Ah, the prefect's bathroom on a cold winter's night! The raging bubbles, the pool-sized bath, oh, 'tis heaven on earth!
One student in this wonderful school of Hogwarts does, however, disagree. His name is Draco Narcissus Malfoy, Slytherin prefect.
He is currently sulking. His pride has been much damaged by the events of the day, and he has been forced to retreat into the sweet smelling mists of this here prefect's bathroom.
He sits at one end of the bath, bubbles up to his chin. His arms, scarcely visible, are crossed. He is pouting, his sharp grey eyes glaring at some indeterminable point in space. His silver blond hair is damp and mussed; bubbles cling to the ends.
Now, as I said, Draco is sulking. He has suffered a horrid defeat, at the hands of his worst enemies no less. His pale, smooth skin is marred with cuts and bruises. He desperately wants to kick something. He'd tried earlier, on Boris the Bewildered, but all he'd gained for his troubles was another bruise.
To make all these matters worse, the door was opening.
Draco ducked under the water instantly, and a moment later was peering up like a crocodile. Or maybe an alligator. Much as he liked to think otherwise, Draco wasn't dangerous enough to be a crocodile.
Anyway, whom should Draco see as he peered up from under the bubbles? Why, only his mortal enemy, Ronald Weasley!
Draco almost choked on a rather large pink bubble.
"That's funny," Ron said, scratching is freckled head. "Why's the tub full?"
Draco recovered in a moment, ducking back to the bath's end.
"Because, Weasley," he drawled, "there's somebody in it."
Ron went pink, from the tips of his ears to his cute little toesis. Not that Draco could see his toes - quite thankfully, Ron hadn't started to undress. While this was a great relief to Draco, it did unnerve him that he was naked, and Ron was not.
"Malfoy," Ron stammered. Draco raised an elegant eyebrow. This was a move he often practiced, alone in his dormroom. It had proved quite effective.
Ron swore, and ran. Draco sank back into the bubbles with a sigh. Now, where was he? Ah, yes, the shame of defeat...
He had an excuse all prepared: there were two of them, only one of him. But Draco knew well enough that this was not good enough. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys were not permitted to lose.
Stupid Goyle. Stupid Crabbe. An evil overlord needed mindless minions, of course. But he didn't need mindless minions who would abandon their master at the drop of a cake crumb.
Draco sank further into the bubbles, his nose only barely peaking out. Of course, it did that anyway; it was a rather small nose. But Draco was a rather small person, so, proportionately, it all worked out fine. Of course, Draco liked to think that a small body in no way meant a small mind. This was an arguable point - Ron would've commented that he made up for his small stature in the size of his ego.
If Mr Weasley had been less of a Gryffindor, he would've made some snide comment about some areas being smaller than others, sorry ladies. Mr Weasley would have, however, no basis for this argument, and anyway, if words such as those had passed through Draco's ears, well, Ron would've been beaten till his body was as red as his hair. Redder.
Draco's mind was no longer on how small his body was, more on how much it hurt. Last time he ever had a snowball fight. Particularly against Weasley - honestly, he thought, the boy was as violent as a muggle. Potter wasn't so bad in the violence department, but everything else about the Boy Who Lived irked Draco. Not for the first time, Draco wondered what his life would be like is Harry had taken his hand all those years ago.
He did not keep the thought long though, forcefully driving it away by dunking his head in the water. Tepid water - funny, he'd thought there were spells to keep the heat in.
Draco turned to pull himself out of the bathtub, shaking himself as he stood up.
He grabbed a towel (silver with green trim, plush) and dried himself quickly. He always felt exposed in this between time, when he was clothed neither in water, nor in robes. He supposed he was not alone in this sentiment - who knew who could come walking it?
Draco thought of Ron, and shuddered. He felt sorely tempted to dunk his heat in the water again. But no - he'd just dried that wonderful silver blond hair of his. It would not do to repeat the exercise.
Draco dressed quickly, and left the bathroom straight after. He cast a disdainful look on Weasley as he left; the boy was quivering beside the door, face still flushed red. Draco almost felt sorry for him - he was obviously traumatised.
Draco half smiled at the thought, and almost laughed when Weasley rushed past him into the bathroom. He did laugh when the boy slammed the door behind him.
Ah, Draco Malfoy may have lost a snow fight, but he'd certainly won a fight of another kind.
Father, he thought, would be pleased.
One student in this wonderful school of Hogwarts does, however, disagree. His name is Draco Narcissus Malfoy, Slytherin prefect.
He is currently sulking. His pride has been much damaged by the events of the day, and he has been forced to retreat into the sweet smelling mists of this here prefect's bathroom.
He sits at one end of the bath, bubbles up to his chin. His arms, scarcely visible, are crossed. He is pouting, his sharp grey eyes glaring at some indeterminable point in space. His silver blond hair is damp and mussed; bubbles cling to the ends.
Now, as I said, Draco is sulking. He has suffered a horrid defeat, at the hands of his worst enemies no less. His pale, smooth skin is marred with cuts and bruises. He desperately wants to kick something. He'd tried earlier, on Boris the Bewildered, but all he'd gained for his troubles was another bruise.
To make all these matters worse, the door was opening.
Draco ducked under the water instantly, and a moment later was peering up like a crocodile. Or maybe an alligator. Much as he liked to think otherwise, Draco wasn't dangerous enough to be a crocodile.
Anyway, whom should Draco see as he peered up from under the bubbles? Why, only his mortal enemy, Ronald Weasley!
Draco almost choked on a rather large pink bubble.
"That's funny," Ron said, scratching is freckled head. "Why's the tub full?"
Draco recovered in a moment, ducking back to the bath's end.
"Because, Weasley," he drawled, "there's somebody in it."
Ron went pink, from the tips of his ears to his cute little toesis. Not that Draco could see his toes - quite thankfully, Ron hadn't started to undress. While this was a great relief to Draco, it did unnerve him that he was naked, and Ron was not.
"Malfoy," Ron stammered. Draco raised an elegant eyebrow. This was a move he often practiced, alone in his dormroom. It had proved quite effective.
Ron swore, and ran. Draco sank back into the bubbles with a sigh. Now, where was he? Ah, yes, the shame of defeat...
He had an excuse all prepared: there were two of them, only one of him. But Draco knew well enough that this was not good enough. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys were not permitted to lose.
Stupid Goyle. Stupid Crabbe. An evil overlord needed mindless minions, of course. But he didn't need mindless minions who would abandon their master at the drop of a cake crumb.
Draco sank further into the bubbles, his nose only barely peaking out. Of course, it did that anyway; it was a rather small nose. But Draco was a rather small person, so, proportionately, it all worked out fine. Of course, Draco liked to think that a small body in no way meant a small mind. This was an arguable point - Ron would've commented that he made up for his small stature in the size of his ego.
If Mr Weasley had been less of a Gryffindor, he would've made some snide comment about some areas being smaller than others, sorry ladies. Mr Weasley would have, however, no basis for this argument, and anyway, if words such as those had passed through Draco's ears, well, Ron would've been beaten till his body was as red as his hair. Redder.
Draco's mind was no longer on how small his body was, more on how much it hurt. Last time he ever had a snowball fight. Particularly against Weasley - honestly, he thought, the boy was as violent as a muggle. Potter wasn't so bad in the violence department, but everything else about the Boy Who Lived irked Draco. Not for the first time, Draco wondered what his life would be like is Harry had taken his hand all those years ago.
He did not keep the thought long though, forcefully driving it away by dunking his head in the water. Tepid water - funny, he'd thought there were spells to keep the heat in.
Draco turned to pull himself out of the bathtub, shaking himself as he stood up.
He grabbed a towel (silver with green trim, plush) and dried himself quickly. He always felt exposed in this between time, when he was clothed neither in water, nor in robes. He supposed he was not alone in this sentiment - who knew who could come walking it?
Draco thought of Ron, and shuddered. He felt sorely tempted to dunk his heat in the water again. But no - he'd just dried that wonderful silver blond hair of his. It would not do to repeat the exercise.
Draco dressed quickly, and left the bathroom straight after. He cast a disdainful look on Weasley as he left; the boy was quivering beside the door, face still flushed red. Draco almost felt sorry for him - he was obviously traumatised.
Draco half smiled at the thought, and almost laughed when Weasley rushed past him into the bathroom. He did laugh when the boy slammed the door behind him.
Ah, Draco Malfoy may have lost a snow fight, but he'd certainly won a fight of another kind.
Father, he thought, would be pleased.