A Tiger is a Tiger
"Malfoy," Pucey called across the Slytherin common room. Draco turned to look at his housemate, standing his ground against the bigger boy. "How'd you get out of detention with Snape?"
Draco was relieved not to be challenged by anyone: he was really mush better at blocking than disarming in duels, and without Crabbe and Goyle his case was hopeless in a fisticuffs. For an instant, he considered telling Pucey that he'd escaped by virtue of his own magical prowess, but suddenly the truth was much appealing.
"Some girl came in: a Ravenclaw. Snape dismissed me and took her to his office. Who knows what they're doing now." A young boy's imagination is far more powerful any lie Draco could have concocted. He decided to leave Pucey thinking in the common room and walked himself up to his bedroom.
The room he shared with his thugs was handsomely decorated, thanks to his father. After all, no outward show of wealth was too much for Lucius Malfoy's only son - no matter how he was treated in private. The room was dark, with only a green lamp glowing in one corner. The windows were hung with drapes in Slytherin colors, and all three beds matched. Draco pulled the curtain that separated his half of the room from theirs and hung his academic robes on his bedpost. He sat on his bed and gazed out the window: Quidditch practice would be right after dinner, and that was a still an hour and a half away. The Gryffindors were already flying about, their reddish robes fluttering behind them as they maneuvered around the bludgers. He could see Harry Potter chasing after the golden snitch: that boy was impossible to miss, even all the way from the castle.
Draco shook his head and turned away. What use was it to ponder Potter any further? Lucius was hard at work taking care of that little problem, driven on forever by his Dark Mark. The boy pulled the sleeve of his sweater up to his elbow: he would never understand how could Lucius have marred himself with the Mark. Looking at the spot on his own flesh where the Mark would be soon enough, Draco was starting to feel ill. His arm was a pure white. It seemed almost . evil to do that to himself. But what Lucius wants, Lucius gets.
He lay down on the bed. He knew he should have been doing work, but this was all he really wanted to do: stare up at the ceiling and think, taking full advantage of the rare quiet. The image of the Ravenclaw came into his mind. Ophelia, Snape had called her, and he had touched her hand. Draco couldn't remember Snape touching anyone. Well, that wasn't quite true. Snape had picked him up and thrown him about more than once. But he had touched Ophelia's hand gently, almost affectionately. Perhaps the ideas he had planted in Pucey's mind hadn't been too far off .
Draco awoke with a start. Had he really just fallen asleep? He checked his pocket watch: ten minutes till dinner. Good thing he'd woken when he did. Snape would have been furious if Draco hadn't shown up for dinner. Hastily, Draco undressed, managing to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Scars crisscrossed his back, long since healed. He'd been away from home for a while, and his body was therefore graciously free of bruises. He pulled on his Quidditch uniform: beige pants, green sweater, grieves, gauntlets, and green cloak. He thought even to grab his Nimbus 2006 - the latest model.
Draco swung open the door to the great hall as if he owned it, and strode to his usual seat as if there were no doubt to whom it belonged. Crabbe and Goyle were already there, and he sat between them. Though they made him more attractive in comparison, their companionship waxed old and draining at best. He glared at them in a rare, unchecked display of emotion.
"Something the matter?" Crabbe said, through a mouthful of dinner.
"Shut your mouth when you're chewing," Draco snapped, ignoring the question. This was neither the time nor place to discuss emotions. Even it if were, Draco surely wouldn't be sharing them with these two idiots. Frightening, really, that they would soon be able to do magic entirely on their own.
As Draco ate dinner, all but ignoring his companions, he kept an eye on the Ravenclaw table. Snape was at the head table, so he was sure their tryst was over. Ophelia - whoever she was - must be there.
He didn't have to look for long. As dessert was being served, a feminine voice sounded behind him.
"Draco Malfoy." The voice could have been that of his head of house for the coldness that echoed in it. He turned on the bench, his eyes meeting those of the mysterious Ophelia. "You are he, aren't you?"
He stood to look her in the eye. The goons started to rise as well, but Draco stopped them with a hand on their shoulders. "Who wants to know?"
She was still dressed as if she'd just come from class, her robes all around her and her blue-and-bronze trim in striking contrast to the black - black robes, black hair, black eyes. She was only slightly shorter than he, and the rage in her eyes and the wand in her hand worried him.
"I hear you've been spreading rumors about me, Malfoy." Pucey must have told someone what Draco had mentioned in passing. "If I hear another ill word spoken about Snape and myself, I'll castrate you."
With a flick of her wand, Ophelia overturned his dessert plate, ruining his pumpkin pie, and stormed off.
"Pansy!" Draco hissed across the table, cleaning up the mess with a quiet charm or two. "Who was that?"
"Who, that Ravenclaw bitch?" Pansy Parkinson sniffed. "Ophelia Briarwood."
"Of the Inverness Briarwoods?" Draco said, more to himself than anything. They were a pureblood family at least as old as his own. Draco looked around the Slytherin table: it seemed that anyone who had noticed their argument had forgotten about it. His dessert ruined, Draco swept away to the Quidditch pitch without calling his thugs along.
"Malfoy," Pucey called across the Slytherin common room. Draco turned to look at his housemate, standing his ground against the bigger boy. "How'd you get out of detention with Snape?"
Draco was relieved not to be challenged by anyone: he was really mush better at blocking than disarming in duels, and without Crabbe and Goyle his case was hopeless in a fisticuffs. For an instant, he considered telling Pucey that he'd escaped by virtue of his own magical prowess, but suddenly the truth was much appealing.
"Some girl came in: a Ravenclaw. Snape dismissed me and took her to his office. Who knows what they're doing now." A young boy's imagination is far more powerful any lie Draco could have concocted. He decided to leave Pucey thinking in the common room and walked himself up to his bedroom.
The room he shared with his thugs was handsomely decorated, thanks to his father. After all, no outward show of wealth was too much for Lucius Malfoy's only son - no matter how he was treated in private. The room was dark, with only a green lamp glowing in one corner. The windows were hung with drapes in Slytherin colors, and all three beds matched. Draco pulled the curtain that separated his half of the room from theirs and hung his academic robes on his bedpost. He sat on his bed and gazed out the window: Quidditch practice would be right after dinner, and that was a still an hour and a half away. The Gryffindors were already flying about, their reddish robes fluttering behind them as they maneuvered around the bludgers. He could see Harry Potter chasing after the golden snitch: that boy was impossible to miss, even all the way from the castle.
Draco shook his head and turned away. What use was it to ponder Potter any further? Lucius was hard at work taking care of that little problem, driven on forever by his Dark Mark. The boy pulled the sleeve of his sweater up to his elbow: he would never understand how could Lucius have marred himself with the Mark. Looking at the spot on his own flesh where the Mark would be soon enough, Draco was starting to feel ill. His arm was a pure white. It seemed almost . evil to do that to himself. But what Lucius wants, Lucius gets.
He lay down on the bed. He knew he should have been doing work, but this was all he really wanted to do: stare up at the ceiling and think, taking full advantage of the rare quiet. The image of the Ravenclaw came into his mind. Ophelia, Snape had called her, and he had touched her hand. Draco couldn't remember Snape touching anyone. Well, that wasn't quite true. Snape had picked him up and thrown him about more than once. But he had touched Ophelia's hand gently, almost affectionately. Perhaps the ideas he had planted in Pucey's mind hadn't been too far off .
Draco awoke with a start. Had he really just fallen asleep? He checked his pocket watch: ten minutes till dinner. Good thing he'd woken when he did. Snape would have been furious if Draco hadn't shown up for dinner. Hastily, Draco undressed, managing to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Scars crisscrossed his back, long since healed. He'd been away from home for a while, and his body was therefore graciously free of bruises. He pulled on his Quidditch uniform: beige pants, green sweater, grieves, gauntlets, and green cloak. He thought even to grab his Nimbus 2006 - the latest model.
Draco swung open the door to the great hall as if he owned it, and strode to his usual seat as if there were no doubt to whom it belonged. Crabbe and Goyle were already there, and he sat between them. Though they made him more attractive in comparison, their companionship waxed old and draining at best. He glared at them in a rare, unchecked display of emotion.
"Something the matter?" Crabbe said, through a mouthful of dinner.
"Shut your mouth when you're chewing," Draco snapped, ignoring the question. This was neither the time nor place to discuss emotions. Even it if were, Draco surely wouldn't be sharing them with these two idiots. Frightening, really, that they would soon be able to do magic entirely on their own.
As Draco ate dinner, all but ignoring his companions, he kept an eye on the Ravenclaw table. Snape was at the head table, so he was sure their tryst was over. Ophelia - whoever she was - must be there.
He didn't have to look for long. As dessert was being served, a feminine voice sounded behind him.
"Draco Malfoy." The voice could have been that of his head of house for the coldness that echoed in it. He turned on the bench, his eyes meeting those of the mysterious Ophelia. "You are he, aren't you?"
He stood to look her in the eye. The goons started to rise as well, but Draco stopped them with a hand on their shoulders. "Who wants to know?"
She was still dressed as if she'd just come from class, her robes all around her and her blue-and-bronze trim in striking contrast to the black - black robes, black hair, black eyes. She was only slightly shorter than he, and the rage in her eyes and the wand in her hand worried him.
"I hear you've been spreading rumors about me, Malfoy." Pucey must have told someone what Draco had mentioned in passing. "If I hear another ill word spoken about Snape and myself, I'll castrate you."
With a flick of her wand, Ophelia overturned his dessert plate, ruining his pumpkin pie, and stormed off.
"Pansy!" Draco hissed across the table, cleaning up the mess with a quiet charm or two. "Who was that?"
"Who, that Ravenclaw bitch?" Pansy Parkinson sniffed. "Ophelia Briarwood."
"Of the Inverness Briarwoods?" Draco said, more to himself than anything. They were a pureblood family at least as old as his own. Draco looked around the Slytherin table: it seemed that anyone who had noticed their argument had forgotten about it. His dessert ruined, Draco swept away to the Quidditch pitch without calling his thugs along.