the nickname 'tadpole' to stick.
"My name," Dodders shouted at Carmen, sending a stream of moist cookies crumbs raining over Draco and his newspaper, "IS TANDISH!"
Draco looked up from his paper distractedly. "My God, Tadpole, if you shower me with crumbs once more, I'm going to pick you up, turn you over and stick your head in the nearest toilet."
What happened next took everyone by surprise, Dodders most of all, no doubt. The boy blinked before slowly rising to his feet. He had already been snapped at by Draco once that week in the Great Hall and after three years of abuse, had apparently reached the end of his tether.
He pointed a chubby digit at Draco. "You don' t scare me, Malfoy. Not anymore. I don't care who you are. You're not even a prefect for much longer, so why don't you just piss off and leave the rest of us in peace!" With an expression of great dignity, he brushed past a gawking Carmen and disappeared into the boys' dormitory.
"Well," Carmen declared, after the door to the dorm slammed shut. "His days are certainly numbered."
The silence in the Common Room was so pronounced that it was quite possible to hear the very distant noise of Hufflepuffs preparing for bed a few floors above.
Draco folded his paper and wondered what the hell had just happened. A third year student that was no longer afraid of him? Surely such a thing was not possible?
Growing up in Slytherin was a lot like growing up with a pack of wolves. The Alpha male dictated what was good, bad, acceptable and unacceptable. Any Slytherin that was worth his salt knew the rules. For Draco, his family money had helped earn his status, his looks were always a bonus, his wit had been vital. But it had been his last name which secured him the position of head of the pack.
With Lucius now as awe-inspiring as a mismatched pair of socks, any sign of weakness would be seen as an excuse for some young, ambitious, pup to run him through with a hot poker and climb over his cold, gorgeous, corpse.
Such a thing had very nearly happened when Lucius had been imprisoned.
It had taken him months to recover his standing. Strategic viciousness in the form of Crabbe and Goyle, had helped, of course. As had Pansy Parkinson. Pansy knew every little bit of gossip about everyone. She knew that Blaise's father was keen on lads not much older than Blaise himself; knew that Elena Longerbridge in fifth year had a sixth toe on her right foot (which was why she never wore open-toed shoes, not even in summer); was well aware that the now graduated Alex Montague had a corrupt bureaucrat grandfather who was being blackmailed by everyone who had a stake in the man's department.
It was Pansy who put an end to the silence that evening. Her voice was tense when she spoke. "The lot of you, off to bed. Now."
"What? Even me?" Blaise asked. He was sitting with Goyle in the far corner.
"Yes, you too, Head Boy," Pansy ordered, more imploringly this time. "You need your beauty sleep."
They shuffled off, curious but compliant. When the last student had shut the door behind him, Pansy sat down on the floor beside Draco.
He was looking distinctly discombobulated.
"What' s the matter with you?" she snapped. "If Dodders had said that to you a month ago, you'd have fed him his shoes."
Draco drew his knees up and rested his forehead against them. The find, blond strands of his hair looked shiny against the black wool of his school pants. His voice was muffled when he spoke. "I'm just tired, Pansy. It's old age. I'm not fifteen anymore, you know. I'm going on eighteen, which is nearly twenty. By twenty-one, I imagine I'll be over the hill and jowl-y"
"Oh, shut up," she said, annoyed. "Is there something going on lately that you' re not telling me about?"
Draco discovered that he was seriously tempted to unload.
Yeah, there are a few things going on, actually. Where shall I begin? My father's slowly going insane at our enormous, rotting, mansion and I think he' s in real danger of going completely mental. Any day now I expect to hear news along the lines of how he attempted to do away with our remaining, elderly, house elf, utilizing an ingenious plan involving escargot tongs and a ball of string. In addition, it would appear that there is a crazy, spell-happy,