Disclaimer: I'm still not even taking into account the events of Half-Blood Prince, and therefore it may be safely supposed that these characters do not rightfully belong to me--though I do confess to stealing them from JKR's bedroom as she slept.
I'm sorry that this chapter took so long--my family just went through a cross-country move (more like halfway across the world, really), and I was without Internet for a while, at least on my computer.
Another thing that everyone may well hate me for is that this story does have a female Blaise. I started writing this fic back in December of last year, and I didn't have the sense to post it up before HBP came out (I was too nervous and unsure if it was any good), and I had this wonderful mental picture of a fem!Blaise--which, unfortunately, doesn't come close to the real Blaise. So I am sorry for that, too, and I hope everyone forgives me...
No more apologies, now, on to the story!
As soon as Draco was out of sight of the Dream Team, his confidence evaporated, but he kept up the façade. "Yes, I'll still be the hottest Slytherin around," he muttered, yanking his hood lower over his face as he walked towards the unofficial Slytherin compartment.
"Draco." The cool female voice was devoid of any emotion.
Draco stopped dead, then turned slowly towards the girl. "Blaise," he replied, his tone just as neutral as hers. "How was your summer?"
She didn't smile. "Fine, yours?" Though her words may have implied a question, both of them knew that these pleasantries were meaningless, preliminaries to the real conversation.
"Fine."
"Good." With the required ritual of etiquette over and done with, she shifted her posture slightly, folding her arms over her chest, and raising her chin. "What's happened to your hair?"
If Blaise's abruptness startled Draco, he didn't show it. "Didn't Pansy tell you?" he asked sarcastically. Every Slytherin knew that Pansy not only was aware of every bit of information floating through Hogwarts and most of the wizarding world, she was ready to tell everyone whom she met, regardless of whether her rumors were strictly appropriate for her audience's ears. Last year, two Slytherin first-years had been sent to the hospital wing in hysterical tears after hearing some of Pansy's more…indelicate stories.
Blaise waved a hand airily. "Pansy's version of the story hasn't reached me yet, as no doubt it will soon. No, I was there on the platform."
"In that case, why do you need an explanation?" Draco demanded, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't," she said, shrugging slightly, "I just thought it would be rather nice to find out what ridiculous adventure you'd been involved in this time."
"Well, get used to disappointment," Draco drawled. If it had been anyone else, he would have thrown in a few insults, but Blaise was the quickest among the sixth-year Slytherins in cursing and hexing—after Draco himself, of course. The only thing about Blaise faster than her spells was her temper, which, as everyone knew from either rumor or experience, was formidable.
"Why would I?" she questioned sweetly. Draco tensed. He knew all too well that Blaise was only sweet to him when she was about to make one of her famously cutting remarks. "After all," she paused, eyes glinting with malicious pleasure, "the Zabinis aren't ones to be disappointed. Failure is reserved for less noble families, don't you agree?"
The Slytherin prefect stared at her without the slightest trace of unease in his expression, but Blaise, trained nearly as well as he was in detecting others' moods, noticed that one hand was clenched tightly into a fist, and moving slowly towards his wand. Smiling slightly, she reached into her robes, making sure that her own wand was within easy reach, then continued.
"You know, Draco, most Pureblood families at least ensure that a certain amount of…say, sophistication is evident in their behavior. The Malfoys, on the other hand," she sighed, shaking her head in mock sadness, "are growing notorious for their little scandals. Tell me, is it true that one of your cousins is an Auror? And that your aunt actually broke out of Azkaban, openly declaring her support for the Dark Lord?" Her tone changed slightly, becoming softer, condescending, as though she was speaking to a small child. "Draco, you know that there is such a thing as moderation. Whether we admire the Dark Lord's actions or not, we do not show any such thing in public. We present a smooth, unblemished front to the world—then we reveal our true selves behind locked doors." She sounded as though she was reciting a well-learned and oft-repeated lesson.
"Great, Blaise," Draco's voice was still controlled, though the knuckles of his clenched hand were white by now. "How many years did it take you to learn that word-perfect? I know you never thought of that on your own."
Blaise just smirked, knowing that she had the upper hand. Fighting the nearly irresistible temptation to whip out his wand and curse her right out of the train, Draco turned and stalked away. As he opened the door to the Slytherin compartment, Blaise's smile widened, and she murmured under her breath: "And the first round of the year, Blaise vs. Draco ends with Blaise in the lead."
He slammed the door hard behind him and slid into the nearest seat, the one next to Crabbe. Leaning his head against the back of the bench and closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, grateful for the silence in the compartment and the lack of insulting girls…
"Draco?"
Draco groaned inwardly. "What, Goyle?"
"Is it true?"
"Is what true?" One bright Slytherin had once said having what amounted to a conversation with Crabbe and Goyle was equivalent to sitting in a locked room with a sleep-deprived and sugar-high Filch for three days. At the moment, Draco thought it would be more like a week.
"Your hair…"
"What about my hair?" Draco's eyes were open now, and he had turned so that he was facing Goyle with the expression that he usually wore right before he hexed people into the hospital wing. Goyle shook his head dumbly, and Draco smiled, half-closing his eyes again. "That's right, Goyle. Nothing happened to my hair."
By the time the Hogwarts Express was halfway to its destination, each and every person on the train, barring a few Muggleborn first-years who had no clue what the word "Malfoy" signified in the wizarding world, knew all about Draco Malfoy's altered looks—though none had yet figured out just what had caused it.
Which, of course, was just the way that Draco liked it. As long as he was the center of attention, he wasn't too worried about just what people were saying. He was confident that once everyone realized that he was still himself, notwithstanding the altered hairstyle—or lack thereof—his loyal followers would flock back to him and he would once more. That is, all of his loyal followers excepting Pansy Parkinson. He could manage quite well without her.
Back in the compartment with Harry and Ron, Hermione was oddly silent, her chin resting on her hand as she sat, thinking. The look on Draco's face as he had made his bold statement lingered in her mind, unsettling her slightly. His confidence was almost admirable, under the circumstances, but Hermione was certain that it would not hold. Strangely enough, this thought worried her. The image of Draco Malfoy, her sworn enemy since first year, standing humiliated and beaten in the midst of his fellow Slytherins, worried her.
Of course, the fact that she was even wasting her time musing over Malfoy's dilemma was strange, to say the least, and was definitely not lessening her mental confusion. Or was it really so unusual? After all, the only time in her memory that she had ever missed a class out of sheer carelessness was that day when she had slapped Malfoy. The Timeturner couldn't be completely blamed for her forgetfulness that day…
"Hermione?" Harry's voice, unusually soft, broke into her thoughts, and she looked up to meet his vibrant green eyes as he watched her, concerned. "Are you all right?"
She smiled to reassure him. "Of course. I was just wondering how Malfoy's going to take it when he realizes that his fan club is going to lose members."
Ron snorted at that. "Yeah, I bet the only one left will be Pansy Parkinson." He imitated the pug-faced girl, flaring his nostrils and batting his eyelashes rapidly to imitate her usual expression. "Oh, Drakie," he squeaked, mimicking her voice perfectly, "I just love your new look. The green tinges are just perfect with your dead-white skin, don't you think?"
Amid the general laughter that followed, Luna walked in with Neville, her eyes, as usual, dreamily fixed somewhere above her head, giving everyone the impression that she had wandered in quite by accident. Her manner changed, however, as soon as she sat down. Leaning forward with a conspiratorial light in her eyes, she whispered, "Has anyone seen Malfoy's hair?"
"Yeah," Ron said coolly. "That's old news, Luna." Even after their adventure in the Department of Mysteries, he still had trouble communicating with the odd Ravenclaw, though, by now, even Harry had become accustomed to her eccentricities.
"No," Luna sighed, rolling her eyes, "I mean his hair—you know, the white-blond strands which used to cover his scalp?" She didn't get along any better with Ron than he did with her, as was evident in her tone. Despite the fact that Luna usually didn't pay enough attention to people to let them irritate her, Ron was the single exception who managed to provoke her every time he opened his mouth.
Ginny blinked. Though she was the one out of their group who could usually communicate best with Luna, even she was floored by this unusual question. "Well…it's not on his head," she said carefully.
Luna pounded the arm of her chair with her fist, narrowly missing Crookshanks' tail. "Exactly! And," her voice dropped to a confidential whisper, "I know just who stole it."
"Do you really?" Ron raised his eyebrows, the picture of disbelief. "Let me guess: Crumple-Horned Snorkacks are to blame, aren't they?"
She shook her head vigorously, stringy blond hair flying around her face. "No, of course not," she snapped indignantly. "They're pure carnivores."
"Well," Ron whispered to Harry, ignoring Ginny's disapproving glare, "that certainly rules them out, doesn't it?" Both boys went into a fit of giggling, much to Luna's annoyance.
Thankfully, Ginny, seeing the outraged expression on Luna's face, intervened before she and Ron began one of their famous debates. Last time they fought, Ron had ended up with pumpkin juice and stew splattered all over his robes, and Luna had left the Great Hall with a goblet attached to her forehead with a Sticking Charm. No one was especially eager for the experience to be repeated—everyone at the table within throwing distance had been liberally splattered with a combination of the contents of Luna's soup bowl and the pitcher which, unluckily, had been by Ron's hand at the time. "Well, Luna?" Ginny said, trying to sound cheerful. "Who's stolen Malfoy's hair?"
Luna immediately brightened, her eyes again taking on the faraway, dreamy look that the Gryffindors knew so well. "Well," she said dramatically, raising both hands in the air, "no one really knows, do they?"
Ron sighed loudly. "You just said that you do," he pointed out—rather reasonably, Harry thought.
Interrupted in one of her wide gestures, Luna abruptly lowered her hands and glared at Ron. "As I was saying," she continued pointedly, "no one really knows for sure. However," she threw a scathing glance at Ron, who shrugged, "Daddy has a theory that someone wanted it as a collector's item. I mean, imagine the prestige of owning a pillow stuffed with the priceless hair of a Malfoy!" She lapsed into silence, one hand outstretched and trembling slightly, and a reverent look on her face at the thought of such a treasure.
Hermione's voice broke the silence that followed this extraordinary statement—Ron and Harry were too stunned even to laugh, and Ginny had her face buried in Crookshanks' fur and was shaking her head back and forth. "What's so precious about ferret fur?" Hermione asked, half sarcastically, half in genuine confusion.
"It does have rarity value, doesn't it?" Luna replied, dropping her pose as she momentarily returned to the real world.
"That's only because no one's crazy enough to want a Malfoy-hair pillow!" Ron's face was bright red from a mixture of laughter and incredulity.
Luna stiffened dangerously, her eyes slitting. "I want one," she said in a tone that made Neville, who had been becoming tenser by the moment, involuntarily yelp, and the rest of the people in the compartment reach for their wands, ready to perform shield spells. Even Crookshanks dived under the nearest seat.
Ron leaned forward slightly, his eyebrows raised in a challenge. "That's because you're—"
But just what insult Ron was planning to throw at the furious Luna, none of them found out, because, just at that moment, the Hogwarts Express came to a sudden and very unexpected stop. Everyone was thrown forward, but despite the resulting tangle of people, bags, and one very irritated cat, Harry was on his feet in seconds, wand out and facing the door. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time the train was stopped like this, back in their third year—and he would not be caught unawares again.
The compartment door swung open, and Harry raised his wand a few inches—only to find that he was pointing it at a bemused old lady who was trying to carry at least four bags in one hand, and was fumbling in her pocket with the other, mumbling something which he couldn't quite hear. She looked up at the wandtip a few feet from her nose, and, within a second, her own wand was in her hand and pointed at his face, with a quickness that belied her obvious age. "Now, my boy," she drawled softly, in a voice which was somehow familiar to him, "Wouldn't want you getting hurt, messing' with things that aren't to be touched."
It was a mark of Harry's Gryffindor bravery that, even with an obviously experienced witch holding him at wandpoint, he showed no sign of fear or even discomfort. "Who are you?" he demanded.
The witch examined his face closely before making her reply. "Well, I'd have expected more respect from my future students," she said coolly, a small smile on her face, "but I suppose that Umbridge hag's ruined your sense of courtesy. She always was a little brat."
Hermione jumped up and grabbed Harry's wand, hissing at him, "It's our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, put your wand down!"
"Good observation, dearie," the woman said, lowering her own wand. "You'll be in Ravenclaw?"
"Gryffindor, actually," Hermione replied, smiling back at the old lady and kicking Ron when he snorted.
"Ow!" Ron cried out, rubbing his shin—before catching the witch's stern eye and hastily standing up straight.
"You're a Weasley," she stated matter-of-factly, her eyes lingering on his bright red hair, "and you," turning to Ginny, "must be his sister." She ran a critical eye over Neville. "A Longbottom, most definitely. Your grandmother's a fine witch, you know," she added, her voice gentler. Neville gulped and nodded, smiling nervously.
"Lovegood," she continued, glancing at Luna, who, as usual, was dreamily staring into space, unaware of what was going on. "You can always tell from the eyes. And, of course," she said finally, looking at Harry, "you are the famously infamous Harry Potter. I must say," a wicked smile appeared on her face, "saving the world hasn't improved your manners much." Harry looked down, abashed, and began to stammer out an apology, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. "No, you were right to have your wand at the ready. First lesson I always teach my students, always be prepared for anything. You'll do well in my class." At last, she turned to Hermione. "And you, dearie…if I remember right from what I've heard from the other teachers, you'll be Hermione Granger."
Hermione nodded politely. "Yes, Professor…?"
The witch smiled broadly. "Professor Cassiopeia, at your service," she said, sweeping an exaggerated curtsy. At the sound of her name, Hermione started, but it passed unnoticed by anyone. "I'll be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts this year, as Miss Granger so kindly pointed out—and trust me, I'll be much better than that Umbridge half-wit." She bowed once more, then backed towards the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be acquainting myself with my other students." The compartment door shut softly behind her and her four bags.
After she left, there was a moment of silence—then everyone started talking at once.
"Did you see how fast she pulled out her wand? It was brilliant!"
"Her reflexes are so good!"
"She called Umbridge a hag, did you hear? And a half-wit!"
Ron, for a change, was silent. Hermione, concerned, lightly tapped the top of his head. "Ron, are you all right?" He didn't respond, staring off into space with a look remarkably like Luna's. "Ronniekins!" That was bound to get his attention.
However, instead of promptly retaliating, Ron simply sighed and smiled dreamily. "Defense Against the Dark Arts is going to be fun this year," he finally said.
Hermione laughed. "Absolutely."
I made the chapter longer this time, to make up for the delay--though it's more than likely there will be more delay that that once school starts in a week--so I hope everyone enjoyed it! Please let me know what you thought of it--I love reading reviews, especially when they have constructive criticism!