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.