Despicable P.
"Do you realise who you're talking to?"
"What do you have today?" Bletchley asks on Friday morning.
While Goyle yawns loudly and Crabbe is busy choosing his breakfast, Draco happily waves the timetable. "Double Potions, with the Gryffindors."
The Potter-, Weasley-, and Muggle-infested Gryffindors.
"Nice, you don't need me to get to Snape's classroom."
Marcus Flint, a dark haired sixth-year sitting next to Bletchley, laughs softly. "Oh oh, Snape's classroom is where the fun stops, isn't it, Bletchley?"
"I must say, I'm glad," Draco continues undeterred. "My father knows him, and he says he's very capable."
Unlike some other teachers, as Draco found out in the last few days. Granted, not all classes were a waste of time; the ghost professor's history lessons turned out to be quite restful as Draco could easily take a nap (what else should he do – listening? Impossible! Watching the Hufflepuffs, half of whom are probably Muggleborn? Certainly not!), and Charms with Professor Flitwick was actually kind of entertaining. And then of course, there was his new favourite subject: Astronomy.
Some students struggled with the fact that class didn't start until midnight - including Crabbe and Goyle, who dabbled in a new type of sport: sleeping with their eyes open. Draco, however, focused on Professor Sinistra's lecture about how the positions of stars and planets influence the intensity of specific spells.
Later they studied the night sky with their telescopes and learned several constellation names, and since Draco already knew them, he received his first five points for Slytherin!
Unfortunately, the rest was pretty sobering:
In one of the greenhouses behind the castle, they had Herbology with the small and plump Professor Sprout. The Ravenclaws absorbed any boring information about herbs and mushrooms like a sponge, but Draco - as a Malfoy - would never deign to dig in the dirt planting green stuff! So he memorised his timetable and passed the time wondering how his mother would react to the sight of Sprout's dirty fingernails (but he just couldn't decide between screaming, vomiting or fainting).
Their first Transfiguration lesson was even more amusing: while they were waiting for Professor McGonagall, Millicent Bulstrode called the grey tabby cat sitting on the teacher's desk to come to her. Only when Pansy Parkinson got up and started petting her, the cat suddenly moved - and turned into their teacher!
Except from Parkinson, who looked completely shocked, McGonagall earned admiring glances, but in her human form, the lesson were far less fun; after a reeled off speech on what she would not tolerate in her class, she set them the task of turning matches into needles. Apart from the questionable purpose of the exercise, none of them came even close to succeeding. The only match that changed at all was Crabbe's, because it went up in flames and left nothing but a tiny pile of ash, and McGonagall's lips became even thinner than before.
But all that was nothing compared to Defence Against the Dark Arts with "Professor" Quirrell and his ridiculous purple turban.
Just sitting in his classroom was an imposition. The odour of something indefinable hung in the air, mixed with an acrid smell of garlic. To make things worse, it was tedious to follow Quirrell's words. He seemed to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, unable to form a single sentence without stuttering, and he was constantly losing the thread, so no one knew what his point was.
Nott's sudden, loud sneeze threw Quirrell off the track for good; anxiously, he stammered something about a vampire from Romania, who allegedly chases him, and who is the obvious reason for this odour nuisance.
Draco seriously wonders what's going on in Dumbledore's brain for letting teach someone so incompetent at his school.
He begins to understand why his father originally wanted to send him to Durmstrang, a school in Eastern Europe. Although the curriculum is said to be very demanding from the first year on, Draco had been taught by the best private teachers in the country, after all! Besides, Durmstrang's headmaster reasonably doesn't accept any Muggleborns, whereas in Hogwarts, they mix with the Purebloods and breathe the same air as a matter of course. Draco almost loses his appetite just thinking about it (and Crabbe, who scoffs his porridge with a munching sound, doesn't help).
Nonetheless, his mother had insisted that Draco attends Hogwarts instead. Sure, his father could have started a discussion with her, but his mother didn't want his school to be that far away from home. Period. And even if his father would never admit it, she always has the final say. He knows it, Draco knows it, and probably all of Great Britain knows it.
"When does training start, Flint?" Bletchley asks, and Draco looks up immediately. Training?
"Tomorrow. Snape has blocked the field for the next six Saturday mornings. Looks like Wood has to throw over his schedule, hehe."
Bletchley snorts. "Before complaining, he'd better find a new seeker. Speaking of new, how's Miles doing?"
"Good. He's pretty fast and always focused."
"Pleased to hear that, but give him time to learn. Everyone knows you like to overdo it," Bletchley says without sounding rude.
"How touching! Are you going all big brother now?" Flint asks with a grin. "He'll be fine, and besides, I'm more worried about Higgs right now."
Draco clears his throat and tries to sound casual. "You're talking about Quidditch?"
Flint looks at him suspiciously. "That's right, kid. Let me guess: you're a brilliant flyer, much better than anyone else in your class and you want to join the team - my team?"
"Flint!" says Bletchley.
Under other circumstances, Draco would have retaliated, but this bigmouth is obviously the Slytherin team captain! If he blows it with him, he might as well plead with Potter and Weasley on his knees to befriend him, and since there is no way in hell that this will happen, he merely clenches his fist under the table and answers calmly, "Exactly."
He is proud of himself.
"What do you think, how many times I've heard this in the last four years? No, seriously - take a guess!"
Before Draco can say anything, Bletchley replies, "Well, Miles is just one year older than him and has convinced you, right?"
"False! You convinced me to give him a chance. And to make that clear, I wouldn't have done this for everyone, and it was your luck that Miles proved his worth!"
"You're such a sweetheart."
"Shut it."
Draco looks at them expectantly as suddenly Daphne Greengrass comes over and stops in front of Bletchley. "Um, Liam?"
He looks up in surprise. "Yes?"
"Did you, uh, find out something about the, um, forbidden corridor?"
Who cares right now? We're talking about something much more important, stupid cow!
"Not really, to be honest," Bletchley says seriously. "Dumbledore clammed up, but Amanda, the other prefects and I will keep an eye on things. There is always one of us present on the third floor so that nobody will get any ideas. There's no need to worry, okay?"
With a crimson face, she whispers "Okay," before returning to the girls, where Tracey Davis giggles behind her hands.
Apparently, Draco has just missed a joke, because even Flint grins broadly, digging Bletchley with the elbow while looking at him meaningfully.
"You're disgusting," Bletchley says.
Draco's patience has finally run out. "So, what do I have to do?"
"You'll have flying lessons soon," Flint says, slightly annoyed. "If you convince Madam Hooch, we'll see. And that doesn't mean anything, just for the record!"
Draco nods curtly, though he's not smarter than before as Dumbledore had already mentioned a Madam Hooch in his speech. Then he will wait for the flying lessons (which is ridiculous, he himself could teach how to fly).
Bletchley winks. "Don't take it personally. The Slytherin team is something like the love of Flint's life."
"I'm going to tell the little blonde one the same about you and Amanda!" Flint says mockingly.
While Bletchley and Flint tease each other, Crabbe is focused on his porridge, and Goyle, as so often, stares into space, wingbeats are heard from outside the hall, getting louder. Draco turns his head - and is amazed. Of course he is used to letter owls, but he has never seen so many of them in one place.
Once, on his father's 30th birthday morning, more than 50 owls were waiting with greeting cards and presents in the mansion's conservatory, but now, about 200 owls are flying into the Great Hall! Among the first is Perseus (the Malfoy's eagle owl), who drops a box of Bertie Bott's Beans on his lap - and a letter sealed with the family crest.
Darn ...
He stows the beans in his shoulder bag before Crabbe discovers them, who sips the rest of his porridge out of the bowl, putting it on the table and making a strained face. Fortunately, he doesn't burp, but turns to Goyle and asks, "Where's your bag?"
Goyle looks on the floor next to him, puzzled. "Oh, I forgot ..."
"I'm going with you, I need new parchment," Crabbe says and looks at Draco expectantly.
He holds up his letter. "I'll catch up, see you in Snape's classroom."
"We'll save you a seat."
Absently, Draco nods and places the letter, which seems to be staring at him, on the table.
Two days ago, he had written his parents that he of course got sorted into Slytherin and already earned five points for his house. He also wrote that Dumbledore must have lost his mind because he instructed Hagrid to bring the first-years to the castle - in wooden boats which seemed not very solid. Furthermore, he mentioned his Christmas wish: a Nimbus 2000, a new racing broom he had admired in a shop window in Diagon Alley (all begging and pleading to take his own broom to Hogwarts had been a waste of energy). And finally, he reported that Harry Potter rejected his friendship offering because he prefers to associate with a Weasley.
His gaze wanders to the Gryffindor's table, where a white owl nibbles at Potter's ear. Slightly disgusted, Draco hopes he'll be sitting far away from him in Potions class. Everything about the boy who lived annoys him! First of all, he looks like a nobody! For someone like him, whose clothes are about three sizes too big, the bleak school uniform is probably a blessing, but his hair is still all over the place.
Anyway, his relatives don't seem to care about Potter's look (but what can you expect from Muggles?). The entire Potter Clan - or what's left of them - is apparently a bit bonkers! But it's not just that; every time he enters the room, students stumble over their own feet, and teachers look at him in awe - gaping at him as if he were a damn miracle! Even Draco's father has always supported the theory that Potter might be the next great wizard after the Dark Lord (hence the assignment to Draco to "keep in" with him). Draco knows just as little as anyone else what really happened ten years ago, but he shares the same view as his mother: the Dark Lord was NOT killed by a one year old child! Someone or something must have helped him! Can't people think logically? At least the Ravenclaws should know better, but in fact the Slytherins are the only ones who don't make a great fuss about the famous scarface. Despite everything, he gets the uncomfortable feeling that his father might cherish his idea - and ask Draco to approach Potter once more. we congratulate you for being sorted into Slytherin. It is good to see that you uphold our tradition.
Slowly, he opens the envelope and unfolds the heavy parchment, written in the unfussy handwriting of his father.
Draco,
We expect you to work hard, perform well and keep us informed on your progress. Otherwise, we will have to contact Professor Snape. You certainly want to have an appropriate position one day; you are conscious of our connection with the Ministry, but the time has come for you to make your contribution.
In addition, we want to be informed about any unusual occurrences and instructions from Albus Dumbledore.
As for Harry Potter, you have nothing to reproach yourself for.
At some point he will regret his decision to disrespect you.
It should not be your problem if he prefers to bother with the social underclass instead.
We keep your Christmas wish in mind, providing that we receive positive feedback from Professor Snape. P.S.: Let us know if you have been admitted into the Quidditch team. Father & Mother
Draco exhales loudly. He puts the letter in his robe, vaults over the bench and joyfully makes his way to the dungeon. He hasn't been in such a good mood since the Sorting Hat sent him to Slytherin! Not only can he officially turn his back on Harry Potter now, he also has read a hidden message between the whole blah blah (as if he had to worry about his grades given these low requirements): "Of course you'll get your Nimbus, you are our only son, and what else should we do with all our money?"
Draco, chewing a cinnamon-flavoured bean, enters the Potions classroom as one of the last.
It is lit only by torches, like the other part of the dungeon that is accessible to everyone. On the walls are supply cabinets with all sorts of potion ingredients, and shelves with pickled creatures in glass jars and strange-looking objects. In the corner stands a basin into which water pours from a gargoyle's mouth.
The Gryffindors, who look around anxiously, have taken their seats on the right, the Slytherins on the left side of the room.
Draco sits down in the front row, where Crabbe and Goyle have reserved a seat between them. Potter and his loser friend sit in the back where they belong.
Suddenly, the door is opened with a bang. As if something were about to explode behind him, Snape hurries through the room with his long, black robe fluttering. He positions himself in front of the teacher's desk and looks at the students like they were a nasty disease. Instantly there is absolute silence; everyone seems to be intimidated - everyone but Draco (his father associates with dodgy people, against whom even Snape appears harmless).
In a quiet but urgent voice Snape begins the lesson by taking the register. When he gets to Draco's name, he nods curtly. Draco returns the gesture and looks around smugly.
Shortly thereafter, Snape stops. "Ah, yes," he says softly. "Harry Potter. Our new - celebrity. "
Draco can hold his breath just in time to keep himself from laughing out loud. Snape has a sense of humour - he would have expected anything but this!
After Snape has finished calling the roll (Draco thinks he hears quiet choking noises from Theodore Nott when Weasley is called), his dark eyes wander through the rows. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." His voice has a threatening undertone which lets you know that you better pay attention. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses."
Draco grins. He cannot imagine that Snape would ever speak in the same manner about a human being, but unlike most other teachers, he manages to keep the class silent without effort.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco looks at Goyle, who, as far as he can tell, listens fascinated. In general, the Slytherins all look very interested, the Gryffindors, however, seem to be rather nervous.
"Potter!" Snape says suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
A sleeping potion.
Draco hasn't learned something this specific in his private lessons, but because his grandfather is a potion maker as well, he has often helped him in making potions and already knows some exotic ingredients and agents. He looks over his shoulder, gloating. The hand of Hermione Granger, a Gryffindor girl with a wild hairstyle, shoots into the air, but otherwise nobody seems to know the answer (and since Draco neither wants to be a swot nor ruin this exciting moment, he also holds back).
"I don't know, sir." Potter sounds slightly startled.
Snape's lips curl into a sardonic smile. "Tut, tut - fame clearly isn't everything."
Blissfully, Draco leans back in his chair. Finally someone who isn't blinded by a name and a stupid story!
"Let's try again, Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Even Goyle knows that!
"I don't know, sir," Potter repeats, petrified.
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"
Draco, Crabbe and Goyle shake with laughter. Snape seems to have it in for the scarface; maybe Draco had been too hasty about choosing his favourite subject ...
"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
There is none – are those supposed to be difficult questions?
Weasley looks helplessly back and forth between his buddy and Snape, while Granger stands up, stretching her hand towards the dungeon ceiling and looks as if she's about to burst. Whether she really knows all the answers or just needs to go to the bathroom, either way, Draco finds her behaviour almost more embarrassing than Potter's. Apparently he is not the only one; a few rows farther back, the girls have a hard time suppressing their giggles - except for Parkinson, who stares at an oriental-looking Gryffindor girl (Patil something), as if she tries to burn a hole in the back of her head with her eyes.
"I don't know," Potter says again. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"
A few Gryffindors laugh stupidly, but Snape silences them with an frosty look.
"Sit down," he snaps at the swot. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Dead. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"
A loud rummaging for parchment and quills follows. Over the noise, Snape says, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor house for your cheek, Potter."
While Draco writes down what he already knows, he wonders if he'll have to go to the hospital wing after class to get the grin unscrewed off his face.
In the further course of the lesson, Snape puts the students into pairs for mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. Following the instructions in his textbook, Draco weighs dried nettles and then begins to crushes the fangs of a snake. As a matter of routine, he prepares the ingredients twice to pass the other half over to Goyle whenever Snape isn't looking (before Goyle messes up, he better keeps standing around doing nothing).
A few minutes later, Snape goes along the desks, stops in front of Draco's cauldron and nods satisfied. He turns to the class. "See how exemplarily Mr Malfoy stewed his -"
HISS - BANG!
Suddenly, the dungeon fills with poison-green clouds of smoke. Draco turns around and hardly believes his eyes: this dork Longbottom has somehow managed to melt his cauldron into a shapeless lump. The potion now seeps across the stone floor; the students hastily climb onto their stools.
"Moron," Zabini hisses barely audible.
Draco glares at Longbottom, who's been spattered with his brew - Snape was just about to praise him in front of the whole class!
"Idiot boy!" shouts Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with a wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"
Longbottom whines something indistinctly. All over his arms and face, red boils start to pop up, making him barely recognisable.
"Take him to the hospital wing," Snape snarls at Longbottoms Gryffindor partner and turns to Potter and Weasley, who had been working at the table next to them. "You - Potter - why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."
Ha!
Irritated, Potter opens his mouth to say something, but changes his mind. Even he is not dumb enough to contradict Snape.
An hour later, after writing an essay (thanks to Longbottom) on why the order of ingredients added to the cauldron is essential, the Gryffindors bolt out of the classroom as if they've just been released from jail. Draco, however, is already looking forward to the sequel of "Snape vs. Potter".
While he's packing his things, Snape is taking notes and says, "Well done, Mr Malfoy, keep it up. Apparently there is still hope for this class. Give my regards to your father."
"Yes, sir."
With Crabbe, Goyle, Nott and Zabini, Draco strolls happily out of the classroom.
"What an embarrassing bunch," Zabini snorts. "And I always thought the Hufflepuffs to be the Losers' Club."
"What did you expect?" Draco says, shrugging. "Everyone knows the Gryffindors suffer from chronic overconfidence."
Nott grins. "I bet they're all standing around Longbottom's hospital bed in pity."
"And Potter sits in the corner crying because Snape was so mean to him."
"Must feel like home to him."
Draco frowns. "What do you mean?"
"You didn't hear about it?" Nott asks excitedly. "He lives with his aunt and uncle, and even they hate him. It's said that he sleeps in a cupboard under the stairs!"
Draco bursts out laughing. "That's awesome - where did you get that from?"
"Bletchley. The Gryffindor prefect told him, and his brother and Potter are practically joined at the hip."
"Weasley?!" Draco exclaims mockingly. "One of them actually managed to become a prefect? Well, I hope the family enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame."
Nott laughs. "Those blood traitor scum."
After this commentary, Draco feels the need to applaud his childhood friend, as he is absolutely right! Technically, the Weasleys also belong to the Sacred 28, but in fact they are a disgrace to the pure-blood community because the father has been campaigning for Muggle rights and protection for years and defends those people in public.
"They should've stood out of Hogwarts if they love Muggles so much," Zabini says, looking as if he has an unpleasant smell in his nose. "And those filthy mud-bloods don't belong here anyway."
The M-word, a very pejorative term for Muggle-born wizards and witches, that Draco hasn't heard in a while. A word everyone knows, everyone uses secretly and yet no one says out loud because it is frowned upon.
He nods approvingly. "I second that. They should at least wear a warning sign around their necks, so you don't accidentally get too close to them."
Laughing, they enter the entrance hall. Draco, Crabbe and Goyle head for the courtyard, Nott and Zabini climb up the large marble staircase because they want to go to the library.
"Hey," Zabini calls over his shoulder. "You happen to collect the Chocolate Frog Cards?"
Draco stopped doing that years ago, but Crabbe and Goyle answer in the affirmative.
"Do you have Helga Hufflepuff?"
As Goyle thinks hard, Crabbe says, "No ... but who wants Helga Hufflepuff?"
Zabini grins broadly. "So you don't know."
"What?"
"She has a secret. If you get me her card, I'll tell you," Zabini says and continues his way.
"Which secret does he mean, Malfoy?" Goyle asks in a whisper.
"Something silly, I suppose."
"I don't like Nott."
"Nobody cares, Crabbe."
Because the Slytherin and Gryffindor first-years are the only ones having no classes on Friday afternoons, the courtyard is empty; even the girls are nowhere to be seen.
Crabbe and Goyle plonk themselves down on the edge of the fountain. "Hey, Malfoy - who am I? 'Professor, help me, my face is burning!'" Goyle imitates Longbottom.
Draco manages a wry smile and generously lets them both reach into his box of Bertie Bott's Beans.
"Oh - or what about this: 'Professor, I'm sooo smart and know everything, if you don't pick me, I'm gonna die!' Ha ha ha ... I thought, smart alecks like that Helene Granger belong into Ravenclaw."
"As if she'd really known the answers," says Draco, throwing a bean in the air and catching it with his mouth. Goyle tries to do the same, but the bean lands in his eye and he almost falls backwards into the fountain.
As Draco turns away eye-rolling, he notices Pansy Parkinson. She walks - or rather struts - to the other end of the courtyard from where a path leads to the lake.
He becomes aware of her shoes. They're not one of those dark, plain sneakers worn by most of the younger students, but light blue, patent-leather flats with sparkling stones that reflect the light with every movement. Her robe looks different too; shorter, dark blue and with ruffled ends.
That's the reason why Draco hasn't spoken yet to most of his female classmates: girls are completely useless. For all he knows, they do nothing but giggling all day, staring at jewellery and playing with their hair. He can easily do without such stuff.
And then they have the nerve to interrupt important conversations about Quidditch!
Draco sighs. It seems to him like forever since he has flown over the roofs of the Malfoy mansion on his Comet, but it's only been a week. In a risky moment, he would've been collided with a bird if he didn't master some pretty cool evasive manoeuvres. And loops. And flying hands-free (which he mustn't get caught doing by his mother again).
"After the flying lesson, I need to talk to this Madam Hooch," he mumbles thoughtfully.
"To join the team?"
"Yes, Goyle."
"Do you think that will work?" Crabbe asks, stuffing a handful of beans into his mouth, half of them falling to the ground. "They usually don't let first-years play."
"You said it - usually! When they see me fly-"
Suddenly, something slips under Draco's robe from behind and brushes his legs.
"WAAH!" he screams, leaps and almost stumbles over a little black cat playing with the fallen beans.
His cheeks turn pink. As casually as possible, he puts the Bertie Bott's - box in his pocket and wipes invisible dust from his robe.
"What are you looking at?" he snarls at Crabbe and Goyle.
"Uh, nothing -"
At that moment they hear a whistle, whereupon the cat leaves the beans and runs straight to its owner: Pansy Parkinson.
Their eyes meet. And then she starts giggling - she's making
fun of him! Although she's a Slytherin and as pure-blooded as he is, he won't just stand there and be laughed at. By anyone.
"Hey!" he shouts. "You better keep an eye on your cat!"
She grins. "If you come to Hogwarts, even though you're scared of cats, it's not my problem."
Wrong answer.
"I wouldn't be so cheeky if I were you. If my robe is ripped because of that thing, my father won't be too happy. He is chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, you know. And it would be a pity if he had to ban cats here, don't you think?"
Even though Draco has been exaggerating a bit, he wants her know not to mess with him. He grins triumphantly as her expression darkens, but instead of apologising, she picks up her cat, comes back across the courtyard and stops in front of him.
At the touch of a button, Crabbe and Goyle appear at his side, which is a bit embarrassing; after all, she is one head shorter than him and petite enough that the next breeze might blow her away.
"Watch it!" she says.
Now Draco is the one laughing. "Are you threatening me, midget?"
"Listen, blondie, the next time you call my cat thing again, I will tell Dumbledore that you've kicked him. And I don't care about your trashy robe, got it?"
Crabbe and Goyle's jaws drop at once, but it takes Draco a few seconds to perceive she has actually dared talking to him like that. He folds his arms and asks slowly, "Do you realise who you're talking to?"
"To an eleven-year-old who is flanked by two bodyguards and screams like a banshee because of a cat. But don't worry, if you're a little nicer in the future, that's just between us ... well, maybe," she says with a smug smile and turns around on her heel.
Completely taken aback, Draco stares after her. He feels like he's going nuts. As he turns to face Crabbe and Goyle, both look so dumbfounded as if they wanted to say something but forgot how to speak. Finally, Goyle asks sheepishly, "What does flanked mean?!"
"It means SHUT UP!" Draco exclaims upset and rushes back into the castle.
Along the way he realises, however, that he has no idea where to go ...
Note: contains a tiny reference to a group of kids based on one of my favourite novels.