Draco refuses to hand in another half-thought out essay when the next bit of theory work comes along, because copying onto a creamy new sheaf looks better. He knows he's different, but not necessar...
Harry is smiling lopsidedly, (because he is a Gryffindor and Gryffindors are not allowed to know how to smirk) at his insipid friends, especially when you enter the Potions classroom. They're all too similar, you think. Slytherins change for the occasion. It is like slipping on father's Death eater mask as practice. Gryffindors don't change: horrifyingly loyal they are, even during a sodding crisis. There's no crisis, at least not one you have been at with a straggle of mangy Gryffindors.
Stupid hormone-stuffed adolescent years. Disgusting. You turn your face away from the Common Room; there is no need to see Pansy and Blaise necking. For Merlin's sake. Aren't Slytherins supposed to be /discreet/?
The two barely hear you, only grunting out a reply before falling, you suppose, on the floor. At least they're out of your sight, preventing the bare minimum amount of retinal damage. You'll be sure to speak to Blaise on the matter.
Slytherins, perhaps not as an entity, but your exclusive circle at least, are able to play a game of thinly masked threats and bribes. It's not enough to avoid prosecution, but something material should also be won.
You try not to hope for a less stagnant watering hole (to visit every tiring day and) drink out of.
They're at it again, aren't they?
This late into your tutelage and still living in the dorms? One more year, you tell yourself, and the end will be in sight. One more year, and the beginning of the end will be a sight. As though the wait isn't attention depriving enough, Snape decides to assign a fourteen-stage project, to "awaken dull minds," he claims. More like a simple mark and even simpler reason to deduct Gryffindor House points; only a Slytherin, you reason, would dare visit the Potions lab and Severus everyday, off-hours, to complete the tripping-question write-ups; within each stage, a noticeable change had to occur, but noting each reaction mechanism will provide more than half the "surprise" test's answers. The Mudblood is more than eager to beat your Potions mark this term, since Severus has nitpicked at wounded pride in a wonderfully brutal manner since the start of term. She crosses paths with you far too often for comfort.
It is for your graces that he has conveniently placed "lab inspections" (all outside of class time, of course) during as many Gryffindor Quidditch practices as possible. This is to compliment you, not done as a favour or request. In fact, there is no need for you to participate in the majority of these interludes; in more detail: you can complete this assignment head to tail based on speculation and Severus's informative insults during the classes following each stage's completion. You prefer to sneak around the Quidditch pitch like an egg-robbing ferret.
Gryffindors don't change in your eyes, but you have, in better ways, to be able to accept the slow drawl of the Dark Lord marking you as his family with a smile. Crazy bastard. He won't succeed under the thumb of a bumbling toddler's love. You don't think it is prophetic at all; the Dark Lord (your father swears that saying "Voldemort" is the same as inducing his Apparation) has earned his defeats, and you'd rather work in compromise with your benevolent Slytherin troop than drink bad wine and receive blank awards from the Dark Lord. When he gives the order, acceptance comes, but the way Lucius is greedy for everything sickens you; he should be a better figure of innominate class, and when he is robed and masked, a ghost of a personality. Something grapples at your heart when Lucius confronts you in the privacy of your room. It threatens to break skin and you don't like it. Faltering, you attempt to slide away from him. It is scoffable, having such an expressively deranged circle.
You refuse to hand in another half-thought out essay when the next bit of theory work comes along, because copying onto a creamy new sheaf looks better. You don't like others making the choices you will come to regret for you, particularly if the virus your "family" breeds is always the same.
This choice, and past choices of yours are almost as bad as any given Hufflepuff's (not that you have willingly been in the presence of one), you imagine. The situation has always been in need of a Healer, and those Gryffindors are still smiling so damnably.
Harry Potter raises his wand and drawing to meet him, you realise the following: it is only in your world that adults don't smile at their children.