Cheers, Potter.

You should be.

Draco's POV

I loathe myself, something I hadn't thought in weeks popped into my head as I woke from the deepest sleep I'd had in a long time. I ached, I felt sick, and I was annoyed. All feelings I was well acquainted with but this time I was felt all before breakfast; that had to be a new record. Not to mention the fact that gradually, memories from the night before had begun to bubble up to the forefront of my thoughts.

Dean Thomas? Really? That's the way that my drunken state saw fit to officially come out to my class mates? Oh, mon Dieu.

He was nice, I supposed, and no doubt good-looking, but a Gryffindor? I must have lost my mind. The very real urge to throw up into the nearest trunk assured me that that was true. Never again, I solemnly swore.

I looked up when I heard the door to the dormitory clunk open and Blaise, looking quite pleased with himself, entered.

"Late night?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"You could say that," he grinned, he was awfully chipper for someone who had drunk two bottles of Beetle Berry Whiskey to himself. I silently hated him.

"You know Weasley is now allowed to beat you to a pulp," I laughed weakly, "I'm not feeling particularly inclined to stop him."

"Ooo, someone's in a bad mood," he prodded, "is it because you realised you snogged the wrong Griffindor?"

I flicked my wrist and sent a charms textbook flying at his head, he was expecting it and ducked.

"Right, well, when you've stopped looking like that..." he gestured vaguely at me, I felt that I'd used the textbook too soon, "Come down to breakfast,"

I used a choice hand gesture that Finnigan had taught me the night before as he left, throwing a bar of soap and a towel at me.

I was already running late for breakfast by the time I'd showered so instead of wallowing in self-hatred I got dressed and headed for the Great Hall, dreading and anticipating the glares I'd get from those who'd seen Dean and I, but as it happened, I didn't get as far as the Great Hall.

In fact, as I approached the enormous doors, taking a deep breath in preparation, someone came running out. I didn't see who it was so I'm not sure why I cared enough to follow them but I did. Maybe it was the increasing amount of time I was spending with the other, nicer Eighth-Years.

As I caught up, I noticed that the student was a girl, a familiar one. She was much younger than me with dark brown hair and she wore Slytherin robes. Constance.

As I started to catch up with her she slowed and sat on one of the stone benches against the wall, face held in her hands. Her shoulders trembled; she was crying. For a split second I was blinded by rage. I didn't want to comfort her – I just wanted to hex whoever had upset her and accept whatever consequence would follow. No one was allowed to upset any friend of mine.

She must have felt me watching because she looked up and after seeing her face I couldn't leave her. Her usually happy and laughing brown eyes were puffy and red, her nose was running and she had a bright red welt on her left cheek. Someone had hit her. I must have looked like someone else through her tears because when she saw me she ran and wrapped her arms around my torso. After I'd registered my shock I bent down and hugged her too.

"What happened, Connie?" I asked in the most soothing voice I could muster (which, having been raised by Lucius Malfoy, was quite a trick to have learned). I didn't push her for information, just waited until her sobs began to subside.

Without removing her face from my jumper she said with a stutter, "They were making fun of you," she took a deep breath and looked up at me, "I told them to stop and one got angry so I started to defend myself, and she hit me." She was getting worked up again and covered her eyes, "She called me a mudblood."