Disclaimer ~ I do not own any part of this scene, nor do I own any of the characters, names, etc. no matter how much I'd love to. J.K. Rowling is the genius here, not me. I'm just interpreting it for my own fun.
Author's Note ~ We all know and love this famous scene from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and well, after a suggestion from my dear friend Anny, re-writing this from Draco's P.O.V. was a must for me. I love seeing things from other's points of view and Malfoy is one of the more interesting characters in the novel; the way he thinks intrigues me. So. Here 'tis. *fingers crossed* ee;
{ fair misfortune }
I had a point to prove. I did. Doesn't mean to say it was going to end up all that successful, but I gave it my best shot. As always, in control and confident. Sanguine in my own unique way...
There was a huge queue in the Entrance Hall, apparently. God it must have been boring. I was supposed to be in there though, looking for Weasley and Potter. I had something to show them, specifically Weasley. But everyone knows he'd never be caught dead without his famous friend - how would they know who he was, let alone care? So I thought, why not them both? This is Potter we're talking about... opportunities...
"Weasley! Hey Weasley!" I called as I entered the packed room, Crabbe and Goyle either side of me. It wasn't that hard to spot the back of a head like his. I found it immediately, right there between...
Turned out there was the three of them. Of course. Silly me... under, or rather overestimating the company a celebrity like Potter held. Potter, Weasley and Granger glanced over their shoulders at me. "What?' There was something in the tone of Weasley's voice that told me all was going to plan.
"Your dad's in the paper, Weasley!" I produced the aforementioned item and waved it around carelessly, just in case he couldn't see properly... just in case there was anybody else that wanted to see properly... my voice rose. "Listen to this!"
FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
It seems as though the Ministry of Magic's troubles are not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Recently under fire for it's poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to account for the disappearance of one of it's witches, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.
"Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley," I thought aloud. Very loudly. I looked up at the three for more effect, only to find to my delight I had a steadily growing audience, " it's almost as though he's a complete nonentity, isn't it?"
And so I continued reading, with pretty much all of the school lending me their courtesy. Settle down, Malfoy.
Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved with a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers ('policemen') over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of 'Mad-Eye' Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder.
Unsurprisingly, Mr Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr Moody's heavily guarded house, that Mr Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene.
"And there's a picture, Weasley!" This was too good to be true. I mean, what would you have done? As one would present a report on the prevail of purebloods over mud, I held up the newspaper for all to see. "A picture of your parents outside their house - if you could call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn't she?"
The red-haired, lankyarsed son of Arnold Weasley was a perfect example of what I wanted to see. I could always trust him to come up with results. Another example of purebloods and their superior abilities, unwitting or no. His expression said it all. His stance said a little bit more. The crowd was soaking it in like a sponge.
"Get stuffed, Malfoy." Potter intoned, staring at me as though I were something nasty on the bottom of his shoe; not worth the effort. "C'mon, Ron ..."
I'd show him.
"Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, weren't you Potter?" The more the merrier and to hell with it, I thought. If he wanted to get himself involved, so be it. "So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?"
"You know your mother, Malfoy?" That caught my attention. Potter was grappling with the back of Weasley's rags as was Granger. If it weren't for his remark I would have led Weasley on a bit further, get him to try and jump me - Crabbe and Goyle were itching for a good fight. "That expression she's got, like she's got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?"
I could feel the heat rising in my face, ever-so-subtlety. I hadn't expected such a profound comment from the peanut gallery. "Don't you dare insult my mother, Potter."
"Keep your fat mouth shut, then."
He'd gone too far for me to just let him leave. His back was turned, and I had the perfect opportunity. Potter was good like that, I told you. So I took, no worries.
BANG.
My nostrils flared. I'd missed by a hair. I didn't even have time to slip my wand away and get the hell out of there. Another deafened me, defeated me.
BANG.
"OH NO YOU DON'T, LADDIE!"
Silence. Cold. So very cold...
"Did he get you?"
Words. So harsh... anger... dread....
"No."
Vague... vague hatred.. who... who's there...?
"Missed."
Run.. have to get away... help.. please help...
"LEAVE IT!"
Fear. Warmth. Cold. So confused... so confused... so close...
"Leave - what?"
Hate. Scorn. Fear.
"Not you - him!"
Almost there ... gone.
"I don't think so!"
A blur. A sickening fusion of dull light. The nerve, the nerve...
Pain.
"I don't like people who attack when their opponent's back's turned,"
Dizzy... so very dizzy... the light.. the floor...
"Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do ..."
... the ceiling. Pain. Fierce pain.
"Never - do - that - again -"
Help... pain... can't see.. the light... the voice.. no...
"Professor Moody!"
Vague... vague hope... who ... who's there...?
"Hello, Professor McGonagall."
High... dizzy.. pain.. so thick...
"What- what are you doing?"
Too much... all too much...
"Teaching."
My body... so bent... so sore...
"Teach- Professor Moody, is that a student?"
My fear.
"Yep."
My pride.
"No!"
SNAP.
The bastard. The nerve. The ... floor? My face was red, I could feel it. My whole body was aching and unfortunately, I could feel that too. My hair was a mess... thankfully I could only see that. But seeing was a problem when your hair was supposed to be combed back, neat and respectable. The worst feeling however, was the eyes. On me. My audience had abandoned me and picked me up in well, the blink of an eye. I picked myself up from the floor, thanks.
"Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!" McGonagall's voice scolded the bastard. I was laughing on the inside. On the outside though, I looked as I felt. "Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?"
"He might have mentioned it, yeah." Mentioned my arse. Savage, inconsistent Potter-prettied brute ought to be put down before he turned on the staff. But then... "But I thought a good sharp shock-"
"We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender's Head of house!" The rules, Moody, the rules. Couldn't give a damn about the rules, no.
"I'll do that, then." I could feel his eye on me. The natural one, filled with dislike. The other one just shouldn't have been there in the first place.
I wouldn't want to call it embarrassment... more tactfully avoiding ones (or in this case, more than one's), gaze to meet another's. It was a hard thing, staring up, glaring up at him through the pain. The pain he had caused. Especially while others watched. Others like Weasley... and Potter.
Potter. Always has to have the world revolve around him, doesn't he? I wasn't even addressing him and he dared to interrupt. Wanted a piece of me, no doubt. Some more fame and glory out of spiteing a respectable name like Malfoy. Cowardly.
Weasley. Hanging off Potters arm for security. Disgusting trait for a pureblood. I'd get him on his own if only I could... then he'd have something to worry about, apart from his leader's welfare, moniterial status and whether or not he could walk a whole metre without falling flat on his face.
My father'd deal with Moody. Dumbledore was just getting worse and worse as the years went on, wasn't he. My father'd deal with him good... worse then Hagrid... far worse.
"Oh yeah?" Crusty old man obviously thought I was joking. All the more fun for him then, hey. "Well I know your father of old, boy ... you tell him Moody's keeping a close eye on his son ... you tell him that from me ..." Oh I was sure I would. After he'd realise my father was watching him. "... now, your Head of house'll be Snape, will it?"
Revelation. But I knew what this was leading to. I responded without a great deal of enthusiasm. "Yes."
"Another old friend." Moody growled, "I've been looking forward to a chat with old Snape ... come on, you ..."
He took me by the arm and soldiered me off. I didn't argue. My pride had dissipated for the day but I was left with some hope; Snape wouldn't punish me ... that much.
Would he?