Chapter 6

"Pansy, is it Wednesday yet?" he wailed at the breakfast table, first thing Friday morning.

He had arrived late, as usual, not wanting to face the hordes of snickering students that had been throwing him barely concealed looks of disbelief all week. Somehow, he had turned from Draco Malfoy Slytherin Bastard Extraordinaire, into Draco Malfoy Travelling Freak Show, all in the span of three measly days. Not that any of them dared to do anything to his face other than gape at him wordlessly. But the knowledge that they were snickering at his appearance behind his back drove Draco crazy. He had yet to devise a way to deduct house points for disrespectful thoughts. For now, he settled for terrifying the First Years to the point of incoherency.

"Draco you've been asking that question non-stop for the past seventy-two hours. If you do not stop right now I'm going to hex off your mouth and your hands and you'll be forced to spend the rest of your time until Wednesday looking like a lip-less, hand-less, red-headed Weasley," Pansy threatened, throwing him a most acid glare.

"I will most definitely consider that answer next time you ask me for a favour," Draco scrunched his nose in a pristine sniff and abandoned his porridge in favour of cold, black coffee.

"Mate, it's not that bad. Most of the House has gotten used to your new looks and knows better than to cross you about it," Blaise spoke from his place to the right of Pansy.

At the sound of his voice, Draco stiffened and immediately straightened his back. "Blaise, I would suggest shutting your mouth and not speaking to me until this ordeal is over. I never liked you in the first place and your latest display of camaraderie will soon make me expel my breakfast. I am not your 'mate' nor shall I ever be," he paused enough to draw breath for an offended huff, before he continued, "also, your chances of me liking you because you happen to be snogging my best friend are being greatly jeopardized by your stupendously moronic commentary. In case you failed to notice, I was talking to Pansy," he scoffed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there are First Years to terrorize."

He rose from the table in cold fury, robes billowing behind him, the very picture of offended elegance. Vaguely, he head Blaise's protesting squeak, and Pansy's low voice calming him, but he was much too preoccupied by his thoughts to bother with them. They would sort it out in the end, and, maybe later, if Pansy insisted, he would apologise to Blaise. It would be under duress, of course, because while he could argue his outburst as a case of nerves, he was still angry at Blaise for refusing to see Pansy's logic and insisting to follow in the footsteps of his father.

A fat lot of good it would do him! Look where it got that poor sod that he idolizes so! Draco huffed angrily at his own inner voice, who was most insistently reminding him that until Fifth Year he too had worshiped the ground that Lucius Malfoy stepped on. Blaise, who only had an imaginary conception of his long-dead father to hold onto, could not be blamed for wanting to do right by his image. Nonetheless, Draco could tell him first-hand what a life of servitude to the Dark Lord entailed; something his father could not, most certainly. It's not gossip and tea parties, for Merlin's sake! Blaise, however, was unintelligent enough to be blinded by his family's convictions, and he would chalk all Draco's tales to lies and weakness if he attempted any conversation on the subject. He would then proceed to off his mouth about it, which would leave Draco in a spot of trouble with the Dark Lord, and he truly wanted to avoid that situation for as long as possible.

If Blaise wanted to verify on his own skin reality's tendency to be more sinister than imagination, Draco was all for letting him. He couldn't care less if Blaise decided to take the Mark and become indoctrinated as a servant to his lord. As he had stated, there was no love lost between them. Pansy, however, viewed the oaf in an entirely different light, and Draco cared about Pansy.

The point, however, was moot, and he was unable to interfere directly in any of their affairs, lest he chance mucking up things more than they were already. The best he could do was to give quiet pointers from the sidelines, but even those went unheeded, as Pansy had yet to talk to Potter about her predicament. Draco knew all too well that he could lead a horse to water but he couldn't make it drink. He hoped that subtle persuasion would convince Pansy to remove herself from the situation before it became serious. Blaise or no Blaise, this was about his best friend and her well being, and Draco was determined to disallow anything from interfering in it.

He glanced disinterestedly at his pocket watch, his thoughts still on the problem of Pansy and Blaise, and noted that he had five minutes left before first period would commence. With a sigh he willed his feet to move in the direction of the library, unheeding of the other students that were scrambling to get to their various classes. Seeing how his first period of every Friday was a spare, Draco had gotten into the habit of going to the library and enjoying the peace and quiet he found there. He did his best work on such mornings, when the library was deserted and there were none distracting him from his assignments.

It was therefore a surprise when, after greeting Madame Pince and flirting with her shamelessly, he headed for his favourite table by the large oval window near the Restricted Section, and found it occupied. The anonymous invader, for Draco could think of no better title for the impertinent brat that was sitting at his table, was hiding behind a large tome entitled Ancient Magical Rites and Spells: A time before the Wand. In a most infuriating display of magical skill, the book floated at a convenient angle above the table as the stranger scratched furiously on parchment. Shocked frozen into mid-gait, Draco watched as a page turned without the aid of hand, wand or whispered spell, the stranger's concentration showing no sign of wavering as he or she continued writing seamlessly. He had to admit that he was mildly curious as to who else had a Friday morning free period. In the weeks following the beginning of Seventh Year, he had always found himself alone in the library on this given day. To have someone else invade his privacy so suddenly and without warning not only transformed the uniqueness of this time into commonness, but it meant a gap in his knowledge. As Head Boy, such a gap was inadmissible.

As soon as the initial shock wore off and Draco gained control of his legs, he resumed walking towards the table, deciding to be intrigued by the situation rather than to be resentful. The mystery was dissolved when he came close enough to the stranger to be able to peek over the levitated book. His senses were immediately assaulted by red hair the shade of copper, a nuance darker than the grotesque ginger he had been waking up to every morning. It seemed to be flowing endlessly over the bony landscape of back and shoulders, like the cursed river Styx, obscuring any and all other details.

Not that Draco needed another clue about the ingrate who had invaded his personal pace. There was only one Weasley with precisely this shade and length of hellfire hair, and she had created enough tumultuous pitfalls in Draco's existence already. He arranged his face into a ferocious scowl and prepared himself for the confrontation that would undoubtedly ensue. The chance to irk and get back at her for the misery she had caused him was too good to miss, and Being A Royal Pain in the Arse had been Draco's special talent since childhood. Letting this opportunity pass would be akin to going against his nature.

"Detention, Weasley, for being out of class without permission," he ground out as he came to a full stop on her right, beside the table.

He would have expected her to jump given that she had been so engrossed in her reading and note-taking. However, the littlest weasel had gotten into the annoying habit of behaving most unpredictably, and thus, Draco shouldn't have been that surprised when she continued writing as if she hadn't heard him. For many moments he watched her quill spew out neatly curled writing, which upside down looked like a nonsense mass of tangled wires but that he knew right-side up, was meaningful. She finally came to cross her t's and dot her i's, upon which she lay down the quill, slowly lifted her head from the paper and bore into him with her unfazed, bottomless, brown eyes.

There were a few more moments of silence, in which his steely silver gaze locked with her unreadable brown one, but finally she took his challenge and spoke, "You have the grace of a Hippogriff, Malfoy. I could hear you from miles away," she commented in the calmest, most factual voice that Draco had ever heard in his life.

"Detention," he remained firmly on his track of mind, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him discomposed yet again.

"You can't give me detention," she scoffed, and magically, another page of the book turned by itself. Draco took a moment in which to be annoyed by her exhibitionist display of concentration and magical ability before returning to his taunting.

"And why not?" he sneered, propping himself against the table in what he could only assume to be an air of arrogance. He had yet to try arrogance on his new appearance, but silently he hoped it worked better than his attempts at snorting or sneering. Merlin knew how embarrassing those had been.

"Because I have a right to be here," she explained, and he wondered silently why she seemed to be taking all of this so well. Another time she would have surely hexed him silly. He made a note of the fact that she had a penchant for doing the unpredictable. It meant, of course, that unsettling her would take creativity and intelligence; two attributes which Draco had in abundance. He was inwardly pleased that she was a worthy opponent with which to trade insults, as most of the time his efforts were wasted on that clique of idiotic plebeians known as the Dream Team.

"You," he drawled, half snarling, half biting the monosyllabic word, "have no rights whatsoever."

"How quaint of you Malfoy," she sneered back at him. "What was this about the Head Boy being impartial to all students? You stink of favouritism," she sniffed at him disdainfully. "In any case the rules state that a spare period should be used as a study period, and where better to study than the library, Malfoy?"

"It's precisely because of those rules that you are going to serve detention with Filch later tonight," he rebuked. "Your rights automatically become suspended when you abuse such study privileges," he smirked at her in satisfaction.

"Oh spare me the threats. On a regular day they would be stupid, but given your new looks they're absolutely idiotic," she actually had the gall to laugh at him! "I don't expect you to believe me so here's my schedule. That way we can end this dispute and I can go back to my work," she emphasised her impatience to be rid of him by picking up the discarded quill.

Draco took up the piece of paper she had thrown in his general direction. Upon scanning her time table he discovered that she had, indeed, not been lying. His inner Slytherin, however, refused to acknowledge it. "This is a pretty piece of charm work Weaselette," he snarled at her. "But I still don't believe you. I've seen how proficient you are with that wand of yours."

An almost feral grin graced her lips at his words, as she looked up from her book and locked her eyes with him. Draco was shocked to discover the shadows that lay in their bottomless depths. Shadows he was all too familiar with. "It's good to know that you're afraid, Malfoy," was her bemused reply. "In any case, you can keep the schedule and crosscheck it with Dumbledore's copy. I'm sure as Head Boy you have access to that sort of stuff," she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Now piss off, I've got work to do."

"You know, Weaselette, with those manners of yours, it's amazing you made it out of the Zoo. You should be nicer to me, I might just have to call the Magical Animals Control Reinforcement Division," he hissed at her.

"You're right, I do hear that the Ferret population of Hogwarts has gotten out of hand this year. Maybe they can come and neuter him so that he doesn't breed further," she retorted ferociously.

Draco's inner man couldn't help but cringe at her suggestion. As any respectable male, he did not take kindly to any sort of threat made to his family jewels, especially seeing how he was the last of the Malfoys and thus had a moral obligation to centuries of ancestors to continue the family name. Is that really what you need, Draco? his conscience prodded at him, More obligations? the sarcasm in the question was all too evident, so he stomped that mutinous voice in his head into silence and focused his attention on the match of verbal sparring.

"That's funny Weaselette, I could have sworn you were a weasel and not a ferret, not to mention of the female variety. Hmm, I guess I was wrong."

"The only ferret here is you, Malfoy," she scoffed at him.

"Ah, so then you admit that you're a weasel?" he smirked at her again, knowing that he had won their argument.

"Well, when the only other choice is ferret, yes, I'd rather be a weasel. As a weasel I can be known for my cunning and my guile as a wild animal of prey as opposed to just being another ordinary house pet and eating commercial cat food," she winked at him with nonchalance, an easy-going smile stretching on her lips.

It took a moment or two for Draco to recover from his shock, and even then he couldn't collect his thoughts enough to master a reply. Not only had she delivered the smoothest repartee he had ever heard, but she had winked at him! Nobody had winked at him before, and he wasn't sure what exactly to make of it. The motion in itself was ineloquent and undignified, but he had to admit it was strangely captivating. It was like they were privy to their own inside joke, except Draco knew that she was mocking him, and she knew she was mocking him, and thus the joke was on him.

"It was a pleasure chatting with you, Weaselette, but I'm afraid such an important person as myself has more pressing tasks to attend to," he informed her once he was composed enough to master a reply, and walked away, refusing to lose any more of his dignity to her sharp tongue. He would have to learn to limit their verbal battles to only those which he could win. She was infinitely better at this than he had given her credit for.

"A nightmare as always, Malfoy," she called after him, and he had to smirk, because she had used the exact words he had thrown in her face last Tuesday when this entire debacle had started.

Half an hour later, he threw his book on the table with an exasperated sigh and glared at her concentrated form two tables away. He had gotten no work done for Snape's latest Potions project, and it was all her fault. His thoughts kept on circling back to the smallest weasel, like hungry vultures, and it was the excuse that his eyes needed to drift away from the page, and settle onto her.

In the time he had spent watching her, Draco had noticed that she kept on worrying the left corner of her bottom lip whenever her reading proved difficult. Following the biting of her lip, she would pass two slender fingers over her left eyebrow like she was trying to memorize those few sentences before returning to her quill to jot down the information. This ritual of movement would be sometimes punctuated by moments in which she would pass her long fingers through her red mane and chase away the locks that would be obscuring her vision. It was slowly driving him crazy, since instead of reading his Potions text he kept on trying to anticipate when exactly she would decide to tame the wispy locks that spilled rebelliously over her shoulders.

A myriad of thoughts paraded through his head as he continued to stare at her, and he was surprised to find that they did not stray to such matters as the war, or Death Eaters, or Pansy or his Mother. Instead, he found himself thinking of how he hadn't before noticed that the Weaselette's hair was indeed like a river of fire, vibrant and straight across her back and shoulders. He also hadn't remarked how abnormally it tumbled past her buttocks and how completely it hid all her soft, feminine curves, forcing those that chose to observe her to imagine the landscapes that lay behind the fiery curtain.

It was mysterious that she had chosen not to cut it, in a time where short hair was the fashion amongst witches, and even more mysterious that she would never style it, either with the customary Muggle hair products, or with the customary spells that Pansy and other witches used. He searched his memories of Seventh Year to disprove his theory and found none. The only hairstyles that the Weaselette endorsed were a braid, a pony tail, or today's loose style; all attempts that took less than thirty seconds of effort to put together.

Surely even a Weasel could afford to learn basic Glamour spells to enhance her appearance. The fact that she hadn't, indicated that she cared naught for the opinion of the world, or that she was confident enough to bear its criticism and move on. Draco knew well enough that she certainly had the mouth to fend off any commentary that made its way to her ears. Moreover, he was grudgingly forced to admit that the simplicity of her appearance did hold a certain amount of appeal. Along with no hairstyling products, he had also never seen her use any of the face, lip and eye makeup that every female at Hogwarts seemed to favour in excess. It was perhaps because she couldn't afford it, but even there, there were certain spells to be learned that did the job of Muggle cosmetics.

All in all, it seemed to Draco that she was making a statement, or rather trying not to make one and failing successfully. It was on the tip of his tongue to waltz over to her and inform her that the way to fend off attention was to blend in with everyone else, not stick out like a sharp nail. But perhaps she wanted to stick out and he had misinterpreted her attempts at congruity. He could never tell for certain with the chemically imbalanced girl-Weasel.

He was honest enough with himself to recognize a lost cause when he saw it, and so, Draco closed his Potions textbook soundlessly, meticulously organized his parchments and returned to the task of scrutinizing her avidly. Settling deeper into the back of his chair, he assumed his customary air of observance and continued his critique of her. Unlike most of the other young boys at Hogwarts, he had no qualms about observing things that interested him. Curiosity was not a characteristic that Draco deemed shameful, and whether it was directed at an object, or a person, it made no difference. It wasn't a crime to stare, and while it might be uncomfortable for the other person, it provided him both with entertainment and necessary information. The only way to know my rivals is to observe them, he argued with the voice in his head that informed him he was spending an unhealthy amount of time thinking about the littlest weasel.

After all, he hadn't filled in his father's shoes for two years without learning a few tricks of the trade. A keen spirit of observation was the primary skill in keeping a sheep in wolf's clothing from revealing its true nature. The ability to react instantaneously to situations was the second. Third was the talent of covering up mistakes before they were noticed by others. Of the three, however, observation was the crucial determinant of his life. Draco had entered the habit of keeping tabs on everyone. So why not add one more to the list? What terribly horrid secrets could a harmless Weasel harbour? It wouldn't even be a challenge; he snorted disdainfully, and mentally opened a new chapter in his book of tabs reserved for the Weaselette.

His first shock came not five minutes later, with the discovery that despite all the comments he could make about her harlot-red hair and shabby clothes she had great potential for beauty. She had finally gotten tired of her hair and had tied it up at the base of her neck, allowing him a full side view of her. Underneath her robes, her body was slender, yet curvaceous in all the right places. Furthermore, her waterfall of tresses inspired a man to think of the many sinuous uses for such glorious hair. He could already picture it spread like a fan on his silky-green pillows. Even the liberal smattering of freckles on her face, neck and arms was not without a certain appeal that he wished he hadn't discovered. They invited a man to memorize each and every one of the pesky imperfections, first with his fingers and then with his lips until they were branded into his memory forever and he could recall them individually. To Draco's horror, the freckles were just the beginning of the insatiable appeal he seemed to discover at every turn in her appearance. It was shocking to note that the most maddening part of her was not her full bosom straining under the material of her robes, but rather the curvature of her slender neck, smattered in fine brownish freckles and drowned in errant fire, a perilous jungle full of mystery and secret silently begging to be discovered and explored.

He broke his gaze away from her and focused it on a bookshelf, stubbornly willing the objectivity back into his opinions. It was reticent in returning, and, after a silent battle with himself, Draco was forced to admit that there was nothing ordinary or second-hand about her looks. She was not a conventional beauty, like his mother with her height and delicate frame, but she was certainly exotic and enticing in her appearance, with just a touch too much mystery to make interest in her a passing fancy. He wondered how he hadn't noticed her before last Tuesday when she had stuck her wand in his jugular and forced him to acknowledge both her person and magical skill. Everything about her practically screamed for attention. From her slender height, curves and hair, to her father's square jaw on her mother's round face with the petite nose, generous lips and huge brown eyes. She was an uncanny mixture of strangeness and harmony that begged for a second, third and even fourth glance. He was willing to bet his inheritance on the fact that like cinnamon peppermint, she was an acquired taste that once accustomed to was incomparable. People like her didn't do things by halves. They didn't know how.

He shuddered and closed his eyes, suddenly wishing he hadn't gone looking for the additional headache. Like always, he had gotten himself in over his head and had read beyond the mask of shabbiness and general Weasel-ness that she displayed to the world. Surprise, surprise, Draco, she's just as genuine as you, the sarcasm was back in his mind's voice but this time he didn't bother to hiss it silent. Just because her appearance was so intoxicatingly real and out in the open didn't mean, however, that she had a personality that fit her worldly shell. Life generally gave with one hand and took with two. She was probably shallow to the core and full of Dumbledore's propaganda regarding the Dark Lord and Their Stupid War.

He consciously chose to ignore the fact that she was intelligent enough to create her own spells and that she was able to practice Ancient Magic, not to mention that she was writing the NEWTs a year early. Intelligence was but an impotent tool when it lacked conviction. It was only when intelligence and conviction ran parallel to one another that a person could consider themselves accomplished. What about you? Hypocrisy does not suit you, the inner voice commented caustically. He may have taken the long way around, but he had finally found out where his convictions lay. Ironically, it did nothing to help his predicament.

"Hullo Ginny," a sotto male voice drew him out of his reverie. Immediately, his eyes snapped open and scanned the surroundings. A disgusted scowl made its way onto his face when he saw the Neanderthal form of Longbottom peering over her shoulder.

"Oh, Neville! You scared me!" she exclaimed, her voice melodious and cheerful. Draco noted the difference in tone and wondered which was closer to the truth: the way she spoke to him or the way she spoke to Longbottom?

"Sorry, Gin-Gin! Didn't mean it, really," he peered down at her with a lovesick smile that almost made Draco expel his breakfast.

Ginny, Gin-Gin, they couldn't very well be her true name, for what sane mother would humiliate her child this way? Even if the Weasel matriarch was bonkers she had managed fine with all her other children's names, ordinary as they were. The only obvious conclusion was that they were nicknames for her real name. But what in Salazar's name became Ginny and Gin-Gin when abbreviated?

He searched his head frantically as the conversation between them progressed, and was slightly disgruntled when he drew up a blank on the Weaselette's real name. She had always been the Weaselette, the Weasel, the girl-Weasel, the smallest Weasel, demon spawn to him, and he had never bothered to learn her true name when he had such a wide selection of more irritating things to call her. But once again, his insatiable curiosity got the better of him. Ginny… it sounded so… plebeian, when he tried it out on his tongue. The elongated n destroyed the supposed melody found between the first and last i sound. It was a nickname meant for a five year old, not for the sixteen year old witch that she was. Gin-Gin sounded slightly better, but infinitely more private and personal in its playfulness. Still, the question nagged at him, Gin-Gin, Ginny, what did it stand for?

"You promised to help out in the greenhouse," Longbottom's voice once again interrupted his musings.

"Err," she croaked, obviously not thrilled by the proposition. Draco fought to stifle a smirk. The greenhouse was hardly a romantic place to take a girl out. But perhaps Longbottom was planning to get her dirty and offer to shower with her in order to conserve water, or something equally idiotic that would lead to a flat out rejection. "Now?" she questioned.

"Well, the day is young and you still have almost an hour free! It would be a wonderful way to spend the morning!" Draco snorted and bit down hard on his lip to keep from laughing. Spending the morning digging in dirt and dung did not rank high on his list of favourites, and it didn't on Ginny's either if the look on her face was any indication. It was, however, a most entertaining exchange to watch from far away.

"I'm quite in the middle of something," she tried again.

"Awh, come off it Gin. You've always got your head stuck in a book. Sometimes I think you're worse than Hermione. The NEWTs are months away, Ginny, and before you know it, autumn will be gone and you'll have spent it all inside the library. We need to put some colour back in your cheeks, you're so pale these days! Come out to the greenhouse and just enjoy the fresh air and the sun. You can even bring your book!" Longbottom protested, and Draco silently laughed at how desperate he was sounding.

Though on second thought, Draco agreed that he had a point. Never in his life would he admit that Longbottom was right about anything, but that was secondary to the observations of King Gryffindork. Indeed, the little fiery hellspawn was behaving quite like that meddlesome frizzy-haired know it all, though she was infinitely more appealing to the eye and less vocal about her knowledge, which made her tolerable when she wasn't trying to humiliate him. She was abnormally pale for a Weasel too, so pale that he could see clearly the dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks from two tables away. On a second look, he could even discern the faded outlines of circles underneath her eyes, badly concealed testimonies of improper sleeping habits. Perhaps she knew some Glamour spells after all, though she was obviously pants at casting them, for Draco was willing to stake his family fortune again on the fact that she hadn't slept a wink the night before. So the littlest Weasel is an insomniac, he mussed, it would certainly explain why she was out on the grounds so late on Monday.

"Well, maybe you have a point. I have been inside too often this month," he watched as she conceded the point.

"It's settled then, you're coming with me and that's that," Longbottom replied with that sickening smile on his face. Draco clenched his hands into fists and then unclenched them. There was no reason to dirty his hands with Longbottom's death. Sooner or later the fool would do himself in just fine.

"I'll just gather up my stuff then. I'll only be a second." With two quickly muttered spells the quill, ink and parchments folded themselves in her bag and she shrunk the tome carefully and floated it to Madame Pince's desk for signing out. For a Muggle-lover, Ginny Weasley certainly used a lot of magic, Draco remarked. It wasn't just any kind of magic either; she was not shying away from complex spells that demanded precision and concentration. But he supposed that he shouldn't be surprised by her abilities given what she had done to his appearance. Knowledge and magical talent made her doubly dangerous to those who crossed her. Somehow, she didn't look like the type to adhere to Gryffindor ideals of fair play and honesty. Draco was willing to bet the Malfoy fortune yet again that she would have no qualms to stab him in the back while he was down should they ever cross wands in a duel.

Scowling at her retreating back, Draco watched Longbottom offer to carry her rucksack for her and saw Ginny's gentle smile as she declined and held onto the pack. Together they exited the library, chatting quietly. He had to grip the table to stop himself from getting up and following them to taunt and tease them about their love for each other. He was Head Boy, and his punishments had the power of being exquisitely devious. The Weaselette would pay for humiliating him. One way or another he would make sure of that.