“Granger is the most down to rumble witch I’ve ever met,” Drago drunkenly slurs. He squints at Blaise and Pansy, not sure how they don’t just know this. “She’s just not as angry as the other two idiots are.”
“Down to rumble?” Blaise asks.
“How many fights has Granger provoked?” Draco demands to know, ignoring Blaise’s question. It’s not his fault Blaise isn’t keeping up with their Ministry-mandated muggle studies course.
“Like eight,” Pansy says, counting on her fingers. “That time in third year, then in fourth then in–shit, our second seventh year? Does the war count?”
“Exactly, “ Draco says, ignoring how that’s not a count at all. “And how many fights has she won?”
“Oh fuck,” Blaise says. He looks at Pansy with wide eyes. “Oh, fuck, Pans, she’s won all of them.”
Pansy touches the bridge of her nose. Granger broke it once. “I am aware.”
“So the-the paper is wrong,” Draco says. He feels (drunkenly) very offended by that. “When they say she’s the brains of the Golden Trio. She’s not. She’s got the least impulse control of all of them. She’s the fuckin’ brawn.”
“Okay,” Blaise says. “Okay, okay, okay, b-but—“ He stares at his drink then looks back up. “She still kicked your ass in Newts, mate.”
Draco nods. “And that’s why I’m drinking,” he says like he’s won.
Pansy snorts and doesn’t bother pouring herself another drink. She takes a shot directly from the bottle.