Crabbe and Goyle were not, as one would suppose, brainless idiots. Nor were they anywhere near as clever as Hermione Granger, but that was another story entirely. Next to them at the Slytherin table, their best friend and leader, Draco Malfoy, scowled under the brim of his wizard hat at the banners that hung from the ceiling, now flying not Slytherin colors, but the red and gold of Gryffindor. "This is so unfair," he snarled under his breath. "That Potter..."
Goyle looked at Crabbe and shrugged. "What can you do?" he whispered to Crabbe. "I mean, they did defeat You-Know-Who. That's probably worth all those points."
"Still, you suppose they'll do this every year?" Crabbe worried. "It's a bit of an unfair advantage, getting to battle the Dark Lord just before the end of term."
"Yeah, wish we got a go at it."
At about this time, Malfoy picked up on their conversation. This was inevitable; after all, despite the loud cheering that had erupted from almost every corner of the hall, the Slytherin table was largely silent, the only unenthuastic applause coming from a pair of fifth years who were dating girls on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. "What are you two whispering about? I know you're too daft to string two sentences together, now out with it."
"Er..." said Goyle.
"Gryffindor," said Crabbe.
"Slimy weasels," Goyle clarified.
Malfoy smirked.