When Draco had been younger, he'd liked to walk around the dungeons of the castle, thinking the dim light had made him look more sinister. Over time, sadly, he'd had to accept that people didn't shiver because they saw him, but because no one in the history of Hogwarts had bothered putting in a decent heating system under the castle. It was cold and damp and dark, and not at all pleasant. Given the choice, he would have rather lived in the Hufflepuff dormitories, which he had heard were all glass and growing things and light and, most importantly, warmth. Not that he wanted to be a Hufflepuff, mind you, it was just that every once in a while he considered kicking them all out and taking over their dormitories.
Not that he would ever tell anyone this. He worked hard to maintain the illusion that he liked the cold, that he didn't even notice it. There was just something slightly more intimidating about someone who wasn't susceptible to something as inglorious as cold toes in winter. But that was what magic was for, not that it ever occurred to anyone else. For the right price, he could have had swim trunks charmed to keep him warm in the deepest of winter with no one the wiser. Not that he ever would - how foolish would that have looked? But it could be done. So while Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini shivered under their thick quilts, he passed each night in incomparable comfort between his silk sheets.
"Merlin, it's cold down here," the girl next to him muttered.
He sneered at her. "Remind me again why you're down here, Mudblood."
"It was this or kiss you in public, Ferret," she snapped.
He glowered at her, but muttered the password that let them into the Slytherin common room. "Stay out of the way," he growled as he stormed past her to throw himself into a chair by the fire, where Crabbe and Goyle waited like the good dogs they were. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Mudblood settle herself in a corner and start on her homework.
"Malfoy, why is the Mudblood in here?" Zabini drawled. No one could drawl quite like Zabini, Draco thought. It wasn't that he was menacing, but rather that he sounded like he had a twelve inch wand stuck up his ass when he did it. It was almost comical, and he might have made fun of him had Zabini not had a very well developed sense of revenge.
"To piss of Potty."
"You could do it just as well in public, Malfoy. All you have to do is touch her and the Weasel is practically apoplectic."
"But I happen to like these robes," Draco drawled in return. "And it's so hard to get the filth of Mudblood out of silk." Over in her corner, he could see the Mudblood color. Good: she had asked for this.
He didn't even look over when, some time later, Pansy snatched the Mudblood's homework away and stole all her answers. No, the plan was definitely not going the way the Mudblood had thought it would. She had obviously thought that Weasel would come after him in a fit of jealous rage and she'd somehow get her happily ever after. That just showed what Gryffindor's knew about scheming. He'd known from the first that it was galleons to knuts that Weasel would be so angry he'd just stop talking to the Mudblood, leaving poor, golden-hearted Potty stuck in the middle. He didn't even have to do anything but force himself to smile at the Mudblood once in a while, and the Golden Trio tormented themselves. They'd only been back a week, and already the Mudblood had begged him twice to end it. He smirked to himself as he stared into the fire. It would be a long time before the Mudblood got herself out of this one.