Long Time in the Making
Third Year
Having established that he could, indeed, manipulate situations to his own end (like generations of Malfoys and Blacks before him — and despite taking an injury to an arm his father had broken and restored each time that Mudblood outperformed his marks; they were well into a third year of similar results and parental abuse), Draco preened like the cock of the walk at his ability to unsettle Potboy and his pathetically persistent sect of sycophants. All his failures to gain their compliance (if not their honest respect) paled into wisps of memory. The 50-points lost to their botched Dementor prank would soon be redeemed; Hagrid would be dismissed and Buckbeak — who deigned to accept Harry-Fucking-Potter and not Draco “The Prince” Malfoy — would be dead. A two-fer would restore his reputation school-wide and diminish the acclaim heaped on Hogwarts' “Basilisk Butchers” for saving those fucking Mudbloods who shouldn’t be allowed in his school.
Hogwarts’ Chief Mudblood, however, couldn’t leave well enough alone and allow Draco this one victory — oh no; she had to react to his gloating with a fist to his face in front of her protectors and his posse. Another moment of mortification etched itself into the history of the Prince of Slytherin vs. the Mudblood Swot of Gryffindor.
Tearfully fuming at another opportunity wasted, Draco missed her late-night entrance into the hushed halls of the Infirmary.
“Malfoy?”
Only Merlin arriving to bugger him unconscious could make this day worse.
“I… I owe you an apology — not that you didn’t deserve it… I had no right to hit you. I’m… Ugh!! Why is this so hard!? I’ve never been provoked to violence by ANYONE, Malfoy! Not even Ron Weasley! Why can’t you just leave us alone!? Unless we’re paired on a project, we needn’t ever interact!”
The body in the bed gave no indication of awareness — an excellent performance.
“You won’t remember this, I suppose — not with all those potions, but you need to hear it: I’m sorry, Malfoy. I hope you feel better.”
Clicking heels matched the pounding in his head; he’d waited out her groveling before downing his pain potion which slowly stole his consciousness but left his confusion at her behaviour intact.