Draco was about to menace both his instructors, Goldstein, Turpin, and then himself. He was going to lock himself in Malfoy Manor and leave himself to the peaco*cks for good. He was going to drop out, join a freak show, become a travelling vagabond and rail-hop until he grew a beard that rivalled Albus Dumbledore’s. He would have to, and swiftly, because what he really wanted to do was take one of his clenching fists and wring Harry Potter’s Chosen neck, and a life sentence in Azkaban would surely disincline the goblins from hiring him.
The timer above Draco’s head rang four times, red numbers flashing “20.