Chapter 40 : Draco Malfoy
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Title: The Greatest
Rating/Warnings: 15+ (mild violence, mild language)
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It was a given that they’d choose me as Prefect. I mean, come on, with Lucius Malfoy as my father, how could they not choose me? I was the most desirable candidate out there, among any of the Houses! The next closest candidate would have been that pretty-boy, Zabini, but even Dumbledore saw the light with that fellow—too busy preening to take notice of his immediate surroundings. Unlike myself, Zabini has no vision beyond his mirror. Plus, Father would see the Board of Governors again if they hadn’t chosen me, and I know very well that no one would enjoy that experience! He knows too many of their more embarrassing secrets, if you know what I mean.
The best part of being a Prefect, well, one of the best parts, is that Potter is not a Prefect. That’s the very last thing this school needs—Dumbledore’s pet boy wonder bowing to his every command. It’s bad enough that I have to endure Potter’s very presence in the corridors. If I had to endure him as Prefect, I think I’d run off and beg the Dark Lord to let me be a Death Eater straight away. But all is well, even if Weaselby is Prefect, along with the Mudblood.
As Prefect, I’ve discovered that there are many perks, which for a Fifth Year like myself, is no small thing. Of course, as a Malfoy, I deserve as many perks as I can grab for myself. That’s just natural. What do the Muggles call it? Oh yes, Manifest Destiny.
Take the Prefects bathroom, for example. I’ll be honest about something. I always thought that nothing could surpass my private bath. They know that I like things just so—why shouldn’t I? I deserve it! I wanted a waterfall in my bath and of course, they got me the very best one. I wanted solid gold taps and pure water, white Italian marble floors and the best, thickest cotton towels available, and I got all that, too. Mother saw to everything. I could tell you some pretty wild tales of what Pansy and I got up to in my private bath during summer holidays when our parents were up to who knew what. All I can say is that I’m glad the walls don’t talk at Malfoy Manor. Father made sure of that.
The Prefects’ bathroom at first made me angry—Mother and Father assured me that I had all the very best at home, but it quickly became obvious that I did not. That bothered me greatly—in fact, I wrote a missive to Mother right away, reprimanding her for her negligence and instructing her to make the necessary changes to my own bath—immediately. In the Prefects’ bath, for example, you can turn a knob and have any number of soap bubbles in all colours and fragrances pour out. I didn’t get that at home. I spent a lot of time in that bath during end of term exams—I could study, relax, sneak a cigarette or two, maybe a bit of fire whiskey and the occasional tobacco alternative, and completely unwind from the long day of bullying the First Year Gryffindors. Thankfully, there’s a lock on the door, so no one can walk in on you when you’re starkers.
On the other hand, catching someone else in there could be quite fun. One time, for example, I heard that some Hufflepuff troll was letting non-Prefects use the bath. That, I determined, would come to a quick end. The easy thing would be to complain to my Head of House, but I decided to take advantage of the situation first, and especially, to take advantage of my position. I found out who was doing it, some fool called MacMillan, so I sort of set a trap, in a manner of speaking. I fixed the door so that you couldn’t completely lock it, and then, I waited for the right moment. Sure enough, MacMillan and that Mudblood Fitch-Fletchley showed up. This could be quite a scene. But once MacMillan let the Mudblood in, he left. But that was OK with me. Catching a Mudblood would just make it that much better.
I brought a camera Goyle had nicked from Creevey the year before. Fitch-Fletchley was in the bathroom for quite some time—I swore I could hear him singing some disgraceful Muggle tune in there—and I waited until he was completely relaxed and out of it. And then, I burst open the door, and just as he had half jumped out of the bath, completely starkers, I got a photograph. I still have it somewhere. The best part is the shocked, horrified look on the Mudblood’s ugly face. Then, I just ran for it, all the way to the Staff Room, where I demanded to see Sprout, the Hufflepuff Head of House.
“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked, very curious as to why I would want to see her of all people.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Professor,” I said very politely, “but it has come to my attention that Ernie MacMillan has been admitting his non-Prefect friends into the Prefects’ bathroom. I thought you should know so that you might speak to Mr. MacMillan about it.”
She smiled at me. I could see why Longbottom liked her so much. She had this sort of soft, simpering look on her squashy face that made idiot gits like Longbottom feel as if someone actually cared about them.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Malfoy,” she replied. “I will speak to Ernie right away. I am very glad you brought this to my attention.”
What a sap. You’d think she were in charge of Gryffindor House or something. They’re just as silly and asinine—perhaps even more so.
Stupid Gryffindorks. It appalls me to see just how much they get away with around here, as if they were the gods’ gift to wizardkind or something. Father says Dumbledore is in Potter’s back pocket. He must be, I mean, I’ve never seen a student get as many privileges as Potter. I wonder how much he pays off Dumbledore to get his way. Father has never had so much luck with the old man. He always has to pay off the Governors or even that Umbridge cow to get anything done. I don’t see why he feels that it should be so necessary. I’m a good student—I get O’s and E’s on most things. It makes me wonder if he’s paying for my grades. Apparently Potter isn’t, because his are terrible! Tosser.
Anyway, life as a Prefect has other perks besides the bath. I often use the excuse of patrolling the halls after hours to go out of bounds with Pansy. We’ll tell that idiot squib Filch that we’re going to check on a noise we thought we heard—our favourite excuse is to say that we thought we saw a Gryffindor with a dungbomb. The fool believes us every time! And of course, you can imagine what we get up to. We are careful, I mean, I’ve never been in a position where I would be forced to marry the girl or anything. Not yet, anyway.
One time, though, Snape caught us. I know the guy is pretty pent up and all and he hasn’t had any action since…well he’s probably never had any. Who would want to shag such a greasy, Dementor-like wraith? My gods, he’s positively foul! Bloody brilliant, of course, very clever, but that’s about it. I don’t see what the Dark Lord wants with Snape. Father said that Snape is treading on thin ice right now; he even suggested that Snape’s days are numbered, unless he can really prove where his loyalties lie. I don’t really care about his stupid loyalties. He can be loyal to a ruddy hippogryff if he wants. All I care about is being able to do what I need to do, when I need to do it.
So when Snape caught us, I tried to put on my usual charm. Mother told me that Snape was a real sucker for a good sob story, but only if it came from a Slytherin, and especially if it came from me. Apparently, he had quite a thing for Mother when they were at school—she never did anything with him, naturally. In fact, she remembers him as this sort of pathetic, greasy weirdo with bad hair and a lot of dark secrets who used to skulk about in dark corners, waiting for her to pass by. I often think of that whenever I see him. It allows me to take him much less seriously.
“Just what do you two think you’re doing?” he asked us in that sort of hissing sneer of his.
Well duh! What did he think we were doing? Performing tonsillectomies? Incredible!
“Oh, good evening, sir,” I crooned in my silkiest, most innocent voice. “We were just taking a bit of a breather. Patrol and all.” Pansy cowered behind me, straightening her robes.
“Yes,” he replied, “I could hear you two breathing clear down the corridor!”
So he was going to play hardball. I could handle it. I’d been talking my way out of trouble with Father for years. I could take on Severus Snape any time. He’s no match for Father. Plus, he doesn’t have that serpent cane like Father does. That was an advantage for me.
“Oh, that was a pair of Gryffindorks, sir. We chased them off,” I lied. Pansy sniggered. I wished she hadn’t. No matter how many times I have to take her in hand, she ends up doing something stupid. It’s just a good thing that she’s a terrific kisser, or I’d be with Daphne Greengrass in about a second. Daphne’s no great asset to Slytherin House, but at least she can do one thing right.
The sharp scowl on his face told me pretty fast that he didn’t believe me. He stuck a bony finger in my face and gave me his very best glower.
“If I catch you two again, I will write to your father!”
Jerk. It’s no wonder he could never get any. Who would want to kiss that? Yech! I wouldn’t even make Granger kiss him on my very worst day! Well, maybe Granger. Then again, I wouldn’t expose a Slytherin to the kiss of a Mudblood. Even if he is annoying, Snape does have his uses. I wouldn’t want him to be tainted by a foul Mudblood. That would be beyond cruel, even for me. Snape doesn’t scare me, however. Write to my father? I dare him! Father doesn’t care for Snape all that much, says he’s a bit dodgy, not one to be trusted fully. There were a lot of questions about him last year, when he didn’t appear at the Dark Lord’s side in June.
I shudder to think what Hogwarts would be like without him around here, though. More than anything, he’s my closest ally when it comes to things outside of class. That is something I can’t just cast aside, especially if I expect to maintain any sense of power at this place. Fortunately, I’m a decent enough Potions maker that he doesn’t give me any grief in class. Without him, things would be too unpredictable, too…I don’t know.
Another perk made itself apparent just last week, as I was trying fruitlessly to help Goyle and Crabbe revise for a Transfiguration exam. Honestly, one would think they were Squibs! They are so thick! I don’t know how they’re going to make it through their O.W.L’s. About the only talent they have is beating up First Year Hufflepuffs and stinking up the Slytherin common room after supper. Goyle once caused such a foul stench that we had to open up the windows for three days—in the dead of winter! Disgusting. As punishment, I made him write a love note to Loony Lovegood and send it to her with a chocolate frog. The freak was stupid enough to write him back! Well, even as Prefect, I am powerless to turn Gregory Goyle into a civilised human being. We all have our weaknesses—fortunately, I don’t have too many.
As we were all having a right good laugh at Lovegood’s expense, one day in the Great Hall, I happened to notice that a Gryffindor Third Year started hurling insults at us Fifth Years. This would be fun. I stood up, made myself as tall as I possibly could, which is pretty tall now, and I strode over to him. The brat’s name is Sloper or Slapper or something. Either way, the kid was way out of line. Well, maybe he wasn’t, but I decided that he was, so he was. My opinion was all that counted at that point. When I heard him use the word “arse,” I took that as my cue to let him have it.
“Hey, you,” I bellowed. “Get your Gryffindor arse over here!” I know, I know, I used the same word he did. I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite. I prefer the word “social Darwinist.” So Sloper schlumps over, hands in pockets, trying to look all innocent. Stupid Gryffindorks.
“What?” he asked inanely. I thought he’d start drooling in a minute with that stupid expression on his fatuous face.
“Is that how you address a Prefect?” I demanded, using my most dangerous tone.
“What, sir?” he said.
Sir! Amazing! “I’m taking ten points off of Gryffindor for your foul mouth!”
He stomped his foot. “That’s not fair! You can’t do that, Malfoy! You’re not Head Boy!”
“That’s ten more points for your cheek, and twenty for addressing me with a negative attitude.”
Pansy and Blaise laughed. But then that Mudblood Granger had to come over and spoil my fun. There she was, her rats nest of a hairstyle bobbing in the breeze, her pencil-thin lips pursed tighter than Potter’s arse. Gods, she’s a nightmare! It’s astonishing that Krum actually went for her last year! She must have had him under the Imperius Curse or something, because I can’t imagine that someone like him would even consider such a harpy as a potential girlfriend. Maybe a scullery maid, but not a girlfriend.
Anyway, Granger stomps over and says, “You can’t do that, Malfoy!”
Pansy made a terrific face at her, which made us all laugh. She sort of crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out sideways and tried to imitate Granger’s snotty voice. Hilarious!
“I most certainly can, Granger,” I replied. “And if you countermand me again in front of a stupid Third Year, I’ll dock Gryffindor another twenty!” Take that! I knew what I was doing. I was well within my rights. Interfering meddler.
So guess what the Mudblood did? She stomped off to McGonagall to tattle on me, as if we were Firsties again! Can you believe it? And all I can think is that the Deputy Head gave Granger a piece of her mind and a sharp dose of truth, because when the Mudblood came back, she looked vaguely chastened. You should have seen her! Her beady little eyes were narrowed, and she gave me this mean sort of look, like she wanted to mess with me. I wasn’t about to take that from the likes of her! I swooped in for the kill.
“Well?” I asked. “Satisfied now, Mudblood?”
“If you think you can abuse the rules and get away with this, Malfoy, you’re quite mistaken,” she said. I thought I saw some pumpkin pasty in her teeth. What a Neanderthal. Can’t even eat pudding without turning it into a disaster! Whoever marries that will have to hide her away, to keep from being humiliated. I hope she doesn’t breed. Normally, I’m not in favour of contraception, but I think I can make an exception in the case of Granger.
“What’s the trouble, Mudblood?” I said. “You’re such an insufferable doctrinaire when the rules suit you. Can’t stomach it when the rules don’t go in your favour, Mudblood?”
It got better. That carrot-top prat, Weaselby, comes to her defence. It was laughable.
He said, “Stop using that word!” Such a Weasley, measly voice.
“What word, King Weaselby?”
He narrowed his stupid eyes at me. “You know what word I mean.”
“Hmm, let’s see. Arse-brain?”
Everyone laughed. Weaselby turned as red as his hair.
“No?” I said. “Oh! Um…pathetic, stinking sod?”
More laughs. Granger tugged at Weaselby’s elbow, to get him to come away with her. Why he would go with that filth is beyond me. I tried again to spur him on.
“Oh! I know!” I said. “Low-class, ginger-haired, scrawling, bottom-feeding, rotten, feeble-brained burrower?”
I knew exactly what Weaselby would do, and it was exactly what I wanted. He tore himself from the Mudblood’s grasp and lunged at me. I played right into it, like always. Weaselby clenched my neck and squeezed—actually, I think he really meant to kill me this time—and it was only when Potter and Snape tore him off me that he let go. I fell to my knees, choking and gagging and coughing—he actually hurt me pretty badly. And before you say I deserved it, I would just point out that, whatever my intentions were, I did not deserve to get nearly strangled, especially by a blood traitor. I’d have to shower for a month to get the stink completely off me. You should have seen the bruises he caused. He would pay for that.
All the same, the raspy voice, the terrible pain and bruises I sustained on my throat were worth the sacrifice—seeing Ron Weaselby getting called before the entire staff and threatened with expulsion for attacking another student and a Prefect. Oh yeah, and the loss of two hundred points from Gryffindor was the icing on the cake! Too bad he didn’t get at least ten years in Azkaban for attempted murder. That would have been sweet. The Dementor’s Kiss—no, that would be too much. After all, I need Weaselby in my life, just like I need Quaffles and Snitches to play at sport.
My throat is all healed now, though I didn’t follow all of Madame Pomfrey’s instructions right away. I didn’t want to heal too fast or I wouldn’t have gotten all the sympathy I got from a lot of people, especially from Pansy. Her sympathy is rather sweet and lovely, if you know what I mean. Father was furious when they didn’t charge Weaselby with a crime. He filed a complaint with the Board of Governors saying that they had discriminated against me because I did not share an intimate connection with the great Harry Potter.
The other part of the whole incident that I especially appreciated was that first, I never had to admit any wrongdoing, nor apologise to Granger for, as some prefer to say, using the “M-word,” that is, calling her a Mudblood. And second, I got to stand before all of Gryffindor House and Slytherin House and watch as Weaselby was forced to grovel before me and Professor Snape and beg our forgiveness. Of course, I knew he didn’t mean a word of it, but that wasn’t the point. The point of the whole thing, at least for me, was to ensure the entire school who was in charge and who was not. That’s all it’s ever been about. After all, a blood traitor like Weaselby doesn’t deserve regard—that they chose him as Prefect can only be because of Potter’s influence.
No, I believe that the universe must be reconvened, and if I have to resort to drastic actions to ensure that, well, then that’s what I have to do. Father taught me as much long ago, and I mean to live up to his example.
Plus, Weaselby-baiting is much more fun than Quidditch. It’s so much more rewarding, too. A Quidditch Cup is a nice thing to have, to be sure, but the memories of putting blood traitors in their proper place is priceless. That’s what matters in the long run, and I believe that the Dark Lord will think well of me for doing it.
Gods! I love being a Prefect! It’s the greatest!
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