A drabble for 15minuteficlets on LJ. Draco.Quidditch.Angst.
It was the bludger slamming into the back of his broom that sent him careening into woodstonefabric, skidding and gripping and eyes still on the snitch, that caused him seconds that lost the match. The match that his father had taken time out of his schedule to see. Another match that Slytherin lost.
Stomping and swearing and flinging across the locker room, team members ignore his display, same after every loss, worse when his father is there. He stands under the warm spray of the shower, the furthest one from anyone else, trying to drown himself in private.
Out and hair toweled dry and clothes crisp and clean and composed as he walks to meet his father. No excuses are given for the loss, he knows better. They talk quietly, he nods and there are promises of doing better next time. A condescending question and he lowers his head, hair slidingcovering eyes and fist clenched tightly. Nail lines on his palm, a skid mark, another tally showing his fall and how far his must climb to redeem himself in the eyes of his father.