"Say that again." Draco beckons his dark-skinned friend, calm but curious about his words. Blaise looks at his best mate with a skeptical expression.
"…The World Cup. Did you not—?" He now appears confused. Draco shakes his head.
"I haven't heard a word from father." He clarifies, looking deep in thought before shrugging. "He must have plans." He speaks as his look darkens and Blaise feels a chill crawl up his spine.
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Lucius Malfoy sits in his study, cup in hand as he occasionally sips his homemade concoction, courtesy of his wonderful wife (and her house elves) and reads the paper for any signs of…movement. His face is stone cold, even as his eyes dart back and forth across the paper, intensifying in their gaze as he almost feels like he's spotted something, only to be interrupted.
"Father." He glances up from his paper, startled to see his son standing in front of him, a certain expression adorning his face. Holding in a sigh, Lucius greets his only child.
"Draco." He maintains his glance, turning it more into a stare, eye contact, as something more important just came up. "Did you need something?" The youngest Malfoy seems to ponder the question, and that alone causes Lucius' heart to race, as Draco needing something is…
"Not exactly a need, Father." He levels his stare, halfway to a glare, onto the older man as his voice darkens a bit. "But I would like some answers." Lucius frowns at both the tone and the words.
"Answers?" He questions, eyebrow raised, maintaining his façade of cool. Draco returns a nod as he continues.
"Blaise has informed me about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup…" Lucius's eyebrow raises further.
"Did he now?" A shaky hand just barely guides the cup to his lips as he sips his potion and calms himself. A silence follows as his son's gaze seems to peer into his very essence.
"Father, I've never been much of a brat have I?" The Malfoy heir questions, avoiding the word 'spoiled' because in a way that's not as true. Lucius places the newspaper down, sets his mug on the desk, and removes his glasses slowly.
"No, I suppose you haven't Draco." The aforementioned son smiles in response.
"Right, so I won't beg or plead or even ask you to bring me…" Both Malfoy men meet eyes at that moment, cold grey with chaotic grey in a battle of emotions and mental power. Draco licks his lips, smirking a bit as the victor in their little contest, as he continues his words. "But I do have to ask why exactly you failed to mention such an event to me?" Lucius glances away for a moment, a consequence of being the loser of their exchange.
"Well Draco, I simply didn't think to." He says bluntly, causing his son to raise his eyebrows in inquiry. "You've never been much a fan of such games—" He continues his explanation, only to be cut off.
"Yes, I've only played every year at school and been personally responsible for two cups and an undefeated record." Draco interrupts sardonically, as Lucius smiles.
"I never said you didn't excel, Draco, but that's hardly noteworthy given who you are." With those words, a warm feeling permeates the younger Malfoy, leaving him unsure of what exactly he's feeling at the moment. He's…not used to whatever it is. Especially not from someone he calls Father.
"Very well then, make sure to enjoy yourself Father." Draco departs with a nod.
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"…It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year." Draco's ears perk up as the headmaster finishes his speech, one that eliminates his…fun of hurting others via Quidditch, but also one that gives him a new opportunity to prove his superiority and drink in the fear of not only those attending Hogwarts, but two other schools as well.
He grins widely and evilly as he begins planning his grand performance, and his bloodthirsty aura has the entire Slytherin table feeling nauseous. Even his best mates, Blaise and Theo are bothered by not just his aura, but his look, and not one person in the vicinity dares to think that the little demon, the King of Slytherin will somehow fail to place his name in the running.
At that moment, a mysterious and dark man chooses to interrupt the moment, a man whom the headmaster identifies as their newest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. As others murmur among themselves, shocked by his appearance, some knowing of his reputation, Draco simply stares at the man, a smirk adorning his face, as he lets him know that he knows. He watches with glee as the man fidgets in his seat, uncomfortable under the Slytherin King's gaze.
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Once again, Draco stares down his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, smug and comfortable as the man explains and demonstrates the Unforgivable curses on a spider of all things. He ignores the class's expressions of laughter and horror as the one-eyed professor showcases the…wonders of the Imperius and Cruciatus curse, and simply steels his gaze onto the clearly uncomfortable man. A grin slowly adorns his face as satisfaction fills his being. Nothing in this world or the next beats this feeling of fear.
Said feeling only intensifies as the lessons continue. The next lesson for instance, when 'Professor Moody' begins calling upon students as volunteers to test and go under the Imperius Curse. Conspicuously, Draco, Theo, and Blaise are all exempt from the test, and that only makes Draco grin wider at the fearful man, showing his teeth and daring the professor to try him. He doesn't dare to.
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The Slytherin King is forced to look on with respect and envy, as he levels his gaze upon the giant flying carriage and the titanic ship of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. He needs something like that, he notes; a grand entrance, one that awes onlookers: both the already fearful, and the doubters. As he sees the familiar face of worldwide celebrity and Quidditch Pro Viktor Krum exit the ship, as well as the…slew of healthy females exit the carriage, he finds himself wanting even more.
It isn't much later that he finds himself walking up confidently, striding even, marching perhaps, to the vaunted Goblet of Fire, past the age line, as he drops his name in. He can feel the eyes of the headmasters of each of the schools upon him, as well as the head of his own house, as they all wonder how a fourteen-year-old boy successfully fooled their measures. Those who know him, look on as well, unimpressed, expectantly even, but with worried eyes. Not that they're worried for him or his safety, no, they worry for the safety of the other two would-be champions, and for the tournament itself.
