Anger was what made him get up in the morning, what made him plot and conspire with Theodore and Blaise, to see if they could get away with hexing Weasley, closing Longbottom in some forgotten closet, anything, anything to get back at them, to show that they could still bite, that there was still venom on their fangs. He’d almost been barred from taking his OWLs because McGonagall had called his "accidental’ collision with Potter while trying to catch the snitch during a Quidditch match "too suspicious’, the old senile man who called himself Headmaster practically a puppet in the Potters’ hands until the mudblood, had interceded for him. As she was the apple of Professor McGonagall’s eyes, the old hag had let it go. But instead of being grateful, Draco had been angry, angry at her pity, angry at the whole circus that was the Wizading world, ruled by fools and incompetent idiots in the aftermath of the Dark Lord’s failed revolution.