Draco watched the others from the corners of his eyes as he sipped at his drink, the bottle cool in his hand. Potter and Longbottom were chatting animatedly, like mice squeaking – inane and pointless – the small collections of empties by their chairs explaining the slur to their words. Krum watched them from beneath his beetling brows, interjecting occasionally, always abrupt and near monosyllabic. Draco wished he would just piss off and let Draco drink in peace. Even Krum’s mere presence was enough to put him on edge right now.