The Subtle Knife

Chapter 3: Believe in What You Want

Not that I had been staring, Draco reminded himself for the twenty-sixth time. No, Malfoys do not make at eyes at their worst enemies, especially not Gryffindors. It must have been a mistake. He had obviously dreamed of some other person who had very similar features, similar age and build; someone who had the same green eyes as Potter, if that was possible.

To get his mind off the boy in his dream (who couldn´t be Potter!), Draco actively began to research anything on the dagger his father had given him. The first Saturday in October, before his Quidditch practice later that day, he set out for the library. Because it was so early on in the year to begin studying, very few other students had ventured into the library. Several fourth year Ravenclaws were there, a third year Hufflepuff, himself and Granger. The thought did occur to him to sneak up behind her hunched form over a book and hiss "Dirty Mudblood" loudly in her ear, but Potter, and the Weasel, weren´t there. It would not have been worth it much without getting a rise out of the two boys as well. Too much effort for only goading one person.

He set his bag on a table close to the Restricted Section, behind a high shelf of Encyclopedias, far from the other occupants of the library. Madam Pince was watching him like a hawk, as if he might sneak into the Restricted Section underneath an Invisibility Cloak or something. No, Potter probably did that, but not him.

The dagger was hidden inside with a cloaking charm to protect it from being touched by either filthy Mudbloods or anyone else. Draco had thought about asking Professor Snape for an all-purpose permission slip into the Restricted section (Hah! He scoffed at the title- Restricted Section! His father had a far better and even more dangerous collection in the family library), but decided against it for the time being. Snape might be suspicious of his motives even if Draco was one of his favorite students. Besides, he could always try that later if he needed to.

Draco cross-referenced the name `Dagger of the Asteria´. Much as he had expected, there was nothing listed in the files. The name was in all likelihood made-up, disguising the true purpose of the dagger, cloaking it as an enigma. After locating a couple of plausibly helpful books, which were probably more like volumes of useless crap, he dropped them onto the table, purposely making a loud crash. The books themselves were at least six inches thick and as massive as something the halfwit game-keeper owned. Draco had evidently startled the other students; they were all tensed up and staring wide-eyed at the source of the noise. Granger glared at him, a baneful look on her ugly face.

Draco smirked smugly in return.

The first book, Magical Tools for Mundane Purposes, was totally and utterly useless. According to a side-note by the publisher on the first page, it dated from 1867. However, the page was peeling away from on top of an even older page, the resin adhesive flaking away amber chunks with age. All of its other 934 pages also seemed too yellowed and too frail.

The book was filled with descriptions of how to launder unaided with a cauldron, cook with a Merman´s trident and light fires with the use of a broomstick (not by setting the twigs on fire as Draco would have imagined). The boy spent the following two hours plodding through the miniscule and nearly illegible green wiggling type of the pages before noting, on the second-to-last page, a dedication:

To, Belinda Mathers

to Learne howe Too make Youre

Home a bettre playse Throo Magick

and the Use of Magickle Tooles in The

hearthe and kitchen

-Peony Whitting-Godolffin

"Bollocks!" Draco muttered and slammed the cracking leather cover shut in frustration.

The second book was more helpful and, thankfully, nowhere near as large- Ritual Knives and Daggers of Western Europe, 1773 edition. The musty and mildewed pages were fragile and crumpled underneath Draco´s fingertips as he tore through as quickly as he could to save his focus. His eyes quickly grew tired and were prone to glazing over, and his head lolled to the side. Draco did manage to find a paragraph on silver knives set with sapphires. His dagger was a knife of sorts, and therefore, he found the information relevant. The short paragraph on the knives used in binding magic he copied into a scroll of notes he kept:

It was saide to me, Roderick Keigwin of Plympton (the author), by a moste trusted frend that, and it is Moste verily true, that a sharpe knife that is set wyth blue Saffires and wound Widdershins elefen times by a glovved hand in the Moon as She wanes is moste useful in magic to binde one indiwidual to the binder and my moste trusted frend assurred me rightly

that the practis is still performed in the northe and remote parts of Our glorious Nation and in Paris, in the courte of the Moste Famous Wizard, Louis de la Loupemorte, who is knowen widely for his slaying of sefenteen wearwolfs that terrorised the town of Grandmortainne in the Southe of France, neare a large Muggle settlement by the Mountayne that which now is called Grandladonsueille, in the Autumn of the year of Our Lord, 1765. Likewise, when a knife is set wyth Peridott and Citryne-yellow stones...

Blah, blah, blah.

Draco groaned and massaged his temple with his fingertips. The book mentioned nothing further about a dagger or a knife that resembled his in any way, least of all one supposedly called `The Dagger of the Asteria´. Nothing was mentioned about amethysts. Draco knew that was what they were; he had an eye for gemstones, thanks to his mother. And nothing was mentioned about the Celtic-style swirls of the silver either, or of the one missing stone in the hilt.

Checking his watch, Draco reckoned that four hours spent in the library were bloody well wasted and he went off to go eat a late lunch in the Great Hall. Crabbe and Goyle were still there, no doubt, to maximize the amount they could stuff their faces with.

Sauntering out of the library pompously, Draco left the books spread out lazily across the table, open-faced, for Madam Pince to shelve. He also knew that librarians loathed students who did that.

All the better.

The Quidditch practice that afternoon was not terribly rewarding either. The pitch was muddy from the previous evening´s rain. The ground was making squelching noises under their shoes and the wet dirt caked their heels. The two third year Chasers complained incessantly about this.

"Would you fucking shut your gobs about the sodding mud?" Draco had finally shouted at them. "You´re both riding fucking broomsticks, in the air, not on the ground!"

Those two particular Chasers were new that season and Draco, in his well-earned position as Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, spent the better part of an hour explaining how the Hawkshead Attacking Formation required all three Chasers in the arrowhead position, not just one.

Flying around the pitch watching the trials of the team was rather humorous, though, and Draco enjoyed the feeling of the crisp October air on his face and fingering lingeringly through his hair. He forgot about the stupid dagger his father had given to him- that he would eventually give to Harry Potter- and the unprofitable hours of the morning. Draco was also able to forget the dream where he was kissing the Boy-Who-Was-But-Couldn´t-Have-Been-the-Boy-Who-Lived with a passion. He focused solely on flying in the moment and on the match with Ravenclaw the next weekend.

After three hours, Draco gave up trying to lecture the other players on what they should and should not have been doing and called the team down to the ground for a brief and scathing pep talk. The new Chasers were throwing the Quaffle at the older Chaser- Montague, a seventh year- playing some ridiculous "monkey-in-the-middle game". The Beaters were hitting Bludgers

deliberately aimed for the Keeper´s head, who swore furiously and tried, unsuccessfully, to hex their noses off.

Draco landed quickly from his surveying position in the air and hopped off his broom. "Get your arses down here!" he demanded loudly using the Sonorus charm to amplify his voice.

He was scowling angrily after the new Chasers decided that they needed to take ten more minutes to end their childish game and land, but he ignored their obvious disrespect for his authority. "Right then," He sneered at the six others on the Quidditch team. "I´ll make it brief. I want to beat the crap out of Ravenclaw next weekend-"

The team cheered unanimously at this and Draco smirked.

"You two," he nodded to the new Chasers, "go for Ravenclaw´s new Chaser. From what I´ve heard it´s a little blonde git. And you two," he nodded at the Beaters, "go for the other Chasers. They´re fast, but our Firebolt, version 2.0s are faster. I want them out of play in, say," Draco paused a moment, considering, "five minutes?"

The players nodded curtly in agreement, sneering evilly. "Bludgers to their brains, then," one said.

"Don´t worry about the Ravenclaw Beaters. Two second years-they haven´t got the experience or a chance. As for me, I´ll take their Seeker on. She´s no match for me." he declared arrogantly.

Sniggers erupted from the Beaters and Draco narrowed his eyes at them. "Get out of here," he sneered coldly, trying to mimic a visage of his father. The team stood unmoving for a moment. "All of you!"

They scattered like leaves in a storm and made for the change-rooms.

The next Saturday, Draco had a dreamless sleep the night before the match, waking up somewhat early before stumbling to the showers, where he woke up fully after Pansy gave him a `good luck´ blow job.

She grinned as she slowly walked out of the boys´ washroom, wiping the side of her mouth with the back of her hand. Her slinky negligee was wet at the knees. "That take your mind off things?"

Draco smirked back in satisfaction as he wrapped a bottle-green towel around his slim waist.

"Good," Pansy called out as she shut the door behind her. "I want you to win the game this morning, love."

Breakfast was loud that morning, especially at the Slytherin table, with the anticipation of the first real Quidditch game of the season- Ravenclaw vs. Hufflepuff didn´t count as a game, really. Ravenclaw had won the match against Hufflepuff in September, but only narrowly with a score of 160-130 after their bint of a Seeker finally caught the Snitch after four mind-numbing hours. Draco had spent the first half of the match deeply absorbed in the game with the other teams´ tactics. Hufflepuff had some very strong Chasers and Ravenclaw had a new Keeper, which accounted for the majority of the goals scored. He also noted that the Ravenclaw Seeker (Potter´s girlfriend, by now?) was off her game a little this season, but he would wait and see at the next game before making a final judgment on it.

When the mail came that morning, Draco was pleased to see that his mother had sent him a good luck gift- more chocolate tarts, Chocolate Frogs with the cards already removed on his behalf, and a short letter complaining about his father´ s going off on business again. Narcissa Malfoy was also very frustrated with the lack of decent autumn fashions that year. Apparently, the colours of the season were "...so bleak, all dark browns and rusts and ochres. They look positively horrible on my complexion, Draco."

He polished off the last of his tarts as he made his way down to the Quidditch changing rooms an hour or so later. Draco quickly changed into his neatly-pressed green Slytherin robes and grabbed his latest edition Firebolt version 2.0 (still one step beyond Potter!). He swaggered out confidently onto the pitch where he waited for the remainder of his teammates to arrive.

The two new Chasers were the last to arrive, as Draco had anticipated.

The stands were filled to the maximum capacity and Draco could see Pansy furiously waving a Slytherin banner with his face blown up onto it, looking smug. Draco smirked back to himself, but rolled his eyes at Pansy for shrieking his name above the noise of the crowd. She was too far up to have noticed the gesture, however, so she simply grinned at him and flapped the banner with increased vigor.

Draco also noted Potter, on the other side of the pitch, with the Gryffindors, of course; he was surrounded by his flock of devoted sheep. The Mudblood Granger was on his one side, and Weasley, with his unmistakable mop of red hair was on the other. There were a number of younger girls up near Potter, amongst them the Weasley girl. Unlike the others who were fawning over the Boy-Who-Lived, she was glowering darkly at Potter

Draco had to chuckle to himself. Clearly, she was none-too-pleased about his recent activities with the Head Girl.

Well, they were disgusting. Potter deserved someone else kissing him like that. Someone like-

Draco whipped his head away from the stands as Madam Hooch had stepped onto the field by then. The crowds were hushed into a dull and droning roar pepped with the occasional "Go, Draco!" from Pansy.

"Ms. Chang." Madam Hooch motioned to who could only be the Ravenclaw team captain. Draco assumed that her team had chosen her out of pity over the whole Diggory Debacle. "Mr. Malfoy." Madam Hooch eyed him with her strange yellow eyes.

He walked up to the Ravenclaw girl, broom in his one hand and smirked as he offered her the other. She smiled weakly, head drooping slightly, and shook his hand briefly. Her hand was cold and clammy.

"Nervous?" Draco drawled with a cock of his eyebrow.

Cho Chang did not answer.

Madam Hooch unlocked the one of the school sets of Quidditch balls. "Players, take your positions!" she hollered, Quaffle in hand and whistle ready.

Draco mounted his broom and took off, flying a tight circle overhead of the other players before slowing down and settling in to a position straight above Madam Hooch and the three Slytherin Chasers. Chang was hovering in the same position some thirty feet ahead of Draco. He narrowed his eyes, ready for the match, and put on his game face, hard and determined to win.

"And the Bludgers are up, the Snitch is out and the Quaffle is thrown!" Draco could make out the voice of the commentator easily with the Sonorus charm in use. It was some third year Gryffindor. He wasn´t nearly as good as Lee Jordan had been, despite his obvious bias towards the Gryffindor team and his constant penchant for advertising, but the new one would do.

"Baddock of Slytherin has the Quaffle in play. Oh, nice dodge and swerve by Montague of Slytherin- that Bludger hasn´t gotten him yet..."

Draco circled lazily over the northern end of the pitch, near the Slytherin goalposts. It was unlikely the Snitch would make an appearance this early into the game. Besides, he wanted to be in a good position to direct the team´s strategy to win (or win faster).

"Dorny of Ravenclaw goes in for the Quaffle, but-" the commentator paused. "Oh! He misses...and Slytherin scores!"

The crowds in the Slytherin stands erupted in cheer, but the familiar hisses were heard elsewhere.

10-0.

This would be easy.

A Bludger flew by Draco´s face, just barely skimming his nose. He hadn´t seen it come in from behind. He toppled to the side of his broom and nearly lost his balance. Draco hooked his right leg around the broomstick and quickly regained his stance. "Weir! Godwin! Where are my fucking Beaters?" he screamed at them, ticked with their complete lack of watching out for Bludgers near their team captain.

Godwin, the fifth year Slytherin Beater, whizzed by in a blur of emerald, followed closely by a Ravenclaw Beater, blue robe flashing in the wind.

"Ravenclaw now in possession of the Quaffle."

Draco saw another whirl of blue fly by towards the Slytherin goalposts, and twice the number of green tailing behind.

"Get her, you pathetic arseholes!" he shouted at the Chasers. "Knock her off her broom like I told you. Don´t let her-"

"Nice save by the Slytherin Keeper! Slytherin has the Quaffle once again..."

Draco leaned back, satisfied, on his broom.

Yes, this should be an easy game. Even if the team was going to ignore everything Draco had demanded of them in practice.

This continued on for the next twenty or so minutes and Draco just spent his time like a decadent playboy in the air- hovering about languidly and shouting appropriate plays at the other Slytherins (which they neglected to use). The one Chaser on the team, Pritchard, had `accidentally´ elbowed a Ravenclaw one off her broomstick and she fell about sixty feet, hard,

rendering the Ravenclaws undermanned by one. Madam Hooch had seen the foul and pulled the third year Slytherin off the field in penalty. Slytherin scored twice more, though, and Ravenclaw faltered with the Quaffle again and again.

Hmm...the game is going well...

Then Draco caught sight of a buzz of gold overtop the Gryffindor stands. He took off, a bolt of green lightning and glanced quickly behind himself to see if Chang had seen the Snitch also.

But she hadn´t, and was doing slow, melancholic loops on the opposite side of the pitch, near her own goalposts. So much for needing to knock her off her broom.

"Slytherin spots the Snitch, and Malfoy is off!"

Draco lost sight of the Snitch momentarily in the throng of scarlet-clad spectators, as a cloud passed overhead, but he saw it resurface just above Potter´ s head.

God, does he try to attract Snitches?

Leaning forward, he squeezed his thighs against the broom handle, forcing it to go faster. The Ravenclaw Seeker had spotted him going after the Snitch now, but she seemed to be speeding towards it painfully slowly, as though she really couldn´t care. This was strange, as she was closer to it than Draco was.

Potter could now see Draco flying straight at him and Draco saw the Gryffindolt gasp and slump down in his seat. The other Gryffindors were ducking too as Draco dipped lower into their midst. His hand was almost touching the little silver wings that hummed right in fr-

Ooof!

He stumbled into the stands, broom having caught on something, or someone. Or rather, he slammed into Gryffindor, or rather, with a hard impact that hurled Draco´s body right on top of Potter´s and into the hard wooden bleachers. He was transfixed for a moment, stunned as the Golden Boy stared up, equally stunned, from under the Slytherin, wide-eyed behind his dorky and dirt-flecked glasses.

Draco opened his fist, Snitch balled up inside, and grinned.

"And Malfoy gets the Snitch! 150 points to Slytherin. Slytherin wins the game!"

Draco let his focus gaze into Potter´s eyes for a moment, losing himself in the same green eyes that had made his knees weak and falter in his dream. He swallowed unconsciously. Potter tried to look away, but Draco´s held the other boy´s locked in position, and the Slytherin was not about to back down. Draco felt blood pooling down to his groin and he could feel himself stiffen at the sight of those haunting green eyes, like liquid malachite, like the-

Fuck! You´re getting hard over Potter!

Draco pushed himself off the other boy roughly. He stood up carefully, brushing off his robes and mounting his broom rather awkwardly, though it didn´t look like Potter noticed that; he still had the same stunned expression.

"Thanks," Draco smirked off-hand as he flew off to join his team parade around the pitch in a victory flight.

Potter just gaped his mouth widely at Draco. Draco noticed he had a slightly pinker disposition.

Draco also really hoped that Potter didn´t notice his own legs were shaking ever so slightly as he flew off.

Just like in the dream.

The remainder of the week, Draco was the resident hero of Slytherin. At first the stories were that Potter had hidden the Snitch in his robes and Draco had used a clever Dark Arts charms to reveal it; these soon progressed into much more elaborate ones, involving his apparent sexual romps at the Annual Malfoy Orgy (which in all truth was not until Christmas, and Draco had never been allowed to attend) where he slept with Voldemort himself before Draco apparently also stole Voldemort´s wand and cast a new and previously unknown derivative of a summoning charm on the Snitch. Draco thought that not only was the thought of anyone sleeping with You-Know-Who stomach-turning, but facetious to think that he himself was incapable of catching the Snitch, as though he had never done so before.

The rumor most likely had started in Gryffindor.

Although, Draco did find it a little odd that the Snitch had to be seen so close to Potter. He didn´t say much though, or try to interpret it as more than a coincidence- he wasn´t one much for Divination.

Draco was the house hero, nonetheless.

Pansy would flutter her eyelashes even more frequently every time Draco so much as glanced her way and Blaise actually gave him a quick peck on the lips. Snape gave Slytherin 50 points just for the hell of it and took 20 points away from Gryffindor when Weasley, red-faced, had protested. Several sullen-faced first years approached him for autographs, which Draco politely declined with a haughty chuckle, partially out of annoyance and partially out of the fact that he was afraid of being compared to Potter, who signed them for anyone and vainly hoped his fans would go away. Draco did spend most of the week strutting around like God´s greatest gift to the world (or at least Slytherin), which he was, and feeling, well, like some of Potter´s brilliance had finally rubbed off on him.

Potter was obviously very peeved at Draco´s new and increased smugness. He frowned constantly, more so than he usually did when Draco bothered to smirk or sneer his way. Draco hoped his mouth would fuse that way forever. Pansy swore up and down to Draco one evening that she had even heard the Weasel tell Potter off in the hall one afternoon after their Double Potions class that week.

She was smiling lazily at Draco, perched on the end of his bed, walking her fingers along his thigh. "And then Weasley said something like, erm `...For Crissakes, Harry, let it alone. It wasn´t Gryffindor that lost.´"

"Oh?" Draco inched closer to hear more.

"I think Potty groaned or moaned, or whatever. And then he said something about feeling `really bad for Chang´ because apparently she´s sick."

So that was the reason that Slytherin had won so easily? Draco refused to believe that. Bullshit, Potter´s just making excuses for his silly little bint.

That Friday, Draco´s eagle owl, Iris, brought the customary package of sweets from his parents and a hefty pouch of galleons along with a short letter from his father.

Draco,

I congratulate you on your win against Ravenclaw. I had expected no less from you, especially as team captain. I remind you that this was merely a win, not a success. I doubt, moreover, that the Slytherin team´s talents far exceed those of Ravenclaw, rather that the new brooms were the true source of victory. However, I hope that your `streak of luck´ extends to the match against Gryffindor, as I note that you have yet to win a game against their team despite three years of attempts. I hope to be in attendance to watch you play that day, as usual.

Your mother wished to send you a present for winning. There are twenty-five galleons; spend them prudently.

Your father

Draco scowled and crumpled up the paper into a tight ball before tossing it under the table in the Great Hall. It rolled under Millicent Bulstrode´s trollish feet unnoticed. He planned to use the money on the following day´s trip to Hogsmeade; he was looking forward to it, if only to stock up on Chocolate Frogs and have a butterbeer in the pub with Crabbe and Goyle.

He snorted to himself. Butterbeer- ha! More like Butterbooze! (With the help from Special Project `Fermentum Potion´.)

Later that day, though, Draco had some time in his dorm alone after dinner. Potter had looked up at him during the meal and Draco thought there was a little spot of colour to the Gryffindor´s cheeks that wasn´t due to the chill in the air. Draco was not happy about this. This whole little Potter thing was beginning to worry him. First the dream, then the getting hard at the Quidditch game, now this blushing at him. Something was very wrong with this.

Draco scowled to himself and toyed with a dart in his hand. He threw it at the Harry Potter dartboard on his dorm wall. It hit Potty in the eye and his one lens shattered.

Draco chuckled to himself and threw another. It hit the Gryffindor in the nose. Draco really wanted to hit that bloody scar, though.

He tried again. Nose. Damn!

Draco swore that he saw the dart board picture of Potter pucker his lips just then and make kissing noises at Draco.

This was worrisome. Especially seeing that when Draco blinked the image was replaced with the unhappy and uncomfortable picture of Potter that was originally there.

My mind is playing tricks with me! I need to go to Hogsmeade soon or I´ll go completely barmy!

The next day proved to be a crisp, clear day in mid-October with no rain. The air in the Great Hall was buzzing at breakfast in anticipation of the trip. Draco actually managed to forget about Potter for a while.

On the walk down to the village, Draco stayed close to his two trusted cronies, as Pansy had gone off with her group of girls in hopes to buy new clothes or hair potions or something. He was glad that he had worn his black wool cloak and striped green and silver scarf (cashmere, his mother had transfigured the wool when he complained that it itched), and his dragonhide gloves. The air was chilly and Draco could see white clouds of his breath fog to his side with every exhalation. The leaves on the trees had begun to turn shades of crimson and scarlet and gold and ochre, all disgustingly Gryffindor colours. Draco didn´t like autumn much. It was the Gryffindor season. He much preferred the icy stark colors of winter- he liked to think that was the Slytherin season, with greys and slates and severe whites. This was a bit of a contradiction, though, considering Draco had been born in August, but he chose to ignore this.

It was also exceptionally annoying when the wind would rustle through the trees. The leaves had a habit of falling into Draco´s neatly coifed hair and he was continually picking leaves out of his silver blond strands throughout the walk.

Definitely the Gryffindor season.

Goyle grunted, laughing at Draco, when he got a large clump of leaf tangled up over his ear.

Draco scowled, brushing out crumpled brown bits. "Shut up, arsewipe," was his response, several times, as Goyle seemed to think it was quite funny the whole while. Crabbe spent the time ogling Tracey Davis´ bum.

When they arrived in Hogsmeade after the brisk invigorating morning walk, most of the mass of students made a mad dash in the direction of Zonko´s and Honeydukes, or, in Pansy´s case, Gladrags, where they were having a sale on imported robes.

But Draco had other plans. "Come on," he said loudly to Crabbe and Goyle as they looked longingly at the variety of sweets through the windows of Honeydukes. He walked over to The Three Broomsticks quickly, as they huffed behind him with the effort. Once they were standing outside the door to the pub, Draco added in a low voice, "We want to try it out, don´t we? The Special Project?"

Crabbe and Goyle nodded, grinning stupidly and they followed Draco through the doors to the pub, which opened with the chime of a bell over the door. The pub was nearly empty, only a few early-morning middle-aged diehards there, surprising not including the oaf Hagrid. They sat down at a table near the back.

"Bit early for students, isn´t it?" Madam Rosmerta asked as she came over to take their orders. "What´ll it be?" she asked skeptically, wiping her hands on her stained apron.

Draco pulled out several galleons, more than enough. "Three butterbeers to start." He smirked up at her.

Madam Rosmerta looked dubiously at the blond Slytherin at the word `start´, but brought their drinks over, hardly one to refuse a paying customer.

Goyle made to grab one of the mugs, but Draco slapped him away, glaring. "Just wait."

Madam Rosmerta slowly trotted off behind swinging doors into the backrooms of the pub.

"Good," Draco said in a hushed voice, and leaned close to the other two boys, "I thought she´d never leave. You have it Crabbe?"

"Yeah," Crabbe grunted, pulling out a bottle of clear liquid from his cloak pocket that was

plugged with a stopper.

For the past month, Crabbe had been distilling alcohol under his bed with pilfered Potions ingredients (Snape blamed Potter for the missing supplies) and Draco had grand intentions to use it all.

The blond boy snatched the flask of alcohol from Crabbe´s greedy hands and checked over his shoulder suspiciously. The other patrons hardly paid him any attention. The witch was scarce.

Good.

He poured a generous quantity into each of the three mugs before handing one to each Crabbe and Goyle. "Cheers, boys!" He held his mug up and they clinked them together, snickering amongst themselves.

Draco downed the laced butterbeer in large gulps. It burned as it slid down his throat and he nearly choked and coughed and retched it back up, but the fuzzy feeling inside was comforting. The alcohol was strong stuff and coupled with the creamy butterbeer warmed him up instantly. He could feel his stomach lining tingling pleasantly all the way through.

"Good work, Crabbe," he grinned and Goyle agreed, butterbeer dripping down his cloak face. Draco rolled his eyes at that, but couldn´t be bothered to tell him off. He continued on his own butterbeer.

The alcohol managed to last two more rounds by which time Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were grinning and sniggering and tipping over quite frequently. Madam Rosmerta must have wondered what they had snuck into the drinks because she flat-out refused to serve them any more. She was watching them suspiciously, and Draco saw this.

"Let´s go." He smiled broadly at the other two and slid bonelessly off his stool to the floor with a thud. He giggled, standing up, and staggered out the door.

Screw being a graceful Malfoy right now. I´m too buzzed to care.

They made their way to Honeydukes next, pushing through the crowds of the first-time third years; the younger students were wide-eyed and dangerously vexingly slow. The three Slytherins spent some time examining the Fizzing Whizbees dizzily. They bought whatever sweets they laid hands on, which happened to include gummy maggots and blood-favored lollipops. Not caring exactly what they had purchased, they left the shop with huge, alcohol-glazed pupils, still chortling periodically. A group of fourth (or fifth?) year Hufflepuffs gave them disapproving looks before Draco stuck his tongue out at them and fell to the ground in a fit of laughter.

"I´m telling you, Ron, it's not haunted." A familiar voice wafted by, oblivious to Draco and his goons, who were standing haphazardly nearby and swaying with the breeze, or was it the alcohol?

"Yes, it still is, Harry." Weasley. Even drunk, Draco could recognize their voices anywhere. "I´ll bet you...three Licorice Wands."

"Deal." Potter and the Weasel began to walk down the main road in the village, past the other shops and cottages and towards where the Shrieking Shack sat on a hill, abandoned, dark and desolate.

Draco´s eyes lit up like a Lumos charm at midnight, and he stumbled after the Gryffindorks, careful to maintain a good distance. Goyle and Crabbe looked at each other before obediently lumbering alongside Draco.

Draco managed to reach the Shack before Potter and Weasley. He grinned to himself and ducked down behind a ratty-looking bush near the dilapidated house. It might have once been the part of a garden. Crabbe and Goyle staggered loudly up behind him, shuffling.

"Get down, you lugs" he hissed, and they complied, giggling in their own chest-rumbling way. "And be quiet!"

Draco could see Potter and Weasley walking up the opposite side of the hill, wading through the dense undergrowth that was probably a lawn at some point.

"Ron, you honestly didn´t see him. You couldn´t have. Why would he be in Hogsmeade anyway?"

"I swear I saw him, Harry. I swear."

Draco nodded silently to Crabbe and Goyle and slipped into the Shrieking Shack through a shattered glass window that had never bothered to be repaired. They followed him in through the house, squeezing their bulks through awkwardly. Draco could hear the sounds of robes tearing on the shards of glass still imbedded in the windowsill. The Slytherins crouched under the window ledge, mindful of the spider webbing everywhere. Draco pulled off his gloves, which were covered in the sticky webs, and set them down. Potter and Weasley were approaching- their voices were loader.

"I´m not going in there," Weasley grumbled uncertainly.

Potter´s voice was even closer. "There´s no ghosts, Ron. Just a creaking old building. Nearly Headless Nick is full of rubbish."

"Who is Nearly Headless Nick?" Draco mouthed to Crabbe and Goyle. A Gryffindor ghost?

They both shrugged, unknowing and not understanding what Draco had asked.

Draco grinned at Crabbe and Goyle and let out his best ghastly moan and. "Oooo...I´m a ghost..." He waved his arms emphatically, though Potter wouldn´t be able to see his dramatics.

"What was that?" Weasley hissed, his voice rising.

"The wind. C´mon Ron, help me move this panel in the door." Draco could hear Potter grunting with effort and old, rotten wood crumbling and cracking

"Oooo...staaay awaaay..." Draco wailed piteously. It was fun pretending to be a ghost and even more amusing drunk.

Footsteps could be heard trotting off hastily, and then a plank of wood crashed to the ground.

"Wait! Ron, don´t run away just yet! It was a creak in the floor, you idiot."

"No, I- I saw a spider."

Draco couldn´t make out the muffled noises that followed.

"No, over there."

"Oh, that one´s tiny. How could it be scary?"

Draco couldn´t help it- Weasley afraid of spiders? That was priceless. He let out a stifled laugh that he blocked with the sleeve of his cloak, right before-

-a hand grabbed him by the back of his collar and hauled him out of his hiding space. He legs caught the window ledge and he landed on a weedy patch of grass in a not-so dignified heap.

Potter frowned at Draco, clearly not amused. "Nice try, Malfoy. Very funny."

Draco gave him a lop-sided smirk and giggled again. "Scare you, Potter?" he asked hopefully. Crabbe and Goyle had started sniggering as well. After climbing through the window sill, they started wandering around the neglected garden like the drunken lugs they were.

"You wish." Potter rolled his eyes, wrinkling his nose as though there were something foul under it, filling the air with a rank smell. "Malfoy, are you drunk?"

Draco blinked a couple of times, letting the question sink in. "No," he slurred as he staggered over to grope the remains of a dying tree for balance. "What would make you think that?" He flashed a silly grin.

"I can smell it on you."

"Oh," Draco continued to grin. "Sorry Potter, we didn´t save you any."

Even drunk I can make decent come-backs! Take that, Wonder Boy!

Potter grabbed Draco´s cloak sleeve. Draco didn´t recoil and he let the Gryffindork pull him down the hill to meet Weasley at the bottom. He nearly tripped over his own feet several times, too.

When the Weasel saw the Slytherin, he took a threatening step forward and drew his wand. He was glaring all the while at Draco.

"Wait´ll McGonagall sees this, Ron. Malfoy´s drunk." He gestured at the blond-haired boy with his free hand.

Weasley narrowed his eyes, but his curses went unnoticed by the Slytherin. Draco frowned. "Am not, you twits," he stumbled over his words. "Well..." Draco thought about it, "maybe just...slightly."

Weasley laughed darkly. "This is too good, Harry. Brilliant!" He was smirking in a self-satisfied Gryffindor kind of way.

Draco straightened, eyes betraying more malice than drunkenness. "And just wait´ll the Potions class hears your effeminate and pathetic screams when I `accidentally´ let loose a jar of spiders on Thursday. I can´t wait myself."

The Weasel´s face fell like a ton of bricks. He turned as red as his hair and scowled. "Fuck you, Malfoy."

Potter's green eyes widened and he removed his wand from his pocket. "You wouldn't." He glanced at Draco's expression and shook his head, sighing. "How about..." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "How about a deal." He jabbed his wand towards Draco. "You keep your mouth shut about Ron and we won't say anything about this."

Draco sneered, groping for his own wand somewhere in his pocket. "I don´t make deals." Then he abruptly tumbled over onto his arse in the moist earth.

Potter peered down at him, wand still pointed at Draco. "Oh?"

Draco groaned in frustration. Thinking was not working too well, nor was speaking. "Damnit, Potter, I can´t think in this state." Draco´s brow furrowed in confusion. "Fine," he spat at last. "Fine. Whatever." He moved to sit up, but he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. "Let me up."

The pressure left his shoulder. "Alright then- Sobrietus!" Teal ribbons of light shot out of the end of the Gryffindor´s wand and hit Draco squarely in the chest. He passed out with a dull thud.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Until he felt the distinct and vivid sensation of his head being pummeled into mush by a hammer in his brains, Draco thought that Potter had only stupefied him. He groaned in agony. His throat was dry and he had a horrible aftertaste of...rotten butterbeer? and curdled milk in his mouth. That alone was enough to make him throw up.

Bang. Bang! The hammer banged harder.

Bang! And harder still.

Ugh. Draco whimpered and writhed around on the ground, curled up in a piteous ball.

Finally, Draco managed to pry his eyes open. This turned out to be a terrible mistake as he immediately and very violently threw up on the ground, his limbs shaking with the force of his heaving. His stomach seemed as though it could never fully empty itself and he heaved again, feeling as though he were truly puking his guts out.

But the look on Weasley´s face, in addition to discovering that Weasley was petrified (literally, Draco hoped) of spiders, was very much worth it.