Or Wonder Why
After classes on Friday, Draco headed straight to his room in Slytherin tower to change for quidditch practice. There was a dusting of snow on the cloistered yards with more fluttering down from the swiftly darkening sky like a million shooting stars. It was growing dark earlier and earlier now as winter approached: soon there would be no quidditch without artificial light at all.
He pulled his cloak around him a bit tighter and plowed through the yard, snowflakes settling on his pale eyelashes. He blinked them away and nearly ran into a huge lumbering figure.
"Careful there, Malfoy," Hagrid said, his deep voice sounding like thunder as it rose from his massive chest. The monster was walking a monster of his own, a beast - whatever it was - every bit as hairy as he was. And he was talking to someone: Harry Potter.
"Do you really think so, Hagrid?" Harry asked, ignoring Draco and flashing one of his famously winning smiles, the kind that made students and professors alike swoon. Disgusting, really.
Draco rolled his eyes and started back on his way, the soft crunching of his shoes in the snow broken by a growl. Hagrid's . thing had turned to look at Draco, its teeth bared. Draco's mind raced through spells to find one that could help him now, immobilus the only one coming to mind.
He pulled his wand from his robes, but too slow! A spark cracked out in the dry winter air and the creature wimpered: Hagrid tucked his umbrella back into his coat.
"Ya didn't see nothing there, Malfoy," Hagrid informed him. Of all the nerve! To threaten my life and tell me it never happened!
"You just used magic, Hagrid. You don't have clearance for that kind of thing," Draco stated, reigning in his fear. He consciously forced a look of distaste back onto his face.
"Don't you say a word," Potter said, stepping around Hagrid to look Draco in the eye.
A Malfoy is not one to be taken lightly. His wand was still in hand, and Draco rolled it threateningly between his fingers. "Or what, Potter?"
Potter drew out his wand, but was simply not fast enough. "Expelliarmus," Draco muttered, sweeping his wand through the air, his cloak and robes fluttering behind the careful movements. Potter - that Muggle-loving Gryffindor, whose mere dumb luck had meant the downfall of his father's dark lord - watched in shock as his wand flew behind him, and was instantly, utterly, helpless.
"You didn't see anything, did you, Potter." Draco spun firmly around in the gentle snow, an all-out grin on his pallid face. Ophelia was right: Hagrid was a menace, and Potter a symbol of everything his father was working against.
As his cloak swept through the door to the corridor as he turned a sharp corner, he hesitated in one step: what did he care whom his father hated?
I hate him because you hate him, Draco: she was right on more than Hagrid, it seemed.
After classes on Friday, Draco headed straight to his room in Slytherin tower to change for quidditch practice. There was a dusting of snow on the cloistered yards with more fluttering down from the swiftly darkening sky like a million shooting stars. It was growing dark earlier and earlier now as winter approached: soon there would be no quidditch without artificial light at all.
He pulled his cloak around him a bit tighter and plowed through the yard, snowflakes settling on his pale eyelashes. He blinked them away and nearly ran into a huge lumbering figure.
"Careful there, Malfoy," Hagrid said, his deep voice sounding like thunder as it rose from his massive chest. The monster was walking a monster of his own, a beast - whatever it was - every bit as hairy as he was. And he was talking to someone: Harry Potter.
"Do you really think so, Hagrid?" Harry asked, ignoring Draco and flashing one of his famously winning smiles, the kind that made students and professors alike swoon. Disgusting, really.
Draco rolled his eyes and started back on his way, the soft crunching of his shoes in the snow broken by a growl. Hagrid's . thing had turned to look at Draco, its teeth bared. Draco's mind raced through spells to find one that could help him now, immobilus the only one coming to mind.
He pulled his wand from his robes, but too slow! A spark cracked out in the dry winter air and the creature wimpered: Hagrid tucked his umbrella back into his coat.
"Ya didn't see nothing there, Malfoy," Hagrid informed him. Of all the nerve! To threaten my life and tell me it never happened!
"You just used magic, Hagrid. You don't have clearance for that kind of thing," Draco stated, reigning in his fear. He consciously forced a look of distaste back onto his face.
"Don't you say a word," Potter said, stepping around Hagrid to look Draco in the eye.
A Malfoy is not one to be taken lightly. His wand was still in hand, and Draco rolled it threateningly between his fingers. "Or what, Potter?"
Potter drew out his wand, but was simply not fast enough. "Expelliarmus," Draco muttered, sweeping his wand through the air, his cloak and robes fluttering behind the careful movements. Potter - that Muggle-loving Gryffindor, whose mere dumb luck had meant the downfall of his father's dark lord - watched in shock as his wand flew behind him, and was instantly, utterly, helpless.
"You didn't see anything, did you, Potter." Draco spun firmly around in the gentle snow, an all-out grin on his pallid face. Ophelia was right: Hagrid was a menace, and Potter a symbol of everything his father was working against.
As his cloak swept through the door to the corridor as he turned a sharp corner, he hesitated in one step: what did he care whom his father hated?
I hate him because you hate him, Draco: she was right on more than Hagrid, it seemed.