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Chapter 17: Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus
Draco had woken up feeling as though a whole quidditch league had been bombarding him with bludgers. Luckily, he always kept his own particular mix of potions handy for the morning after a Blaise party: a three-vial concoction of hangover remedy, pepper-up potion, and good strongly flavored coffee. He figured it had done the equivalent of saving his life several times now, given his usual zombie-esque post-party hangover state.
He'd left Blaise's party at ten on Sunday morning after a meager night of sleep hounded by doubt and anger. Now, as his watch read just after 11:15, he was scooting eggs around on his plate as he sat for Sunday brunch in the Great Hall. His post-party potion solution had done nothing to lighten his mood.
….What if she was right? What if the insolent ginger was actually right about him? Was he entitled?
Hurriedly, he mentally countered that his position did entitle him to certain things – inheriting the Malfoy estate, for instance, or being invited to particular balls and weddings, or being betrothed—
Oh. Was that what she meant, when she called him entitled? That he thought he deserved a woman who-
Draco was scowling, brow furrowed heavily. He'd thought that hangover remedy had cleared his mind, so why did he have such a headache? He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his palm, his elbow on the Slytherin table as his right hand played idly with his fork. He let out a heavy sigh.
He was a Malfoy. Malfoys deserved the best.
Then again, did he ever feel anyone deserved his attention? Beyond the politeness afforded by a title, did he ever really think he owed someone his friendship or trust? That sort of thing was earned, wasn't it?
But girls… they were girls! They were lucky to get attention from him!
Oh Merlin, Draco, are you really that much of an ass?
He groaned, unsure what to think right now.
"I thought you never got hangovers anymore? What happened, forgot to brew your potions before the party?" Blaise was far too chipper for someone recovering from an incredibly late night rager.
Draco shook his head, looking more irritated than pained. "As if I brew my own—" Damn, was that what she meant, too? He slammed his fork down on the table. It was like she wouldn't get out of his head! She had made herself a nice little roost there and was pecking at his every thought! "Fuck!" He slapped his open palms down on the table and immediately regretted it, hissing in pain and clenching his stinging hands into fists.
"Mr. Malfoy!" Professor McGonagall - always passing at the most inopportune time, the stuck up cunt – looked highly offended as she called him out, "Ten points from Slytherin!"
"Oh fuck you, woman," Draco mumbled under his breath, darkly, folding his head under his arms as Blaise snickered with glee.
"I'm fairly sure she's not the one you want to fuck," the black-haired boy murmured, smoothly, poking lightly at the back of his friend's platinum blond head.
Draco grumpily swatted at the boy's hand. "Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus, you git."
Blaise raised an eyebrow at the Latin, but remained frustratingly bright. "I don't think I follow."
The blond raised his icy gaze and glared with a look that felt as though it might burn off his friend's face. No such luck, however. Finally, when Blaise seemed none the worse for wear after a solid fifteen seconds of glaring, Draco huffed, waving off the comment – as though Blaise actually cared what he meant at all. "What's got you in such a good mood?" He asked, warily, turning his attention to torturing his potatoes.
Blaise shrugged. "Nothing, really."
Draco leveled a cold grey stare at the boy. He'd never heard such an unbelievable lie. Especially from Blaise; his lies were frequent, but believable. "As bright and charming as you usually are," he droned, wryly, "I have a hard time believing you'd be this irritatingly chipper over nothing."
The black-haired boy smirked. "Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over," he corrected himself, cockily. "Just a little arrangement I've made with our friend Berrow."
Berrow? Darius Berrow, the fifth year prefect? What did he have to do with-
Draco glanced around, but couldn't spot the smarmy bugger anywhere. He turned narrowed eyes to Blaise. "What sort of 'arrangement?'" He questioned, suspiciously.
Blaise shrugged. "Like I said: nothing to worry your pretty little head over." He pushed Draco's plate toward the blond, "Eat up, mate."
Ginny was furious.
She'd woken happily, thanks to the hangover remedy that had been placed next to her guest bed by some considerate house elf, and had even enjoyed the trip back to the castle from Hogsmeade, despite having to return wearing the same outfit she'd worn the night before. But she'd barely made it back inside the castle before some obnoxious prick of a Slytherin prefect had found it appropriate to announce that she smelled of liquor and had given her a detention!
Fucking Slytherins.
When she'd argued that she most certainly did not, he'd warned her that he didn't want to argue with her, and threatened a second detention on top of the first if she didn't go 'clean herself up' that instant.
Only once she was out of his sight did she send the Bat Bogey hex around the corner at him. The uppity git, threatening her! And him, a year younger than her, thinking he could just go tossing out detentions left and right on the Sunday of Halloween weekend? …Smarmy bugger. Her only real solace was the hope that someone decent would be in charge of this weekend's detention.
