Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter do not belong to me.
If I end up writing more Dramione drabbles later, I'll probably end up changing this story into just a collection of drabbles.
Not a Hufflepuff!
"No child of mine will be a Hufflepuff!"
Draco Malfoy was angry. In fact, one could even go so far as to say that Draco Malfoy was infuriated. Stark, raving mad. Delirious with rage.
Draco Malfoy was also waving around a piece of parchment in one hand, clutching the ornate desk in his study with the other for support. An owl circled the study in obvious distress. To think that one little line, in obsessively neat black script, could send the Draco Malfoy into such an uncontrolled display of emotion.
"Draco, dear, calm down please." The woman sat in one of the wingback chairs tastefully scattered around the study, holding a glass of what seemed to be orange juice, drops of perspiration dripping down its cool side. "It's too hot for this." She rolled her eyes at her husband as he continued on, undeterred.
"But Hufflepuff! Never, in all the generations of Malfoys, has there been a Hufflepuff in the family," he shouted, his voice growing in volume the longer he yelled.
It was an unseasonably warm September afternoon, the temperature outside more suitable for mid-July. The ridiculous heat wasn't helping Draco Malfoy's temper any. His normally pale face was flushed a violent red, both with heat and anger, a vein in his temple visibly throbbing with his pulse.
"Is Hufflepuff really so bad?" asked his wife as she wiped aside some of the hair that was to her forehead with sweat.
"Is Hu-" he sputtered, his skin darkening from a cherry color to an unhealthy looking shade of plum. "Is Hufflepuff really so bad, you ask?"
Honestly, he was going to have a stroke at this rate.
The woman set her drink down on the polished wooden floor with a resounding thunk. She stood with considerable difficulty, planting her hands firmly on her hips. "Draco Malfoy! He is your son. You will be proud of him. You will sit down, and write a perfectly pleasant letter congratulating Scorpius on his sorting."
"But Hermioneeee," he whined at her like a spoiled child. "It's Hufflepuff."
Rolling her eyes, she switched tactics. If he insisted on being childish, she'd appeal to that side of him.
"But just think Draco," she crooned at him coaxingly. "Your father must be rolling in his grave right now."
The twinkle in his eyes could rival even Albus Dumbledore's as he relished this image. "Yes," he drawled, stretching out the word. "He'd be practically having convulsions in his grave," he said almost gleefully. "A halfblood Malfoy sorted into Hufflepuff? Unheard of!"
Now in a fervor of a very different sort, he quickly located a fresh piece of parchment and summoned his favorite self inking quill. Draco chuckled quietly to himself as he wrote, the occasional flourish with his quill further betraying his delight. Within moments he had a good foot of gushing praise in uncharacteristically messy, rushed script.
With some effort, he subdued the still panicked owl long enough to attach the letter and send it on its way.
Calmer now, Draco turned his attention to his wife, who was back in her chair and looking entirely too smug.
She was good for him, he knew. Hermione Malfoy, née Granger, was practically a saint, dealing with his tantrums and his not so sparkling personality, and loving him regardless.
Draco crossed his study, kneeling in front of her. He pressed his cheek to her slightly rounded stomach, only recently showing signs of her pregnancy, his palm making lazy circles beside his head.
"You'll see, the next one will be a Slytherin."