All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 3

Much of the evening is spent perfecting the tricky little curse he plans to use on Potter, and by the time Draco retires to bed, removes three slightly chewed mint leaves from under his pillow, and pulls his embroidered autumn quilt up to his chin, he is feeling rather serene about the whole thing. The following night's sleep is the best he's had in a long time, and he is positively cheerful as he strides around his rooms the next morning, humming as he stands under the gargoyle in his bathroom and lets the hot water and steam envelop him and chatting away to Stanley as he sits on the edge of his bed and fastens up his boots.

"I suppose it's quite a simple concept, but I am rather proud of the spellwork," he says. "The Full Body-bind is such an underused curse, and it will drive Potter to absolute distraction. I'm setting it to release after a minute, but I think that's long enough to teach him a lesson about taking points from Slytherin, don't you?"

Tack-tack, offers Stanley, trundling along Draco's sideboard and sending a comb, two books and a box of teabags clattering to the floor in his wake.

"Stanley, you are a menace to both the living and the dead," Draco sighs, but he doesn't bother to check his smile when the infernal beetle clicks ingratiatingly at him, because no one's here to see it.

Stanley hops from side to side and flaps his (non-functioning—Draco has checked) wings in a well-worn entreaty to be picked up and carried around, but receives only a stern look in response.

"I don't think so. I'm going to breakfast and you can't come with me. You will be seen and I will be in trouble—or worse, everyone will want to be your friend and I will never see you again."

Tacking gently, Stanley waves his antennae, sending a roll of parchment flying, and Draco raises his eyes to the ceiling. Relenting slightly, he picks up the beetle and sets him on the rug before he can do any more redecorating. He will, no doubt, climb back up onto the sideboard, but it will take him a good while to do it.

Some minutes later, Draco takes his seat near the end of the staff table in the Great Hall, distractedly chewing on a triangle of toast as he waits for Potter, who is always late. He is down to the last crust before he realises he has forgotten to butter it, but eats it anyway, washing it down with a gulp of mud-like coffee. Potter arrives, looking scrubbed and irritatingly healthy, just in time. He is literally pulling out his chair next to McGonagall when the sound of wingbeats announces the arrival of the post owls, and what better time to sneakily curse a colleague than when he and every other witness in the room is distracted? Draco hardly ever has any post—his mother prefers the occasional firecall these days, and his Potioneer's Weekly always comes on a Friday. Today is no exception, and he seizes his opportunity as Potter is opening yet another intriguing-looking package.

He knocks his fork off the table, and, on the pretext of picking it up, bends and casually flicks his wand in Potter's direction, mumbling the words to the curse as he gropes around on the cold floor for the dropped fork. Nothing happens, but he feels confident that it won't be long. Straightening up, he smiles, inhales the deliciously savoury air, and politely asks Slughorn for the bacon platter. It may be a little bit premature, but he feels like celebrating.