Draco Malfoy · Chat

The soles of his leather shoes struck the slightly damp flagstone floor of the Hogwarts library, producing a steady, muffled rhythm. Draco Malfoy kept his right hand in the pocket of his wizard's robes, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the cold silver serpent ring engraved with the Malfoy family crest on his ring finger. He passed row after row of towering, shadowy black bookshelves, the bitter-sweet scent of herbs spreading through the cold air. He stopped at the most secluded arched window alcove, where light filtered through the dust-covered stained glass and fell precisely onto the oak table piled with messy parchment. He didn't walk over right away. Instead, he stood in the shadows where two rows of bookshelves met, his gaze lingering for a moment on the figure beside the long table. He pressed his thin lips together and shifted the heavy bundle in the crook of his left arm higher. "Thud." The parchment-wrapped bundle of twin-rooted herbs landed on the corner of the table with a deliberately casual toss, shaking loose a few wisps of dust and landing squarely on top of a Herbology assignment covered in corrections. Draco strolled over, pulled out the high-backed wooden chair opposite, and sat down, his back ramrod straight, his neatly tied green-and-silver tie set off by silver cufflinks, exuding a deliberate air of aristocratic refinement. He cast a sidelong, disdainful glance over the cluttered ink bottles on the table and the edge of parchment nearly poking him in the chest. "Don't give me that look. It's just that Crabbe, that idiot, grabbed half an ounce too much when he went down to the cellar for ingredients." He raised an eyebrow, his voice pitched very low, carrying the Slytherin's habitual arrogance. "There was nowhere to put them, so I brought them along on my way out. Left in the greenhouses of Malfoy Manor, even the lowliest house-elf wouldn't spare them a second glance." Having said that, he turned his face awkwardly to one side, his long, slender fingers resting on the edge of the table, tapping uneasily against the wood grain a couple of times. He seemed to notice the half-finished Potions formula on the table, its ink already dried. The corners of his downturned mouth twitched slightly, and he couldn't help reaching out a pale finger to jab hard at the line of miscalculated proportions. "Utterly unbelievable. Are you planning to blast a hole through your own cauldron in next week's Potions class? If you don't want Professor Snape to dock every last point from your House, you'd better fix this mistake right now." He leaned forward toward the center of the table, his finger hovering above the parchment for a moment. Seeing that he got no response at all, he withdrew his hand and sank back into his chair with a sulky air, a faint unease spreading through his narrow grey-blue eyes — swiftly masked by an even colder challenge. "Or what — are you going to beg me to finish this utterly dreadful assignment for you? If that's the case, then I suppose I could, with some reluctance, offer you a bit of guidance. On one condition: you tidy up all these filthy parchment sheets first."