Whenever she got sad, there was 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲.
And on the other hand, whenever he got sad, there was 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫.
Until they discovered something that only required both of them in the same room -- nothing else.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 �...
Just a note that I do not in any way approve of misogyny and of girls being objectified. I am as feminist as they make them, and I am also against some parts of this chapter.
Anyway, enjoy the first Draco POV :)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I gaze at myself in the mirror. I'm wearing my Quidditch uniform for the first time this year, and it's a bit looser than usual.
I straighten the emerald green collar and brush my hair back. I walk to the back of my closet and grab my broom, and that's when the bathroom door opens.
I'm startled at first, but then I remember I can't be alone in this dorm room forever—that's not how it's supposed to be. Even if I did feel special when this space in my room was still private and personal.
That dimwit that got expelled gave me the privilege of owning the party room—where Theo, Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle, and some other Slytherin boys and I would hang around without being caught. Until this day, no one's got a clue about the things that have occurred in this room. Loads of alcohol was consumed, and Theo snuck a muggle box of cigarettes once (I was not a fan of it). Conversations have also taken place—from the latest Quidditch brooms to the girls we'd like to fuck and how we'd do it.
I've personally never given an entry to that, but I do have a clear idea on who my friends would fantasize about in the bathroom.
Theo's got a thing for Gryffindors, especially after his one night stand with Granger the summer before fourth year.
Blaise keeps it on the low most of the time because of me—but when he's drunk, all he talks about is marrying my cousin and having her in bed the moment the ring slips on. But, for all I know, a ring and a stupid white ceremony doesn't need to happen for that.
Crabbe doesn't have a preference. He'll fuck anything and everything that moves.
I'd sit and listen to them—give an insight every once in a while like "try placing a mirror in front" or "make her touch herself".
Until a late night in the second week of fourth year, Adrian Pucey asked me, "How 'bout you, mate? Who'd you like to get your hands on?"
When I don't answer, the night continues and the bottles go on emptying.
Now, a case of firewhiskey bottles is sitting untouched in the back of my closet.
