Author's Note: First of all, Kudos, virtual cookies, and virtual muffins for all my reviewers:

To "bookwormofdanet"….Thank you for your encouragement and praise. Really, I'm going to get a big head from all of you. And then I won't be able to fit through the door of my house, and not be able to update. Here's your muffin! (Blueberry or chocolate?)

To "Lovelylady90"….I'm glad you think so, and you wanted an update, so here I go! )

To "Phoenix flame01"….well, making people laugh is what I aim for, and phew! Finally some one who has a schedule like mine. And you can't keep the readers waiting for updates, or they get hungry, seek you out, and eat you.

To "Marmalade Fever"….Again, thank you for your praise. Yes, I know they're short chapters, but I like to update as often as possible, and sometimes my creative thoughts come in short little spurts…kind of like a having only one Starburst every day, and never knowing when that itsty bitsy tiny little burst of flavor and fruit will hit you…except this is dealing with a creative thought process, and writers block.

Back to my notes…umm, where was I? Oh yeah….POL day is tomorrow. Our school is small, so everyone's name is jumbled up, and we get randomly selected and put in a teachers class, and we spend the whole day there and present our project. Like I said, our school is small, so I know every teacher personally, so it's not an issue of not knowing the teacher…its an issue of my sweaty palms, dry throat, nervous little fits were I must, absolutely must shake and jiggle my foot up and down, and feeling the eyes of everyone on you…but the upside is the guy I like will be in my class…or is that a bad thing? I can't tell right know…I am just going over my whole speech in my head and planning what I am going to where. Not that I get picky about my clothes. Just the dress code for POL day is no jeans (how the friggin heck in a baboons bottom can I accomplish that? I live on jeans!), no sweat pants, and nice shoes. It's only 3:45 in the afternoon, the day before I actually present, but I am already nervous!

Okay, I better write this and post it, and start rehearsing my speech and all that bloody banana stuff.

Disclaimer: yeah, yeah, I don't own it.

Chapter Four: Where Hairs Put Draco in a Gnarly Situation, Hermione Comes Up with a New Swear, and We Thank Our Mothers Even Though it isn't Mothers Day.

"Ingredient one; strand of hair from your victim." read Draco, as he sat on his bed. He had skipped dinner for this, and that shows you how dedicated, or obsessed, he is getting. Such a problem. The author might have to intervene with therapy, don't you think?

"Easy enough." he said, and hopped down from his bed. He slipped into the bathroom they shared, and looked around. He was sure he a seen a hairbrush here some where. And there it was, all red and shiny, with a stray curly brown hair twisting around one of the needles. Carefully he picked it up. And then he heard it. The soft closing of the portrait door…the muffled footsteps of one oh so clever Head Girl.

Draco was frozen in place. What was he going to do? He just…just…just….and then he took a breath, just one breath, and she was there, standing in the doorway. He held the brush in one hand, and clasped the hair in another.

"What in Holy Hermit Aphids are you doing, Malfoy?" she asked perplexed.

I have to be very careful the way I answer this… "Well, Mudblood…I had noticed that your hairbrush was just laying around our bathroom, with it's stray hair and all, and messing up the décor of the bathroom which we share, I might add." he drawled. Perfect. Such a clever cover-up. Really, he is so good at cover-ups that he could be a make-up manufacturer.

"Oh, sorry…" she shrugged, and stepped forward. Draco flinched, thinking she might hit him. But all she did was yank the hair brush out of his hand, and walk out.

"What was that!" he hissed furiously to himself. "Flinching! You don't flinch. Draco Malfoy does not flinch!" But to the task at hand. Smiling evilly, he clutched the hair in his hand, and slinked back into his room. And for the next ingredient…

Hermione shook her head as she put the finishing touches on her Transfiguration Essay. (Twenty inches, single spaced, one inch margins, on the importance of the proper pronunciation when pronouncing "object-into-five star threat level beast" spell, and the importance of the proper protection circle.) Malfoy was sure acting weird. First he missed dinner, which had denied him the occasion of being fawned over by his fan girls, and then…like a deer caught in the headlights…he had stood their holding her brush.

Of course she fully believed his story. After all, a boy who spends twenty galleons for mousse, fifteen galleons on a special made brush for his fine hair, thirty two galleons for special shampoo and conditioner, and thirty minutes in front of the mirror every morning, would not be partial to getting all uptight and hoity-toity over a stray hair and misplaced brush.

But she wouldn't need to worry. Over the years, she had never given him much thought. He bugged her, she ignored him. She was surprised that he even still tried to annoy her, even if it was obvious that it didn't work. Or maybe he had great expectations. Or tried really hard. She had to give him a star though, he did know how to make a girl think more about where she should place her brush.

And that, my friends, is something you shouldn't take for granted. Having someone there to nag and complain and tell you not to leave things out and around, you don't get that many times in life. And when you do, it's called a Mom.

Oops, sorry Mom, (or Mum, or Mami)

Author's Note: Virtual star to anyone who reviews! Arrivederci amici!