This is part three of the big bonus round, written for the Slytherin House.
Theme: Water
Prompt: Hogwarts kitchens
Word count: 906
If it were a school day, going to sleep at four in the morning would result in a grumpy and sleepy Draco everyone in the Slytherin House - and a sizable chunk of non-Slytherins - avoided to the best of their ability for the rest of the day. Thankfully, it was not a school day, so Draco woke up at ten o'clock, feeling strangely well rested for someone with fitful dreams. Maybe it was the fact there were no classes today that lifted up his spirits, or maybe it was the weight of the journal he had slept with, but Draco did not feel as drained as usual.
A rumble came from his midsection, and Draco chuckled and rose up, puttering around for clothes. He had slept through breakfast, but the Slytherin prefects had a long standing tradition of showing the firsties where the kitchens were if they ever felt a need for a snack. Draco hadn't often gone there: he was rarely hungry and he easily satisfied the roaring monster that was his stomach. Today would be the first time ever that Draco had to eat a meal somewhere other than in the Great Hall.
It would be a nice change of pace, and Pansy would not be able to complain about Draco neglecting himself.
Deeming himself ready to go out the dorms after twenty minutes of washing, dressing and hair styling, Draco drifted down the dormitory stairs, straight across the empty Common Room, and through the doors masquerading as a wall, humming under his breath all the while. He had no name to the melody, but the tune was ridiculously catchy, all perky beat and gliding violin solos that made him think of dancing winter fairies. The fact it was of Muggle origin had bothered Draco less than it would've when he was younger.
Some things were simply beautiful, no matter their origins, Granger being case in point.
Draco blinked, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor not too far from the kitchen entrance. Since when did he start thinking about Granger as being beautiful? Morgana, the war must've screwed him over more than he thought!
Picking up pace, as if he could run away from his own thoughts, Draco turned sharply around the corner -
And ended up soaking wet from the top to the bottom.
"I'm sorry!" came a panicked apology from the Granger, who was holding the now empty goblet. Draco cursed his luck, which was sometimes worse than even Potter's, which spoke volumes. Why, oh why did he have to run into the very person he didn't even want to think about? On top of that, he was standing in the middle of the draughty corridor like a fool, water sliding in rivulets from his hair, down his face and clothes, and dripping noisily onto the stone floor.
How could this situation become worse?
"It's just Malfoy, Mione," Weasel snorted, arm draped possessively around Granger's shoulder. "He should be the one apologizing for being in the way."
"Ronald Billius Weasley! It wasn't his fault!" Granger exclaimed, shoving her - boyfriend? - away from her. A horrible feeling settled in Draco's gut that had nothing to do with the water dripping off of him or the poisonous words Weasel threw at him. Ronald Billius Weasley… RBW… Could it be…
No. That's impossible. Even Potter's luck isn't that bad!
But too many puzzle pieces were coming together perfectly. If Weasel was the RBW from the journal, that would make HJP the loyal yet torn friend, Potter… Harry James Potter… Draco wanted to smack himself for not figuring it out sooner. It was one of the oldest and most adhered-to pureblood traditions to give the eldest son and daughter their parents' names as middle names, and James Potter was not big enough of a rebel not to follow it when naming his only child and heir.
All the evidence pointed to only one conclusion: the journal he had rescued from the Black Lake had once belonged to Granger.
If Draco hadn't been Draco, he probably would've returned the journal with an apology somewhere along the lines "Sorry I didn't give back you earlier, I didn't know it was yours", be it privately or publicly. But he was Draco Lucius Malfoy, antithesis to Harry James Potter, and Granger was Potter's friend. There was no way for him to return the little book without the uncomfortable questions being asked, or even worse, being accused of deliberate theft.
While Draco was ruminating, Granger and Weasel continued their argument, heedlees of the fact Draco was no listening.
"... a slimy Slytherin! Why do you defend him?" Weasel was shouting now, crimson flooding his face.
"Because, Ronald," Granger answered irately, goblet missing from her hand, "he was simply in the wrong place in the wrong time. And where did you get the idea he was the one who stole my journal?"
Stole my journal.
The phrase echoed in Draco's brain, and his composure snapped. There were so many answers, but all they did was opening even more unanswered questions. They swam in his brain and Draco quickly found his brain overheating, which was unacceptable, so he flicked out his wand, dried the water stubbornly clinging to him and did the only thing he knew would solve his problem.
He spun on his heel and ran off, leaving Granger and Weasel to shout after him, with only one objective in his mind:
Find Pansy.