Draco could feel his blood pumping, seeping under his skin until he was sure his face must be as hot as the sun. Embarrassment. Anger. But also, a determination that Potter would not win this. Draco would not cede the upper hand. This was his work, his art, and damned if they were going to listen to it - if Potter insisted on listening to it - on a shitty device without any of the effects Draco had so carefully crafted and, quite literally, bled over for so many years.