Draco and Detention

Normally I quite enjoy getting post in the mornings in the Great Hall, especially when I compare the number of sweets and presents I get with Potter, who gets nothing at all, except a letter or two from that great stupid oaf, Hagrid. But in any case, this morning held for an unwanted note:

                        Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock tonight.

                        Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall.

                        Professor M. McGonagall

Fuming, I crumpled up the note and threw it square in Crabbe’s head. Crabbe grunted, and continued eating his breakfast.

*          *            *

It was so unfair! I thought as I stomped through the Forbidden Forest. Those idiots who ran Hogwarts, to even have the audacity to sentence me to detention in this ugly forest! If I got hurt, Father would know about it and then someone would get sacked! Preferably Dumbledore or Hagrid, but anyone would do.

And the worst part of it was who I had for company: Longbottom, the blubbering snot. Potter, the tragic little hero and Granger, the know-it-all Mudblood were elsewhere in the forest, also serving out their detentions. The thought that at least they too were suffering was of some comfort. Oh, someday they would pay for this, I thought furiously, as I watched Longbottom stumble over his own robes. Fang the boarhound was keeping close to Longbottom, and every now and then would let off a pathetic little whine.

What a coward, I thought to myself. Longbottom was so jumpy, he’d shriek at his own shadow. Such an easy person to frighten. In fact…

“Wh-what was that?” Longbottom asked fearfully as I stepped on a branch and made a particularly loud CRUNCH!

I kept silent and fell back among the dark, ominous-looking trees.

“M-Malfoy?” Longbottom cried out, voice quivering. I gave no answer, and he looked around wildly. “Malfoy! Where are you? Where–”

“AAAAAAAAAAARGH!” I screamed so loudly that any banshee would have been Slytherin-green with envy. I grabbed Longbottom by the shoulders and pretended to drag him away.

Longbottom went hysterical, yelling and kicking about weakly. I could barely hold onto him as I felt a laugh creeping up on me. And then, I suppose I had loosened my hold on Longbottom, for he fumbled into his pockets, grabbed his wand, and sent up red sparks, which was the signal for danger.

At this I let go of the prat, no longer able to hold back the peals of laughter that gripped me and rendered me helpless. Any intelligent wizard would have used the moment to curse me, but as Longbottom is the furthest thing away from “intelligent,” he only gaped at me stupidly.

I had sunk to my knees on the forest floor, still laughing like mad when Hagrid found me. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me away. I would have protested and insisted that he get his grimy hands off of me, but I was laughing far too hard to even say, “No.” When I had finally calmed myself down, Hagrid let me go, and I walked alongside Longbottom and Fang.

“Boo,” I said to Longbottom with my best sneer. Hagrid glared at me and I decided to stay silent.

We reached the path where Longbottom’s beloved friends, Potter and Granger, were waiting with identical anxious expressions. They looked sympathetically at Longbottom, who looked so pitiful I couldn’t believe anyone could have compassion towards him.

Hagrid furiously explained what had happened. I realized I had paid dearly for that moment of fun, however, for Hagrid rearranged the groups – Longbottom, Granger, and Hagrid would go in one group, and Potter, Fang, and I were to go in the other.

For nearly half an hour we walked, Potter and I gazing stonily ahead. I myself was so filled with contempt that I could hardly keep myself from grabbing Fang and leaving Potter in the middle of a dark forest that housed werewolves. Famous Harry Potter could stand up to the Dark Lord, but could he manage a vampire? Hah!

I noticed, in between the images I drew up of what kind of beast would attack Potter and how, that the trees were becoming thicker so that the path was harder to follow. The blood on the ground, unicorn’s blood, silver and shiny, was becoming more like puddles and small pools than stains. Some of the blood had been splashed onto the roots of the trees as though the unicorn had run through, frantically kicking through the tangled bushes and leaving behind its blood.

Suddenly Potter held out a hand to stop me. “Look–” he murmured.

I almost cursed him right then and there for ordering me to do something, but something bright white on the ground caught my eye, and I looked.

There it was – the unicorn, slayed, and lying on its side. Potter took a step forward towards the dead unicorn. Did he think he could bring it to life? I wondered scornfully, and nearly asked him so. But then he froze, for there was a slithering sound coming from behind the bushes – and a hooded figure crawled out of the shadows. It didn’t seem to notice us as it made its way to the unicorn, bent its head to the wound on the dead creature’s side – and began to drink its blood.

For the second time that night I let off an unearthly scream. I ran. I didn’t care what Potter thought. If he wanted to hang around and wait for the cloaked monster to eat him, he was more than welcome. But I’m not a Slytherin for nothing: I ran.