Draco Malfoy sat up in the privacy of his four-poster, his heart pounding.
OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!
The sound of Mad-Eye Moody’s voice echoed in his brain relentlessly. Every time he closed his eyes he heard it;
every time he pulled the dark green coverlet up over his body he felt it tickle not skin but fur. And then it happened:
that yo-yo sick feeling of being bounced up and down, up and down, and the humiliation that came with lying spread-eagle
face-up and covered with robes (and very messy hair) staring up at the blasted enchanted ceiling in that stupid Great Hall, laughter
echoing off the stone walls as if it were some bizarre magnification chamber.
A magnification chamber for mortification. The usual wait until my father hears about this
wasn’t going to cut it this time, Draco knew; his father and Moody had a history with one another. The resultant
meeting with Snape hadn’t gone quite his way, either. Of course, Snape knew better than to dress him down in front
of Moody or any other teacher, but there had been malice—and worse, severe disappointment—in the Potions Master’s
eyes as he had assigned lines. Lines to him—to Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy—how dare he.
What a day.
Draco was thankful for the green-and-silver hangings surrounding his
magnificent bed. In the privacy of this space in his dormitory, no one could see the naked fury and abject misery
on his face. Tomorrow, he told himself, would be a better day. Much better.
If only he’d been able to hit Potter with that spell….
