To Doubt Me
Classes seemed to drag by until lunch: he felt like he'd been waiting for weeks to be back here at school, out of the Malfoy Mansion: here there was quidditch, here classes, here freedom. Lucius had lectured him over and over on the importance of taking over the "ancestral" role, until his ears ached from hearing those same words over and over every day. He had never been so anxious to get back to Hogwarts and trade his father's constant, watchful eye for the constant, watchful eye of Dumbledore.
The goons dragged behind him like a weight now, and he could feel his shoulders slump beneath it. He had to force himself into a comfortable, predatory strut as he entered the great hall, his eyes narrow and a condescending look on his face. He and the thugs took their usual places at the Slytherin table. He studied the head table while he waited for Dumbledore to finish his "welcome back" speech: Snape gave him an approving nod as his eyes took in the teachers.
When Flitwick began sipping on his characteristic cherry syrup and soda, Draco was reminded of how hungry he was. He turned his eyes back to the feast set before them, the roast duck with vegetables, and the goblets brimming with pumpkin juice and bottles of elderflower wine for after the meal. There was another thought, though, that pulled his concentration away and to the Ravenclaw table.
Search though he did, there was no sable head there. He waited for a moment, glancing up and down the table, before returning to his plate. After all, though the platters refilled themselves, sitting so near Crabbe and Goyle made him nervous that they might some day be exhausted.
After classes, he dragged the goons to the library. They looked apprehensive, as if they were about to cross into some foreign desert from which there was no certain return.
Draco crept quietly through the tiers, winding around the bookcases and peering at every witch or wizard at the tables. One girl looked up to watch him pass: he sneered roughly at her, and she dropped her eyes back to her book with haste. The thugs were silent, seemingly awed by everything around them. He stopped in the spells section to run a finger down the spine of one of her favorite books, a translation of a very old one in his library, imagining for an instant that it shivered beneath his touch.
"What?" snapped a voice he recognized, breaking his reverie. He rose up on tiptoe and squinted over the tops of the books: Weasley, Granger, and Potter. "I can't believe you still talk to her."
"So she doesn't like you," Granger replied off-handedly. "Can you blame her?"
"Hermione," Potter chided gently.
"Anyway, that's what she said."
"Malfoy?" Weasley sputtered, and for a second Draco was sure they'd seen him. He dropped down on his heels and pretended to browse, slapping Crabbe's hand away from eating a book called Moste Potente Potions. "Has a girlfriend."
"That's what she said the last time I saw her, but of course that was last term."
While Weasley was muttering words like 'disgusting' and 'ridiculous,' Potter spoke: "Hermione, were those her exact words?"
"Yes," she replied quickly. "I think so."
"Malfoy won't last a minute once this war gets started," Potter offered Weasley, trying to make it sound appealing. "Don't get so worked up over it."
"It's true: anyone so hateful can't last, right, Harry? Hmph. Got a girlfriend before you, though, Ron." Draco peered over the books again just in time to see her shoot the redhead a meaningful glare.
Swishing violently around the corner, grateful that his backup followed, Draco shot her a meaningful look of his own. Granger might have been a decent witch, but sub-par wizards had no business gossiping about him and Ophelia.
Speaking of whom . Draco ran his fingers along his wand within his robes as he stormed through the corridors. It had been a fine affair, sure enough, but now - was it over?
Classes seemed to drag by until lunch: he felt like he'd been waiting for weeks to be back here at school, out of the Malfoy Mansion: here there was quidditch, here classes, here freedom. Lucius had lectured him over and over on the importance of taking over the "ancestral" role, until his ears ached from hearing those same words over and over every day. He had never been so anxious to get back to Hogwarts and trade his father's constant, watchful eye for the constant, watchful eye of Dumbledore.
The goons dragged behind him like a weight now, and he could feel his shoulders slump beneath it. He had to force himself into a comfortable, predatory strut as he entered the great hall, his eyes narrow and a condescending look on his face. He and the thugs took their usual places at the Slytherin table. He studied the head table while he waited for Dumbledore to finish his "welcome back" speech: Snape gave him an approving nod as his eyes took in the teachers.
When Flitwick began sipping on his characteristic cherry syrup and soda, Draco was reminded of how hungry he was. He turned his eyes back to the feast set before them, the roast duck with vegetables, and the goblets brimming with pumpkin juice and bottles of elderflower wine for after the meal. There was another thought, though, that pulled his concentration away and to the Ravenclaw table.
Search though he did, there was no sable head there. He waited for a moment, glancing up and down the table, before returning to his plate. After all, though the platters refilled themselves, sitting so near Crabbe and Goyle made him nervous that they might some day be exhausted.
After classes, he dragged the goons to the library. They looked apprehensive, as if they were about to cross into some foreign desert from which there was no certain return.
Draco crept quietly through the tiers, winding around the bookcases and peering at every witch or wizard at the tables. One girl looked up to watch him pass: he sneered roughly at her, and she dropped her eyes back to her book with haste. The thugs were silent, seemingly awed by everything around them. He stopped in the spells section to run a finger down the spine of one of her favorite books, a translation of a very old one in his library, imagining for an instant that it shivered beneath his touch.
"What?" snapped a voice he recognized, breaking his reverie. He rose up on tiptoe and squinted over the tops of the books: Weasley, Granger, and Potter. "I can't believe you still talk to her."
"So she doesn't like you," Granger replied off-handedly. "Can you blame her?"
"Hermione," Potter chided gently.
"Anyway, that's what she said."
"Malfoy?" Weasley sputtered, and for a second Draco was sure they'd seen him. He dropped down on his heels and pretended to browse, slapping Crabbe's hand away from eating a book called Moste Potente Potions. "Has a girlfriend."
"That's what she said the last time I saw her, but of course that was last term."
While Weasley was muttering words like 'disgusting' and 'ridiculous,' Potter spoke: "Hermione, were those her exact words?"
"Yes," she replied quickly. "I think so."
"Malfoy won't last a minute once this war gets started," Potter offered Weasley, trying to make it sound appealing. "Don't get so worked up over it."
"It's true: anyone so hateful can't last, right, Harry? Hmph. Got a girlfriend before you, though, Ron." Draco peered over the books again just in time to see her shoot the redhead a meaningful glare.
Swishing violently around the corner, grateful that his backup followed, Draco shot her a meaningful look of his own. Granger might have been a decent witch, but sub-par wizards had no business gossiping about him and Ophelia.
Speaking of whom . Draco ran his fingers along his wand within his robes as he stormed through the corridors. It had been a fine affair, sure enough, but now - was it over?