Problems that would have been solved a lot faster if Draco Malfoy was the hero instead of Harry Potter.
This is just a quick fluff fanfic that may or may not be continued as a series of "Draco does it better" moments. It was written solely for comedic purposes, and is not to be taken at all seriously, or even siriusly. (Get it?) Enjoy!
Dolores Umbridge:
Draco stumped morosely into the room. He didn't even deserve a detention, really. How was he to know it was against the rules to hex people's shoes so they forced the owner to kick themselves repeatedly in the rear? If anything he should be rewarded for his clever charmwork. He was at the point of angrily slamming the door, when a vicious assault on his senses stopped him cold. Pink clouded his vision- at first he thought it was his eyesight, but then he realized the entirety of the office was slathered in the color. A perfume that reminded him of his horrid grandmother permeated the air, giving him an almost irrepressible urge to sneeze and vomit at the same time. An ungodly mewling bludgeoned his ears, which he quickly realized was coming from a choir of the creepiest kittens he had ever seen, painted on a variety of porcelain plates. Highly breakable porcelain plates…
"What the…" he muttered, before he spotted Professor Umbridge, who was sitting primly in a chair behind a desk that was entirely too large for her.
"Hem, hem," she coughed, before directing him to a chair at a smaller desk. Draco gave her a look of pure venom before sitting down. He didn't care who she was, his father could get her fired before you could say "freaky cat plates."
"You're going to be doing some lines for me today, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco kicked his bag open and began rummaging through it for a quill, but a sugar-sweet voice stopped him.
"No, not with your quill. You're going to be using a rather special one of mine. Now, I want you to write 'I must not cause trouble.'" She placed a long, black quill with a very sharp point on the desk in front of him.
"How many times?" he growled as respectfully as he could.
"Well let's say, as long as it takes for the message to sink in." Irritatingly cryptic.
Draco noted the lack of pink ink, and said something about it.
"Oh, you won't need any ink," she said with a rather sinister smile. Creepy old woman.
Draco resisted the urge to punch her in the face and started writing. The ink was a brilliant scarlet color. As he wrote, the back of his hand seared with pain, and he quickly dropped the quill.
Raw, red letters had been cut into the back of his hand, spelling out, 'I must not cause trouble.'
"What the hell!" he snarled, knocking the chair over and striding towards the squat woman.
"Whatever is the problem, Mr. Malfoy?"
"What the hell do you think is my problem," he hissed, waving his bleeding hand at her. "I'm bleeding!"
"This is a disciplinary action, Mr. Malfoy. It is not unreasonable."
"Bloody hell woman, you want me to write in my own blood? What kind of sadistic freak are you anyway? My father is going to hear about this. I expect you'll be sacked within a week, I suggest you go pack your bags."
Umbridge had developed a look of stunned shock on her face, as though no one had ever dared speak to her in such a manner.
"I'm out of here," Draco sniffed. He slammed the door as he left, and heard a satisfying crash as several kitten plates met their ends on the cold stone floor.
. . .
Draco and Lucius stood on a street corner in Hogsmeade, the late autumn breeze ruffling their cloaks.
"Father, this woman is terrible. She's an abysmal teacher, and obviously doesn't respect the Malfoy name. Look at what she did to my hand!" He proffered his maimed hand, which his father observed at a distance for a moment before responding wearily.
"Yes, Draco, alright. I'll have her dismissed immediately. I do wish you'd stop forming vendettas against teachers though, it's hell having to scare the other governors into action… Well, if that's all, I'll be off, lots to be done."
"Thank-you father. I'll see you at Christmas?"
"Ah, about that Draco. Your mother and I are vacationing in Moscow, and we hoped you'd stay at Hogwarts for the holidays."
"Oh… yes, of course. Goodbye, sir."
After his father had disapparated, Draco slumped onto a bench and began picking at the scabs forming on the back of his hand. He scowled, muttering to himself. "With my fair skin, these scars will never go away!"