Inbred.


Chapter 1: A Reluctant Conversation

‘You want me to do what!?’ The voice trembled slightly with barely contained anger, glinting grey eyes meeting their cool counterpart before turning away abruptly and glaring rebelliously at the carpet. He could safely hate the carpet, and if necessary convincingly claim it had offended him in some way. After all, the sickly design that swirled nauseatingly round his feet was quite offensive to anyone forced to look at it for any length of time. The carpet deserved his wrath.

The eyes focused upon him again, tone crisp and highly disapproving. ‘I have made your obligations perfectly clear in the past.’ The voice left no room for argument, and in normal circumstances it would have received none to begin with. ‘I see no reason why you should decide to start raising objections now.’

‘Honestly father, did you think I would take this lying down?’ Draco sneered, but only slightly. It was, after all, still his father. A complete lack of moral outrage would not have gone unnoticed, and would have carried a much higher price in the long run than a single instance of raised volume. But he was pushing the boundaries of reasonable outrage into the rather murky waters of outright disobedience.

‘It is for the good of the family name.’ The words were delivered slowly and smoothly, each one given the weight it rightly deserved as Draco rolled his eyes. ‘It may well be for the very future of the family name, to assure we continue to have one to protect.’

‘But a Mudblood, father,’ Draco spat the word, accompanying it with a number of animated hand gestures aimed to get exactly how he felt about the idea across.

‘It is the only possible solution I can see.’

‘Are you sure you’ve looked?’ The frown he received in reply was enough to answer that question, as it pinned him mercilessly to the spot.

‘Trust me when I say I would leap wholeheartedly upon any possible alternative,’ his father hissed menacingly. ‘Do not think I am unaware of the shame this will bring upon you, and how it will ultimately reflect on both your mother and myself.’ His father’s expression left no doubt that it was his own shame he was more concerned about. ‘However, better a generation or two of disgrace than the end of an entire bloodline.’

Draco looked as though he heartily disagreed with that statement, given his was the generation in question. ‘Even a half-blood would be better. Hell, I’d rather marry Potter.’

‘An act which would automatically lead to the same result we are trying to avoid.’ Lucius cocked an elegant eyebrow. ‘I suppose I should be grateful it is only the bloodline you are objecting too, as opposed to the entire gender.’

‘At this point I am struggling to see how either is better.’

‘We are wizards, Draco, not miracle workers. I assure you that if male pregnancy was possible, some obnoxious woman somewhere would have discovered and exploited it to its full, and probably painful, potential.’

‘So, what, I don’t get to bring Potter…’ Draco paused and corrected himself with a malicious grin… ‘Harry home and skip contentedly round the gardens holding hands and staring obliviously into his gorgeous eyes?’ He sneered, feigning absolute disappointment and heartbreak.

‘Beyond the fact that he is our Lord’s mortal enemy, the Potter bloodline is too closely related to that of our own.’

‘Merlin’s bunny slippers, how did we wind up so close to the Potters?’ Draco exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. ‘Next you’ll be telling me we’re related to the Weasels.’

A momentary hush filled the room before conversation reluctantly took hold again, its admission going to careful lengths to ensure it would not now, nor ever, even in the most dire of circumstances, be repeated. ‘It is the only reason we are having this conversation without the presence of their youngest.’

‘Gina…Jenny…whatever her name is.’ Draco’s eyes widened in disbelief as he clutched the mantelpiece for support, the aforementioned hated carpet not helping his growing nausea. ‘You’re telling me you seriously considered that disgusting little traitor for my future wife.’ He sighed resignedly, flipping his hair from where it had once again fallen across his face. ‘You may as well have married me off to Potter then, given how she seems constantly attached to his side.’

‘She would, at least, have been pure though. Perhaps now you will believe me when I tell you all possible alternatives have been painstakingly considered. The few remaining Pureblood families are just too interrelated.’

Draco sulked. ‘You may as well use the word inbred, father.’

Lucius snapped his fingers impatiently, drawing his son out of his wallowing. ‘Every so often the line needs an infusion of fresh blood. Unless you would rather spend the rest of your life producing Squibs, if anything at all.’ Draco cowed slightly from the gaze he found himself subjected too. ‘And I warn you now that no Squib has ever borne the Malfoy name.’

‘If you don’t mind, can we stick to the whole ‘marriage’ problem for the moment?’ Draco had turned a rather sickly and even paler shade of green, as though something horrific had only just occurred to him. ‘I don’t think my stomach can handle the thought of having to actually touch a Mudblood at the moment, let alone procreate with one.’

‘Rest assured the thought brings me no joy either.’

‘I won’t even be able to respectably declare they are at least a Slytherin.’

‘You would be surprised at some of those who have entered the house,’ Lucius commented with a sly smirk. ‘Although you are correct. On the whole, Mudbloods are not accepted, and certainly not in the last several years.’

‘I suppose I could live with a Ravenclaw,’ Draco commented in the tones of one trying to make the best of a disgusting, horrible and tragically unfair situation. ‘They would at least possess a shred of intelligence.’ He mused over the words for a moment, gaping in disbelieving shock mere seconds later as he looked at his father for confirmation that his worst fears were not about to come true. ‘You wouldn’t!’ It was barely a whisper.

‘Just because you must marry a Mudblood, it does not mean I will accept any trash into the family,’ Lucius flicked an invisible speck of dust from the sleeve of his immaculate robe.

‘She’s an intolerable know-it-all.’

‘No, she is a highly proficient know-it-all, who happens to achieve far greater academic heights than you have ever managed.’ It was a fair comment, in principal. In practise, however, his father managed to make it sound as though Draco were heroically battling for the honour of being the top student in the year, and then failing by the narrowest of margins.

It was too much. It was one thing to be discussing marriage, but to be compared in such a disparaging way to such an atrocity went beyond the realms of decency. ‘You would subject our future generations to that hair…to those teeth.’ He was wrought with indignation now.

‘You worry yourself over trivialities,’ Lucius dismissed with a small wave of his hand. ‘There is a reason we look so much alike. The Malfoy genes are dominant, and it will take more than a Mudblood to overcome them.’

‘Brilliant…absolutely wonderful.’ Draco crossed his arms and pouted. To top it all off, the portraits didn’t even bother to swoon at the mere sight of him. ‘So I get stuck having to marry so far beneath me I may as well be crawling through the gutter just so you can be assured of fathering little clones of yourself.’

‘You are not helping yourself.’

‘Neither are you.’ Draco angrily pronounced. ‘You seem to be forgetting the close personal friendship she shares with the person you previously ascertained was unacceptable due to his status as ‘mortal enemy’.’

‘I believe I also raised an issue with his gender,’ Lucius brushed the remark of his blustering son aside. Draco ignored the comment in return, ploughing steadfastly onwards.

‘You do remember her, don’t you?’ Draco wanted to make absolutely sure on this point. Failing memory seemed a far more viable explanation than the prospect of a Malfoy abstaining from revenge. ‘She was one of the ones at the Ministry. Do you really fancy your son being wed to a constant reminder of the reason you spent six months in Azkaban?’

‘Loathe as I am to admit it, but the girl displayed a natural talent we cannot overlook in our decision.’

Draco tried brooding again. ‘You say ‘our’ as though I have a choice.’

‘Present me with a viable alternative.’

‘Just about anyone.’

Lucius sighed irritably. ‘At this moment specifics would be vastly more useful than your incessant rambling.’

‘Any of the Hufflepuffs would do in a pinch.’ Oh god, had he really just said that?

‘No doubt, however it cannot have failed to escape your notice that the majority of that house carries strikingly familiar eye colours. Not to mention that horrendously recognisable black hair.’

Draco’s forehead furrowed in confusion. ‘What…Potters?’

‘Not Potter,’ Lucius snapped emphatically as the name was once again mentioned. ‘That mangy godfather of his.’

‘The homicidal maniac,’ Draco scoffed. ‘I find it hard to believe that a house renowned for its loyalty can thank that disgrace for its offspring.’

‘Perhaps, but genetics speak for themselves and cannot be denied. Name me a single blonde in that house and I shall see you wed before the day is out.’ Draco opened and closed his mouth soundlessly for a moment before snorting in defeat. He had been positive at least one of them was fair-haired, but the more he thought about it, the more he was forced to accept it was just wishful thinking.

‘Fine, so the entire house looks uncannily like Sirius Black, a close relation of my mother and therefore completely unacceptable even if it weren’t for this ridiculous inbreeding.’

‘Draco, I will not argue over this all day.’

Draco was happy to argue about this particular issue all year. ‘And I will not allow you to arbitrarily dictate my future.’

‘Draco.’ He fell into reluctant silence, glowering under the unforgiving gaze of his father. ‘I have allowed you more than enough leeway in regards to your behaviour so far, but you are a Malfoy and you will not forget it. You will either find yourself a suitable alternative of whom I approve, or you will marry the girl.’

‘Yes, father,’ Draco scowled. ‘But in the mean time I think it only fair that you be the one to inform Pansy.’

Chapter 2: Mudblood Studies.

Sitting in the cold of the common room, Draco found himself inexorably torn between pride and outright annoyance that no one in his house had seen fit to take Muggle Studies as a NEWT, or even a wretched OWL. He had prowled the lower dormitories for a hastily concealed textbook relating to the subject, and even subjected a number of the younger and more fragile-looking students to the patented and always effective Malfoy glare. And all of it he had done in the vague hope that one of them would collapse, grovelling at his feet and apologising profusely for having taken such a waste of a subject before taking the time to quietly and privately explain a number of things to him.

First on his list was this ridiculous notion of love that both Muggles and Mudbloods alike seemed intent on demanding as a prerequisite to marriage, with absolutely no thought as to potential political leverage or even perfection of the gene pool. No, they were quite content fumbling their way through life, hoping for the best, content in the knowledge that they at least had each other.

As though nothing else in the world were important.

As though nothing else mattered.

This shouldn’t really have come as a surprise to him, since it was fairly obvious Granger was completely smitten with the Weasel, although he wasn’t sure exactly which of them had drawn the short straw in this instance. Probably deserved each other, at the end of the day.

Oh God, he was considering marrying someone the Weasel deserved.

He made a personal vow to never mention that, even to himself, ever again. Ever. Even under pain of death, pain of death would probably be preferable. He then made an attempt to appease himself with the thought that he would be taking away from the Weasel the very limits of what the Weasel deserved. It helped, but not much.

‘For goodness sake, cheer up, Draco. It’s not the end of the world, although you might bring it about prematurely if I have to spend another minute looking at that ridiculously miserable expression of yours.’

He couldn’t help but be surprised by the fact that now he couldn’t marry her, something about the sound of Pansy’s voice made him want to choke her with her own words. She had been much more tolerable as his future wife. But then again, he was quickly starting to realise, she had also been much nicer to him then. Reminding himself once again that she didn’t mean any harm, he fixed a carefully practised resigned smile to his face before turning to her. ‘I hope it gets here quickly, then.’

‘Don’t bother trying that on me anymore either, it won’t work,’ Pansy commented harshly. ‘It is not the end of the world, and you won’t get anywhere carrying on like that.’ She paused for a moment, looking at him meaningfully until Draco side-stepped out of her path.

‘What happened to my happiness being of utmost importance to you?’ He wasn’t whining. Malfoys did not whine, as it was most unbecoming and indicated they may be struggling to get what they want - that the world contained something not willing to drop straight into their aristocratic laps. Still, he felt he deserved an answer. He watched as she sauntered past, and sulked at her quick and uncaring dismissal.

‘Your father was good enough to inform me of your little predicament,’ Pansy replied flatly, the topic obviously still a little too close to home for her. ‘As I can no longer be assured of the benefits of your name, I fail to see any reason why I should continue to flatter it.’ She flashed him a brief smile laced with poison.

‘You could try for a bit of sympathy. I do have-’ Draco enunciated slowly and emphatically, ‘-to marry a Mudblood.’

‘You might want to consider expanding your vocabulary, then,’ Pansy suggested irritably, working her way through the common room as the pile of books and parchment she was carrying threatened to topple.

Draco frowned slightly. ‘What? Why?’ He prided himself on his extensive use of the English language, the subtle nuances he could weave into an insult with a carefully placed word. That, and the fact that he could reduce Gryffindorks to a puddle of quivering confusion simply by uttering something with more than three syllables.

Pansy cast him an exasperated look over her shoulder, dropping her books on the small table and falling onto the large sofa, drumming her perfectly manicured fingers on the leather arm as she regarded him disbelievingly. ‘What was your plan?’ she started scathingly. ‘To flounce into Great Hall and sweep her across the table, saying ‘You’re mine, Mudblood,’ before having your wicked way with her in front of her entire house?’

Draco smirked proudly. There weren’t many people who could get away with that. ‘They could take notes,’ he offered, grinning slightly. ‘After you’ve taken the time to explain exactly what it is that I’m doing, that is, given how sexually backward the whole house seems to be.’

‘You’d have been hexed at the word Mudblood,’ Pansy said in a no-nonsense tone and with a roll of her heavily made-up eyes.

‘Then how, pray tell, do you propose I refer to her?’

‘She was given a name.’

‘Granger.’

‘A first one too, if I’m not mistaken.’

Draco looked appalled. ‘I will not call her Hermione!’

‘No, perhaps not,’ Pansy conceded. ‘That may well get you hexed just as quickly.’ She paused for a moment, deep in thought as her fingers momentarily halted their insistent and obnoxious quest to destroy the finely crafted finish of the sofa along with the last remaining dregs of his sanity. ‘You don’t perchance play the piano, do you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Very well, how about the violin?’

‘I fail to see how this is of any relevance, but no.’

‘Pity.’ Pansy sounded disappointed. ‘Quite a few people find the tortured musical soul image rather attractive.’

Draco paused for effect, fists clenched at his side as he cast her a scandalised look. ‘I am not,’ he hissed definitively, ‘a tortured soul.’ Pansy made to open her mouth, but closed it just as quickly when Draco glared challengingly at her. ‘Nor am I in need of saving, before you say it. Not from myself or from my wicked father, who, I would like to add, and I say this most categorically, does not hit me.’ He took a deep breath, waiting for Pansy to continue.

‘Shame, there’s nothing like turning up beaten half to death on someone’s doorstep to illicit a little sympathy, and a visit to their bedroom.’

‘That sort of nonsense only works on self-aggrandising heroes, like Potter,’ Draco sneered. ‘Granger would probably tell me not to make a mess of her garden.’

‘You could always send her some of that deeply meaningful poetry you store in a secret compartment in your trunk, then.’ She couldn’t have looked more innocent, perched on the edge of the sofa with her hands clasped in her lap. ‘Or perhaps an excerpt or two from your diary? You know, the ones revealing how truly misguided you are. I could see to it that they get strategically misplaced.’

Draco raised an eyebrow. ‘Do I strike you as the sort to keep a diary of anything other than the newest way I have developed to torture annoying women like you?’

Pansy cocked her head questioningly to the side, curls bouncing angelically round her face. ‘Really? Oh well, my mistake.’ A decidedly evil smirk crossed her face. ‘Do you at least own some leather trousers?’

‘Have you lost your mind?’

Pansy looked him up and down suggestively, eyes hovering on a single spot for a second too long on their way back up. ‘Only at the thought of seeing you in a pair.’

‘Trousers are Muggle, my dear. You do remember that, don’t you?’

‘Nice to know they’re good for something,’ she said lightly, flicking her hair and smiling at him in that infuriating way again. He was rapidly losing control of the situation, and it was horribly unfamiliar to him. ‘Always thought it was a shame to waste such a marvellous asset under robes. I suppose we can thank Quidditch for that.’

‘Malfoys do not wear Muggle clothes!’ He clung onto his indignation tightly. He knew where he stood with that particular emotion, whereas people who weren’t falling over themselves to please him were an entirely new species. ‘Especially ones so revealing it would be no better than going out in ones underwear.’

‘You could try that instead, then.’ Pansy looked vaguely hopeful.

‘I will not sacrifice my dignity for the girl!’

‘Bet you would if she wore a shorter skirt.’ Pansy giggled as Draco spluttered wordlessly, his mouth opening and closing in the unfounded hope that the ultimate retort would suddenly find its way out and clip this annoyingly degrading argument in its proverbial bud. ‘And a slightly tighter top. High heels too, strappy ones.’ Pansy’s shoulders were shaking with the effort of not laughing. ‘She probably filled out quite nicely over the summer.’ Draco silently thanked any deity that happened to be listening that female robes were just as innocuous as their male counterparts, and that the school religiously enforced its strict rules on uniforms, before stepping his glare up a notch and rounding back on her.

‘If you can’t be helpful then shut up.’

Fine, so he’d probably be the first to admit it wasn’t the most scathing of retorts, but he was reaching the end of his tether. He hadn’t realised Malfoys even had tethers until now, so given the extreme circumstances he felt he was doing remarkably well with the situation. Pansy had, after all, stopped talking.

‘You should try using that as your opening line.’

Or perhaps not.

Chapter 3: Damsel In Distress.

Typically the Mudblood was always early for breakfast, dragging a drooling Weasel and obviously-not-a-morning-person Potter with her. Why she bothered was beyond him, since invariably one spent the entire time trying not to fall asleep in his porridge and the other used it to finish whatever essay was currently on the verge of being horrendously overdue. Then came the ritual of glaring at the late homework doer (apparently the most heinous of all crimes) and ensuring that Potter ate his food instead of just lounging in it, since rumour was rife he was trying to save the Dark Lord the hassle of killing him and instead reserving the honour for himself. It was, in Draco’s opinion, the height of bad manners, not to mention ridiculously absurd. However, if Potter wanted to starve himself to an early grave Draco was not about to dispute the sentiment. No doubt it would make his current predicament that much easier. It wasn’t that he particularly cared if scar-head and his sidekick also happened to disapprove almost as emphatically as he did of what was happening, he just didn’t fancy the prospect of a trip to the hospital wing.

Not that he would be the one to need it, naturally. But if he were forced into a situation in which he had to curse one or both, the riddle spewing idiot that passed for a Headmaster these days would most likely then force him to their bedsides to witness the consequences of his actions first hand. And to top it all off he wouldn’t even be permitted to gloat.

However, the thought had occurred to him that if Potter would just hurry the damn thing along a bit it could prove to be an unrivalled opportunity. He could swoop in and offer the distraught girl a shoulder to cry on. Comfort her over the loss of her closest friends, since the Weasel would no doubt have some sort of aneurism if merely at the sight of a Malfoy so close to his only hope of happiness.

Fine, so there was one major flaw with the plan, beyond the fact that Potter wasn’t yet dead. Malfoy’s weren’t exactly know for their saving of damsels in distress. In fact, more often than not they were responsible for keeping the heroes of the world so busy with the snivelling women. That and most of his robes were prone to staining at the slightest drop of water. The havoc a sobbing Mudblood could wreak on his wardrobe was too painful to even consider.

Oh, and his hair tended to curl slightly in the damp.

Perhaps he could slip something into the food of the Boy-Who-Couldn’t-Do-Anything-Properly. In deference to the disgusting peasants friendship he was sure he could find something painlessly lethal.

Except that Potter wasn’t eating. Damn.

He was still drinking though, most likely Pumpkin juice as the Golden Boy raised a goblet to his lips and swallowed slowly. There were plenty of untraceable and undetectable poisons that should be fairly simple to surreptitiously slip into his morning beverage. And if he managed to kill Potter perhaps the Dark Lord would be more understanding and thusly forgiving of his arranged marriage.

Okay, he was naïve but not that naïve.

He nursed his coffee sulkily, glaring across the Hall and cursing the generations of Malfoy’s that had so selfishly thrust this upon him. He wasn’t cut out for romance. In his opinion any woman should be bloody grateful he even breathed in her presence, and speechless if he so much as talked to her. Granger didn’t strike him as the speechless type though, and a lifetime of nagging was tentatively trying to present itself as the most likely outcome to this little endeavour.

He calmly told this vision of the future to shove off, to which it turned its back and blew raspberries.

It was definitely the beginning to a perfect day. Not only was he willingly going to have to talk to at least one member of the Golden Trio, but also his inner voice had the mental age of a three year old. Merlin only knew what the old bat Trelawney would make of that.

Somewhere in the middle of his musing his feet had apparently taken his life into their own proverbial hands, as he was somewhat nearer the Gryffindor table than he recalled being and still walking. Towards it, that was, not away as his instincts were screaming at him to do.

That was right, sarcasm. When all else failed it was the ultimate lifeline. He could do sarcasm, and it always managed to break the ice quite effectively. Sneer, check. Form coherent sentences, check. Prepare dank yet tasteful hole to crawl into when this is all over, check. ‘So, the Golden Boy is capable of gracing us with his presence before noon. Should I grovel now, or just send my gesticulation with the nearest owl?’

Nothing. Not so much as a glare. Damn it all if he couldn’t even taunt The-Boy-With-Far-Too-Many-Hyphens-In-His-Name to make himself feel better. What right did the idiot have to be so depressed in his presence anyway? Contrary to popular opinion he didn’t find the attitude heartbreakingly sad. It certainly didn’t encourage him to make life changing alterations to his perceptions of the world and his place in it, nor did it strike in him the urge to comfort so much as the urge to Crucio until they bloody well stopped. Being depressed or breathing, that is; he wasn’t overly bothered which.

At least the Weasel was glaring enough to make up for the both of them, although the Mudblood seemed indifferent to his presence. She certainly wasn’t staring rapturously at his angelic countenance. He had once been told, by a nervously shaking first year, that some ignorant woman somewhere had had the nerve to describe his perfect features as ‘pointy’. He still hadn’t found said woman, but his plan for when he did so had grown to epic heights.

Thankfully the good old Weasley ingenuity came hurtling towards him, as he really didn’t think he could have endured holding up both ends of the conversation ‘Sod off, Malfoy.’ Yes, you could always rely on the redheaded idiot to be as remarkably predictable and eloquent as always.

It was now or never, although he did take a brief moment to pray for never in the vague hope that Gods liked leaving things to the last moment. Or possibly that the Dark Lord would change his plans and storm the school at this exact second.

Nope, oh well.

‘Such language,’ he commented, clutching at where he was fairly sure his heart was supposed to be and wiping his forehead in a distraught manner before holding out his hand for the vile one. Admittedly he had made a few discreet changes to the course of action Pansy had finally suggested, when the hysterical laughter had died down. He hadn’t trusted her to be completely sincere though, and besides, Malfoy’s were supposed to be able to handle anything with expected style and grace. ‘Come, ingrate, let me whisk you away from such vulgarity where we can live happily,’ he choked slightly on this word, but recovered himself admirably, ‘together for the rest of all eternity.’

There, he had said it. The offer had been made, so no one could accuse him of not trying. Perhaps toning down the scorn might have been helpful, but this was one place where he was willing to let perfection take a second seat. And why, in the name of all that was evil, was she still failing to collapse at his feet sobbing tears of joy that he had acknowledged her existence?

‘Leave Malfoy,’ Granger had finally seemed to notice his presence, dragging her gaze up from a painfully thick book.

‘Such eloquence.’ He was really getting caught up in the moment now. ‘Such divine tranquillity. You could do such much better than these barbarians,’ he gestured vaguely in the direction of a spluttering Weasley and an oblivious Saviour-Of-The-Wizarding-World, who only just seemed to have noticed he was even there.

‘What?’

‘No one was asking you Potter,’ Draco snapped over his shoulder, rolling his eyes as Harry just stared at him blankly. ‘Oh for crying out loud.’ He dropped the heroic pose he had adopted and leant over the table until his face was mere inches from Harry’s, fixing what he was fairly sure was a non-threatening smile to his face and speaking softly. ‘I hear Moaning Myrtles bathroom is empty. Why don’t you just toodle along like a good little boy hero and go drown yourself, whilst there’s no one to interrupt you.’ Harry looked up slowly, Draco could almost hear the words turning over in his head before he rose with the speed of a snail and made for the large double doors.

‘Harry, no!’ Hermione shrieked, jumping from her seat and running to his side, steering him gently back towards the table, casting Draco a look of horror. ‘Malfoy, you should know better. Harry’s delicate at the moment.’

Draco looked momentarily confused. ‘Your point?’

‘You shouldn’t take advantage.’

There was some life lesson supposed to have been imparted here, he was sure, and any minute now it would enlighten him.

Any minute.

Well, he didn’t have all morning to wait, and if the lesson was coming from a Mudblood it couldn’t have been that important anyway, he dismissed easily. No doubt it had something to do with morals and why you shouldn’t encourage the Boy-Who-Was-Prone-To-Melodramatics to behave recklessly. Well, more recklessly than his usual Gryffindor standards of recklessness. Obviously there was some hitherto unwritten code stating you were only allowed to get yourself killed if it involved stupid heroics. Or bludgers to the head.

How many bludgers to the head did it take to kill someone anyway? He was sure he had read somewhere that a famous, yet remarkably inept Lithuanian beater had fallen to the four thousand, three hundred and ninety seventh. And Potter had hit his head, what, no more than three or four times? Admittedly that meant that in the space of the four remaining games of the year he would need to get practically pulverised to reach the somewhat ambiguous lethal limit, which would most probably involve some interesting game tactics on his part, but Draco was not above rising to the challenge.

But then again, perhaps he could just casually mention to The-Boy-With-Ambiguous-Parentage that he was starting to look remarkably like Snape. That should have him bolting for the afterlife in a flash, and would be far less likely to cause such ethical indignation. And even if the prospect didn’t repulse him, no doubt Severus would take care of his little problem when the Boy-With-Childhood-Emotional-Issues turned up on his doorstep desperate for a hug.

That might have been worth seeing even if it weren’t for what he refused to refer to as anything but ‘the results of despicable foreplanning.’

‘Were you waiting for something, Malfoy?’ His atrocity of a future wife was talking again. She hadn’t even asked his permission. ‘Or are you so desperate for attention that even a hex is better than nothing? I’ve been researching ferrets.’

He would not kill her; he would not kill her. He’d damn well like too, but once again the results of despicable foreplanning were ruining all his fun.

So he smirked instead. ‘Much as I’d love to stay and witness first hand the next failing of our resident know it all, I’m afraid you have more pressing matters that require your immediate and undivided attention.’ He gestured to the figure on the bench next to her. ‘If I were you I’d fish Potter out of his pumpkin juice. I did suggest the bathroom, but even when trying to condemn the Wizarding World to eternal darkness he insists on stealing the limelight.’ He grabbed what remained of his pride and sauntered back towards the Slytherin table, glaring a couple of fourth years into immediate silence to ensure he wasn’t losing his touch and wincing as the scolding words of all that was wrong with his life echoed past him.

‘How did you even manage to fit your head in the jug?’

Chapter 4: Problems In Potions

He had resorted to hiding behind Crabbe and Goyle. Although, as Evil Minions went, they were kind of useless should the task you set require brainpower or any element of thinking whatsoever, as far as sheer bulk went there were none better. He just had to make sure that all instructions were given in painstaking detail, and occasionally remind them to walk; or if they were all ready walking, to stop before they went ploughing into whatever obstacle was in their way. But this was a small price to pay for such complete devotion and loyalty. Besides, if left to their own devices for any length of time they could prove to be quite amusing, in a destructive sort of way, which was by far the most entertaining sort of amusement going.

And at this precise moment in time he wouldn’t have traded them for all the gold in Gringotts, regardless of the fact that the vast majority of it belonged to the Malfoy’s anyway.

That is, until he reached the Potions classroom.

Not even the fact that they were Slytherins had managed to get Crabbe and Goyle into the exclusive NEWT class. It had, nevertheless, been attempted. But at the end of the day no amount of grade doctoring, ambiguous point giving or even making sure they touched nothing, did nothing and said nothing could hide the fact that they were horrendously inept at the subject. Possibly even more so than Longbottom had ever managed to be. Still, Snape had loyally added their names to the acceptance list, although the state of his normally impeccable writing at the point of their names indicated he might well have suffered a crisis of some unnameable sort at the time.

He had been summoned to the Headmasters Office later that day. Or at least his presence had been requested. After all, no one ever summoned a Slytherin. They asked and lived in the hope that their schedules proved themselves to be amenable. The resultant conversation would no doubt have been interesting to hear in its entirety, but since the last few sentences had been heard as far as the Ravenclaw common room it had provided ample gossip for days.

And so Professor Severus Snape overturned his previous verdict, and did not allow either Crabbe or Goyle back into his Lab. It was, as expected and unquestionably, completely his own decision. He had not been in any way influenced by the Headmaster’s gentle words pointing out that Ronald Weasley had not been allowed back into the class, and showed more competence in little finger than both said students. It was not, and he had been most emphatic about this, because he had been requested to perhaps consider allowing the redheaded twit to continue lest his act be seen as favouritism. He had simple re-evaluated his situation and suggested that perhaps his two less able students find something more suited to their unique abilities to focus their energy on.

Although the decision had left Draco with a completely Weasley free year of Potions, he was now beginning to wonder if he hadn’t drawn the short end of the straw; or if fate was personally remembering each and every last thing he had been pleased about in order to turn it against him. Snape hadn’t been able to keep the Mudblood or The-Boy-Who-Must-Have-Cheated from his classroom. He had tried. Oh how he had tried. But somehow, despite being completely and obviously useless at the subject, the Golden Boy had managed to score a passing grade. Only Potter could blow up almost every single potion, fail all his homework and still manage to save the day at the last minute. After all, Merlin forbid Potter not be allowed to continue with the subject. Oh no. Then he wouldn’t be able to become a blessed Auror and continue saving the World into his old age, if he ever actually made it there. No doubt if he hadn’t managed to scrape the grade Dumbledore would have conveniently pulled a new teacher out of his far too shiny hat. One with slightly lower standards than Snape, whose line for admittance miraculously managed to fall just within Potters limited grasp.

Yep, the World could definitely be very opportune in that way when you happened to be the Hero of the story.

And all of this now meant that he was stuck in a classroom without the bulge of his (and he used the term liberally) friends to hide behind. Without their comforting presence, their inaudible grunts that confirmed they were still alive. All he had was Pansy, who insisted on glancing between him and the Granger girl and erupting into fits of giggles. Evidently she also had quite a vocabulary for innuendo, as well as an unlimited supply of potential uses for a stirring wand; all of which she insisted on describing with excessively inappropriate gestures.

He had been on the verge of turning a horrific shade of red when the God of all that was good and timely showed itself in the form of Severus Snape. In an attempt to distract himself from the whisperings of Pansy, who really was becoming far to familiar with him, in his personal opinion, he stared resolutely at the billowing robes of the Potions Master, counting the buttons. There were no doubt enough to keep him happily oblivious for several hours. In fact he was somewhat surprised that Snape didn’t button his damn door shut.

‘Today you will be brewing a Potion.’ Thank Merlin, Morgana and Circe. At least it wouldn’t give Pansy the time to finish what looked to be a very interesting doodle of himself and far too many flowers, bows and pink frills to be healthy or even humanly possible. ‘All text books are to be closed and placed under your desk.’ He grabbed his book from under Pansy’s nose, barely giving her a chance to save her now moving drawing, and slammed it shut with a snap. Sighing in relief and pretending not to notice the surprisingly realistic representation of possibly the most sickening wedding scene he had ever seen, he started stuffing the volume into his bag, looking up when he felt a presence staring down at him.

It was Snape, standing behind his desk with his hands splayed on the surface, his head tilted slightly to the side in either contemplation or anticipation. He was smirking.

This was going to be bad.

With an amused raise of his left eyebrow Snape turned back towards the board at the front of the classroom, leaving Draco clutching his bag with white fingers. A snap of his elegant fingers and the instructions appeared in swirling white letters, dancing painfully across the surface.

Oh, this was just too droll. Absolutely ruddy hilarious. If someone could please revive him after he passed out from laughing so bloody hard he would be most grateful.

‘But Sir,’ it, naturally, had to be the know it all with her hand so far in the air she seemed to be trying to levitate herself from it. ‘The Potion isn’t even on the syllabus.’ No, of course it wasn’t. Didn’t the stupid twit know when to keep her oversized mouth shut, or was she purposely trying to draw as much attention to it as possible?

‘Fifteen points from Gryffindor, for speaking out of turn,’ Snape said, with a malicious glint behind his eyes. ‘And a further ten for daring to question my competence as a teacher.’ Peeking out from behind his fingers Draco was eternally thankful that Granger looked suitably cowed by the loss of House points and wasn’t pushing the issue. It didn’t help his situation much though, and the whole thing absolutely reeked of his fathers planning. It was becoming painfully obvious that he didn’t have as much faith in the Malfoy charm as he previously stated…at length and in repeated detail. Whether he had truly expected Draco to return home with a smitten piece of filth attached to his arm all ready was anybodies guess, but was rapidly becoming excruciatingly likely. Draco doubted Snape had needed much convincing to go along with it either. In fact he was getting the distinct impression he had done something horrible to the man in a previous life, something so despicable Snape would forever be seeking vengeance on his well dressed self. Holding his breath and waiting for the next cauldron to fall he watched out of the corner of his eye as Granger grabbed Potter by the sleeve of his robe and made for the ingredients cupboard.

He could live through this. Snape was just trying to make him uncomfortable, letting him know that he knew about the results of despicable foreplanning. It was embarrassing, humiliating and above all else completely and utterly mortifying, but it couldn’t get much worse.

His hand shot out to brush the desk, touching the cracked and peeling wood just a split second too late.

‘I will be assigning your pairs today.’

The evil, greasy git. How the Dark Lord could ever doubt his allegiance was laughable. The man was black to the core; black and horrible and deserving of every punishment ever inflicted and more. He couldn’t even get the torturous experience over and done with. No, instead he had to pair off every other member of the class until only two names remained.

‘Miss Granger, you will be working with Draco.’

Draco cast a desperate look to the desk behind him, where Pansy had moved and was prodding Potter non-too kindly in the ribs to get his wavering attention. Sighing in defeat she treated Draco to a shrug and suggestive wink in reply as the Mudblood dropped her cauldron with enough force to shake the desk, earning herself a ferocious glare as he finally turned round to face her.

He did not like the way she was regarding him, arms crossed across her chest and an inquiring light in her eyes. It was none too pleasant, and not the correct way one should go about addressing someone of his impeccable standing. Fortunately for his sanity she did nothing more than flick a strand of frizzy hair out of her face before sitting down without another word, slicing the shrivelfig methodically and not sparing a second glance in his direction. Scowling at the desk he followed her lead and lit a small fire beneath his cauldron, religiously avoiding any remote acknowledgement of her presence or even existence. It became increasingly easier, as the noise around him slowly started to build, blocking out the relentless scraping of her knife on the table as unenthusiastic pairs argued quietly to themselves.

‘Malfoy.’ Damn it, the girl was even shrill when she whispered. ‘Malfoy!’

‘What,’ he hissed in reply, not even bothering to turn to face her.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?’

Finally, a question he could answer with absolute and complete sincerity. ‘Not.’ He could feel her gaze boring uncomfortably into the side of his head.

‘A Love Potion?’ the despicable creature sounded indignant as she leant closer, making his skin crawl uncomfortably. ‘If this is some prank of yours I don’t think it’s very funny. This could jeopardise my entire grade.’ He couldn’t contain the snort of laughter, drawing stunted familiar giggles from behind him and earning himself another pointed look from the front of the class. ‘And why does Professor Snape keep looking at you like that?’

‘None of your nosy, constantly sticking that oversized head where it doesn’t belong, business,’ Draco huffed, grinding his root with more vehemence than it required as Pansy paused on her walk past and leant in to whisper sweetly in his ear.

‘Lovers tiff?’

He imagined her face.

The root was completely obliterated as the one who should never have been allowed to live glared bemusedly at the retreating figure and then back to Draco.

‘You’ll have to start again. The instructions say that if you grind it into too fine a powder it loses its potency and is ineffective.’

He stared at the contents of the bowl in his hand for a moment, a victorious smile curling his lips as the solution to his little situation presented itself, before he dumped the whole lot into the gently boiling cauldron. Hermione shrieked, making a useless snatch for the bowl and almost knocking it from his fingers.

‘It’ll be ruined,’ she sounded devastated, peering into the simmering mixture that had retained its flawless colour, as though trying to pacify her with the prospect that nothing had actually just happened.

‘Surely even an ignorant Mudblood such as yourself can see how that would be beneficial.’ Draco’s voice was laced with loathing as he snatched a jar of Dragon scales out of reach of the Boy-Who-Never-Gave-Up before he could blow up his concoction and most likely himself and all those in the immediate vicinity, so much for selflessness.

‘Some of us believe in working to achieve good grades,’ she said with annoying superiority, casting Harry a brief look of concern tempered only by the fact that Pansy had developed the sudden desire to move anything potentially lethal out of his reach. ‘Not just having our father bribe, buy or threaten in order to maintain them.’ Draco was beginning to wonder if the ability to look smug was a perfected female trait, and whether it was a genetic requirement that sent it hand in hand with overwhelming bossiness.

He was also beginning to get anxious. Actually, the level of anxiety he was feeling now indicated it had been there for a little while, and had taken this of all moments as an opportunity to kick him in the sensibilities, and to kick him hard. Sure he had accepted (as far as acceptance could be stretched to cover this) that he was going to have to marry her. However his thought process had only gone as far as ‘speak to her, but there’s no need to be overly nice’ before jumping straight to ‘married and off on an obligatory honeymoon.’ It had pranced merrily over the small part where he would have to ask her, and flounced obliviously through what he had hoped would be the unnecessary part in which she agreed, although research had since shown him that marriage under Imperius was neither legal nor binding.

He would have to date her.

He would have to be seen in public with her.

Willingly.

Forcing the remains of the stupid Potion down her throat was starting to sound like an excellent idea. Except he had just ruined it. Glancing round the room his eyes fell on the cauldron Pansy was leaning over carefully. Shaking his head he dismissed the idea. If Potter had helped make it, it was less likely to cause women to fall at his feet in devotion as it was to burn a hole in their stomach, be that the intended result or not.

‘Malfoy, are you all right?’ He did not just detect concern in her voice.

‘Since when have I ever required or even wanted you to care?’ Ah, she was scowling again. Everything in the World had returned to be right.

Except that he wasn’t supposed to be making her scowl. He was supposed to be encouraging her to like him. Bugger. But if he couldn’t use Imperius, perhaps he could just Obliviate her. Make her forget she had ever hated him. Or better yet, make her forget she was even a Mudblood. Make her forget pretty much everything thus far in her life. Sure he would be risking damaging her mind irrevocably, but it was a necessary loss he could force himself to live with. He would, of course, be heartbroken, but somehow he would persevere.

He drew his wand with a flourish, pointing it dramatically at the head of his intended, which had bent itself back over its book, too engrossed to even notice him.

‘Draco Malfoy!’ Darn. ‘Much as I am sure Granger deserved whatever curse you feel compelled to aim at her, I cannot abide such behaviour in my classroom.’ Did the man know everything? Fixing an innocent smile he glanced at the Professor, shrugging in an, ‘if you won’t let me do it fancy doing me a favour’ sort of way. ‘Miss Granger you will report to Mr Filch for detention at the weekend.’ The comment was met with resounding disagreement, as Snape merely raised an eyebrow at the noise. ‘You will be scrubbing floors by hand, without the use of magic.’ He swept away with a smirk, but not before glaring meaningfully at Draco and commenting ‘sometimes the old fashioned ways are the best.’

Whatever it was he had done to the man he was bloody sorry all ready.

Chapter 5: A Veritable Hotbed Of Sordid Activity.



Lucius Malfoy strode haughtily through the halls of Hogwarts, robes billowing as students scurried respectfully out of his path, eyes averted. He was surprised, given his current position and rather chequered history of allegiance, that he had so easily gained access to the castle. In fact it had required no more than a handful of Floo powder and the correct set of directions: the Great Hall. He felt somewhat disappointed that an elaborate web of deception hadn’t been required, nor the careful application of his political leverage, or even a subtle dark curse or two. Perhaps if the Dark Lord hadn’t been so obsessed with possessing/Polyjuicing professors, fixing elaborate tournaments, Horcruxes in the shape of innocent looking diaries and one hundred year old snakes in secret rooms, he would have found conquering the school that little bit easier.



But then again, where was the dramatic flair in simply flooing an army into the inner sanctum of the enemy and destroying them from within? No, if you were going to take over the world history demanded you at least make a decent story out of it, preferably one with a sequel. It was preposterous to think otherwise.



The gargoyle guarding the staircase to the Headmaster's office slid gratingly out of his path. So he was expected. It was not overly surprising. Albus Dumbledore was not one to be caught off guard. It was, most likely, the crucial contributing factor to the reality that the man had survived long enough to become the doddering, and apparently quite senile, old man so many people held in such high, yet remarkably unfounded, regard. Whether he had ever truly been completely sane was a matter of opinion. Given his dress sense and rather warped sense of humour, Lucius was inclined to think not. Besides, no one in possession of all of their marbles had such constantly twinkling eyes. That in itself should have been a sure and rather blatant sign of failing mental health. Then there was the incident concerning his brother and the goat. Eccentricity was known to run in families.



‘Headmaster,’ Lucius greeted smoothly, stepping into the room and tipping the head of his elegant cane as the door slid quietly shut behind him. ‘I am honoured you found the time in your busy schedule to see me.’ The old man just smiled genially at him, summoning a plush pink armchair out of thin air that caused Lucius’ bright smile to fade to a rather menacing snarl.



‘Please, have a seat.’ Dumbledore rooted around in one of his desk drawers as Lucius regarded the creation with distaste, wondering but not particularly perturbed by the prospect that the man would take offence, or even notice a quick charm to at least fade the horrific colour slightly. There wasn’t time however, as the Headmaster emerged, producing a glass bowl with a small noise of success and proffering it to the aristocratic man. ‘Sherbet lemon?’



The only thing that could convince him to eat one of those foul Muggle creations was if it happened to be poisoned, and was thusly being offered as a quick escape to the indignity of the chair Lucius was not so much sitting in, as attempting to hover a couple of inches above. He had not spent months ridding Narcissa of her awful attachment to the putrid colour expecting to be subjected to it again. And it was astounding how much damage such a simple thing could potentially do to his reputation, were anyone to see. The senior servant of the Dark Lord did not relax in badly styled seventies furniture sucking on sugary treats.



Swallowing his growing nausea and gritting his perfect teeth, Lucius dove straight to the point of his visit, dismissing the offered sweets with a barely noticeable wave of his flawlessly manicured hand and pulling on every last thread of aristocratic superiority he had ever owned. ‘It has come to my attention that even after accepting his esteemed position as Head Boy, my son is still forced to live in the same conditions as the rest of his House.’ Lucius fixed Dumbledore with a questioning stare, his very posture indicating the terrible insult that had been made through the oversight, and the vengeance that would be immediately wrought were it not rectified. And the point of the chair was revealed in all its splendour. It was damn near impossible to look sufficiently intimidating on such a grotesque item.



‘Yes, well. The position is one of responsibility, meant to prepare the young minds for the world beyond these walls. It is not a status symbol.’



‘Nevertheless.’ Lucius stared imperiously down his perfectly defined nose at the old man, who despite insisting on wearing the most outrageous green and purple robes imaginable still managed to look oddly disquieting. ‘The position itself does imply status.’



‘Yes, yes,’ Dumbledore agreed wholeheartedly. ‘But not, perhaps, the status you have in mind.’ Dumbledore should have been honoured. He had just attained the much sought after title as the first person to insinuate that he, Lucius Malfoy, might be wrong about something, and lived. ‘It is not so much about separating one or two students from the rest of the school as it is creating a more harmonious environment, encouraging trust and promoting leadership.’



Lucius felt no desire to listen to the continuing ramblings of an attempt to justify not giving him exactly what he required. He barely gave Dumbledore a moment to finish the sentence, before interrupting with a well-practised finality in his tone, his cane hitting the floor with a sharp thud as though to herald what he was about to demand. ‘I believe it only fair that my son be given his own rooms.’



There was silence as Dumbledore looked thoughtful, leaning back in his seat and drumming his long fingers together before starting to speak slowly and carefully. ‘It is unprecedented. No Head in the history of the school has ever received, or even felt the need to request such an honour.’



‘Still, Draco’s accomplishments and service to the school should warrant something in return,’ Lucius continued matter of factly, both his hands coming to lean on the head of the cane in front of him with poise and regal bearing. ‘And we cannot allow the ways of the old to influence how we proceed into the future.’



‘No, indeed not.’ Dumbledore was stroking his beard considerately, increasing Lucius’ urge to pull the stupid old fart across his desk by it almost tenfold. ‘Yet such an act may well be the cause of discourse amongst the remaining students.’



Lucius smiled disconcertingly, although it did nothing to faze the Headmaster. ‘I was not suggesting my son be the only one to benefit. I have heard nothing but positive praise from him regarding the Head Girl.’ His son had never managed to master the art of false sincerity without choking on his own words. It was not a problem that had ever concerned Lucius, and Dumbledore looked as though he were trying very hard not to choke on his lemon drop, masking a bout of spluttering behind his hand as his eyes widened. Lucius spared him a brief look of feigned concern. ‘Naturally the honour would extend to her also.’



‘The castle,’ Dumbledore managed to cough, smoothing down the front of his robes as he collected himself and cleared his throat again before continuing. ‘The castle, although magical, does not come with an abundance of living quarters. To suggest we find two separate spaces for people who have lived quite happily without until now, may not be feasible.’



‘Of course.’ Lucius’ smile had grown, becoming far more predatory in nature. ‘I am well aware of the limitations of the building, and I am certain my son would not object to sharing.’ Well, he might object, however he undeniably wouldn’t expect anyone, least of all his own father, to take him seriously. ‘It would, after all, still be significantly better than that in which he is currently residing.’ Dumbledore looked momentarily caught off guard. It was really rather pleasing to watch.



‘The school is not in the habit of allowing mixed gender cohabitation.’



‘I was not under the impression that the common rooms were currently single sex.’



‘They are not, however the dormitories are. We are not in the nature of simply trusting hormonal adolescents, and ancient spells have been in place for quite some time to protect against any…misguided acts of youth.’



‘If you are suggesting that my son cannot be trusted…’ Lucius sent a quizzical warning look in the direction of the old man.



‘Of course not.’



‘Then perhaps you are doubting the virtue of Miss. Granger?’ He quirked an eyebrow.



‘Not at all,’ Dumbledore replied sharply. ‘Merely her willingness to participate. And I am afraid we cannot allow the privilege for one if the other does not consent.’



‘She is a young woman. Surely she has no objections to her own space, with only the charming company of Draco to interfere with her studies. It is not as if I was proposing they share a bedroom.’ Dumbledore looked doubtful of the comment. ‘And perhaps a shared living space would help encourage any animosity between their respective houses to fade. Such a thing could only be of benefit to the entire school.’ That was the sort of thing that appealed to the old man. He was almost comical in his virtuous battle to unite the student population, and seemed quite oblivious to the fact that, regardless of House and upbringing, what he actually had was a building full of teenagers, a species known far and wide for its unwillingness to get on with anybody for more than approximately five minutes at a time.



‘I am afraid I simply cannot permit such a thing. Not only is it ethically debateable, but also the potential outrage from parents is almost certain.’



‘I am a parent, and I have no issue to raise.’



‘The issue would be one of impropriety,’ Dumbledore sighed, and Lucius could practically feel him holding back from defining the word for his benefit.



‘I see no reason why two maturing teenagers, who obviously hate each other with a passion that could never to lead anything questionable, should not be forced to live together in ridiculously close quarters and, if possible, without any nearby teachers present to check on their behaviour.’ Lucius looked smug, crossing his arms and checking himself from leaning back into the still stubbornly pink chair. ‘One would hardly have thought you were in the habit of endangering students lives - never mind accommodating what is perfectly natural behaviour - yet your resident Mr. Potter seems to have managed to catch himself in any number of escapades quite easily preventable. Why such a simple thing as this in comparison should cause you such a crisis of principles is unfathomable.’



‘Yet my principles remain unwavering.’



‘Then you must forgive me for being so presumptuous,’ Lucius continued without a hint of apology. ‘But if this is your decision I feel it my duty, not only as a parent but as a past Governor, to question a number of other rules regarding ‘inappropriate behaviour’ that have failed to be implemented by the school.’



‘I am always willing to listen when the well being of my students is at stake.’ Somehow Dumbledore managed to keep a straight face whilst saying that. Perhaps he even believed it. Lucius couldn’t help but be surprised. He hadn’t even had to throw anything, let alone demolish the room, as rumour had it Potter had been forced to do to draw the man out of his personal fantasy world. Privately Lucius wouldn’t have minded an invitation to join him there. Apparently it was a place where children of his son’s age could be trusted in any situation to keep their hands to themselves. Any situation, that was, barring the one under discussion.



‘The Astronomy Tower, for example,’ he sneered, further incensed as the Headmaster look blank and innocently uninformed of the notorious location. ‘The number of illicit liaisons that have taken place there leads me to the inevitable conclusion that you must be cancelling Astronomy classes simply so there is enough time for them all. That or you are actively encouraging voyeurism.’ Dumbledore actually had the gall to chuckle.



‘We cannot guard out students every minute, and I’m sure such reports have been grossly exaggerated.’



‘Students sneaking out at night to visit the illustrious ‘Night-Life’ scene of Hogsmeade.’



‘Ah, yes. However everyone who has gone looking for this place as found themselves faced with nothing more than a run down warehouse and a reputation for gullibility. And also a cold walk back to the castle.’



‘The free use of the prefects bathroom,’ Lucius spluttered indignantly, irate at how easily his comments were being brushed aside. No one could be this unaware. ‘The password is given out like candyfloss. Or if not there, then the Quidditch showers. They are a veritable hotbed of sordid activity!’



‘I was not aware the Quidditch pitch had its own showers.’ Dumbledore sat up slightly straighter in his chair. Ah ha. That had him. The meddling fool didn’t know everything.



‘Only for the men.’ Lucius’ eyes widened meaningfully, as Dumbledore glanced out the window towards the distant pitch, where a familiar black haired boy had climbed to excessive height just to fall off his broom with surprising clumsiness for someone of his apparent natural talent. Several other players had swooped towards his falling frame, catching him at the last second and depositing him safely on the ground as a head of flaming hair confiscated the offending item responsible for the near death.



‘Perhaps you have a point.’ There was no perhaps about it. ‘Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’ So, not only was Dumbledore completely uninformed when it came to his charges, but he had a remarkably selective short-term memory problem.



‘Surely you see how my request is nothing compared to the outrageous behaviour of the rest of the school,’ Lucius gently steered the interfering idiot back to the issue at hand.



‘Draco will remain with the rest of his House.’ Dumbledore’s tone was firm. Apparently even the most noble of people were capable of outstanding hypocrisy. ‘However, I will be having words with the rest of the faculty regarding everything you have told me. Perhaps some sort of lecture is in order.’ He gestured for the door, which opened as Lucius rose gracefully to his feet. ‘Rest assured your concerns will be dealt with.’

Author's Note: Before you read this chapter - and inevitably find yourself itching to inform me of the obvious and repeated mistakes I have made - I would like to take a moment to let you know that my concentration span, whilst admittedly pitiful, is not that short. I do have the ability to remember something I wrote three lines ago. This is a parody. If you do not get the joke, you obviously haven’t read enough fanfiction. Correction - you obviously haven’t read enough bad fanfiction.





Chapter 6: Nettus Narrosium.

It was official. He hated everyone. He hated Potter, the Boy-Who-Should-Be-Shot. He hated the freckled wonder that passed for a sidekick. He especially hated the Mudblood, although he still had enough sense to glare a little less in her direction than he otherwise would have liked too. He was on the verge of hexing Pansy to a nasty oblivion, doing unspeakably wicked things to both Crabbe and Goyle, and there were not words to describe what Draco wanted his father to suffer. There was a special place reserved in the inner circles of Hell for people like his father.

He was, nevertheless, trying very hard to erase the reason for his unquestionably rational and completely justified foul mood from existence. Not necessarily because he was struggling to live down the mortifying conversation his father had shared with the Headmaster, although this hadn’t helped either Draco’s mood or his erratic impulse control. It had more to do with the fact that the penultimate parting words of Lucius had been to tell his son, in no uncertain terms, that he had done all he could to help hurry the situation to a beneficial close, and that Draco was now on his own. Personally Draco thought there was a lot more that the man could have done. For one thing he could have dealt with this problem himself, preferably before Draco had ever been born, so that he could be spared this indignity. For another he could have draped himself liberally in raw meat and gone Thestral hunting. He could have swallowed a potion of the Longbottom variety. He could have cursed Mrs Norris and simply handed Filch the thumbscrews. The list of possibilities was endless. Despite the horrors of all of these, however, Draco was resolutely adamant that it was the final proposition his father had made - delivered with a smirk as the flames of the Floo engulfed him - suggesting that perhaps Draco take a moment to become reacquainted with his inner Hufflepuff, that had led to his reluctance to accept all things real.

Besides, Draco was fairly certain his inner Hufflepuff wasn’t speaking to him. Not since the incident with the frog, the spellotape and the very big stick. Still, he had no time to digress, as apparently the universe still had one further trick left up its sleeve for him.

He was, at that moment, seated happily in the Quidditch stands with Blaise, spying on the Gryffindor Quidditch practise as befitted any good Slytherin. It was, however, proving to be an activity unworthy of his time - despite the fact that his accompanying blonde Slytherin seemed intent on resting her hand on his thigh - since The Boy-Who-Was-Just-So-Hard-Done-By had made Quidditch Captain. It was something Draco found not only ridiculously incongruous, but also rather insulting. Where was the fun in trouncing Gryffindorks who were led by a Muggle-raised Halfblood with a laughable experience of the game that centred on catching a small golden ball with wings? He didn’t think the idiot had ever even laid a finger on the Quaffle, although there were rumours that he had the makings of an impressive Beater. But even so, there were also rumours that said this rumour was a load of tripe, invented purely to make the star player appear more interesting and well-rounded to his adoring fans. Either way, the position had most likely only been bestowed since Dumbledore was no doubt feeling horrendously guilty about not making his favourite student a prefect. It was bloody typical, and Draco couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else had felt the subtle shudder in the earth as it shifted orbit slightly in order to better revolve around the Boy-To-Whom-We-Should-All-Bow-Before-In-Abject-Thanks-And-Adoration.

Unsurprisingly, the practise failed to last long. Blaise took a moment to needlessly shake out her long, brown hair, whilst the team could be heard making many extremely loud comments about excessive homework, miscellaneous detentions and unfavourable pitch conditions. Not exactly subtle, as it was fairly obvious it was their star Seeker’s seemingly endless ability to find himself in the path of a Bludger that had led to the hasty disbanding. Still, it had left Potter a good half dozen hits closer to achieving the lethal limit. It also meant that the entire team stared pointedly at him until he relinquished his beloved Firebolt so it could be locked away.

Gryffindors weren’t as clueless as they initially seemed.

He had to commend the team, though, for their exuberance and enthusiasm. It made it that much easier to trail them back through the castle, as their voices echoed ahead of Draco, meaning he could stroll leisurely a couple of corridors back and not risk losing them. Much better than skulking in the shadows, where any number of cobwebs threatened his perfect hair. Apparently their lack of volume control extended to giving the password too, as several voices boomed together followed by a string of laughter that had Blaise rolling his dark eyes.

Just because they were sneaking into the Gryffindor common room didn’t mean the prats had to make it so damn easy for them.

Grinning at his sandy haired companion, Draco approached the portrait of a rather overweight woman dressed in clothes that were far too revealing.

‘Dragon Blood.’

She fixed both of them with a questioning stare.

‘Slytherins, I see.’ Draco refrained from uttering the sarcastic retort that hovered tantalisingly on the tip of his tongue.

‘Yep. Just here to visit a couple of friends and partake in any number of illicit liaisons.’ He treated her to what he had been assured was a winning smile, guaranteed to open any number of otherwise inaccessible doors in life. Apparently his mother hadn’t been exaggerating when she told him that either, as the Fat Lady giggled like a schoolgirl, smoothing down her skirt habitually before she swung outwards.

Draco’s next action proved to be his downfall, however, as he stepped in front of Blaise and proceeded to crawl through the hole.

He had barely glanced into the room when four wands appeared pointed threateningly at his throat. Well, three were pointed at his throat. One was pointed at a much lower, far more valuable part of his anatomy, courtesy of Miss. Weasley, whose name he now fortunately knew to be Ginny. He dreaded to think what he would suffer had he not discovered that. Pureblood pride be damned if he wasn’t relieved she was not labelled as his bride to be. Swallowing carefully, Draco endeavoured to try smiling again; a dashing, not at all threatening smile of peace and friendship. Evidently he needed more practise.

‘Nettus Narrosium.’

Apparently Gryffindors were inclined to curse first and ask questions later, as the Weaslette stepped back to regard him appraisingly, arms crossed with an air of victory he found rather infuriating on her. Victorious about what he was uncertain, since he had evidently remained fully equipped and hadn’t keeled over. Draco felt Blaise pull his wand behind him, but since the other, more pressing and immediate wands had relaxed somewhat he didn’t bother brandishing his own. Instead he drew himself up to his full aristocratic height, fixed his most scathing of glares and prepared to make each and every one of them rue the day they dared attempt to curse a Malfoy.

‘OMGWTF!’

His future beloved had appeared at some point and quirked an eyebrow, no doubt deliberating exactly how someone could manage to successfully enunciate a word with so few vowels. It was something he was wondering himself, as he tried in vain to squint at his traitorous mouth whilst all around him Gryffindorks dissolved into puddles of uncontained hilarity.

‘Oh Ginny, that was bloody brilliant.’ Draco shot another glare at the Weasel, who was too curled up in outrageously obnoxious laughter to notice and thusly cower in submission. Even Blaise was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin behind her hand, her pale blue eyes flashing with mirth. ‘Remind me to thank the twins for their genius.’ Ah, so those idiots were responsible.

‘f U wud b so gud az 2 rem00ve DIS anoyN rIdi3ul0s cR5e.’ So, not only was there a distinct lack of vowels, but he had expanded into the world of random capitalisation. And here he was thinking such things were unpronounceable. The fact that numbers also insisted on appearing in the middle of words with absolutely no mathematical relevance was also something of a conundrum. He felt like his tongue was trying to tie itself in knots.

‘Well, they don’t appear to have perfected it yet.’ Now he was starting to feel like some sort of rare exhibit, and Draco was not amused. It was the sort of lacking amusement he liked to spread around liberally. Especially since the Weasley girl hadn’t stopped staring at him while she spoke. Blaise’s unhelpful shrug didn’t ease his growing annoyance either. ‘Anything with more than three syllables should be automatically replaced with some meaningless manifestation of idiocy and repetitiveness.’

‘How on earth did they successfully manage to align the intent with the result?’ Well, this was no good. Once married he would have to have some serious words with the girl about what exactly her priorities were expected to be. ‘It seems so completely haphazard.’ Right, the first person to prod him curiously with the tip of their wand was getting hexed. Repeatedly.

‘An Arithmantic equation that only applies a chance fraction to any given event?’ Blaise offered questioningly, his deep voice cutting through their excited discussion. Draco rolled his eyes, for all that it mattered, as the Mudblood’s face lit up. Apparently inter house rivalry was irrelevant when there were matters of learning at hand. Out of lesson learning, that was.

‘Of course, which directly affects the probability of any given outcome.’ Was it just him, or did her hair seem to get even frizzier when she was excited? ‘How simple.’ Yes, yes. So there was a Weasley out there capable of first year Arithmancy. Shock horror, would wonders never cease?

‘Yet wonderfully effective.’ Boy Weasley was practically bursting with anticipation as he interrupted the sickening meeting of minds pulled together over Draco’s unfortunate dilemma. Taking a deep breath and meaning to quash every vindictive thought passing through the head of the red headed prat, Draco opted for a cutting response of general intent as opposed to complete understanding.

‘h0VV dr u ta1k t0 me n such 4 way, uu ii~nsignif1cant lttle wrom!!! Zomg u ar3n't worthy t0 brEath teh sme aiR 4s me.’ Nope, it was no good. The overall tone was just too affected by the sheer ludicrousness of what actually came out.

‘Can we leave him like this?’ Why oh why didn’t he know some truly lethal non-verbal spells. He would learn some. Hundreds of them…thousands even. And then he would subject every single Gryffindor to each and every one with a satisfied smirk firmly fitted. Attracting the attention of the room back to himself and away from the Mudblood, who was busy scolding the boyfriend she could now never have, he cleared his throat. At least he could still do that without sounding remarkably like an overactive three year old that had ingested far too much sugar.

‘What do you want, Malfoy?’ The intelligence he had credited to his betrothed was completely misplaced since he was, of course, just itching to attempt to answer that question. The Weasley’s smile was becoming quite insulting too. ‘Or did you really think you could just saunter into the Tower and we’d find it endearing and invite you for coffee?’

‘5ht ^’

Brilliant, now he was managing to speak in symbols. Sighing resignedly he made a halfhearted gesture with his hand in the direction of an open window, towards which the Boy-With-No-Fear was scooting dangerously close and evidently without his previously confiscated broomstick. A silent glare in the direction of Blaise quickly brought the auburn girl back to her senses.

‘Just popped by to congratulate you on an excellent practise,’ she remarked cheerfully on his behalf, finally regaining the use of her voice as Dean led the Golden Boy back towards his seat by the fire. She pointed her wand at Draco, who refrained from commenting about the time it had taken, unable to stop her grin from growing. ‘Finite Incantatem.’ Turning back to the congregated Gryffindors she bowed low, dark hair falling across her face with the dramatic gesture. ‘We are truly honoured to have been in your esteemed company.’ Draco sighed, fairly certain that the entire male population in the room was equally honoured, or would be once they regained enough sense to drag their gaze back up from her rather indecently buttoned shirt. He glared at her meaningfully.

‘iF u R qu1T3 dun, c4N w3 go n0VV?’

The Gryffindors were in hysterics again, easy to amuse as they were, spluttering and rolling round on the floor quite indecently. Blaise just stared at his wand in confusion, flashing Draco an apologetic smile.

‘Like we’d make it that easy to get rid of.’ Ginny wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Only the caster can remove it.’

‘Does it wear off?’ Blaise asked quickly.

‘Sure, after a couple of weeks.’ The sentence tapered off with more giggles. Even the Mudblood seemed amused. ‘Which I suppose means you should start being incredibly nice to me.’

Nice to a Weasley? That was laughable, preposterous even. And no damn curse was going to stop him from declaring fully and unequivocally how completely entertaining, eternally amusing and downright hilarious the concept was. His sides were practically splitting from barely contained glee. Cheering charms had nothing on the comic genius and uproarious merriment of the proposition. Nice to a Weasley?

‘lol :rolls:’

Well, that was a complete waste of all his finely honed descriptive energy. Who needed adverbs, or even adjectives anyway? Highly overrated, he smodded to himself.

*Pause*

Smodded? Merlin save him, it was starting it affect his brain. And where on earth did those annoying little stars come from? He didn’t even know what a smod was, let alone how one successfully achieved it. But there it was anyway, rotting his admirable intellect and no doubt hoping to reduce him to nothing more than a pile of indecipherable stupidity from which there was no return. He could almost feel his IQ trickling slowly away, leaving him floundering in a world where the noble English language held no meaning.

~*~*~Draco’s POV~*~*~

Yes, he knew that already. Had he really slipped so quickly to a state where he needed to be reminded it was his own brain speaking to him? Knowing his horrendous luck of late, the next thing he would find was his innermost thoughts openly italicised for anyone to read.

He really should learn to keep his big mouth shut.

Bugger.

There was no choice. He would simply have to hope he hadn’t scarred his inner Hufflepuff too badly. And given the current state of his rapidly diminishing vocabulary, he was sure he would need it to supply a fairly impressive gesture.

*thinks*

He didn’t remember it hurting so much.

Fine, so apparently the gesture required him to be nearer the Weaslette, and for him to be holding her hand. Can wash and wash, yet will probably never again be clean. Now he was raising it towards his lips, bending his head slightly as he brushed it with the lightest of kisses and gave her a quick, yet remarkably private, look of pleading.

She was glaring, although not as much as her gobsmacked brother. ‘If you promise never, ever to do that again, I’ll remove it.’ The Weasel looked very much like he would like to make Draco’s ability to do it again a physical impossibility. His apoplexy almost made up for the indignity. Draco nodded slightly, releasing the hand as she raised her wand and muttered the counter spell under her breath.

‘You normal again then, Draco?’ Blaise sounded like he was getting far too much amusement out of this. It was something he would have to rectify later.

‘Yes, absolutely no thanks to you.’ He took a moment to smirk at the struggling Weasel, who was straining against the combined force of Dean and Seamus, both of whom were valiantly trying to stop him from leaping at Draco’s elegant throat with the intent to kill.

During the entire scene, however, the Know-It-All had done nothing more than regard him with an air of distaste. It was too good an opportunity to miss, as he stepped gracefully towards her and bowed slightly, the position giving him an unrivalled view of the disgustingly tatty rug he was forced to stand on. He lifted her delicate, unresisting hand from where it hung by her waist, pressed his lips to it with a small smile, and categorised and filed each and every murderous howl of rage issuing from the sidekick for future reference. ‘I would hate for you to feel left out.’ He smiled as she stared at him - open mouthed and speechless and still not snatching her hand away in disgust - before snapping his fingers for Blaise to follow and making for the portrait. ‘I hope that your hospitality will have improved in time for my next visit.’ He waved regally, taking a moment to wink suggestively at the Mudblood, before he disappeared into the corridor and the Gryffindor common room exploded.