A Portrait of Loathing

Draco sits in the emptied Arithmancy classroom. He should, by all rights, be working on his end-of-term project, but it is hot and he doesn't want to move. His hair is damp and sticking to the back of his neck in a quite irritating manner. The room is filled with the natural light falling through the window. A fire or charmed light would require Draco to do something, and plus, it would only make the room hotter. So instead he is lounging back in his chair, letting a charmed scrap of parchment fan at the muggy air in front of his face.

The heat is drawing a metallic smell from the stones of the castle, and he is fairly annoyed that he is stuck in the classroom instead of down in the dungeons, where it is always cool.

He plucks the sweaty fabric of his robes away from his chest, hoping some cooler air will find its way to his sticky skin. He drops his hand in resignation, then sits and thinks for a minute. He is thinking of the consequences of being out of dress code. He comes to a conclusion that seems pretty reasonable to him - that if he leaves the robes on he will surely die from the heat, and it should be obvious to any authority figures that without the robes, he will surely live a long and productive life, which will put them both in the same corner. And anyway, the weather is unseasonable, and has even the professors under its spell. Everyone is a bit more lethargic and willing to let things slide. He is also rather sure that he saw Professor Sprout duck into one of the greenhouses wearing a ruffled bathing suit. He is also sure that the sight has scarred him for life.

He finally stands up and tears the robes up over his head and then collapses back into the chair, panting from relief. His thin white shirt is soaked through, and his jeans are a bit damp, but the air is blessedly closer to his body now that the heavy fabric is out of the way.

He slowly moves his head and looks to the window, the only place beside his charmed parchment that a breeze might come. From his high vantage point in the castle, and the angle he is looking from, he can only see the blistering blue sky and a single owl who looks as though her feathers have melted to her body, flying listlessly. He pulls himself up again with a certain amount of effort and moves languidly to the window.

He looks down to the grounds, so far below him, the moving figures resembling nothing more than drooping dolls. The air between him and the lawn is shimmering and wavy with the force from the unrelenting sun. He can still recognize the limp boy sprawled in the gardens near the bumbling gamekeeper's sad excuse for a house.

Draco feels the habitual slow-burning hatred spread itself through his stomach at the sight of the Boy-Who-Should-Drop-Dead-Of-Heat-Exhaustion. It is a tangible thing, the searing abhorrence he feels at the sight of him. It circulates his body through his veins, putting every hair on his body on end, clenching his fists, staining his cheeks, quickening his breath.

He watches as the puffy-headed Mudblood approaches the prone figure. She moves her wand easily through the recalescent air. A moment later, a thick white cloud appears over Potter's messy head, and small glittering flakes begin to fall down onto him. He can see his sudden grin, and he despises it. That hag Granger sits next to him, and the snow falls into both of their upturned mouths.

From Draco's high point, he cannot hear their laughter. He turns and goes back to his desk, where he picks up his quill once more and begins to write. He is surprised when the quill snaps between his clenched fingers.