Shaken, still twitchy despite reassurances from both Uncle Severus and the other teachers, and deeply exhausted, Draco finally stumbled into the comforting safety of the Slytherin Dungeons long after he should have been in bed. Was it morning yet? He was too drained even to check the watch in his pocket and with their windows underwater there was no way to guess, but it felt like it must be closer to dawn than midnight.

He yawned so hard he felt like his jaw might unhinge and paused halfway across the room. The lure of his bed was strong, but the fifth year boys’ dormitory seemed so far away right now, the long stairs down to his shared room more than his wobbly legs wanted to dare right now. Perhaps he would sit for a moment, just a moment, to rest a bit before he made the long trek downstairs to where he could collapse into blessed slumber.

(Perhaps he delayed bed despite his exhaustion in part because he feared the nightmares that would surely come, after the night’s ugly events.)

Draco couldn't believe that Hermione wanted to read. He liked a good book as much as the next swot, but even he drew the line at reading at the Quidditch World Cup! When she'd insisted on spending at least an hour with her nose buried in the pages of her newest hefty tome, Draco had decreed she was mad and stomped out of the tent to enjoy himself on his own. Mother and father wouldn't have been pleased; Draco knew the only reason he'd been permitted to roam without their permission was because they thought that he and Hermione would stick together, and while his parents didn't think much of his Muggle-born best friend, they knew that she was a capable hand in a crisis and anyone was safer in a group--or at least a pair--than they were alone, their precious son and heir included.

But they were already out mingling and seeing the sights themselves, so Draco didn't have to ask permission to wander unsupervised and unaccompanied. He knew it was reckless--but at the same time, this was the World Cup. There were wizards and witches (and stranger beings) here from all over the world. In a crowd like this, even the distinctive son of the famous Lucius Malfoy could disappear. He doubted that he'd ever have such a good chance to pass unnoticed, and couldn't resist taking the opportunity to. Besides, there was so much to see!

Even the tents of his fellow spectators were spectacular, although of course none of them were so elegant as the Malfoys' own delicate castle-like structure (with ever-present peacock adornment). Still, it was quite a sight, and so was the colorful and eccentric crowd. Draco was thoroughly enjoying himself, especially once he spotted a vendor with a tray of Fizzing Whizzbees. He sucked idly on the sweet while he wandered through the bustling crowd, floating briefly with each step.

Just as he had expected, no one paid him any attention--at least until one floating hop took him a bit too far, and he bumped into another spectator. Unlike the regular light jostling that went unnoticed in such a crowd, this collision was hard enough to make Draco stumble back to earth. He almost dropped his sherbet and his teeth clicked together sharply on his tongue, making him yelp. He turned to glare at the offending obstacle but recognition made him start in surprise instead.

Marigold knew that her Uncle Sirius would come through for her. All that it had taken was a well-phrased letter about how Parkinson wouldn't leave her alone, and how upset she was, and the recipe had arrived by return owl, along with explicit instructions for the best methods of delivery and offers to come and assist her with 'taking care of business'.

Marigold and Uncle Sev had a 'no questions asked' policy when it came to the potions labs, and, so, when she asked him if she, and Draco of course, could stay a little late to brew something, he merely nodded once and left the room.

And, when she and Draco finally returned to their dormitories well past eleven, she was exhausted but accomplished, the little crystal vial clutched in her hands.

It was easier than she thought, really, to get the solution into Parkinson's pumpkin juice. Draco was a lot smoother than she gave him credit for, and the snide cow never even noticed that Malfoy's hand slipped over her goblet while he traded random pleasantries with Theo.

Now, all that was left was to wait for Parkinson to drink the damn thing. And to see what the self-proclaimed Queen of Hogwarts would have to say when her hair was bright chartreuse and stuck straight up.

This was unexpected.