The fact that new people are still reading (and enjoying!) this story amazed me beyond all reason. I think I might be able to pull (out of my ass) the wit that created it. It was my fear when I looked back on it several times that I would never been able to replicate the same feel for it. It has been nearly a year since I wrote anything sort of fanfiction. However, I (since August) have been playing on a Harry Potter RPG and believe that I may be able to come back and bring this story to completion. That being said, much of what I had originally planned for it is gone from my memory. And after reading it, I realize there are many loose ends that will need tying. Wish me luck, loves. I will do my best.

Pre-OOTP, Pre-HBP. Yeah, it's old-school. Or is it old-skool?

"Ouch!" Hermione yelped. This was getting ridiculous. "Malfoy, pay attention. At the rate you're going we won't be competing!"

Not again, he thought. Didn't she realize that his seemingly inflated ego was merely a fraction of the size and liable to be crushed with her harsh words?

"Malfoy, you prat!"

Apparently not.

It was nearing April, and Hermione and Draco were losing patience with each other. Hermione was mad because Draco because he wouldn't learn the steps. Draco was mad because Hermione wouldn't kiss him.

It was not that Hermione didn't have minor feelings for the pratboy, it was just that they were being drowned by determination, perseverance, and a strong will. She had given this task the same emphasis as she gave her homework, leaving little-to-no affectionate attention left for Draco.

Draco did not like this. He refused to come second. It wasn't his in blood and it certainly wasn't his style. Malfoys don't lose.

Nevertheless, Hermione could be scary during rehearsals, so he would merely nod and promise to do better. Dignity and valiance would have to step aside for self-preservation.

"Darling Hermione, love of my life, woman of my existence, fruit of my world, I must apologize once again for that, ah, little mishap," he replied eloquently. Surely this would merit a kiss. Yes, he was a suck-up, but didn't he do it wonderfully, in a pasty, sleazy sort of way?

She replied by smacking him.

What had he done to deserve this?

Ronald Weasley sat arguing with himself over a chess move. He couldn't lose. It wasn't his style (at least in chess, with everything else it was a given). For a brief moment, he thought of feigning a broken leg. His opponent would see through that, though, surely.

Just as he was about to make some sort of move, anything to break the tension, his ex-best friend Harry loudly burst into the common room, breaking his concentration.

Too angry to remember that he wasn't speaking to Harry (on account of how Harry had treated Ginny, in case you forgot), Ron stood up and yelled, "Thanks a lot, Harry! You broke my concentration! My game is ruined! RUINED! Do you have any idea how long it took me to come up with the idea move? You made me forget it!"

Harry blinked, dropping his book bag on the ground. "Ron, you're not playing with anyone," he said quietly. "You do know that, right?"

Ron sat down quickly, still glaring. "Yes, I do, thank you very much," he said with a hmph.

"That's all that matters, I guess."

The two boys sat quietly for a few moments, each looking around at a painting with great interest. Mind you, these two had no appreciation for art and these pictures were asleep.

"So…." Ron began, twiddling his thumbs.

"Yeah…" agreed Harry, ever the conversationalist.

Ron was about to make another idiotic remark, when Ginny floated into the room. Yes, she floated. With glee. Or ecstasy. Or a drug trip.

"What's with you?" Ron asked, staring at his sister with an arched eyebrow.

"I, oh, Ron," she said in a sing-song voice. "I have a date to the dance!"

Harry and Ron looked at each other. What dance?

"Gin, what dance are you talking about?" Harry asked, praying this was merely some drug-induced hallucination of hers. "It can't be a Yule Ball…"

"…Yeah," said Ron, sound equally stupid. "It's not Christmas…

She quickly snapped out of her dazed and happy mood. "No, you prats. The end of the year dance? In honor of the seventh years? Don't you remember Dumbledore talking about it at breakfast yesterday?"

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Who talked during breakfast? Who had the time?

"So, Ginny," Ron began, trying to sound like a cool, older brother, "why did you get a date so early and what is his name?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Because it's a week after the competition." Shaking her head, she turned and left the room, muttering, "Dunces."

After she had left, Ron sat back and groaned. "We have to get dates, mate? Why? Why?"

"Because life hates us," said Harry, who, for all that he could handle Voldemort and large bands of angry men in cloaks waving sticks, planned to fake sick for this dance.

"And she didn't even tell me his name."

Focus, Draco told himself. Focus. Be suave. Be cool. Mind you, being cool while wearing a black leotard was virtually impossible. (Draco firmly believed that Hermione wanted to have sex with him regardless of what she said. No girl puts a guy in a black leotard without wanting something kinky.) However, Draco was a dreamer and wisher. He was still waiting for his fairy godmother to come and make him the prince of the universe.

The idea was that now that Hermione was a big "babe magnet" after her amazing "performance" on stage back in December, her date slot would quickly fill up. Draco wasn't entirely sure of his place in Hermione's heart, which left him at the bottom of the cauldron with the rest of the bandwagoners.

"Tell me," Draco said coolly, as he held her hands, spinning around the room, "are you in need of a date for the dance?"

Hermione had been concentrating heavily on the dancing and was somewhat caught off guard by Draco talking. The only talking had been doing was apologizing. She had been about to say that he hadn't done anything wrong, but what he had said sunk in first.

Did she need a date? Or, did he mean, did she have one? Or, did she want one? Was he asking her?

Being technical and big on being precise, Hermione decided not to read into what he had said.

"No," she said. She didn't need a date. She didn't have one, but she didn't need one.

Bugger! "Really?" he asked, trying not to sound surprised. That would offend her. "Well, that's nice."

Maybe there was still time to contact Father's assassination squad. Mwahaha!