He would never stop teasing her like that. Never. Not when she was eleven, not when she was sixteen, not when she was forty. It was just his role as older brother, particularly when the gap was so great between them. She shouldn't have been surprised in the slightest.

"Thirteen. Merlin's beard," he muttered, shaking his head and offering a proper roll of his eyes. It must have been something to do with everyone settling down right after the war, he thought mildly, sure that he had a better grasp on it than little Lyra, his little monster. It was half a wonder that he and Tori had waited so long, but he'd wanted to take his time. There would be no rushing, no hasty decisions; in the end, he was sure that they'd made the right decision.

"Very good word," Draco praised her with a chuckle, his brows arched neatly at her obvious disdain for Ravenclaws. They certainly were that clever, and quite elitist too. Maybe she just didn't realise that so soon after getting there; it was early yet. And there was no small amount of amusement at the resemblance to his own heated disdain for Gryffindor. He was self-aware by now, even if he didn't admit it out loud. "How manipulative can one really be at eleven, though?"

A rhetorical question. They could be quite manipulative; he had been. She was probably just getting started early.

"Tell me more about this girl you hate."