Work Text:
Draco was sitting in the common room, watching the green gloom of the lake roil outside the windows, when he had the most brilliant idea ever for how to make Potter's upcoming Quidditch match even worse.
He'd already managed to get Slytherin out of the match, with the help of Flint and his arm. Who knew getting slashed by an overrated chicken-horse could be so useful for so many things? But Draco didn't want to just laugh at the Gryffindors for having to play in this atrocious weather - he wanted them to lose and he wanted them to lose miserably.
"You're going to use Peeves?" Morag asked, after Draco had regaled everyone in the common room with his very great genius, sounding a bit too dubious for Draco's liking. "Isn't he kind of - unpredictable?"
He gave her a severe stare, but she remained unperturbed. Draco gave up. "It's a matter of right leverage," he drawled, repeating what his father had taught him.
Besides, he rather got along with Peeves. He could appreciate his knack for pranks, his vicious sense of humour, and his flair for impromptu rhymes. Draco had quite enjoyed the one about Potter last year. He was sure Peeves was up for the simple task of waking Potter hideously early tomorrow morning. He'd bribe him with the stuff he'd bought from Zonko's. Peeves might've been a Slytherin in life, but that didn't mean Slytherins did things for free - even for each other.
Morag was still frowning. "It's just," she said, rather gently, "haven't all of your plans backfired because of other people?"
Draco scowled at her words, reminded of his abject failure to get Potter kicked out of school in his first year. Filch was the caretaker! He was always stalking students! And yet he hadn't been able to do a little thing like catching Potter out of bed in the middle of the night. The things Draco had to endure because of the utter incompetence of other people.
"That's because they weren't Slytherins," he said loftily after he caught his runaway trail of thought.
"Well, if you're sure," said Morag.
Draco made an indignant squawk and looked up over his shoulder when someone suddenly ruffled his hair. He glowered, and Flint grinned down at him, unfazed by the might of his glare. "Tell you what," he said, "if Gryffindor loses tomorrow's match, I'll pay for anything you want at Three Broomsticks."
Draco smirked. "Deal."