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.