Not a Lamb
Draco, captain of the Slytherin team, had painstakingly copied the latest flight patterns of the Chudley Cannons and taught them to his teammates. It had not been an easy task, since they were chosen based on size rather than skill, but all his effort was worth it. If they didn't win this weekend's game, they would not get to move on to play Gryffindor the week after. And nothing was more important than beating Gryffindor.
He worked his teammates until he was sore, until his broom was an instrument of torture, and let them go only when Snape came out to remove the pitch lighting spell. Had he thought he'd be able to find the snitch in the night, he would have had them stay even then. Panting, and with a sheen of sweat on his face, Draco found his way to his room. He ignored his goons, stripped, and hopped in the shower.
The warm water soothed his sore muscles and ran brown with mud and sweat. HeHeHIt was easy to forget why he went to such lengths. It was not to beat Gryffindor per se, nor even to beat Harry Potter. The only thing that was worthwhile was the result of winning: Lucius' favor. Whenever his father saw him fall, Lucius would shake his head and tell Draco to get back on his broom. And Lucius would wonder why he had been cursed with such an incompetent boy for a son, and he would make sure that Draco knew exactly what he thought.
The only option, therefore, was not to fall.
As he scrubbed his scarred back, Draco began to turn his thoughts around. It was not right for him to think such things about his father: Lucius was only trying to make sure that his son lived up to the high standards of a pureblood wizard, not to mention the names of Slytherin and Malfoy. Even the Dark Mark was an emblem of purity, and Draco was being ungrateful by fearing it so.
Codswallop. Not even Draco really believed what he was thinking - what he was saying out loud by now - but he would die a traitor before anyone knew that.
He turned off the water and stepped out. He reached out for his wand: "Seco," he mumbled, and was instantly dried. He pulled on his pajamas, the ones with the Slytherin coat of arms embroidered on it, and went into the bedroom. The thugs were playing wizard chess, and poorly, too, and Draco climbed into bed with his favorite book, Sonnets of a Sorcerer, setting the bookmark of pressed flowers aside on his pillow. It was written by a mudblood, but on the whole it was remarkably decent. He usually kept it under an invisibility charm, just in case someone should find their way into his room.
The nights are long without you, most beloved, And wither I away in the cold light Of dying wand and ancient spell above. The evening's morning waits, a teasing blight, That kills me with its broken promises And whispered words of adoration dear .
Some he had read so often that they were more a part of him than of the book, but this one he usually avoided. He knew more than a few girls who read those lines most feelingly, imagining him to be that beloved. Oh, he'd seen the way the other Slytherins looked at him, even girls from other houses; the way Pansy looked when he'd catch her eye - even that very night at dinner, when he'd asked her about Ophelia.
She offered to castrate me, he thought to himself. I bet she'd like more than that. He smiled, looking out his window at the darkening night. If she'll give it away to Snape, who can guess who else is on her list.
Crabbe and Goyle had finished their game and were getting into bed. Tiresome lot, really.
"Did you see the look on Briarwood's face when I stared her down?" Draco asked. One of them grunted by way of response. "She wanted me."
And perhaps someday, he'd give it to her.
Draco, captain of the Slytherin team, had painstakingly copied the latest flight patterns of the Chudley Cannons and taught them to his teammates. It had not been an easy task, since they were chosen based on size rather than skill, but all his effort was worth it. If they didn't win this weekend's game, they would not get to move on to play Gryffindor the week after. And nothing was more important than beating Gryffindor.
He worked his teammates until he was sore, until his broom was an instrument of torture, and let them go only when Snape came out to remove the pitch lighting spell. Had he thought he'd be able to find the snitch in the night, he would have had them stay even then. Panting, and with a sheen of sweat on his face, Draco found his way to his room. He ignored his goons, stripped, and hopped in the shower.
The warm water soothed his sore muscles and ran brown with mud and sweat. HeHeHIt was easy to forget why he went to such lengths. It was not to beat Gryffindor per se, nor even to beat Harry Potter. The only thing that was worthwhile was the result of winning: Lucius' favor. Whenever his father saw him fall, Lucius would shake his head and tell Draco to get back on his broom. And Lucius would wonder why he had been cursed with such an incompetent boy for a son, and he would make sure that Draco knew exactly what he thought.
The only option, therefore, was not to fall.
As he scrubbed his scarred back, Draco began to turn his thoughts around. It was not right for him to think such things about his father: Lucius was only trying to make sure that his son lived up to the high standards of a pureblood wizard, not to mention the names of Slytherin and Malfoy. Even the Dark Mark was an emblem of purity, and Draco was being ungrateful by fearing it so.
Codswallop. Not even Draco really believed what he was thinking - what he was saying out loud by now - but he would die a traitor before anyone knew that.
He turned off the water and stepped out. He reached out for his wand: "Seco," he mumbled, and was instantly dried. He pulled on his pajamas, the ones with the Slytherin coat of arms embroidered on it, and went into the bedroom. The thugs were playing wizard chess, and poorly, too, and Draco climbed into bed with his favorite book, Sonnets of a Sorcerer, setting the bookmark of pressed flowers aside on his pillow. It was written by a mudblood, but on the whole it was remarkably decent. He usually kept it under an invisibility charm, just in case someone should find their way into his room.
The nights are long without you, most beloved, And wither I away in the cold light Of dying wand and ancient spell above. The evening's morning waits, a teasing blight, That kills me with its broken promises And whispered words of adoration dear .
Some he had read so often that they were more a part of him than of the book, but this one he usually avoided. He knew more than a few girls who read those lines most feelingly, imagining him to be that beloved. Oh, he'd seen the way the other Slytherins looked at him, even girls from other houses; the way Pansy looked when he'd catch her eye - even that very night at dinner, when he'd asked her about Ophelia.
She offered to castrate me, he thought to himself. I bet she'd like more than that. He smiled, looking out his window at the darkening night. If she'll give it away to Snape, who can guess who else is on her list.
Crabbe and Goyle had finished their game and were getting into bed. Tiresome lot, really.
"Did you see the look on Briarwood's face when I stared her down?" Draco asked. One of them grunted by way of response. "She wanted me."
And perhaps someday, he'd give it to her.