Pretty to Think So

- Pretty to Think So -

It was another fine, fine day to be Draco Malfoy. It was day 66 of year 6 and he was still the prettiest, wittiest boy in the school. That was, of course, just as it should be, not least because every day was a good hair-day, and in the end, there was nothing quite like knowing one looked smashing with those subtle silver highlights to cheer one up. Potter may still be an imbecile, his father may still be in prison and talking in capitals, but Draco knew what he had going for him, and it was plenty. Especially now that his fondly-remembered cousin from Ireland (on his father's side) was coming to soothe his mother's frazzled nerves.

It made Draco smile just thinking about the welcome he would of course be obliged to give to cousin Maya when he finally got home for Christmas break this year. It was only common courtesy, and a Malfoy would never disappoint when it came to that; well, that, and the hair. Some thought The Hair was a Malfoy gift, something to do with Veelas and a mysterious bargain struck with shady and otherwise questionably evil benefactors, but the truth of the matter was, the house-elves were quite good at making the Malfoy Family recipe shampoo. It brought in quite a sizeable side income, too.

Draco didn't even notice the way Potter didn't notice him and the way those Hufflepuffs were looking at him, like they were all plotting his demise, just one great big hive mind of evil. He didn't care that Potter this and Potter that and Potter the other thing. He was taking a break from Potter this month; it was admittedly difficult, but the pay-off was well-worth it. His rage level was significantly down lately, and he'd even begun to notice how pretty the flowers were in those Hufflepuff greenhouses. Of course, not that Draco would consider actually going -into- the greenhouses. The Hufflepuffs hid in the most surprising of places at times, everyone knew that. He wasn't really concerned with the way one particular Hufflepuff was looking at him.... He normally wouldn't think twice about such things even on a bad day, when Pansy had PMS and wasn't paying attention, but this particular Hufflepuff was particularly disturbing. He reminded Draco of himself, which almost never happened. This was quite unnerving, because Draco was entirely certain he was unique in all the world, for better or for worse; his mother told him so when he was five, and no one would ever convince him otherwise.

Someone was even having the gall to send him generic school-issue owls (by itself a mortal offence) with advice on how to look good and influence people. And by 'people', they meant Potter; this was, of course, completely out of line. Draco was in the midst of a Potter-free zone. Any violators therefore had to be prosecuted.

The first piece of advice read: "Try to be more personable; I think Potter would respond best to gentle smiles and perhaps a bit of flattery. Remember, sometimes the ends justify the means."

He had spent a nerve-wracking five minutes wondering whether to concern himself and fly into a rage, or just ignore it and see its utter insignificance in the scheme of things: rather like Potter's own insignificance. But something was now bothering Draco at the back of his mind, and he wasn't quit sure what. And then the second owl arrived:

"You are much too obsessed with your hair. Let it down a little, see it how it feels. Take up a hobby; it's relaxing and makes you seem interesting and in-depth. Have you considered knitting? Perhaps something more innovative, even artistic? Prove to Potter what a great and nimble mind you have, and he will come slipping into your fingers like water into a goblet. And whatever you do, don't blame the messenger."

Draco frowned. This was becoming almost... irritating.

He wondered if it was a Hufflepuff. It certainly smelled of Hufflepuff; the rampant stench of a sort of benevolent, sleepy evil pervaded the ink. On the other hand, Draco was well aware it could just as easily be a Slytherin; Pansy had been rather huffy lately. Maybe he should give her more of his mother's chocolates this week. The PMS was a bitch sometimes. Even so, Draco resolved to find out the name and the general gossip on That Hufflepuff, the one with the sickly blue eyes, who kept staring at him.

No one stared at Draco Malfoy unless he wanted them to. It was just a fact of life.

If they did, well, that's what Crabbe and Goyle were there for, weren't they?

Except somehow, Draco vaguely felt he'd lose if he had the insolent yellow-belly beat up. It was a tricky situation.

"Don't scowl so much, Draco, it gives you a perpetual look of being constipated, as well as increasing the likelihood of premature wrinkles. Also, it makes you look like Potter. Your temper makes you seem passionate and tempestuous, a true match for Potter, but your actions don't match your reactions, thus making you look bad. Remember: less bluster now means more subtle pay-off later."

At this point, Draco had had enough. No one mentioned him and wrinkles in the same sentence and lived. He knew it was That Hufflepuff. He kept... smirking at him, at breakfast and dinner. Like he -knew- something. Draco didn't know -how- he'd singled out that single Hufflepuff out of all the people who stared at him during meals (not the least of whom was always Potter), but he put it down to his innate sense of direction. Draco had a healthy appreciation for his (some might say) freakish ability to home in to the least promising target. It was a talent.

"You're getting warmer," the next note said, and Draco's hands trembled with fury. Only his background sense of very, very light embarrassment kept him from running to Snape and demanding tests were performed on the parchment and the perpetrator summarily executed. He was sure Snape could bribe Filch, if anything. "I can tell you're almost ready to truly make a change, Malfoy. Potter doesn't stand a chance; but why concentrate on Potter? Broaden your horizons. Look outside your predetermined expectations. Consider alternatives. I make no promises; I merely suggest possibilities."

His face was nearly scarlet with fury at this point. Draco Incendio'd the parchment with extreme prejudice and stomped on the ashes several times before he was satisfied.

There was little that annoyed him quite as much as the suggestion that he was obsessed with Potter. Why did everybody keep saying that? Did they -know- how much it annoyed him? Did they have any idea of the kind of -damage- he could do to them if he wished? The kind of damage his -father- could do to them? Had they no fear for their very lives? Draco found he just didn't understand humanity sometimes.

The Hufflepuff, meanwhile, had a name. No particular gossip, and the name itself didn't ring a bell, naturally; what Hufflepuff -could- ring a bell? There were, of course, a large number of plebeian jokes on this motif (how many Hufflepuffs does it take to ring a dinner bell? The whole House-- they would have to share the work -and- the dinner, because they'd cooked it themselves).

Zacharias Smith.

It was, Draco thought, something of a common, Mugglish sort of name. Whoever heard of the Smiths? Outside of smithies, that is. Draco suspected there was something underhanded going on with these names-- all the Potters and the Smiths of the world, worming their way somehow into the wizarding world. What would wizards need with potters? Or smiths, for that matter? There were goblins and house-elves for that kind of work. There were different sorts of wizards out there, that much was painfully obvious.

Draco sent his beautiful, regal owl with a return message, priding himself on his restraint. Not that he was trying to -go- for restraint, because a Malfoy didn't restrain themselves on command. It was all a matter of blowing up at exactly the right time to cause the most damage. His father didn't understand -everything-. Not quite, anyway. Privately, Draco wondered if his father and his mum had even -done- it. Draco had, and he knew that the experience had given him an extra measure of insight, as well as a certain amount of worldly jadedness, now that Pansy felt free to inform him about her myriad bodily functions.

He'd told her once that he just didn't want to -know-, thank-you-very-much, but she'd huffed and said that if it's good enough to fuck, it's good enough to tell. Draco had decided that just couldn't argue with women's logic, especially when said woman was wielding a wand and shrieking something about emasculating him with meat-cleaver. Better safe than sorry, especially when one hadn't quite brought up the Talk quite yet, wherein one disavowed certain interested parties of their long-term prospects in the Malfoy hierarchy of things.

"Thanks but no thanks, you filthy little Hufflepuff!" he'd written, making his f's only a little jagged in his neat flowing script. "I don't need your stupid low-born advice and your idiotic conceptions about my non-existent concerns that, by the way, don't concern you. Fuck off before I hex your balls off, and that's if I decide to be nice. Beaver!"

He found it concise and to the point; it was no good waffling about the issue when your honor was at stake. Better to be firm and unquestionably clear. It was painfully obvious who the rulers of this school were, and who would become the future semi-indentured labor. Hufflepuffs became Slytherin nannies and Herbology professors, and if not, they lapsed into a sad life of petty crime. It was really too bad, but what was Draco supposed to -do- about it all? He was only one boy in a land full of grown criminals. He had to be protected! Cuddled, even. His cousin was good at that sort of thing, if Draco remembered correctly. He forgot about the evil Hufflepuff for a moment, leaning back into his armchair with a sigh. Maya gave the best massages of any of his many cousins, he thought with a blissful smile.

The reply came quite swiftly, now carried by a slightly (very slightly) fetching, petite sort of owl with a slight golden tint to its plumage.

"Now now, Malfoy. No need to be hasty. I admit I'm startled at your display of deductive prowess, but what can I say? I knew you had it in you! You see, you just had to try. That was easy, wasn't it? Want to join me for a nice sedate game of chess by the lake sometime? I have a long-time winning streak I wouldn't mind you beating, if you're nice to me. Of course, that is quite impossible, but remember, victory is more important than being nice.

Yours in sympathy,

Smith.

P.S. Oh, and it's `badger'."

After destroying several randomly scattered objects around his bed with a great flourish, Draco hexed the parchment many times over, with various skin-rash-on-contact and regurgitate-lunch-upon-sight spells, paying particular attention to the one that should make Smith's hair fall out and his teeth to wobble before they turned into flesh-eating worms. Draco was well-satisfied with his show of creativity.

The next owl took awhile to come, and Draco suspected it reached him from the hospital wing, though he carefully neglected to find out. He smirked, imagining the sort of moaning and begging for mercy contained within. This was nearly as fun as taunting Potter, he thought complacently. And less nerve-wracking, also.

"I am... suitably impressed by your considerable skill at the Dark Arts, Malfoy, but don't you think you should think twice before unleashing it upon a Hufflepuff? You know what they say about bad karma associated with hexing Hufflepuffs, and besides... how did you know I wouldn't report you? They will always believe one of my kind over one of yours. It is just the way these things work; you must know that. Don't trust a Hufflepuff to have loyalty to a Slytherin. Actually, I'd advise you not to trust a Hufflepuff at all. You never know what we're really up to, do you? And you won't.

Have a good day,

Smith."

Draco slumped onto his bed, a headache beginning to pound heavily between his eyes. He -knew- he should've taken this semester off to stay at home helping Maya get comfortable in the cold, lonely castle. It got almost creepy in the Manor with no intelligent company to entertain one, and Draco loved his mother, but he wouldn't necessarily term her company "intelligent", per se. He sighed. There was no help for it, he supposed. Malfoys must finish what they start, whether it be vendettas or chocolate pudding. This wasn't one of Draco's favorite rules, if anything because he absolutely -loathed- chocolate pudding, much to everyone's surprise.

"But Draco!" Pansy had whined at the time. "I thought you -loved- chocolate!"

Draco had always had to resist the urge to beat his head into the wall. His supposed love for chocolate was one of the (many) great misconceptions about him. Not that he minded the misconceptions, of course. Best to keep them all as confused as possible; made them easier to pick off, one by one, when the time came. Yes, even the Slytherins. Pansy would go first. Then Weasley. Potter, he would save for last, just before he conquered the world and had many swooning pureblood women licking daintily at his feet. Or perhaps massaging his toes with their bosoms, Draco wasn't -too- picky.

Regardless, it was now clear to Draco that he would have to take more desperate measures. Personal intervention was obviously needed.

Looking fragile and long-suffering, and dressing carefully for the occasion (which was very carefully indeed), Draco made his way to the hospital wing, thinking happy thoughts that in no way involved Potter or Hufflepuffs. As usual these days, his thoughts turned to his lovely cousin, who was probably getting ready for a nice relaxing bath in one of the Manor's luxuriously appointed bathrooms right about now. A nice relaxing... naked... bath. Draco took the time out to purr a bit.

One of the nicer things about his cousin, even to a less perfect being such as a seven-year-old Draco, was her voluminous bosom. Draco remembered fondly the numerous times he'd been allowed to fall asleep on it, being such a sweet little tot that no one could refuse him anything, least of all his more than lovely relation. A wide, silly grin spread across Draco's face as he flashed back to his child-self, sprawled inelegantly across the couch and partway across The Breasts. It was one of his more memorable childhood experiences, that much was indisputable.

"Hello, Smith," Draco drawled as he was turning the handle to the room he knew his stalker occupied. He was still feeling quite pleasant from his trip down memory lane, and was thus predisposed to being unusually civil... possibly even kind, which was not a word Draco would normally tolerate being applied to his person. "We haven't talked in awhile, so I thought I'd drop in... you know... just to see how you -were-...." He trailed off, snickering in a cruel, Malfoy-like manner.

Smith (and it -was- That Hufflepuff, unsurprisingly) looked unruffled, propped up against a number of pillows. Draco flinched to see that some of them were in House colors, but if he'd wanted to be fair for some inexplicable reason, he would have had to admit that was probably not Smith's own doing.

"Hullo, Malfoy. Fancy meeting you here. Didn't think we'd get a chance to chat like this before I was released so that we could meet for that friendly game of chess by the lake," he said evenly.

Draco snorted inelegantly, looking closer at Smith (not entirely of his own free will), checking for any leftover signs of former tentacledness. "Understandable. You and the squid should have more in common than ever these days. Besides being an awful menace and a pest to all of Hogwarts, I mean."

Zacharias raised a pale blond eyebrow (which offended Draco all by itself, since there really shouldn't be -two- eyebrows that pale in the school, should there). "I didn't know my modest pieces of advice would affect you so, Malfoy, or I would've considered what to say more carefully, since you'd be so obviously beset by it for better or for worse."

Draco scoffed, but inwardly he was becoming slightly worried. He wished Crabbe and Goyle were here. This was a perfect opportunity to do some real damage. The yellow-haired bastard wouldn't smirk much after that, would he?

"You know nothing, Hufflepuff, so why don't you just shut. The bloody fuck. UP. Toerag." Draco scowled ferociously, advancing on the prone figure until he was looming over him, wearing his most fierce expression of disdain. Distantly, he wondered where Madam Pomfrey was. Wasn't she supposed to protect poor innocent Hufflepuffs from their own evil machinations, or something of that nature?

"Or what, Malfoy?" Zacharias smirked. "You'll turn my hair black and snog me to death?"

Draco paused mid-loom, looking slightly perplexed. "Are you really severely mentally handicapped, or are you just -stupid-, Smith? What is this obsession of yours with Potter? It's unhealthy, you know. Maybe you should see someone about that. I don't bother hexing the mentally impaired, I'll have you know. It's bad for my image."

The other boy laughed, a genuine, tinkling sort of sound that startled Draco, as well as slightly disturbing him. It was almost like a cat laughing, except worse because it was a Hufflepuff.

"Me? -I'm- obsessed? Oh, that's a good one, Malfoy. No, really," he giggled, clutching at his stomach. "You crack me up. Oh, that's good. Tell me another one! Oh God... dying here!"

It wasn't supposed to go like this. Draco was at a loss as to what to do. He considered storming out in a huff to fetch his minions, or perhaps hexing the helpless little Hufflepuff (though Draco didn't want to consider just what sort of object Smith was oh-so-secretively clutching underneath the covers. It had to be his wand. He was just the type to play dead-in-the-water before the Crucio reared its ugly head.)

"I'm Not. Obsessed. With Sodding. Potter!! GOD FUCKING DAMN YOU PEOPLE! What is it going to -take- before it -sticks- in your tiny, tiny little brains?! Get it through your funny yellow head, all right?! I don't fucking -want- him! I don't even bloody well -like- him, okay? He's even more of a menace than you are, and that's saying something, because you're the most frustrating, disturbing, disgusting, -evil- bloody Hufflepuff I--"

Now Smith was -smiling-, just smiling widely like some sort of loon, really. Draco paused, feeling even -more- disturbed as he stared wordlessly at the awful spectacle of That Hufflepuff, usually so droll and almost pleasantly dry, -beaming- at him. Draco shuddered, about to get the hell away before he -caught- something he couldn't cure with a quick trip to that useless sodding nurse (another Hufflepuff, no doubt-- truly, they were everywhere), when Zacharias reached up, still grinning, and pulled him down, protesting furiously all the way. Until actual mouth-on-mouth contact was made, that is.

"Mmmph, wha--"

Distantly, Draco thought that he might have to revise his hierarchy of Malfoy-approved activities, because it definitely seemed as if there was something even more pleasant than Maya's bosoms. It was not entirely a bad thing, he decided after a moment's consideration.

Of course, Draco played the innocent at first. After the perfunctory moment's adjustment, however, Draco remembered that sort of thing didn't suit him at all and went on to bravely explore where he fervently hoped no Slytherin had gone before.

Smith's mouth tasted minty-fresh, but with an interesting flavor that lingered at the back of Draco's throat. "Mmmm, what is that?" he mumbled against Smith's lips.

"What is what?" the other mouthed intelligently against Draco's neck, doing yet more interesting things with his tongue.

Draco paused to recollect his thoughts. "Izzat choc'late?" He supposed he could reconsider his latent boycott for a worthy cause such as snogging, and a lot more of it.

He yelped when Zacharias nipped at his chin (though it had to be said, becomingly), certain he should be offended. That sort of liberty wasn't -allowed- yet, was it? "Mmmm," said his startlingly blond companion as he licked his way slowly towards Draco's mouth. "Nope, that's me."

Draco sighed, nearly content. "Oh," he breathed. "Good."

So predictably, Draco was in an even better mood when the final owl was nearly dropped in his cereal at breakfast the next day. He wasn't put out as much as amused by the flamboyancy; without style, the message would mean nothing. Obviously, association with him was already doing good things for That Hufflepuff's modus operandi. Draco preened, bapping Pansy's sticky fingers away from his fan-mail absentmindedly.

He failed to hold the note up to his eyes and wave it in front of his face dramatically as he read it aloud, as was his habit. He didn't even consider what conclusions Potter might not have a chance to draw because of Draco's popularity. That was because Draco was not (repeat: not) obsessed. It was a nice change. Maybe.

He might try it out for a bit; could be good for his complexion.

Pansy was looking at him strangely and Blaise was snickering. Draco was supremely unconcerned. He kept smoothing his fingers over the parchment, smiling beatifically and disturbing the firsties more than ever.

"You have particularly good hair today, Malfoy, congratulations," was crossed out carefully. "Malfoy," it said instead, the 'y' looped with a certain flourish. "I'm sorry, but I have to come clean at last. It's just not worth it if we're not honest with each other, is it?" At this, Draco paled, his heart beginning to pound inexplicably. "So... those notes weren't from me, they were from several of us at Hufflepuff, all concerned for your health and well-being. Your wicked demeanor was clearly a cry for help.... And you see, everyone loves you, Draco. We just wanted to help.

Don't worry though, you're all mine now, baby.

-Z.

P.S. The one with the beavers, that was all me though. That is to say, badgers."

When Draco looked over at the Hufflepuff table, horrified, he was faced with half the girls and a third of the boys in his year all staring at him; quite a number were blowing kisses.

"This is -it-!" Draco screamed. "My break is -over-! Draco fucking Malfoy is -back-! Goyle! Flank me!"

He stalked over to where Smith was sitting, his pale blue eyes dancing with extreme mirth. Draco was nearly having an aneurysm at this point, and the bastard was laughing! At -him-! It was simply the last straw. Draco was just about to let loose with something suitably impressive (just after he finished his inspection of Abbott's impromptu little... show for his benefit), when Zacharias spoke, still gasping for breath.

"I was just teasing, Malfoy," he got out, chuckling. "Did you really think everyone knows? Heh. They just think you're hot with your hair like that. Right, Hannah?"

Hannah giggled, blushing, and went back to coyly picking at her scrambled eggs.

Draco felt slightly appeased and nodded for Goyle (and Crabbe, who'd naturally tagged along) to return to their oatmeal and raisin cookies. They breathed an audible sigh of relief and ambled off. (A cry of "cookies!" could easily be heard all the way to Slytherin table.)

Draco thought a bit.

"So are you saying -you- love me, Smith?" Draco said at last.

"I would say I couldn't hate you, but I wouldn't want to make it -too- easy," Zacharias said wisely. "Spoils the fun, doesn't it?"

"Fair enough," Draco said upon further reflection, sitting down regally to dine with the Hufflepuffs.

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