Bathwater

The Weasel King

The news of his upcoming nuptials had finally reached the ears of his parents. In his hand, Draco carried two very different letters from his mother and father, each telling him one thing he (deep, deep down) wanted to hear and one he (deep, deep down) wished was not true. The irony was not lost on him that even something as ridiculous and horrifying as marriage forced upon young adults by the Ministry of Magic would cause a conflict of interest and parenting skills between Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy—of course, that was unsurprising to Draco considering their distinctive takes on serving the Dark Lord, but still offered their only son up as the sacrificial lamb to save their family from inevitable ruin.

In similar fashion, both his parents found no use to fight the marriage law that would obligate Draco to marry someone not previously handpicked by them, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. 

Draco stopped when he turned the corner down an empty corridor, stuffing one letter into the pocket of his robes and balling the other. He stared at the knuckles pressing against the thin, white skin, popping out as he forced all his anger and magic to manifest there, turning the letter into ash. He opened his palm, watching as it seeped through the gaps of his fingers and onto the discarded belongings of someone sprawled on the corridor floor.

"Goyle," Draco called in an already annoyed drawl, "is there a reason why you're currently blockading this hall?"

Immediately, his old friend rose to his feet, dusting off his trousers and robes from the ash he had not known Draco let fall on him. "No reason," Goyle said, cheeks bright pink and a lopsided, odd smile on his mouth, "Just hanging out."

Draco raised a pale brow just as Pansy came around from the same turn the former had taken. She already had a twisted smirk on her red-painted lips; her distinguished, dark amusement revealed and visible, courtesy of her long, black hair being pulled back into a sleek ponytail with her emerald tie wrapped around her head as an accessory rather than a required item of her uniform. 

"He's waiting to intercept his bride-to-be," Pansy told Draco with a sharp laugh. "He's been doing this for three days now, trying to pluck up the courage to ask Padma Patil if he can walk her to her lessons and carry her books. It's all rather pathetic, really."

"Is not," Goyle snapped back at her, but Draco noticed he was careful not to look over in his direction just in case he saw through the glaring lie. "And I'm not waiting for her. She just happens to walk this way and I happen to be here at the exact same time she does. It's just a coincidence."

As Pansy scoffed at his explanation, Draco said, "Leave him alone. If he fancies the Gryffindor, better for him. He has to marry her, after all."

"Gryffindor? Isn't Padma the Ravenclaw twin?" Pansy asked him before then turning to Goyle. "Wait. Which one are you marrying?"

"Padma," he replied with a firm nod of his head, but then that faraway, confused look he often got slowly crept up on him. "Pavarti? No. Padma. Gryffindor. Right, Draco?"

"I have no fucking clue, Greg," Draco told him with a shrug. "I repressed everything about that sorting after my name was called out. I can't help you."

Goyle let out a curse, grabbed his discarded, tattered schoolbag from the floor, and rushed the opposite way he needed to be headed in. In a flail of robes, laughter, and stomps, Draco thought he heard him say he needed to go check the documents they were given after the sorting, he only had to remember where he had stuffed them into. 

"He needs Vincent." Draco turned away from Goyle's retreating figure, his previous frown still firmly in its place when he heard Pansy's voice. She reached to the back of her ponytail, twirling her hair around her skinny index finger, a laugh already bubbling at the base of her throat. "You know it's true. They weren't the smartest, that's for sure, but Greg depended on Vince for things we can't help him with."