Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling. I am in no way affiliated with her. This is not a profitable work. No copyright infringement is intended. Thank you.
Plan C: Battling Bogarts
My last plan was really flawless, except for that she couldn't see how handsome I was in the dark of the closet. So, to solve this, I decided to stage my next plan someplace where I'm given a flattering light.
I was thinking about flattering light, see, when I decided maybe Granger needed some help to see who I truly am. You might find this hard to believe—if you do you're probably not attracted to males—but although I look frosty on the outside, I'm warm and squishy on the inside.
I would go so far as to say I'm beautiful inside and out—especially outside. But inside, too. I've done loads of really great things, it's just hard for people to notice with St. Bloody Potter marching around.
And then it hit me, like a Quaffle to the gut; I need to act like Harry Potter.
So, it turns out that Polyjuice Potion isn't real. I know, I know, I thought it was real too, but then I tried to make it and couldn't, so obviously the damn things broken.
That's alright, though, now I don't have to think about looking like Scarface anymore. Honestly, the more bloodied up and stupid that dolt acts, the more people seem to love him! Dumbledor, the crotchety old nutjob, probably put love potions in the pumpkin juice—that's why I only drink pumpkin juice from my own personal flask.
You know, as one of this generation's most brilliant minds, I've got to say that I've really outdone myself this time. This plan is sure to work.
Here, I'll explain, try to keep up, would you? Thanks, I know how hard it is to understand someone as brilliant as I do—no, that's a lie, I always understand everything perfectly. Except transfiguration, but that's only because I don't feel like it.
Anyway, step one is getting a bogart. This step was pretty easy, because I found one just the other day when I was doing my routine searching through Theodore Nott's stuff. Did you know that guy collects stuffed owls? Those really fancy ones with the shimmering glass eyes? Honestly, some people waste their time completely.
Step two is letting it loose on Granger. Should be pretty easy, she's always alone in libraries and places.
Step three is my favorite step, when I jump in just like St. Potter, except if Potter had amazing good looks and a dashing sense of humour, instead of messy hair and a sense of right and wrong.
I heard her scream. It was a delightfully fulfilling sort of scream, really, the sort of pure terror my Father always talks about. My Father is the very best in the world at scaring people, even better than Voldemort! See, Voldemort died or whatever and quite scaring people, but my Father has been scaring people his whole life, and he's never taken a break once! He has a whole album full of people being scared of him—you should see Mum's look at the wedding! Terrified!
Anyhow, I ran into the corridor with the speed and grace of a majestic purebred horse, wand raised delicately in my right hand.
Poor Granger, she totally missed it. It was a great entrance, too.
She was too busy looking at Professor McGonagall, who was shaking her head and giving her that awful look she does—you know the one, where she sort of squints at you, her eyes darting up and down a bit, and she purses her lips, and those lines show on her cheeks, she and sort of tilts her head down but draws it back at the same time, like to get a better look at something disgusting. Yeah, that look.
"...worthless. Don't know why we believed you could ever do well. Dreadful. Zeros on all your exams. Did you even try, Miss Granger? Or maybe you were trying your hardest, you're only a mudblood after all..."
I sort of forgot to run forward and save her at this point, but McGonagall's use of that nifty word rather caught me off-guard. It seemed to make Granger brighten up, though—probably because it reminded her of me, and I hand a tendency to inspire strength in others—because after that she shouted, "Riddikulus!"
Professor McGonagall was holding a large pile of awards and trophies, offering them up to Granger like some sort of house-elf.
I knew I had to act fast if this plan was going to work. So I ran forward, past a stunning Granger—I am rather stunning, aren't I? I am—and towards the icky bogart.
Professor McGonagall changed into a really handsome, older version of me, with really long, shiny hair and a cute little cane.
"Malfoy?" Granger whispered from behind me, but I ignored her. I was too busy looking at the bogart. Why was it my father? I wasn't afraid of him, silly bogart!
Perhaps, I considered, the bogart knew it couldn't scare me, and decided to surrender.
"Stupid, pathetic, foolish boy," my Father began. I sort of fell to my knees, but only out of habit, I knew this obviously wasn't my real Father.
"Malfoy..." Granger murmured again, but I still ignored her, and so did fake-Father.
"You're truly worthless, aren't you? I should of just adopted a house-elf, he'd be far less disappointing. Maybe he'd actually win a Quidditch. Maybe he's score better than a nasty little Mudblood. Maybe he'd want to become a DeathEater and serve the dark lord, like his father. Maybe he wouldn't be a whiny little sod who nobody can stand. Maybe he would be an embaressment. Maybe he'd be able to make smarter friends than Crabbe and Goyle. Maybe he'd..."
I must have sniffled, or something, because Granger seemed to be under the impression I was crying. Stupid Granger, letting her imagination run away with her. She probably wanted to turn this into some moronic hurt and comfort story about healing me with her love, or sommit like that.
So, I thought everything was going well, except then my Father changed into McGonagall giving awards again, and I sort of let Granger drag me off somewhere. She tried to get me to talk about it, though. Which was stupid, because there wasn't bloody anything to talk about! It wasn't my real Father, and I didn't start actually crying, so why should it matter to her?
She kept patting my back and stuff and finally I'd had it so I told her she was crazy and there was nothing wrong with me and I ran off.
She's probably still there right now, crying because, once again, she's realized she can't have me.
That's alright though, because, luckily for her, I'll come up with an even better plan soon. One that doesn't even almost involve crying.
~x~
AN: Thanks for reading! Sorry, computer hadn't been working for ages. Happy early Kwanza, early Christmas, late Hanukkah, super-late Eid al-Adha, or whatever you celebrate in late fall early winter!
