Omnia Mors Perimit

All the time he had been wondering what on earth had gone wrong. Had he lost his grip on Madam Rosmerta? It usually worked, she kept on informing him - but could she have fought against the Imperius Curse this time? Sending him innocuous messages by manipulating the bewitched coin was one thing, buying some jewellery and hand it to a student, too - but maybe her subconscious had grasped that this was quite different, purchasing a highly dangerous poison and spike a bottle of mead that she knew to be destined for her old friend Dumbledore?

Or had the poison been faulty? His mum would never use a highly-potent potion that she hadn't brewed herself - 'the human condition is faulty, darling', and faulty were their doings in her eyes. Was it possible that the mead in itself had neutralised some of the ingredients of the poison - what the heck were the ingredients of mead anyway? Had Madam Rosmerta sent the bottle to the wrong person? Had Slughorn given it to the wrong person? Had it reached Dumbledore, but he hadn't drunk it? Or had he drunk it, got poisoned, but being him, also conceived the right antidote at once?

Whatever it was, fact remained that Draco's plan had not come off - or rather: it hadn't come off until today, or rather: it had hit the wrong target and not worked out as it ought. Because Weasel Bee was in the Infirmary, alive and striving as far as Draco knew. Why on earth Weasel Bee had been the one to drink that mead must remain unintelligible to him. Weasley was a complete nonentity! Slughorn could never remember his name - why would he offer him some high-priced drink? Merlin, in a way Draco could consider himself lucky still! What if Potter had accidentally been the poisoned one? The Dark Lord had been very clear in that respect - he wanted to finish off Potter himself, he wouldn't take it kindly if -

But those musings were vain and futile. Dumbledore was even more healthy than Weasel King, and this was a problem, more than just a problem. It was sheer disaster! His mum - his dad! And Draco wasn't suicidal, he didn't want to be killed either! What could he do now, with his last straw broken?

Work harder. Give his best. Give everything he got and a bit more. He would conquer this, he would! And his parents would be proud of him, and the Dark Lord would reward him beyond his imagination -

But to do so, he had to sort out his priorities. All unnecessary waste of time and focus must be cut down. If he had fancied himself stressed when learning with his aunt in summer, he didn't have an adequate for his momentary state. Things had long grown over his head. He had so many duties to fulfil, he hardly had time to sleep properly. And he couldn't drop most of those engagements either, or he'd raise suspicions.

Why were people keen on becoming Prefects, for example? It was a time-consuming and boring job. Helping along First Years, taking over staff tasks, and the weekly meeting with the Deputy Headmistress that could take hours of useless chit chat. Pansy took it all very serious, she was almost as eager as Granger about it, whereas Draco's attitude would rather resemble Weasel King's. They both couldn't care less about things like the curfew for junior students, or the organisation of a theatrical performance of the Drama club - funny. For the first time in his life, he found he had something in common with Redhead.

Then there was his need for school work. Not that he cared much for this either. His mum wanted him to do well, so did the teachers, but he really couldn't see what for. He was Draco Malfoy! Even if it wasn't for his career in the Dark Order, he'd never have to find a job in his entire life, bloody hell! And the previous years had proven that he couldn't beat Granger in the first place, no matter how hard he tried. In the last year, it had been fairly close - frustratingly close even. She had beaten him by four bloody points. Four points! Knife-edge! But he also knew that he'd never do any better than then either, so why keep trying?

Next point - paramount really - was Quidditch. He had declined the offer to become Captain of the team. What had that buffoon Snape been thinking to even nominate him, anyhow?! He knew that Draco hadn't got enough time for regular practise even! The Slytherin Team would meet five times per week, Tuesday and Thursday afternoon (3 and a half hours each), Saturday afternoon (however long it would take), Sunday morning (4 hours) and Wednesday morning before classes (1 and a half hour). That was bad enough in Draco's situation and he skipped training more often than attend it these days. The Captain however had to develop plans for the practise, strategies, he must analyse the other teams' performance, and Draco did not begrudge Damian Montague's little brother Dorian, whom the hard lot had befallen.

The first to go was his beloved Quidditch. He feigned an accident during next practise, breaking his left arm. Madam Pomfrey mended the fraction with one lazy swish of her wand, but he simply claimed that his arm was still hurting. He hadn't played in the last two matches anyway, and Harper was waiting in line. That gave him fifteen to eighteen hours more per week. Not nearly enough. He couldn't make cuttings on his school work, or he might lose even more time in detentions, or worse - risk his expulsion.

There was one thing he could easily do though - something he should have done a long time ago. To his astonishment, this thing turned out not half as easy as breaking his own arm. He tried to break up with Pansy - three times on total - but in the end, he wasn't single, and that was the purpose of breaking up, wasn't it? Somehow it didn't work.

The first time, he told her that he had doubts concerning their relationship. She nodded sympathetically, unbuttoned his trousers in the same moment and while he was still elaborating that he was sorry and that they'd be friends and all, she went down on him, silencing him quite effectively.

The second time, he was better prepared. He had chosen the library - no way she could give him a blow-job in the library in broad day light, right? He started to repeat his little speech, but seeing her eyes, that utter despair, he couldn't pull it through.

That wouldn't do, of course. The third time - in the Common Room - he did withstand her disbelieving gaze, her quivering jowls. He managed to get through all his valid points ignoring the tears, but then she started to speak - no, beg. She professed her undying love for him, besought him to think of everything they had been through together, reminded him how she had stuck to him 'when your world broke down' - god, he couldn't do this. In the end, she was lying in his arms again, covering his face with kisses.

Faintly, he heard that prick Zabini's roaring laughter. For tonight, he gave up, but in his bed, he realised that he'd never make it to overcome one of the most powerful wizards of their time, if he couldn't even manage to resist his own girlfriend - a girlfriend that he wasn't even in love with. He got up, found ink, quill and parchment, and wrote it down. He thanked her for her loyalty, he told her that she was a wonderful human being, that she deserved to be treated much better, and that it was over. He read the letter again and was quite proud with it.

He gave it to her in the next morning, stayed long enough to make sure that she opened it and fled then, barricading himself in the bathroom until the start of his first class - Transfiguration, she wasn't in this class. Slightly nervous, he went to Herbology next, but Panse was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Millicent. He took that as a good sign that the message had finally sunk in, and as soon as getting word form Madam Rosmerta that Dumbledore was gone, he went upstairs to the Secret Room to work on his real problems.

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Qué... How easy it is to open your big mouth and swagger (from: Heroes Del Silencio - 'Entre Dos Tierras', English translation by myself).