As funny as it was to tease him, Draco still feels unnerved by Blaise's dream. He's not worried about the boy's feeling or anything, but he is concerned about one thing: that description. Somehow, some way, Blaise saw him. The actual him. Thriller, and Draco is unsure of how. Never has a word been uttered about his past life, nor has he given any hints, discussed it in any way, nor done anything to connect this life and the former. Outside of his own memories and his…essence, there's nothing. The young boy's face screws up in heavy contemplation, the world around him essentially nonexistent…at least until a name catches his attention.

"-Weasley!" Of course he only catches the tail end of it, and surprisingly, it is a young girl, one with red hair and the signature Weasley freckles who takes center stage, sits under the hat, and is sorted into Gryffindor. He frowns for a moment, before remembering exactly where he saw her before: Diagon Alley, at the book store…Flourish and Blotts, just a bit after he and father took a trip to a different store that specialized in dark magic. She was the girl with some fire in her, with a backbone unmatched by her cowardly brother, and even by Potter himself. He liked her then, and his feelings remain despite her being sorted into the wrong house. It's a shame though, if she were in Slytherin…Draco Malfoy's thoughts trail off as he continues to follow the Weasley girl with his eyes. Blaise, full of surprises lately, and an apparently adamantine fortified backbone, notices his gaze and immediately he is disapproving.

"Draco, no." He almost scolds, causing the Malfoy heir to smile widely in amusement.

"Draco, yes." Blaise looks back at the girl briefly, and turns back to his best mate.

"Mate…she's too young. You can't." He almost pleads with the platinum-blond boy, who simply waves him off.

"Don't worry Blaise, I won't touch her until she's of age." Maybe a year before. He receives a look of cross disbelief.

"Somehow I doubt that." The darker boy replies with a dry tone, causing Draco to scoff.

"Since when have I not been a man of my word?" He challenges his oldest and closest friend, almost daring him to think of a time. Blaise, to his credit, really takes a moment to ponder it, narrowing his eyes as he racks his brain for the answer.

"Point." Is all he says, and that's enough for Draco's grin to return and morph into a smirk.

"Exactly. The Weaselette shall be mine, but only in due time." The Slytherin king licks his lips in anticipation.

"Weaselette?" Blaise questions with a raised eyebrow. Draco shrugs.

"I figured it was better than She-Weasel." He explains. Blaise nods in affirmation.

"I mean, yes, it is, it's substantially better, because that only works if you call the other Weasleys 'Weasel', which you don't." Blaise explains, causing Draco to, again, shrug. "Then again, Weaselette works on the same merit, in that it doesn't work at all. Because you don't call them Weasel." Draco sighs at that one.

"Then what should I call her, mate? Red? Freckles? Queen of the Burrow?" It's Blaise's turn to shrug.

"Maybe her name." He suggests innocently, and Draco frowns in a huff. Calling her by her name? It's…fine he guesses.

"Fine then. Ginny Weasley will be mine. Eventually." Blaise can only shake his head, feeling that somehow his mate has missed the point entirely.

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When it came to this particular subject, Draco has been patient, almost too patient, if Blaise's musings are to be believed, and part of the reason is that…he's not quite sure he wants to bother. Sports have never been his thing, even if he is good at them, it's always been video games, comics, and smoking. But now the fated day has arrived, the first day for Quidditch, and a part of Draco is far more excited than he expected to be. Is it the last wisps of Draco Malfoy inside of him, that hasn't been engulfed by the demon, Thriller? Is it simply butterflies of nervousness from doing something new? Draco's not sure. What he is sure of, is his spot on the team. In part it is due to his father, who went out of his way to buy everyone on the team the newest and fastest brooms, but also it is because of his abilities, because of the knowledge that he can dominate in any role he so chooses. Oh, and of course, he is still the King of Slytherin, with a diamond solid base of power. That also helps. Speaking of such, he should address his subjects.

"So, tell me again what the positions are." He demands from their team captain…Flint is it? The older boy shakily goes down the list, describing each position and their responsibilities in detail, and soon enough, something catches Draco's ear, causing him to raise a hand, signaling for the boy to cease.

"Stop. Stop." The older boy gulps, unsure of why he has incurred the wrath of the 'Little Demon' as they call him, but hoping his punishment won't be too severe. "So a Beater is allowed to hurt people by swinging a bat and hitting these…Bludgers at them?" The younger boy questions, and instantly the team captain lets out a breath he was unconsciously holding. Praise Merlin. He's only thinking about hurting other people.

"Yes, um…it's perfectly legal to hit them with Bludgers. You can even knock them off their broom, or break a limb." He says with less confidence than he should. He's pretty sure it's looked down upon to excessively injure someone but…better them than him.

"Say less." The 'Little Demon' replies with a smirk. "I know exactly what position I want." Flint silently prays for his opposition, hoping that the boy isn't somehow as gifted physically as he is magically, because…this is a request he cannot refuse, and if Malfoy is even one-tenth as terrifying as he is with a wand then, St. Mungos might receive a few too many patients. And some of them permanent.

The first practice comes quickly, and it is scheduled right when Gryffindor's is. Draco cannot help but to roll his eyes at how juvenile it all is, but at the same time, a smile finds its way onto his face, at the thought of conflict. And so, they roll up on the Gryffindors, Snape's note in hand, and let them know exactly what's going on. Smug remarks are exchanged, and there's some hostility between the two houses, but Draco isn't paying much attention, instead yawning and wondering when he could next hurt somebody. He vaguely hears someone mention himself and the brooms his father bought, and then there is Granger, speaking on him as if he's some talentless Nepo baby.

"-no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent." Immediately Draco narrows his eyes, not liking her defiance nor her smug tone. Immediately she starts choking, clutching at her throat, as an invisible force seems to restrict her breathing. It's then that he steps forward with a sinister grin on his face.

"I'm sorry, Granger," He begins, using a hand to cup his ear, "I can't seem to make out what you're saying." The muggleborn girl then collapses to her knees and Draco follows her down, crouching down, a hand still cupped to his ear. "Come on! Speak more clearly!" And of course she can't, the breath steadily leaving her body, as she claws up at him, eyes pleading with him to let her go, pleading with everyone, with anyone to help her. Her vision begins to blacken, as she starts to lose consciousness, when suddenly a knight in shining armor steps forth in her defense.

"Let her go, Malfoy!" The youngest of the Weasley males yells in desperation, his face red in anger as he sends a spell Draco's way. It's effortlessly blocked of course, but it does get Draco's attention. Internally he's a bit perturbed, that someone who he already so thoroughly broke (or so he thought), could be so defiant. Maybe he needs another lesson…

"Or what, Weasel?" The sound of a palm smacking a forehead can be heard in the distance, and while Draco knows exactly who it is, he doesn't bother to address them at the moment. Another spell is sent his way, and again it is trivially blocked. The young weasel looks unsure of the answer, much like the idiot he is, acting only on instinct and anger. "Well? I don't have all day!" He then looks down at the now-pale muggleborn girl. "Or rather, she doesn't." He says with a shrug. 'I'm fine either way." A barrage of spells come his way, and Draco is interested to see what Weasley has. A stunning spell, a blasting spell, a fire spell, and ooh! This one is interesting! "Trying to make me eat slugs, Weaselbee?" Again, a palm smacks a forehead in the distance. "Let's see how you like the taste of your own medicine." With some obvious modifications are the unspoken, unneeded words, given the wide, maniacal grin that adorns his face.

"What—?" Weasley doesn't get to respond, as he's hit by a spell and doubles over from the strange feeling in his chest.

"I'll spare your girlfriend for now, Weasley, but you won't get off so easy." The 'Little Demon' responds with a sneer.

"What did you do to our brother?"

"Yeah what did you do?" The two Weasley twins step to the front, wands out with a look of aggression. Draco ignores them as a non-threat, soon-to-be-conquered subjects that would be disciplined at another time. For now the focus is their brother, who Draco is delighted to see is in pain both physical and psychological. At that moment, a shriek rings out, permeating the Quidditch field, as a nearly fist-sized spider crawls out of Ronald Weasley's mouth and onto the grass. The distracted Weasley twins lower their wands for a moment and look on aghast (yet with appreciation) as their brother is forced to vomit the very thing he feared most.

"Bloody hell." Comes the words from the Slytherin Captain surprisingly, words that sum up almost everyone's thoughts. It is…a horrifying scene to watch, as the young Weasley has yet another spider crawl out of his mouth, and passes out from the fear. Unfortunately, this only causes said spider to park itself, and quickly form a web, using the edges of his mouth as its base. As if rooted to the floor in shock, no one moves a muscle to help, even when the Weasley boy comes to, accidentally swallows both the web and the spider, and breaks down crying with yet another shriek. By the time anyone manages to break from their stupor and go to help, carrying the second-year off the field, he's stuck in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, as spiders periodically crawl out of his gullet. Draco is, of course, all smiles.