Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: If I continue this, it's got the potential to become an m/m story. The probability is quite high, actually. Just in case you care, one way or the other.
"Extra credit, my arse," grumbled the boy under his breath as he stalked down the hall, his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He might have been taken for some kind of comic book villain if he'd been wearing a trench coat rather than the fine, flowing black robes that graced his lean form.
"Uncwle Dwaco, you'we gowing too fast!"
Draco looked down, slowing his pace none, and scowled at the little boy hopping and skipping along beside him.
"The name's Draco. Not Dwaco. Not Uncle Dwaco. And I'm not going too fast. You're going too slowly. So walk faster," he said snippily.
"'k," said the kid with a happy (and familiar) smirk on his face.
Draco sighed. The boy had been doing that since they'd left, imitating him or, rather -- if he were to use Ms. Lake's words -- 'emulating' him. But really, I don't smirk that much, do I? Draco wondered. Who cared. Stupid kid.
"Uncwle Dwaco, whewe we gowing?"
The Slytherin's brow dipped, sinking his face deeper into the scowl. He grumbled some choice phrases to himself before glaring down at the boy once more. "I already told you. I'm taking you to the fucking infirmary because you fucking hurt your fucking hand in the greenhouses!"
"Uncle Dwaco, wha's fuggin' mean?"
Draco started, appearing somewhat confused for a moment before he regained his cool.
"It's a very nice word that makes people very, very happy. So be sure to say it as often as possible to any grown-up you meet."
There, that ought to be punishment enough for the evil parents who deigned to create such a creature as this whose sole purpose in life was to drive one Draco Malfoy absolutely nutters.
"Rweally? Fuggin, fuggin, fuggin, fuggin," the younger boy sang happily as he bounced along.
"Add Mudblood to that, kid, and you'll be a big hit."
"Fuggin, fuggin, mudbwood, fuggin, fuggin, fuggin, mudbwood," he sang loudly.
Draco smirked with approval. Well, his job here was done.
"Hmm, kind of catchy too," he sniggered to himself. That would teach those people to mind their prophylactics. Ha. They'll regret that they ever met.
Draco sniggered some more to himself before quickly tearing the amusement from his face, replacing it now, with a mask of cold apathy.
He sighed in relief as, at that exact moment, he spotted the infirmary doors up ahead. Draco was quite sure he would have gone a tad psychotic and killed himself or someone -- he threw an evil glance at the little redheaded boy -- if the trip had taken but a few minutes longer.
He increased his pace.
The little boy laughed and squirmed about when Draco took the kid's little hand in his own and proceeded to veritably drag him down the hall. In no time at all, they were in the sitting area, awaiting Madame Pomfrey.
Draco couldn't hold back a devastated groan when the little redhead insisted on climbing up to sit on the older boy's lap, even though -- the Slytherin noted with annoyance -- there were plenty of empty seats around.
The medi-witch turned up a moment later and smiled down at Draco's charge.
"Well, who do we have here?" she asked. Her voice made Draco wince. It was much too mushy and honey-tainted to rightly call it actual speech. Women, he despaired, shaking his head in disgust. Glad I'll never have to deal with that.
He stood, letting the boy slide off his lap onto the floor.
"David or Damian or something. How the hell am I supposed to know?" Draco snarled at her. The matron glared at him and turned to the boy, crouching down in front of him.
"What's your name, dear?"
"Devon," said the child. He moved behind a scowling Draco, clinging to the tall boy's robes, and peeked up shyly at the woman.
"Well hello Devon, nice to meet you. My name's Madame Pomfrey. But you can call me Poppy if you'd like. What seems to be the problem? Are you hurt?"
"It's barely a scratch. I don't know why they made me bring him here," grumbled Draco. He looked down at the boy. "Show her your hand."
Devon lifted his hand to the nurse, and she examined it, carefully turning it over and back.
"Hmm...I don't see anything," she said, perplexed.
Draco let out an exasperated breath of air and scowled down at Devon once more. "Your other hand. Are you daft?!"
"Mr. Malfoy! Please refrain from using that kind of negative language. He's only a child!" huffed the matron, giving the blond a poisoned look.
Draco merely stared back, coldly. She ignored him and took Devon's other hand, turning it over to find a moderately deep cut across his palm.
"Well. It's not so bad. Does it hurt, Devon?"
Little Devon shook his head. He clung to Draco's robes tighter, crinkling the velvety cloth in his small fingers as -- much to Draco's disgust -- a corner of material found its way into his mouth. As he sucked on his new security blanket, the little redheaded boy looked up innocently at the Slytherin, his gaze completely reverent and full of adoration. Draco sighed and looked away. God, he hated kids.
"If you'd like to leave now, you are perfectly welcome to, Mr. Malfoy," said Madame Pomfrey pointedly. The boy in question frowned. He was already aware of the fact that old hag Pomfrey, the medi-bitch, didn't exactly like him, but was subtlety completely beyond this woman's capabilities?
Not that it mattered. Draco was more than happy to oblige. He pried Devon's fingers from his robe as he spoke to the matron. "His teacher will be by for him. Good day." And with that curt farewell, he turned to leave.
"Uncwle Dwaco?" called the little boy in confusion.
"Uncle Draco has to go back to class now, Devon," explained Madame Pomfrey. "You can see him later. Now let's get that cut fixed up." She gently took his hand and led him into the infirmary proper.
Draco sighed with relief, a slight smile playing its way across the smooth plain of his lips to tug insistently at the corners of his mouth.
Letting go of the restraints holding back his amusement, the blond allowed himself a fully matured smirk as the soft lilt of singing -- off key bars of the 'fuggin song' circulating about somewhere in the infirmary -- caught the attention of his ears. Along with the little 'awe you daft's scattered sporadically through the song, it made for a very satisfying experience.
A few horrified gasps accompanied the sweet melodies and then the shuffle of feet. A reprimanding voice sounded through the walls. Ha. Stupid Pomfrey. That ought to teach her not to mess with a Malfoy. Briefly, he turned back around upon hearing Devon call his name.
"Bye Uncwle Dwaco!" said the kid, escaping Pomfrey's grasp for a moment to run to the door. He waved to Draco, his eyes bright and enthusiastic, a silly sort of grin spanning his face.
Draco rolled his eyes. "See you, kid," he mumbled without conviction; though he didn't quite manage to prevent a slight smile from quirking his lips into a subtle arch.
Without further delay, he turned and hurried out of the blasted infirmary. He never did like that place much. And going there for the benefit of some little speech-impaired Weasley clone...what a waste of his god-given precious time!
What a waste of his time this whole assignment was. "Easy extra credit indeed," he harrumphed as he stalked back down the hall. "Stupid McGonagall."
He had merely gone to the Transfiguration Professor to ask for some out-of-class work. He didn't need the credit, really; in that particular subject, he had the second highest grade amongst all the seventh years. But second was hardly good enough for a Malfoy.
Especially when the person who had bested him to claim the top grade was a know-it-all monstrosity. For god's sake, the girl was a fucking Mudblood. It was the worst kind of affront to purebloods everywhere.
So he'd asked. And received.
That old bag McGonagall gave him this to raise his grade -- this 'assignment'. He always suspected that the Professor was a sadistic bitch. This cinched it.
Any doubts he might've had concerning this fact were completely dashed now...now that he'd been committed to this hell. She was probably laughing at him, right this very moment. Maybe she'd gathered the rest of the professors to have a 'Malfoy Gets His' party.
Sounded like just the kind of conspiracy in which this Mudblood-loving staff would partake. Probably trading stories about all the times he'd embarrassed himself in their classes. They were most likely in the staff room right now, having cake, while he was here, suffering. Stupid teachers. Stupid McGonagall.
What in the name of hell did this have to do with Transfiguration anyhow? At any rate, this was not what he had signed up for. It wasn't even worth it -- two or three percentage points to his grade and twenty points to Slytherin House because he'd so generously 'volunteered' for the assignment. Humph, volunteered indeed. Coerced was the more accurate term.
Thinking he would have to merely complete a research paper, a practical assignment...something of that sort, he'd gone to McGonagall -- on his own time and initiative, mind you -- and sat through a lecture about the benefits of furthering one's education and how happy she was that he was taking his studies so seriously.
She claimed to have an assignment available, just perfect for him, the devious she-devil. The fact that she was talking to him in such a cheerful tone or even talking to him at all should have been a dead giveaway.
But he had to admit he'd been thrown a bit by all the flattery, especially since it came from the teacher that loathed him the most! Draco had taken it without even waiting to find out what 'it' was. Admittedly a mistake on his part, but after another five-minute lecture on various methods of learning and study habits, he'd assumed that the extra credit would be something along that vein.
Then she'd told him to show up the next morning, in the Entrance Hall. She would give him his assignment then. At that time he'd been satisfied with the plan.
Imagine his surprise when he showed up the next day only to find himself confronted by a horde of little witches and wizardlets. He'd spotted McGonagall talking to another woman, much younger than the crone-ish Professor. Much prettier too, Draco had mused at the time.
At that moment, McGonagall had spotted him and waved him over.
"Mr. Malfoy, I would like you to meet Ms. Lake; she is a first form teacher at Murdoch Primary School of Pre-Magic Education. Ms. Lake, Draco Malfoy. Seventh year Slytherin prefect."
"Hello, please, call me Jane. It's nice to meet you Draco," said the woman, offering her hand to the boy. Draco didn't return her greeting, though, to his credit, he did shake her hand before turning back to his Professor.
"Oh yes, and that gentleman over there is Mr. Clive Pengree, assistant headmaster at Murdoch Primary." McGonagall waved to a tall blond man across the hall. The young man took a momentary reprieve from the job of corralling the children to wave back and smile.
Draco gave a polite nod and turned to McGonagall.
"Professor, you said that you had some extra credit work for me? May I have it now...I have a class to get to."
"Yes, I forgot to tell you. You will be excused from your morning classes today."
Draco conveyed his surprise in the slight arch of his eyebrows.
"You will lead Ms. Lake's class on a tour of the castle and assist with the children. As a prefect you will be allowed entry into all the Houses. On top of that, you will take them to the grounds, the greenhouses, the astronomy tower, and the dungeons. The class is here to learn, so be sure to explain some of the history and theory behind Hogwarts and its magic.
"You will end the tour in the kitchens; the elves have been instructed to give the children a special treat before they leave for lunch in Hogsmeade. And you will then be free to attend your afternoon classes."
Draco looked at her blankly. "Wha...?"
"I expect you to display proper Hogwarts manners. These children and Ms. Lake are our guests. As a prefect, you will remember to be responsible and on your best behavior," she said, giving him a pointedly accusing look. "Do you understand Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco frowned. "This is my extra credit assignment?"
"Yes. Now you'd best start if you want to keep on schedule."
"But--," Draco started only to shut his mouth abruptly as McGonagall hurried away and out of hearing range. Thoughts of running after her briefly crossed his mind, but such actions would make him appear foolish in front of all these people.
Truly, who cared about the opinions of a bunch of kids and their teachers, but Draco stood firm in his belief that one's dignity should not be compromised so. Especially if one was a Malfoy.
He turned to the woman, Jane. "Well? Are you ready to go?"
Ms. Lake took note of his short tone and frowned slightly, giving him a pointed look before nodding.
What was it with everyone giving him pointed looks? He hadn't even done anything wrong, unless being a devilishly handsome bastard was against the rules.
"Lead the way." She turned towards the other end of the hall where children were scattered all over, bounding about on the floor from stone to stone or examining the scenery with curious eyes. "All right class, please line up with your partner. Hurry now."
Once the children were reasonably settled into their ranks, Jane smiled and waved a hand towards Draco. "This is Mr. Malfoy. He's going to be leading the tour. Everyone remember what we talked about doing if you were to get lost? You are to stay put and one of us will come find you. Or if you see another adult you may ask them for help. Now, no touching or roughhousing. Indoor voices and visiting behavior. Just like we did in class. Does anyone have any questions before we go? Anyone need to use the bathroom? No? Good. Then, we're off!"
She smiled cheerfully at Draco and motioned for him to lead the way. "I'll bring up the rear, and Clive can take the middle."
Draco nodded.
A realization struck him as he led the group through hallway after hallway, stopping for frequent bathroom breaks, undone shoelaces, and petty squabbles; he would have faced a million angry McGonagalls rather than do this chore. It was pure torture, this.
Because Draco hated kids.
The little runts would surround him and put their grubby little claws all over his expensive robes, clinging to him as if he were some kind of magnet. He was the sun to their little galaxy; they spun around him straying not an inch from their arms-length orbits. Little brats...they made him fucking dizzy with annoyance!
And there it was, the fat of the situation he was currently facing as he resumed his duty and found the group waiting for him in the library corridor. He cringed as what sounded like a million little voices assaulted his ears all at once, calling his name (more often than not mangled on their inexperienced tongues) or throwing random questions his way (all of which he couldn't answer, was too embarrassed to answer, or didn't particularly care to answer).
All the while he could feel the little monsters tugging at his robes, trying to drag him off somewhere. Most likely to devour their fresh kill, he speculated with a sneer. These things belonged in a zoo.
Why was it that children always seemed to cling tightest to the people who despised them most? No matter how many growls and glares he threw their way, they still pushed and shoved to be the one who got to hold Draco's hand (though more often than not, he folded his arms over his chest and hid his hands before any one of them could latch on).
It was making him ill. He felt so impotent. None of his usual tricks were working, and he didn't know what else to do.
And the teacher, Jane...she was another annoyance. She just let the kids do whatever the fucking hell they wanted when it came to Draco's personal space. They could have been gnawing on his bloodied and dying corpse, and she'd have gone about her business, smiling with pride at her students, telling them how clever they were and handing out gold stars.
Hmph. If he were their teacher, (something that would never happen. Such things were a million fathoms beneath him) he would have sent them all on time-outs in the dungeons by now. Perhaps make them clean out the Slytherin bathrooms, which, he'd noticed, were getting a bit grungy lately.
But Jane only humored the blasted pests with all her 'sharing feelings' and the little 'fun and educational!' songs she had the kids sing as they went through hall after hall. For god's sake, Potter was less irritating than this.
And worse, Draco felt a weird compulsion to sing along! The teacher had probably hexed him when his back was turned. Or maybe that 'Clive' bastard. That fellow was awfully quiet...a little too quiet, in Draco's expert opinion.
Whatever the explanation, the Slytherin felt extremely suicidal (or homicidal) every time the kids or Jane opened their mouths (meaning pretty much all the damn time). Stupid kids. Stupid Jane.
No wonder the first years had been less than up to par in recent years. He would have rather gotten his entire education from a rock or a shrub, maybe even a house-elf, than to have to suffer public primary. Thank God the Malfoys were wealthy enough that Draco didn't have to leave home for academic instruction, let alone attend a primary school.
If he were Headmaster at Murdoch's, he would have long ago axed Ms. Lake and hired someone to set her house on fire and later, Avada Kedavra her burned corpse for good measure.
Jane didn't heed a single one of the pleading looks he threw her way every now and then; even though it was completely obvious that Draco had exactly no experience with children, she ignored him. Ignored him, a Malfoy!
So what if earlier he had sort of made a pass at her (for which he'd got a scathing reply that had him glaring and flushed for at least ten minutes afterwards), it was no cause to ignore him and abandon him in the midst of these horrible hyperactive beasties. They were worse than a crate full of skrewts!
It hadn't even been a real line, just something that sounded like one to her obviously deluded and perverted mind. He didn't mean it like that, stupid bitch jumped to conclusions!
And his blatant flirting directed towards Clive had been less than fruitful. All his advances went completely unnoticed by the elder blond. What was the guy a fucking eunuch?
Ms. Lake did notice, however, and she gave him a smug smirk. That's right, him, a fucking Malfoy, the original smug bastard! She hadn't the right.
But he knew what her problem was; it was the same thing that was wrong with most everyone he'd ever met. She was jealous.
Let her be, Draco seethed. She fucking deserves to suffer! As if some primary school teacher could ever be good enough for someone like Draco Malfoy. She was a slut, anyhow; all primary school teachers were.
Her loss. He didn't even like girls all that much.
His vengeful thoughts came to an abrupt halt as -- after another interminable trek to the other side of the castle -- the tour ended in the kitchens. Draco left the children squealing in delight over the sweets and the house-elves that had prepared them. He stalked straight to Slytherin House and the sanctuary of his dormitory.
"Finally...," sighed the blond, dropping onto his bed on his back. "That," he mused, "was the worst day of my entire life."
It was worse than losing to Potter at Quidditch for the first time. Worse than that time during third year when Mudblood Granger belted him across the face, the vicious little bitch.
"Even worse than that day I accidentally locked myself in the broom closet when I was six and had to sit in there crying all day until Father got home from work and came to put his broom away. Worse--"
He paused to take a quick look around. He didn't want anyone to hear him and think he was crazy for talking to himself. Or thinking aloud, rather. That was a nicer way to put it.
But for him, the room was completely vacant...good.
"Worse," he continued loudly, this time with much more enthusiastic disdain, "than the day I heard that Harry Potter was made Head Boy!" He paused to think a moment. "Well, okay, so maybe not worse than that," he decided, scowling. But it was close.
He was absolutely knackered. And now to top it off, he was in one of his 'Stupid Potter' moods. Perhaps, he'd just stay in for the rest of the day. He could tell his Professors he wasn't feeling well. And for once, he wouldn't even have to lie!
Yes, he definitely needed a break. He sighed and wrapped himself in his covers and his thoughts, settling down for a nice little retreat from his privileged but wholly unfair and considerably shitty life.
E/N: Next Session, Draco will confront his worst fears and spend some more quality time in that blasted infirmary. I wrote this just for myself, so if it's odd...well, yeah. I know it tends to ramble at times and Draco is being very bratty, but that's just characterisation. Thanks for reading!