What Fools These Mortals Be

A/N: Written for a discord chat drabble prompt

"For the last time, Pansy. I don't care what you think. I don't 'need your help to get laid,' and I certainly wouldn't ask you if I did!"

Draco scowled at her, then retreated behind his textbook.

"But, Draco, darling," Pansy smoothed her skirt and sat delicately on the arm of his chair, eyes widening as she found herself landing abruptly on the floor beside it. "Draco! What in Salazar's name did you do that for?"

He turned a page, pointedly ignoring her.

"You know what? Fine. I'm certainly not going to help you now." She waited a moment for Draco to take the bait, then scowled and stalked out, heels clicking angrily across the dungeon floor.

If Draco thought he could treat her like that with no consequences, then he was a damn fool.

She marched back up the stairs and through the courtyard, pushing through a crowd of gossiping second-year Hufflepuffs and sneering at those that didn't move fast enough. Annoying little brats, thinking they owned the place.

Her anger at Draco flared. No one treated Pansy Parkinson like that. Not even her closest friends. She plopped down on her favorite bench, tapped her long, pointed nails idly in time with the gentle plashing of the fountain, and turned her mind to her inevitable revenge.

A slow, predatory smile curved her poisoned-apple red lips as the pieces began to slot together. A passing first-year squeaked and backed hastily away, but Pansy didn't notice. As devious plans went, this was one of her finest.

---

"Say, Gin," Ron said around a mouthful of bacon, "What do you suppose 'DM' Means?"

"Dunno," she said, glancing up at the large banner that had appeared overnight in the great hall. "Dark Magic?"

Ron's eyes widened. "Blimey. We don't need any more of that. Who would dare, after last year?"

"Nah," Dean broke in, wincing as he shook out his hand after a brutal round of arm wrestling with Seamus. "Nothing so grim as that. Maybe it stands for 'Dungeon Master' - you know, like in Dungeons and Dragons?"

Ron looked blankly at him.

"Muggle game," Ginny reminded her brother. "Dad was into it a few years ago, remember?"

"Could be 'doom,'" said Parvati, looking up from the empty teacup she'd been peering into. "Leaving out the vowels is a common method of obscuring—"

Hermione slammed her book down on the table, rolling her eyes. "Oh. My. God. You are all such idiots!"

"What do you think it means then, 'Mione?" Ron asked, shielding his plate from potential book-related danger.

She opened her mouth, then closed it, frowning. "What do you think, Harry?" she asked evasively.

"Harry?" she asked again, when he didn't respond.

Harry jerked awake at her light touch on his shoulder. "Hmm?"

"You all right mate?" Ron asked, grinning. "Got a bit of porridge in your hair, you know. 'S why most people don't sleep at the table."

Harry grimaced. "Thanks, Ron. Very wise of you."

"I try," Ron said smugly. "Anyway, it's not me who's trying to wear breakfast."

"Harry," Hermione said slowly, "have you not been sleeping well? I thought the nightmares had stopped?"