Disclaimer: These are mad tense issues in mad, mad times. There's tense... and then there's grammar, so there's a little bit of both worlds. All the characters are owned by the Lord of Human Entertainment, WB, or whoever owns the souls of Harry Potter characters these days. Draco's angst is owned by none other than himself. Written while listening to classical music--
VOCAB: IDIOPHONE – an instrument that produces a sound when hit; also shelters the word "idiot"
IDIOPHONE, PART I
By BUNNIEXTRAMSG
Merlin, there are violins playing in the background. Violins. And not just any old one bow squawking at strings, but a full orchestra of them warbling about, and he can almost hear the smoke sizzling off the bows on this particular riff, and he stops dead in the crowded hallway, it is so near he can almost grab the sound in his hands, if only it would still for a second — and so he suddenly spins around to catch the shadow of an note and —
he stumbles backwards, his back smacking through two people and against the stone wall. Books and roll of parchments slide from his arms and floundering, he follows. The nasty gremlin that took three nights to capture for Potions jumps off the page of a parchment and into thin air.
"Bloody shit," he rages from his seat on the floor. A violin hits a high note, and the rest follow suit. He squints up at this nasty turn of events, and unsurprisingly, it sports a disheveled mop of brown hair and crooked glasses. Still doesn't own a comb, he observes in disgust.
"Good going, Malfoy," Potter says, shaking his head, and bending down to pick up the books. "Now we're both late for Potions."
"What deity crowned you the bloody Samaritan, Potter?" Draco snaps, smarting at his clumsiness. In one motion, he jumps up, scoops up his belongings, and runs off to class. Potter is left properly agape behind, his mouth shaped in a "what?" The violins haven't stopped, and hell, Snape is going to have his head, that's what.
Draco bursts in, panting, and, parchments threatening to trickle out of his arms, dives into his seat. Crabbe nudges him: "You're late" and makes an unnecessary nod towards Snape's stony face.
"Had to save a maiden in distress, sir," Draco said. He added matter-of-factly, "Hufflepuff, sir. You know how it is. We've arranged for tea next Sunday."
"Most admirable, Malfoy, although I'd prefer you save your chivalrous exploits after Potions," Snape drawls. The class titters. Draco glares at Ron who, across the room, doesn't have the rearing to muffle his annoying chuffs; and then glances at the empty seat next to him.
Snape drums his fingers on the stand, then riffles through a large purple gilded book. "Class, take out your homework. I want to see your paper gremlins."
When Draco informs Snape that he accidentally used the parchment to write out the Hufflepuff lady's credentials, he is given an extension of another day — "this is the last allowance I'll make for your 'chivalry,' Malfoy" — which is perfectly fine with him.
Towards the end of class, Draco slumps in his seat. His potion fouled, when, after a period of blessed silence, a murmur of drums unexpectedly jolted his hand in the middle of adding milkweed root. It ends all over his new robe, the one with the fancy gold D.M embroidered on the collar.
When Snape turns his back to berate Longbottom for disintegrating half of his table, Pansy finishes the rest of the potion for him.
Potter never shows up.