TO DRACO'S DELIGHT

A rewrite of a scene in Chapter Six of HBP: Draco's Detour. RonxDraco implied.

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

Dedicated to Rowling, and written in spite of you terrible writing style and inconsistent character behavior, the nonviable excuses of a woman with preggers, the lack of the proper knowledge of knowing any better than to write while suffering from preggers, hiring incompetent publishers and editors, and making me turn my back on the Harry Potter story since the debut of your last book.

Thanks to my only beta, my brother.

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Harry Potter had no idea what hit him. The words had been barely out of that fowl, prickish mouth of his when the fist had collided directly into his jaw.

And Draco would have relished in that fact - laughed hysterically until he could no longer breath. Maybe he'd think about doing so later, when reflecting on in this day's events, but for the moment he was far too preoccupied looking first: indignant at Potter's previous insult to his mother, father, and family honour; second: stunned, as he stared at the angered face of who he considered his only, if greatest, mistake.

Ron Weasley was pulling his fist back slowly, apparently as startled by his own outburst as the rest of them. Yet he still looked quite stingy, never bothering to offer Potter a hand as the git made a spectacular show of flying into one of the surrounding racks of Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

And bloody hell, was the look on Potter's face priceless. The Mud-blood's as well. Seriously, who would have thought the Weasel had it in him to punch the Boy Who Lived - the Great Hero he had played sidekick to for the last five years - right in the face? For insulting his school rival, no less, which really wasn't that rare an event, now, was it?

Draco highly doubted, then, Ron had told them anything about the night five months ago, when Draco had found said Weasel fiercely irresistible, eight nights in a row. How such a thing had occurred was completely beyond him now - today, he looked ugly as sin. His face was blotched with the flash of temper, his eyes dark and uncertain beneath those short, pale lashes. He frowned, large lips tugging downward at the corners, shaking his head softly. His dirty, lazily curling and unsightly-colored hair shifted reluctantly about his ears.

The Weasel turned, knocking his shoulder gently into the Mud-blood's, who had been moving to Potter's aid. "Let's go," he said in a low, rather weak voice, walking out the door. As soon as she had pulled Potter up, it wasn't but a quick glance between the two of them before she was following the taller of the gits.

Draco smirked at the-Boy-Who-Looked-As-If-He-Was-Dying-Of-Embarrassment, who was still adjusting those strewn magnifying glasses off his. It was all swings and roundabouts; Draco may have made a git of himself tripping on his robes as he had, but it was nothing to being sucker-punched by his best mate and abandoned by any and all trusted support. Potter hadn't a clue what to do with himself, and the inflamed arrogance that he had flaunted moments before shriveled up quicker than a first year accidentally consuming Snape's best Shrinking Solution. Potter stared, glanced to the door, then back again. A huff, and he was off in the most unGryffindor-like retreat that Draco has ever seen, and certainly one that would cherish for ages to come.

He glanced to his mother, who was staring after the door, caught her eye and cocked a brow, smirk growing deeper. She relaxed and shifted her shoulders, throwing a decisive scowl back to the door before turning her focus back to her son's robe fitting.

No matter, they had decided. Draco straightened himself as he stood back on the pedestal, robes draping and expression settled. He looked down to the shell-shocked Madame Malkin the same way he looked down on the house elves at home. "Continue," he demanded, as if nothing at all had happened.