"Rotten little ferret. . ." *stab* "stupid rat-faced git. . . " *stab* "utter prat . . ." *stab* "slimy lowlife son-of-a-bitch. . . " *stab* "shameless, philandering— oh, drat!"

The handle of the pitchfork with which I had been punctuating my, ahem, terms of endearment for my beloved boss, snapped in half as a particularly heartfelt name was accompanied by and equally violent thrust which resulted in the meeting of one of the fork's metal prongs with an unfortunately placed rock. The impact, aside from rendering my tool useless, sent a painful jolt up the handle a moment before causing it to snap. This jolt traveled up thorough my arms and set my teeth vibrating.

"Oh, for the love of…" I allowed my voice to trail off into mumbling, as I brought down a thousand curses upon the name 'Malfoy.' Great. Just great. Now I'd have to mend this before I could finish cleaning the stable, and I was already behind. With one half of the now useless handle in either hand, I sighed, and bent, laying the two pieces on the ground, splintered ends touching.

"Aubrius Repairo," I said, with a flick of my wand, then watched with some satisfaction as the frayed ends began to twist and writhe, knitting themselves neatly back together. The process now complete, I slipped my wand back into the rear pocket of my jeans, and bent again, taking the mended wood into my hands, and examining what remained of the fracture.

The tell tale ring of new wood on an otherwise weathered handle was the only sign of break that I could see, and I was just about to continue swinging it, when the sound of clapping cut me short.

Slow and steady. Clap. Pause. Clap. Pause. Clap. Applause delivered in such a manner as to be mocking instead of congratulatory.

If there was any doubt in my mind as to whom these offending hands belonged, it was laid to rest the moment I heard the intruder speak.

"Impressive, Granger," came the smooth, and infuriatingly amused tones of the man I'd come to know and despise.

"What are you doing here?"

"I own this place, remember?"

"And what do you mean, impressive? That was hardly a complicated spell."

"Spell?" for a moment, he looked truly perplexed. The faker. "No, no, no, Granger, I was referring to the other magic words you were spouting. I knew you were intelligent, but I had no idea your vocabulary was so. . . extensive."

I could feel the whit hot flush of embarrassment spread across my cheeks, before I swallowed, took a deep breath, willing my skin to cool. "That was just the tip of the ice burg, Malfoy. I could go on insulting you for hours, and never run out of words. The real problem is that I've never come across one that quite describes you."

"Obviously not for lack of trying," he muttered darkly.

I continued on, as if he hadn't spoken, "immature, bratty, stupid, worthless and arrogant are all good, but, somehow, they don't quite seem adequate, although, prat does seem to come close."

Malfoy actually began to grin. It was becoming his habit, I insult, he grins, like my words don't even matter. Or more like he derives some sort of sick pleasure from these meetings. Yes, that was very like Malfoy.

Or maybe he just did it to irritate me.

"I'd say, Granger," he drawled lazily, " that I'm far from stupid, and as far as worthless goes," he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, to indicate the building we were in (a stable, yes, but opulent none the less), in a manner that screamed " 'nuff said." "I can hardly deny that I'm immature and bratty, but I'd like to think that's a guy thing. And as for the arrogance, I'd say I've got the right."

"And I'd say you're abusing it."

"And I'd say you're on thin ice, Miss Granger. Remember who writes the paychecks."

How could I forget?

My brain seemed to be functioning on two separate wave-lengths, because I certainly hadn't meant to say "you won't fire me, Malfoy."

"oh, really, and why, pray tell, is that , Miss Granger?"

Yeah, why was that exactly? I was horrified at what I was doing, but I was a little anxious to hear what I would come up with. "Because, you're having too much fun at my expense. Fire me, and that's all over."

And somehow, I was not surprised to hear him chuckle.

"Too true. . . very well, you're safe. For now." I thought he was going to go on, but as he opened his mouth, a high, melodic, feminine, voice cut through the air.

"Draco?" I recognized the voice instantly as Jean's, and smirked at the almost accusatory tone in her voice. "You've left me waiting," she pouted, rounding the corner, and coming into sight in the doorway at the far end of the stable. "Why is it taking so long to talk to that stable boy?"

Stable boy! I let the comment slide, since it meant that she was obviously too far away to recognize me, and for some reason, the last thing I wanted was to be recognized by her. Maybe it had something to do with the hay tangled in my hair, or the muck that coated the bottoms of my tennis shoes.

"Sorry, Love, I'll be right there." Malfoy called over his shoulder, then turned back to me.

" 'Sorry, Love'" I mocked. "Boy, does she have you whipped."

"Whipped! I'll show you. . ."

"Draco, come on. . ."

"Oh, never mind. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about—"

"Draco. . . the hippogriff lessons. . . you promised."

I treated him to an amusedly raised eyebrow. "Hippogriff lessons, Malfoy, are you sure you're qualified?"

"Come on, Granger, I have matured somewhat since third year."

"My ass."

"Excuse me?"

"I said 'have a nice ride.'" But I don't think he bought it.

*

*

*

The rest of the day went more quickly, and I'm not sure if this was despite, or because of Malfoy's appearance. I worked harder, now that my arms had been leant the strength of rage, but I also had to mend more pitchforks, so I figured it was an almost even trade.

Malfoy didn't show his ugly, twisted, loathsome little face for the rest of the day, and I figured Jean had kept him busy. Oddly enough, I was almost, I don't know, disappointed (?) that he didn't return to finish the exchange we'd had. I had to admit, I was curious as to what had prompted him to seek my company in the first place.

Oh, yeah, the whole gloating over my situation thing, that was definitely one of his reasons, but there was also something else he was getting at.

I wondered if it had anything to do with the last letter I'd sent him.

I pondered all this as I finished putting away my bucket and pitchfork, and shook the hay from my hair. It had been five days since I'd sent the reply, and this was the first I'd seen of him. One would assume that he'd just let it go. I, however, had intimate first hand knowledge with what happens when Malfoy receives an unflattering letter. I was starting to sweat.

This was getting out of hand. I refused to let Malfoy make me paranoid.

I slammed the supply closet, causing the pegusi to stamp in agitation, and the hippogriffs to snap their beaks.

"Sorry," I muttered, and made my way out of the stable, taking care to move much more quietly.

I was passing the aviary when I heard it, an enraged inhuman scream, followed by a scream that was anything but inhuman. I spun on my heel, and dashed toward the aviary door, where I could see a light was burning brightly.

I threw the door wide, to see a woman collapsed on the floor, looking for all the world like a pile of loose limbs and rags, while an irate roc stood before her, one leg holding his weight, while the other reached toward the lump of humanity with razor sharp talons.

I had my wand out in a second, and sent a spell toward the creature. "Stupefy!" I shouted, and the great bird stopped, and swayed. Dazed, obviously, but not unconscious. "Eruptio Flamma!" I tried, instead, and a burst of flame shot from my wand, singing the tail feathers of the giant bird that had decided at just the right moment that it was time he took flight.

With another angry scream, he lit upon an empty perch alongside several other rocs, and cast me a glare before fluffing up his feathers in indignation, and going back to sleep.

I turned my attention now to the crumpled figure on the floor. She was starting to move, and she moaned in pain as she pulled herself up into a sitting position.

Drusilla Drowd. Drowsy to all of the employees here. She was the Head Trainer, and though I'd only met her once, on my first day, when she'd assigned me to clean the equine stable, I had heard enough about her to know that she was no more qualified for the position of Head Trainer than I was. Indeed, I'd say seven years with Hagrid made me more qualified.

"What, in God's name, were you doing here?" I don't know much about roc's, but I do know that, while one could never call them docile, properly trained, they were quite easy to handle. What had she been doing to enrage one so?

"I, er. . . hey, aren't you that new temp?"

"Yeah, that doesn't exactly answer my question."

She pushed herself up onto her knees, and slowly started to rise, "I don't have to explain anything to you, this is my stable."

"Actually, this is Malfoy's stable, and I just. . ." I caught a glint of light on metal, and my eyes were drawn to a set of large clippers imbedded in the dirt on the opposite side of the building. My eyes flashed to hers, widening, "you were trying to clip his wings, weren't you?"

"It makes them easier to handle while they're learning to take the saddle."

"Yeah, I can see that."

She had the decency to look embarrassed.

"You aren't even a trainer here."

"Apparently you aren't much of one either."

*

*

*

It was late when I got home. I'd helped Drowsy bandage herself up, and poured her a glass of scotch back in her office, to calm her nerves. I'd taken the bottle home with me, and it wasn't until I was stretched full out in a tub of scalding hot water, that the full force of what had happened hit me.

I took a nice, long swig of scotch, and sank back into the water.

Drusilla Drowd had almost died tonight.

My nerves were shot, and I nearly jumped out of my skin as I heard a tapping on my bathroom window. A glance through the fogged pane showed a glorious falcon. I wrapped myself up in a towel, somehow unwilling to receive Omen in my present state of undress, then opened the window to let him in.

This time, he didn't stick around for a reply, just dropped off his letter, circled the room, and dove straight back out the window.

Granger,

You obviously have trouble with civil replies on paper, perhaps I'd have better luck in person?

I'll be at Jack Vance's in an hour. I trust you will be along shortly, I'm really most anxious to find out how you're adjusting to life here at Malfoy int.

One hour.

D. L. Malfoy

I could have shrieked in fury. I could have wailed at the injustice. I could have railed to the heavens about the twisted cruel fate that had befallen me. It didn't really matter, what I couldn't do was stand up Malfoy, and so with nothing more than an annoyed snort, I dressed myself and headed out the front door.

*

*

*

Jack Vance's was a sort of upscale dive, where business men, ministry officials, and various other members of the ruling class went to pretend that they were slumming. Jack Vance's sold two galleon martinis. Nobody who drinks two galleon martini's is really slumming.

I made my way through the bar, practically empty on a Tuesday night, to a corner table, where I could see the dazzlingly white-blonde head of Draco Malfoy. He nodded to me as I approached, and sipped at a Firewhisky that had been served him on the rocks. I didn't see Omen anywhere.

"Have a seat, Granger," he said, indicating the empty chair across from him.

I sat down obligingly.

"You don't seem at all pleased to see me, Granger."

"Every moment spent with you is one too many," I quipped, leaning back in my seat.

"I couldn't agree more,"

"Then why did you arrange this little meeting?" I felt my pulse quicken, and a slight thrill traveled the length and breadth of my body. It was the 'fight or flight' instinct kicking in like it always did in these verbal sparring matches.

"I didn't get much of a chance to talk with you today Granger," he began.

"That's right, you were called away. . . Tell me, who's in charge of whom in that little relationship you have?"

"Jealous?"

"Why would I be jealous of her?"

"She has your job, for one."

"A job I turned down, if you'll remember, and in order to get it, she probably had to perform too many acts of perversity to count. I just have to clean up manure. I'd say it was a fair trade."

"Ah, yes, just what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Manure?"

"In a manner of speaking. What do you think of Sapphire Stables?"

"I think it's being run into the ground. It's no wonder the place has been loosing money like a sailor on shore leave in Atlantic City."

"Is that so?" He raised a defensive eyebrow.

"I'm not talking about you, you egomaniac. I'm talking about that Head Trainer of yours, you know she almost got herself killed tonight!"

He grinned like the Cheshire cat, "do tell."

*

*

*

It was another hour before I was at home again, slipping out of my tennis shoes, and into a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers, before heading into the kitchen. There was a stack of mail on the table, but I'd firmly resolved to ignore it until I had my hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea.

To this end, I placed the kettle the heated coils, and stood over it with my bag of Earl Grey, ready to pounce the moment it began to whistle. I was soon rewarded, and before long, I was sitting on a chair at the table, my bunny slippers on the edge of the seat, and my knees drawn up to my chest, as I cradled my cup in one hand, and went through my mail with the other.

Bill, bill, junk mail, yet another reminder to renew my subscription to Witch Weekly, letter from Harry, letter from Ron, letter from my folks, and a concert poster from Nine Inch Wands, who had apparently liked the agent that I'd suggested to them, and wished me to see them live.

I opened Harry's letter first, a warning that he had yet to hear from me about a birthday present, and a reminder about the Brown/Baddock wedding later on that month. Somehow, seeing Harry wanting to get a jump on things just didn't seem natural.

Ron's letter also berated me for going incommunicado on my birthday present (lighten up guys, you still have a month) and informed us that he was going to be late this Thursday, as he was seeing a movie in the early evening with a certain waitress (that's the spirit, Ron) but that we should just wait for him, as he would be along shortly thereafter.

The letter from my folks was more of my mother, asking after my health, and wanting to know when she was going to get to meet this incredibly dashing Magnus character that she'd been hearing so much about.

Perhaps it was time to tell her I'd broke it off.

*

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*

Alright, another chapter up. . . still working on the revision that Random Minion suggested (thanks, by the way) but hopefully the Malfoy/Granger scenes in this chapter flow a little better.

Comments and constructive criticism always welcome.