Your First Year Wet Himself

Draco sighed.

It was a sigh of the thoroughly disgusted, disgruntled, and dissatisfied.

You couldn't really say he was unhappy, because he really had nothing to be unhappy about. His father was finally in Azkaban, where he belonged, may he rot in hell. Upon realizing that he hated his father more than anything, he felt kind of guilty; after all, the evil bastard was his father. Of course, memories of him whispering Crucio chased those thoughts out of his head. Draco was a Slytherin prefect, and there wasn't a kid in the house who wouldn't wet themselves should he tell them too. He was even dating Blaise Zabini, brainless but, hell, her equipment wasn't exactly lacking. He had received eleven O.W.L.s, most definitely not bad. So no, he wasn't unhappy.

He was.... Bored? Maybe. God knows nothing was happening around here. Or, rather, everything was happening around here, just not to him. Wake up, eat, class, Quidditch, eat again, and go to sleep. Repeat as necessary. Of course, bloody Harry Potter had plenty to do, what with dropping Divination to have private DADA with some chick with pink hair. Stupid Potter. Always walking around like the world was ending. Mope here, mope over there, pick at some food, and mope some more, that's all he ever did. Draco scoffed at the thought. Some savior he was. There was nothing Draco wished more then Harry Potter going back to being the arrogant perky bastard he had been. Now... now he was acting like, well, Draco. Draco was the one that moped around, because that's what made him so unfailingly sexy. He wasn't a cruel heartless bitch, he was misunderstood. One lip twitched into the trademark Malfoy smirk. Misunderstood. Right.

Draco pulled himself from the window where he had been mindlessly gazing out across the lake. He was pretty sure he had just seen the giant squid reach up and grab some first year. Better go haul them out, Draco sighed. If it's that god damn Richton again, I might just let him die. He's nearly been digested three bloody times this month.

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Harry Potter collapsed backwards into his bed. Now what? he thought. He had finished his extra DADA lessons with Tonks early, having accidentally set her hair on fire. It's not like I meant to, he mused, I just wanted to cook my hamburger a bit more, and she got in the way. Completely innocent. Harry could hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone had been sent to check up on him. Great.

THUD

An obviously graceful someone. Twenty Galleons it's Ron, Harry bet himself. The door opened. Footsteps. Harry smiled; with feet that big, the footsteps almost had to belong to Ron.

"Glad you find setting Aurors on fire funny, Harry. I told you that you needed a new hobby," said a very disgruntled Weasley somewhere off to Harry's left.

Ron. Damn, I am good. Twenty Galleons to me. Harry smiled.

"You missed dinner. Again."

Eating was not that important to Harry anymore. Of course, you could set your watch by how Ron ate. So it didn't surprise Harry that that was the first thing Ron thought to say.

"Are you just going to lie there? You do remember that Snape assigned a two-footer on the uses of powdered bison horn in sleeping potions, right?"

Snape. Damn Snape. Trust him to ruin a perfectly good moping. Despite what Ron thought, Harry was pretty much convinced that Snape was to be trusted. Just not liked. Never liked. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"HARRY!!! ARE YOU DEAD??"

Ron was inches from his face, and screaming as loud as humanly possible in an attempt to rouse him from his homicidal thoughts of Snape.

"No, and it wouldn't matter if I was, a scream like that would still wake me up, and put me in about the same mood." Harry shoved Ron off of him, stood unsteadily and stretched his sore muscles. When he wasn't in classes or training, he was flying constantly, and his body let him know how much it protested.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine." Ron raised an eyebrow at Harry's disgruntled appearance and bad mood. "Go eat."

"Why? I ate yesterday."

"Eating = fun. And you need fun." With that, Ron shoved him out of the portrait hole

Why the hell not? I could go for some mashed potatoes right now or maybe a bit of pie... Harry was surprised to find he was hungry. Haven't been hungry in a while...Interesting. He meandered down the halls, thinking off all the ways he could cause Snape bodily harm with common Muggle household things like staplers. Or maybe a wooden spoon. Or...

CRASH

A very wet and disgusting looking Malfoy looked back at him from his identical spot on the floor; Harry had not been watching where he had been going, and obviously neither had the sopping wet blond. An even wetter (if that is possible) and slimy and half-digested first year stood cowering off to the right.

"POTTER!!! WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU DOING? YOU FILTHY HALF-BLOOD!!" bellowed Malfoy. His face started to turn a shade of red not commonly found in nature, yet surprisingly similar to the face of Uncle Vernon. Harry couldn't help but picture Malfoy and Vernon in a screaming match. The thought was too funny. He couldn't help it. He sniggered.

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS SO FUCKING FUNNY? TYRING TO RUN ME OVER? OH YES I FORGOT YOU'RE THE BLOODY BOY-WHO-LIVED-TO-KNOCK-ME-OVER!! IT ALL MAKES BLOODY SENSE NOW!!" Malfoy brutally pushed a large clump of mud and grime out of his vibrantly blonde hair. Harry idly wondered if it glowed in the dark.

"Malfoy. This day keeps getting better and better." Harry hauled himself to his feet and found, though a bit dustier and slightly damp, he was none the worse for wear. Malfoy continued to scream and curse at everything that moved, causing the majority of the halls' portraits occupants to flee to less... vulgar areas. Malfoy was currently telling him in which very specific parts of his anatomy that he could stick his "FUCKING PILE OF TWIGS YOU THINK IS A BROOMSTICK." Harry decided to refrain from telling Malfoy that his broomstick was at least twice as good as his in order to keep full possession of his other broomstick. Malfoy looked right about ready to rip it off.

"Sod off Malfoy, you'll fucking wake the dead," Harry said, and trotted off towards the kitchens, pointedly ignoring the shrill screeching voice following him down the hall describing just how very dead he would be when Malfoy was done with him.

"Oh, and Malfoy?" Harry turned around at the end of the corridor to look back at the disheveled blond standing at the other end. Surprisingly, Malfoy stopped his assault on the ears of anyone within a ten mile radius.

"What?"

"Your first year wet himself."

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Draco lay awake in his bed, Blaise asleep next to him (He was horny and sixteen years old with a hot easy girlfriend... what do you expect?). Somehow, he couldn't get Harry out of his head. Great, this is lovely. I fuck my girlfriend, and then obsessively think about my arch nemesis, who just so happens to be the most sought after guy in school after yours truly. Next I'll be reading "How to Be a Happy Homosexual." Fucking grand. Something about the way his screaming of insults hadn't ignited Potter's temper like it usually did bothered him. The look on Potter's face... it was almost as if he had somewhere else more important to be, like arguing with Malfoy wasn't good enough for him. Draco fumed at the thought. Not good enough for Harry bloody Potter my ass. So what if he can save the world five times over? We all know he's not getting any. Draco looked fondly over at Blaise and finally drifted off to sleep.