Disclaimer: Remains the same

Chapter Two

"That sure beats playing exploding strip snap," remarked Theodore Nott, settling down in a leather-upholstered armchair.

"I always prefer a good fight over the regular holiday drudgeries," agreed Blaise Zabini, delicately covering a yawn with one hand, and consequently flaunting her newly polished blood-red nails.

They were just two of a group of Slytherins, gathered in the common room, gossiping about the fight.

"Did you happen to see where Draco went afterwards?" asked Pansy Parkinson. "I lost him in the mob."

"As if you were looking for him," said Nott. "Seems to me you were too busy plowing over those first years, trying to escape Filch."

"Whereas you prefer having the itty-bitty first years plow over you," retorted Pansy smugly.

"Small maybe," said Malcolm Baddock solemnly, "but powerful in large numbers."

Everyone ignored him.

"Don't any of you heartless Slytherins feel bad for Draco?" asked Blaise, barely suppressing the laughter in her voice. "He must be devastated that his little spat drew such a large crowd."

"Surely," said Nott, rolling his eyes. "The whole thing practically turned into a public spectacle. The poor darling must be mortified."

"Really? Seems to me like Draco never misses a chance to turn his vendettas into a publicity stunt," said Pansy.

"And usually with you're help, might I add," put in Blaise, just as Draco Malfoy strode into the room.

The Slytherins became suddenly fascinated by various books, wall hangings, or the ever-remarkable floor.

"Did you ever notice," began Malcolm in wide-eyed epiphany, "this floor is made entirely of stone?"

Nott was not impressed.

"We're in a castle, everything is made of stone."

"Even the cupcakes," finished Blaise.

Malcolm Baddock returned his gaze sulkily to the floor, leaving Draco with the room's full attention.

Just the way he liked it.

"What?" said Draco sweetly, taking a flourishing bow. "No applause?"

Pansy leapt out of her chair and hurried over to him.

"I was so worried!" she gasped dramatically, brandishing a handkerchief and blotting at his still bloodied face. "Thank gods you're alright."

Draco recoiled, trying not to grimace at the stinging scratch on his cheek.

"Would you mind keeping your hands off of me for five seconds Parkinson," he hissed quietly. "I know it's unbearably hard."

Shrugging her off, Draco walked to the center of the room, where he proceeded to ask a remarkably abrupt question. You know, just to keep things interesting.

"So who would like to help me torture Weasley?"

The Slytherins looked up in surprise. So did this mean they weren't supposed to pretend as if the entire hallway defeat had never taken place, thereby maintaining Draco's dignity, at least by all appearances? How unexpected.

"While you know we would all jump at the chance, I think he's rather in a lot of pain already," said Blaise.

"And isn't it Potter you're trying to torture?" asked Malcolm Baddock, the ever present third year.

"Usually," said Draco, "but I think his dear redheaded sidekick deserves at least one humiliation as retribution for tonight. You may not be aware, but…" he paused, making sure he held their full attention before dropping the abominable truth, "…Weasley drew blood this evening that has besmirched my newly tailored robes."

Surely death is too kind a punishment for an offense such as that?

"Plus, he's only in pain after saving his friend. I bet as a Gryffindor, he barely feels it."

"I was rather disappointed by that little maneuver," agreed Blaise, "Makes my switching spell seem utterly worthless."

"That was you?"

"Well yes," said Blaise. "I thought Potter deserved to be pummeled much more than his redheaded devotee, so when I saw him in the crowd, it was divine inspiration. Fate and all that. After all, it's not Weasley we're mad at, is it?"

She looked to Draco.

"But perhaps I'm mistaken."

"Perhaps," he agreed with unimaginable condescension, "But then again, perhaps you can make it up to me. To properly humiliate Weasley, I'm going to need some assistance."

The Slytherins grew silent, waiting to hear what he had to say. Whenever Draco got in a snit over something, he wasn't bound to give it up any time soon. Plus there were always bonus points to be had.

"Blaise, I'll need you to pull a few strings, and maybe lend me some of that shiny red lipstick of yours. Pansy, dig up some of your, shall we say, more revealing clothes. I'll do the potion. Oh, and where are Crabbe and Goyle?"

"Filched," said Malcolm, attempting wit. Sadly, nobody cared.

"Have Warrington get them out of Filch's office by tomorrow morning. The rest of you, listen carefully and you may learn a thing or two about what it means to concoct a truly devious plan."

~~

Crammed into the closet, Ginny, Harry and (unconscious) Ron stood stiffly, completely tangled together in the dark space. There was something jabbing into her side, but Ginny was too tense to move. Even if she'd just had a full-body Swedish massage, she would probably still be completely immobile, what with her brother leaning heavily against her, crushing her between the wall and Harry's chest.

But aside from the feeling of being smushed between two pieces of day old bread, Ginny was in an arguably awkward position.

Harry's arms were circled around her, mostly because she was in the way of his efforts to support Ron. The elephantine weight of brother was also managing to put a strain on Ginny and the one free arm she had to contribute to the effort. Uncomfortable and nervous, Ginny chewed distractedly on her fingernails.

And to make matters worse, what felt like a feather duster was mischievously tickling the tip of her nose.

Trying not to sneeze, Ginny wrinkled her nose determinedly. The silent broom closet seemed to block the noise from outside, but she wanted to be careful nevertheless. Knowing Filch, he would probably still be able to hear them over nothing less than a full-fledged typhoon.

Ginny rather wished her heart would stop beating so very loudly.

These thoughts were interrupted by Harry though, muttering darkly to himself.

"This is all my fault."

As he hung his head in remorse, she felt the tips of his unruly hair brush lightly against her neck, sending shivers up her spine.

Feather dusters and now this.

"How is this your fault?" she whispered back, assuming he was talking about Ron's deliberate collision with Crabbe's fist.

Harry was silent for a bit, until Ginny figured he wasn't going to respond at all. Then he said quietly, "But why did he do it?"

"Harry," Ginny began, "can you actually imagine him doing anything less?"

The aforementioned Ron was getting heavier by the minute, Ginny practically collapsing under his dead weight. Sure she'd called her brother a sack of rotten potatoes once or twice before (and then graduated to more colorful language), but she'd never realized how very true it was. Why, he was almost heavier than Harry's darkly repentant mood.

"I just…"

"He just didn't want to see you hurt," said Ginny, wanting to wrap this up before they were caught. But before she could stop herself, she added with slightly more feeling than she'd meant to convey, "Nobody does."

Ginny could feel Harry's heart race, pounding against her back. She'd hoped he'd be too dense to be reminded of a certain naïve childhood crush, completely stamped out now that she was older and wiser.

Or so some would have you believe.

"Ginny, I..."

But he was cut off as Ron came out of his concussion, mumbling,

"What...where am I?"

Ron shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear his spotty vision.

"We're in a bro-" Harry started to whisper.

Ron began to wriggle around, though he insisted on keeping most of his weight off his own two feet. Ginny was severely tempted to drop him then and there.

"It's dark in here, can't see a bloody thing."

Ron began waving a hand frantically in front of his face.

"I can't even see my own hand!"

"Yes well," tried Harry again, "we are in-"

"Egads!" exclaimed Ron, his voice rising to a remarkably feminine pitch. "I've gone BLIND!"

In utter panic, he started flailing about, knocking loudly against the mops, the brooms, and the ever-present feather dusters.

"Shhh!" shushed Harry and Ginny sharply.

"Wha-?" began Ron, still speaking in what would not be considered an 'indoor voice'.

"Ron, do shut up," hissed Ginny.

Ron sunk into dejected silence.

"As I was saying, we're in a broom closet, hiding from Filch," finished Harry.

"Hiding silently."

Ginny gave her brother the kind of scathing look that is entirely wasted in an unlit closet. "Someone's going to hear you."

"How come you can talk and I can't?" Ron sulked. "Besides, this closet's practically sound proof. No one's going to find-"

But Ron was interrupted. Someone had just flung the door open, filling the small closet with blinding light.