CHAPTER 3

“Oh, Magnus... no,” protests Ivy Baron, a tiny red-haired sixth-year, addressing her neighbour without looking away from her work. Draco continues to write, keeping one eye on them.

“What? Do you think she’s weird as well?” Magnus whispers, letting his attention drift until his rat grows so long that it begins to slide off the desk. He rescues it just in time and Draco bites his tongue hard, thinking of his eyebrows. Magnus is a Hufflepuff, but Draco just isn’t risking it.

Ivy grins. “Seriously. I’ve heard things.”

Magnus clamps down a hand to prevent his elongated rat from clambering onto Ivy’s desk and ruining her work. “Like what?”

Ivy casts a nifty little freezing charm on her snake-in-progress and turns to look at her friend. Impressed, Draco continues to watch, attempting to ignore the small explosion that has just issued from the back of the room.

Eyes bright, she crosses her arms and smiles slyly. “I heard her say that she wants to tie you up so you can’t move and then have her way with you,” she says under her breath.

Draco muffles a cough with some difficulty.

“That’s... whoa. It’s... well. I suppose it could be weirder,” Magnus says, sounding unconvinced.

Ivy’s smile becomes a shark’s grin as she clearly prepares to deliver the coup de grace. Draco listens intently, all at once quietly loathing himself and dying to know what’s coming next.

“And then there’s the gravy,” Ivy says, and Magnus’ eyes grow dangerously wide.

“The gravy?” he whispers.

Draco closes his eyes, locates his professional pride, and fixes them both with a stern gaze.

“Miss Baron, Mr. Humphries,” he says loudly, and they both snap around to face him, “if you could keep your private lives out of my classroom, that would be just wonderful.”

It’s in the mumbling of sorry, sirs, the general air of surprise that no points have been lost, and the smell of burnt hair which now pervades the classroom that Draco has a wonderful idea.

“What are you doing, Zarenski?” he demands, getting up from his desk and going to investigate the disaster with a smile on his face.

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Much of the evening is spent perfecting the tricky little curse he plans to use on Potter, and by the time Draco retires to bed, removes three slightly chewed mint leaves from under his pillow, and pulls his embroidered autumn quilt up to his chin, he is feeling rather serene

about the whole thing. The following night’s sleep is the best he’s had in a long time, and he is positively cheerful as he strides around his rooms the next morning, humming as he stands under the gargoyle in his bathroom and lets the hot water and steam envelop him and chatting away to Stanley as he sits on the edge of his bed and fastens up his boots.

“I suppose it’s quite a simple concept, but I am rather proud of the spellwork,” he says. “The Full Body-bind is such an underused curse, and it will drive Potter to absolute distraction. I’m setting it to release after a minute, but I think that’s long enough to teach him a lesson about taking points from Slytherin, don’t you?”

Tack-tack, offers Stanley, trundling along Draco’s sideboard and sending a comb, two books and a box of teabags clattering to the floor in his wake.

“Stanley, you are a menace to both the living and the dead,” Draco sighs, but he doesn’t bother to check his smile when the infernal beetle clicks ingratiatingly at him, because no one’s here to see it.

Stanley hops from side to side and flaps his (non-functioning—Draco has checked) wings in a well-worn entreaty to be picked up and carried around, but receives only a stern look in response.

“I don’t think so. I’m going to breakfast and you can’t come with me. You will be seen and I will be in trouble—or worse, everyone will want to be your friend and I will never see you again.”

Tacking gently, Stanley waves his antennae, sending a roll of parchment flying, and Draco raises his eyes to the ceiling. Relenting slightly, he picks up the beetle and sets him on the rug before he can do any more redecorating. He will, no doubt, climb back up onto the sideboard, but it will take him a good while to do it.

Some minutes later, Draco takes his seat near the end of the staff table in the Great Hall, distractedly chewing on a triangle of toast as he waits for Potter, who is always late. He is down to the last crust before he realises he has forgotten to butter it, but eats it anyway, washing it down with a gulp of mud-like coffee. Potter arrives, looking scrubbed and irritatingly healthy, just in time. He is literally pulling out his chair next to McGonagall when the sound of wingbeats announces the arrival of the post owls, and what better time to sneakily curse a colleague than when he and every other witness in the room is distracted? Draco hardly ever has any post—his mother prefers the occasional firecall these days, and his Potioneer’s Weekly always comes on a Friday. Today is no exception, and he seizes his opportunity as Potter is opening yet another intriguing-looking package.

He knocks his fork off the table, and, on the pretext of picking it up, bends and casually flicks his wand in Potter’s direction, mumbling the words to the curse as he gropes around on the cold floor for the dropped fork. Nothing happens, but he feels confident that it won’t be long. Straightening up, he smiles, inhales the deliciously savoury air, and politely asks Slughorn for the bacon platter. It may be a little bit premature, but he feels like celebrating.

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There are few things more satisfying than being right, and barely two hours have passed before Draco is proved just so. As he steps out into a sunny courtyard for some fresh air between classes, he is greeted by a mob of furiously whispering students, and, when they part for him at his severe look, there is Potter, leaning against a wall, startled and blinking. The second he spots Draco, his puzzlement turns to rage and he beckons Draco over with a silent gesture. Amused but poker-faced, Draco crosses the cobbles towards him unhurriedly, heart racing with secret delight.

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