Draco looked around his bed, trying to think up a poem to write. It was unholily early in the morning, but Draco knew he wasn't getting back to sleep. Something had slithered out of his subconscious, and he wasn't ready, willing, or most importantly, able to get back to sleep.
You have the golden rays of the sun about you,
and I a mere colorless crystal,
Until you came, and shone on me,
Splitting light into a thousand rainbow shards.
Without you, I am but clear glass.
Small, silent, unnoticeable - breakable still.
With you I spin, lighting the world in multihued light.
Let's paint this black-and-white world
All the possible colors of the rainbow
And as we paint, dream impossible dreams
Of hues this world will never know.
Draco was on time for sending his message off - through a convoluted series of people, each of which only knew the next person in line. It could unravel, but it would take having seven different Slytherins (two of which were obscenely wealthy) be persuaded to tell... a little secret. And that, it could be said, was that. Because Slytherins guarded their secrets, no matter how small - Snape was quite clear about how often puzzles were pieced together out of things less remarkable than a secret.
At breakfast, Draco listened to the Gryffindors essentially talk over and around Luna - until the mail came. Draco knew the very instant that Potter connected the - seriously, deliberately easy to read - dots. Weasel and Potty weren't at all subtle about it, hissing in each other's ears. Still, they hadn't been fool enough to actually talk with Hermione at least.
And that was good, because Draco wanted front row seats to these fireworks.
[a/n: Draco isn't exactly the dictionary definition of nice, no. Leave a review? After classes, he's going to see about listening in.]