found their seats.

They had arrived at the stadium earlier that morning in order to take part in the festivities outside. 'Tailgating' as the Americans called it. Witches and wizards in the UK simply called it bloody brilliant. They'd been enjoying themselves so much that they'd nearly forgotten why they were there. The first home game of the season for the Holyhead Harpies.

Hermione had insisted on mild Disillusionment charms and nondescript coats so they wouldn't spend the entire day dodging dark wizards or worse, photographers. Drusilla had taken her disguise one step further by painting her face Harpy green with a bold black '13' on her cheek for Erika Wrath, the Harpies' notoriously vicious Beater. A scarf and knit hat were also pulled low to hide her distinctive platinum blond hair, but a bright smile might have been the best disguise of all.

Ron took his place beside her with a contented sigh. "Cannons are going to flatten 'em, I'm afraid. It's like celebrating on your way to a funeral."

Drusilla arched a painted brow. "The Harpies are the only team in the league with any actual technique or finesse. The rest of you blockheads just bludgeon each other and hope the Snitch is feeling charitable that day."

"They're a publicity stunt," Ron shot back, though without any real heat. "An all-girl roster means the talent pool's cut in half. Sure, they're the fastest fliers in the league, but they're also half the size of their opponents and finish mid-table every year because of it. By the end of the season, they're all beat to hell and looking forward to the break. They're not bad to look at though..."

Hermione, who had been studying the program, suddenly looked up. Instead of practicing, the Holyhead Harpies were dazzling the hometown crowd with their highly advanced tricks and coordinated maneuvers.

"Gwenog Jones runs that team like a tyrant," she scoffed, referring to Erika's co-Beater and captain. "I've met the woman. Multiple times, unfortunately. She is completely full of herself and a Nazi about training regimens, grammar, and the history of Quidditch. I'm Muggle-born. How was I supposed to know when the last time the Harpies won a championship was? I can barely ride a broom! Honestly..."

"My uncle was a Nazi," Drusilla said thoughtfully. "Lovely man. Sharp dresser too."

Harry grinned beside her. "Dru, that is the single least surprising thing you've ever said."

Ron snorted. "Anyway, Ginny's got a tryout with the Harpies after she graduates. Official scouting invite and everything. It's always been her dream. Poor girl..."

Hermione's protest died mid-breath. She pressed her lips together and returned to the program, pretending she hadn't said anything.

Drusilla turned to Ron, eyes gleaming. "Care to make the evening a little more interesting, Weasley? Five Galleons if the Harpies lose. You wearing their colours for the next five games if they win."

Ron opened his mouth, about to up the ante when Harry cut in.

"No," he said firmly. "Absolutely not. It always escalates with you two. Every time. If I don't stop this now, one of you will be going home in their knickers, and I don't want it to be Ron."

Both Ron and Drusilla shrugged indifferently, as if the wager was Harry's loss rather than theirs.

The two caught each other's eye when he wasn't looking, grinning unpleasantly at the other.

'You're on,' Ron mouthed to her.

Both teams did one final flyover to the sold-out crowd. The Chudley Cannons ignored the hostile fans, choosing to fly around with little fanfare besides a few friendly gestures toward their own fans. The Harpies meanwhile did backflips, frontflips, spirals, handstands, walkovers, and every other manner of trick that every broom-rider had tried at some point in their life and failed miserably. And they made it all look easy while looking good doing it.

The crowd couldn't get enough, nor could they ever buy enough fan apparel or memorabilia to satisfy themselves. Drusilla drummed her fingers lightly on the railing in front of her, decked head-to-toe in Harpy green and gold. She was probably the reason they could afford new firebolts every year.

Harry leaned in. "Excited to watch your first game from the stands instead of a suite?" he asked. "Us peasants can get pretty rowdy sometimes."

She held up her chin. "Unlike the rest of you, I shall conduct myself with dignity and respect. There's no reason I should have to wallow in the mud like the rest of you animals."

The game began. Five minutes later, the score was twenty to fifty with the Harpies ahead. Drusilla was leaning over the rail, voice carrying across seven rows below her.

"Go, Erika! Knock that fat bastard's head off!"

Harry doubled over with laughter. When a cold gust cut across the stands, she ducked and stepped neatly in front of him so his chest pressed against her back. Without looking away from the pitch, she guided his hands inside her coat.

Occasional teasing, a whisper in her ear, a deliberate stroke of his thumb when she tensed at a near-miss, but nothing that truly distracted her from the match. Much...

"Careful, Potter," she breathed, no longer feeling the cold. "Someone recognizes us and we might make the front papers again. 'The Boy Who Lived seen groping disgraced Malfoy heir at Quidditch game' would make for another juicy headline. Father would be absolutely furious." She giggled and snuggled closer, wishing he'd be at least half as daring as herself.

A Harpies Chaser scored for the third time in a row. Drusilla whooped and jumped up and down, narrowly missing Harry's jaw. Ron groaned as though personally wounded. Harry and Hermione cheered politely for both teams. The latter not caring much at all about Quidditch, or sports in general, and Harry obsessing over the sport more than any one team. The only team he actively rooted against were the Ballycastle Bats, and only because they were a favorite among Slytherins.

The game fell into a lull afterward, with the Cannons' Seeker coming down to help combat the Harpies' nonstop offense and try to tire them out, turning the match into a contest of brawlers versus boxers. Drusilla's eyes seemed to glaze over, watching the Harpies' Seeker effortlessly fly through the air like an acrobat.

"I miss it," she said numbly, voice low enough for only Harry to hear.

"Miss what?"

"Flying. My Nimbus 2001. Being Slytherin's Seeker meant… everything to me. I worked so hard, but never even came close to winning The Cup. I've barely been on a broom since I was forced to put it down my sixth year..."

Harry's hands tightened. "I know the feeling. I miss it too. Ron and I both had offers after the war. Proper contracts and everything. As much as we both want to be Aurors, it was still hard turning them down."

She nodded once, eyes still on the sky. "I was a fair Seeker. Good, not great. Certainly not as good as I thought I was. But I do miss the wind in my hair. The world looks so tiny from up there. Completely inconsequential to the birds flying above."

Drusilla fell silent again, and the stadium's roar grew louder as the match wore on and fans grew restless. The crowd pressed closer, the noise rising in waves. Drusilla's shoulders drew tighter under Harry's arms. When a particularly raucous chant started in the section above them, she exhaled sharply through her nose.

"I need the loo," she said. "And perhaps something warm to drink."

Hermione immediately came to life, having zoned out half an hour earlier. "I'll come with you. Where are we going?"

"I just need a moment to myself," Drusilla replied, polite but firm. She turned to Harry who looked ready to argue. "I'll be fine, Potter. I am a former dark wizard, remember? I can take care of myself."

Harry's lip tightened, but he only nodded. "Don't be long. And don't do anything I would do."

Drusilla rolled her eyes but waited for him to kiss her scarred cheek as a dismissal before heading toward the nearest tunnel with her head down.

The service corridor was warmer and blessedly quieter. Drusilla leaned against the stone for a few breaths. She hated crowds. Hated people, actually. Months of Ministry courtrooms and endless questions still sat under her skin like a nervous fever.

The ridicule. The constant humiliation of having her darkest secrets laid bare. Not to mention the fear of Azkaban...

Her only saving grace had been that the worst of her crimes had been committed while she was still underage, that she'd been coerced, and that she had switched sides in the final days of the war in rather dramatic fashion.

Drusilla pushed her emotions back down where they belonged. She aimlessly wandered the mostly empty halls for a bit, then decided to find an empty bathroom to wash her face when a dark figure slipped through a restricted doorway ahead.

"Amateur," she muttered, hoping she had never been nearly so oblivious while planning the downfall and death of Albus Dumbledore. Then she remembered the old man teasing her before his death, asking if her attempts had actually been heartfelt or not. Stupid git almost acted offended she hadn't actually wanted him dead.

Drusilla followed, wand already in hand.

The man must have realized he was being followed because he quickened his pace. Drusilla did the same, knowing that at some point she'd get lucky and he'd make a wrong turn in the labyrinth of corridors and find himself at a dead end.

She didn't have to wait long. She cornered him, and the two stood a few feet apart, glowing wands pointed at each other's faces in the dim light.

Drusilla carefully raised her left arm. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." With deliberate care, she rolled up her sleeve, exposing the faded Dark Mark on her forearm. If one stared at the snake long enough, it'd appear to move even though it was now dead. "Your turn."

He hesitated, pushed his glasses up, then mirrored the gesture. The Mark on his arm was darker, less faded, but uneven. Almost like he tried darkening it himself and failed. He lowered his wand a fraction, suspicion still plain on his face, but the fear fading much like their brands.

"Thinking of making trouble for Potter, are you?" she asked. "If so, we're here for the same reason."

"Do I... know you?" He squinted, but between the face paint and having her hood up, she doubted her own father would have readily recognized her even without Hermione's Disillusionment charm.

"We've probably seen each other around. Same circle of friends and all that." She thought she might have seen him before but couldn't be sure. "Answer the question. I'm pressed for time. Are you here because of Potter?"

"So what if I am? He took the Dark Lord from us. Don't you want revenge too?"

Drusilla's smile was almost manic. "Believe me, I have thoughts about Potter that even the Dark Lord himself would consider depraved and disturbing. The things I wish to do to him..." She gave an uncontrolled, delighted shiver. "Him screaming and begging me for mercy will be music to my ears."

The man swallowed and licked his cracked lips. "A-are you alone, or are there others? I was beginning to think I was the last."

"Huh? What?" She shook her head, remembering herself. "No, I'm not alone. How did you even learn Potter would be here? He's not particularly bright, but he's smart enough to let Granger make the plans."

"Loose lips at the Tipsy Dragon said he regularly goes to Chudley-Holyhead games. My glasses are enchanted to see through all charms and magical disguises. They cost a small fortune, but they're worth Potter's life. I was just about to start checking this section when you found me."

She nodded. "Good thinking. I'll keep that in mind for the future."

The crowd roared overhead. Apparently the Harpies had gone on another scoring run. At this rate, they wouldn't need to catch the Snitch to win. Chudley would have to forfeit to avoid falling too far in the standings. Weasley was going to look simply dreadful in green...

Drusilla bit her lip. His information was obscure, but not impossible to learn. A former Gryffindor, perhaps? Or one of the countless Weasleys or their acquaintances? Damn family bred worse than rabbits.

'That's twice now Death Eaters have found us when they shouldn't have,' she thought to herself. 'Potter has a leaky tap somewhere...'

"You're certain you came alone?"

The man looked particularly offended. "Of course I'm certain! How dull do you think I am?"

"I doubt you want me answering that." She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Listen. You've come at a bad time. You'll ruin my plans for the evening. Stay here. I know where Potter's sitting. I'll bring him straight to you after the game."

"Y-you will? How?"

"It'll be dangerous. Fraught with peril I tell you, but I intend to seduce him. If I last till the end of the game, and if I'm still able to walk and haven't forgotten, I'll show him where I've left you."

He smiled, but it faltered somewhat seeing her own.

"Incarcerous!"

Chains snapped around him. He hit the floor, his head hitting hard. Drusilla gathered his wand and enchanted glasses, made sure his Dark Mark was clearly visible, and wrote the words 'Death Eater' in glowing letters above him just in case anyone else was particularly thick.

"I'll only be gone an hour or two. Six tops. Maybe tomorrow if I'm successful," she told the man as he slowly faded into unconsciousness. "Seducing Potter's quite the double-edged sword, I'm afraid. And I'm usually the one getting cut."

She made her way back from the dimly lit restricted area, bought some Irish coffee and warm tarts, and returned to the stands looking perfectly composed, albeit with a slight skip to her step. Harry had been watching for her. His eyes lit up seeing her, and searched her face for anything amiss.

"Everything all right? What's happened? What did you do?"

"A minor inconvenience," she said, biting into a tart. "Nothing I couldn't handle. I'll tell you after the game. If I'm still thinking clearly by then."

He clearly wanted to press, but the whistle blew for a foul and the crowd roared again. Apparently Erika had actually nearly succeeded in taking the fat bastard's head off this time. Beside them, Ron yelled obscenities while those around him jeered.

Harry settled behind Drusilla again, arms wrapping securely around her, chin resting against her temple.

On the pitch the Harpies wheeled and struck. Ron sighed with relief at another near-miss. Drusilla leaned back into Harry's chest, eyes bright, the earlier tension broken. She feigned a slight chill only to shiver when his hands slipped back inside her coat. She groaned when they settled into an embrace instead of what she had in mind, and turned her head to kiss then bite his lower lip.

"Care to make a little wager, Potter?"

His eyes shimmered mischievously. "I know better than to gamble with you, Dru. It always escalates. But this one time, I'll indulge you and take that bet."

She shivered again and tried keeping her sensual sounds to herself. The game was still very much alive, and Drusilla intended on winning big before it was over...

(Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. If you did and would like to read more Harry/Drusilla, you might also enjoy my other one-shots "Love Pure As Hate", "Snake Out of Water", and "Scars In the Snow".

Online discussion about Quidditch is pretty interesting because there's a lot of misconceptions about scoring. The Snitch ends the game and earns you 150 points. If you're 150 points behind however, catching the Snitch LOSES you the game. If you're that far behind, it's better for the Seeker to join the game proper as a Chaser or obstacle in the other team's way (rules seem to be murky whether they're allowed to actually handle the Quaffle, much less score) to catch up. This is actually a minor plot point in "Goblet of Fire" because Viktor Krum catches the Snitch in the Quidditch World Cup, but Ireland was so far ahead that him catching the Snitch actually cost his team. Pretty devastating, and while Seekers are expected to tune out the rest of the game, it's a pretty interesting wrinkle to his character that being so focused on his job and doing it very, VERY well actually cost him everything. Put that into context with Hermione and the TriWizard Tournament, and you have a fun little wrinkle to his character.

As for the story itself, who doesn't love the prim and proper, aristocratic female character absolutely losing herself in sports? Draco actually was a big fan of Quidditch, but since it's never stated what his favorite team was, I went with the Holyhead Harpies since Drusilla's favorite color is green, the Harpies are the most popular team in the league, and I think she'd be fond of an all-girl team that focuses on speed and finesse (and Erika decapitating opponents). Much of the background information in my fics is actually canon, or is at least implied, so I hope that's helped with the worldbuilding a bit. I think my favorite part was Drusilla's "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" and alluding to just how disturbing her fantasies about Potter are while the guy is absolutely clueless. Fun stuff, and while I do plan on getting to it sooner rather than later, for reasons that can already be guessed at, Dru is particularly sensitive to touch. I like the idea that it really isn't hard for anyone, but ESPECIALLY Harry, to give her goosebumps and get her going. Double-edged sword indeed...

Once again, thank you for all the love and support, friends. It hasn't been quite a week yet, but it's been my most productive week in nearly twelve years of writing fanfiction. I'm in love with Drusilla, and it's reignited my love for Harry Potter, and for fanfiction. Not just because I'm enjoying the characters and relationships (my favorite aspect of writing), but the amount of support you've given me has been tremendous. Thank you, and I hope these stories have brightened your days as much as you've brightened mine. More Harry/Drusilla one-shots should be on the way soon. I hope you enjoy.

All credit goes to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Who has blessed me with this story and all of you wonderful readers. Thank you, and God bless)