the trial ; d.m

13

Halloween 1996 - Sixth Year

Draco sits alone, brooding with a glass of firewhiskey in hand which entertains him while he absentmindedly observes the common room action unfold.

But he's mostly thinking. His head is too loud these days. Nothing a nice drink and a room filled with obnoxious students and music can't fix.

It's amusing to watch a room packed with drunken messes. How completely out of it they are, though completely in the moment, nevertheless convincing themselves they're actually having fun. Relying on the booze so they don't reveal any of that awkward teenager bullshit.

Though they're certainly having more fun than Draco. Even if it's not real.

Because he's not here to enjoy the festivities of Halloween or find someones throat to lodge his tongue down. He's here for the drink, because there's lots of it. And it's the most agreeable form of self destruction he can nurse himself with.

His attention drifts over to Nott and Zabini, who are both accompanied by Parkinson as she tries to weave her way between them, grinding ruthlessly in beat with the song.

But there's competition, he notices.

Because Parkinson isn't the only one clearly trying to get a piece of Slytherin's finest.

It's the Riddle girl, and she's not holding back. Draco sits up a bit, leans forwards over his lap and observes with resigned intrigue.

There's something he finds alluring about the girl, but he can't place what it is. Ever since returning from summer, she'd certainly got her way with the boys. Apparently growing a pair gets you places.

No one paid any attention to her before that. She was just the insufferable argumentative, know it all that pissed everyone off. A carbon copy of Granger, though even more insufferable due to her Slytherin edge. Not one person could give a fuck what she had to say, not until she returned Sixth year, prettier in all ways.

Draco isn't blind. He can see why they're suddenly obsessed. And if given the opportunity he would fuck her too.

But now he sees she's picked her match.

Theodore Nott. One of Slytherin's royalty, of course.

Draco finds himself watching closely as she steals her way in, swaying her hips whenever she knows Nott is getting an eyeful of her. She holds an innocent look which Nott clearly craves, but Draco can sense the darkness everyone else seems blind to. He can practically feel it radiating from her, manipulating Nott to make her his own.

Though maybe this is him getting confused with his own. There's too much of it now after all.

His observations are interrupted when Parkinson appears in front of him, hanging over him with a bratty pout on her face.

"Who are you gawking at?" she ridicules, snatching his face in her hand, forcing him to look up at her.

"Pansy," he greets.

"Fucking hell, I'm bored. When did these become so mundane?"

"When everyone stopped wanting to fuck you."

She swats her hand at his chest, and a mischievous grin pulls up at her face.

"You never have though, have you darling?" she pouts, collapsing gracefully forwards onto his lap, straddling him. She's wearing a ridiculously short black slip that rides up her thighs as she adjusts herself on top of him.

"Yeah alright, Parkinson." He takes a swig of his whiskey, disregarding her slow grind on him. She starts kissing his neck, and he feels nothing. When she realises this, she backs up and frowns.