she slumped to the ground was that Dumbledore might end up losing that metaphorical arm after all.
**
Friday.
God, he hated the morning. Daytime made a mockery of how absolutely crappy his life had become. Sunshine was too cheerful and optimistic, spreading warmth that never seemed to reach him.
Draco refused to open his eyes, not even when his conditioned body clock told him it was seven-thirty am and time to get dressed to go upstairs for breakfast, where five hundred pairs of eyes would gawk at him for a whole variety of reasons he could never help.
The good thing was that he had five pillows in his bed, and he was not afraid to use them. Draco piled the lot of it over his head, secured this makeshift buffer zone with a sheet, and then continued to ignore Daytime.
Footsteps went past his door. That was the annoying thing about not living in the boys' dorm anymore. Seventh year prefects got their own rooms, yes, but the rooms were located in a communal area, accessible to anyone who had need of a prefect.
The faster, more reckless footsteps belonged to the younger Slytherins, who still found some excitement in a new day at Hogwarts and an elf-cooked breakfast better than anything their mums could make (though not many would ever admit this).
The slower, steadier footsteps were those of the seniors, no doubt. Slytherins were generally not Morning People, but Draco suspected that had more to do with age rather than Sorting.
Uninterrupted sleep was a luxury, and if it could be bought or traded, Draco might have purchased a whole year's worth from one of the rosy-cheeked, bright eyed, spring-in-step Hufflepuffs who always looked bushytailed no matter how stupid life got.
A particular progression of noisy footsteps happened to pause directly outside his door. Go away Panse. Not interested in breakfast at the moment. There was a bit of a kerfuffle in the corridor, which meant that whomever was about to get their head bitten off, was at least thinking twice about it.
The handle turned.
Did I remember to lock the door?
The door creaked opened.
Apparently not.
"Draco!" whispered someone who was not Pansy, Millicent, Goyle or Blaise, or for that matter anyone else who was permitted to be in his room.
It was Carmen Meliflua, fourth year Slytherin vixen, and she was about to regret being born.
"Draco, please! You have to come quick! I think Tandish Dodders is about to kill himself!"
Fuck you, world, thought Draco, as he opened his eyes with a very deep sigh.
**
Honestly, he was dealing with a bunch of monkeys. Perhaps bananas would elicit a more logical response from the slack-jawed group of students outside his door, because simple English didn't seem to be working.
Salazar Slytherin would be turning in his grave to know what had become of his illustrious House.
"If someone doesn' t tell me what the hell is going on in the next ten seconds, I' m using Cruciatus," Draco threatened.
That was not the smartest thing to say to a bunch of nervous youngsters. Carmen Meliflua, easily the most self assured monkey in the troupe, started crying.
Draco shut the door in their faces and hurriedly pulled on his school pants and a crumpled, T-shirt which seemed too small to have ever belonged to him. A sobbing Carmen (told to wait outside) was able to fill him on the main details, albeit in a halting wet and incredibly shrill manner.
Two nose-blows later, the problem stood thus:
The much put upon Tandish Dodders, otherwise known as 'Tadpole', had chosen to ignore all the posted warnings for students to stay clear of the Quidditch Pitch that day. More than a dozen school Bludgers were having the bugs cleaned out of them.
The idiot claimed to have been dared by someone to sprint from one end of the pitch to the other, and was in the process of doing just that.
Draco paused in the act of buttoning his trousers. "Why is this my problem? Where the fuck is Zabini?"
Carmen was worrying on her lower lip. "He's in a meeting with Professor McGonagall. So is Hermione Granger, or we would have asked him to-"
"Yes, yes, fine," Draco snapped, running a hand through his hair. Mention of the two-faced, Tart of Gryffindor did not improve his mood. Also, what Carmen was doing with her lip was nearly identical to what Granger did every time she was about to tell him something he wasn't going to like.