Draco sighed, flipping his pillow to the cool side and turning once more to face the stone wall of his dormitory. He knew he would have bags under his eyes in the morning, the product of yet another (nearly) sleepless night; the thought did not excite him, to say the least. Grumbling under his breath, the blonde shifted again onto his back and determinedly closed his eyes. He briefly considered bewitching himself, but dismissed the idea almost immediately as a wave of laziness passed over him. Draco slowed his breathing, focusing on relaxing each individual part of his body. The tension in his forehead soon relaxed, the slight wrinkle between his pale eyebrows disappeared, his fingers stopped twitching. The usual harshness was gone from his white face: the ever-sneering lips were slack, parted slightly, and the cold eyes were lidded. In wakefulness, Draco Malfoy was beautiful in the way that a glacier is beautiful: icy and pale, and emotionless. Only during rare moments of sleep could he be described as lovely, when drowsiness softened the sharp cheekbones and relaxed the rigid muscles.

But the morning came too soon, and Draco was unceremoniously woken as the sunlight streamed in through the enchanted windows of the Slytherin dungeon. He lay in bed as long as he could, but the murmurs and shuffling of the other boys in the dormitory soon roused him for good. He showered, dressed, and primped in front of the mirror for awhile before heading upstairs to his usual breakfast of dry toast and coffee. His eyes weren't as puffy as he'd feared, and he managed to have a fairly civil conversation with some of his housemates before heading off to his first period class, Potions. Today was going to be a good day.

Draco rose from the Slytherin house table, following a pair of figures back down the long staircase that led to the dungeons. He recognized them at once; who else could be that gangly, that awkward, that orange-haired? Who else could manage to look so full of angst and self-pity, with that disgusting mop of hair? It was Weasel and Potter, and Draco was ready to have a little fun.

"Why, look, it's Gryffindor's golden boys! Don't you two have a marriage to consummate, or something?"

They kept walking, but Draco saw the ginger's fists clench, and their Quidditch conversation was sounding a bit forced.

He smirked and continued, "We all know who the bride is, of course…since Potter doesn't have a father to walk him down the aisle…although, if I were you, Weasley, I would have disowned that blood-traitor that you call Daddy years ago…"Draco kept his tone light and conversational, knowing that Weasley wouldn't be able to hold back much longer. Potter had some self control, but Weasley was a hothead, and Draco knew how to use it to his advantage. Sure enough, he could see the back of the redhead's neck turning a wonderful glowing pink, and watched with glee as the flush spread up to the tips of Weasley's ears as well.

Draco went in for the kill. "What's the matter, Weasley? Couldn't afford your dream dress? Did you have to wear the sack that your cow of a mother wore to her ceremony in the chicken coop?"

A low growl reached his ears, and he was treated to a glorious view: Weasley, turning, furiously pushing Potter's hands aside, and tearing up the stairs—

Draco suddenly realized what was happening. "AHHHHH!! Get off me, you great pink ape!!" He was pinned to the ground, his neck pushed awkwardly against the corner of one stair. The back of his head was throbbing, and he freed one arm from the great mass of limbs that was Weasley to feel it. It wasn't bleeding, but Draco knew there would be a lovely bruise. He glared up at the freckled monkey that was preventing him from sitting up. "Weasel, if you're still on top of me in five seconds, I'll hex you so badly even that beaver Granger won't touch you!"

Weasley didn't seem to know what to do; Draco could see confusion in his blue eyes. He was obviously angry, but afraid to actually hurt Draco; he had one fist cocked, but it seemed unlikely that he would actually hit the smaller boy. He was staring down at the blonde, eyes wide, mouth open stupidly. Draco tried again.

"Weasley, please refrain from drooling. I know Potter's the best you've ever had, which almost makes me pity you, but really, these are brand new robes. It would be an inconvenience to have to replace them. Now GET UP, or I'll make you!"

The ginger blinked, and looked over his shoulder at Potter, who had been standing there giggling the whole time. Draco gave him the iciest glare he could muster, but got the feeling that his current predicament rendered it less than intimidating. It was clear that Potter was not going to assist in fixing the situation.

"Weasley, if you don't get up, people will see."

Draco watched the gears turning in Weasley's thick skull. If people saw him on top of Draco…

"They'll think…I like you!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "You Weasleys really are inbred, aren't you? Get. Up. Now."

And just like that, the big, warm weight of Weasley was gone. Draco stretched languidly before getting up himself and following the pair down the stairs again. The whole experience had been much less traumatizing than he would have imagined. And seeing that crazy bloodlust in the Weasel had certainly been worth the bruise and mild embarrassment of being tackled. The important thing was, nobody had seen it happen but Potter, and who cared about Potter anyway? Draco smirked again as he walked into Snape's classroom. Ceremony in the chicken coop. Genius.