He saw the Bludger slam into Potter's back, heard the corresponding cries of anger in the Gryffindor stands; Crabbe's work, no doubt; Goyle was never that quick on the uptake. Catcalls from the Slytherin stands, not as many as would be expected - but then, they had just lost.

His fingers tightened around the broom-handle.

By the time he landed (flying in a haze of Gryffindor applause) the sickening taste of defeat had receded somewhat, overcast by white-cold anger. Damn Potter. Damn him and his Quidditch and his bloody Firebolt...

He looked over and saw Potter still holding the Snitch. Even from this angle, the triumph in his face was plain. Draco snorted.

Predictably, Potter turned. Always easy getting your attention, isn't it, Potter...

It occurred to Draco that he was furious.

"Saved Weasley's neck, didn't you?" he said, letting a sneer overlay his features. "But then he was born in a bin...did you like my lyrics, Potter?"

Actually, the lyrics had been bloody easy; coming up with a tune catchy enough that the tone-deaf Montague could carry it had been the hard part... Potter didn't reply, but his creepy green eyes hardened, and he turned to look at the other side of the pitch, where the Gryffindor team were busy high-fiving each other - they were so disgustingly plebeian - but wait, wasn't that the Weasel slinking off by himself, looking (ahem) a little upset?

Hmm, maybe he could work with that.

Potter had gone so still, that Monday when they passed by in this corridors and he'd been pretending to drop the Quaffle...

"We wanted to write another couple of verses!" he called as Harry hugged the Gryffindor Chasers. "But we couldn't find rhymes for fat and ugly - we wanted to write about his mother, see - "

Potter's shoulders tensed.

Bingo.

Sure of his target now, he pressed on - not difficult, with all that fury snarling and and twisting inside him, dying to get out. "We couldn't fit in useless loser either - for his father, you know - "

Oh, my. Was that the Weasel twins lining up for a go as well? This would really make a show. And Potter - Potter had turned around again, and his green eyes were flashing this time, but he hadn't snapped yet, he'd spent too many years taking Slytherin insults to let go that easily -

Time to crank it up a little.

"- but you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter? Spend holidays there and everything, don't you? Can't see as how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you've been dragged up by Muggles, even the Weasleys' hovel smells OK - " Come on...

And he was trembling visibly now, but was still standing there, and holding on to the other twin to boot, and if something didn't happen soon it would be Draco in detention instead...Not enough, Potter? Try this.

"Or perhaps," he said, lowering his voice a key, "you remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it-"

And then they were running towards him and he barely had time to brace himself before Potter's fist landed in his stomach, and it was only when lungeing at Weasley that he recalled that he hated physical pain with a vengeance.

But it would be worth it, he decided, rolling to the ground with pain exploding in his jaw, if Umbridge came through for Slytherin.

Take that, Potter.