A/N: Hello, fair maties of mine! No, I have not died. . . . I have only been extremely busy, er—lazy. But I do have my reasons! First off, I had a horrible case of Writer's Block (bet you get that all the time) and inspiration hit me while on vacation! What bad timing, huh? I am also trying to get used to typing instead of writing with purple, pink, and blue pens; though fear not, for I have remastered this enthralling skill. What does enthralling mean anyway? Hmm . . . enthralling—adjective—which describes—stuff. Alas, a word with no particular meaning! Muahahaha!

I will resign to the fact that I have most likely thrown myself into the loony-bin while on holiday.

Disclaimer: Don't you think Rowling—bless her, she's pregnant!—would know what enthralling means?

'c.'

center Too Far Gone /center
center Chapter Four: Monkey in the Middle /center

'c.'

The library was overcrowded—Madame Pince's glaring and shrill accusations working overtime—due to the fact that all fifth and seventh years were straining to cope with the abnormally large workload they were receiving from their merciless teachers whom were trying to prepare the distressed students for O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams at the end of term.

If Draco hadn't known any better, he would've thought there was some sort of competition going on, involving caving oneself in a house of thick-spined books. Almost every recipient of O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S that year was hidden behind piles and piles of books (which he was quite grateful for, seeing as most every girl went on ogling him with his new haircut). There is absolutely no way Weasley is getting away with this, Draco thought angrily as he tugged at his hair. Peering over neighbouring cities of reading material, Draco found that the object of his fury was conspicuous only in her absence. Every fifth and seventh year was making a great effort to keep up with the increasingly cruel academic curriculum—everyone except Ginny.

Her friends were there: Estep, Kartsnee, and Boggle, all whispering and giggling at a piece of parchment in front of them. Girls, Draco thought dismissively. Shaking his head, he gathered his supplies and stuffed them into his bag. He had to get to Quidditch practice in—he checked his watch—fifteen minutes.

He was the new Slytherin Quidditch Captain, Montague having left the previous year. Draco was left with the unpleasant task of training his newest players: Bulstrode, Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini. Yes, he had a lot on his plate. He just hoped Crabbe and Goyle would be able to comprehend the concept of their clubs' use being for batting at the Bludgers and not teammates' heads. Adrian Pucey had remained on the team as Chaser; Bletchley as Keeper; and Draco as Seeker. His two new Chasers, Millicent Bulstrode and Blaise Zabini, were just the only two who managed to get the Quaffle in the general direction of the goal hoops near the end of the Quidditch pitch during try-outs, thus making the team. Crabbe and Goyle only flexed their muscles and threatened their way to becoming Slytherin's new Beaters. Needless to say, this new group of people was going to need loads of work, for at the time being they were complete and utter crap.

Draco reluctantly agreed to become captain after Pucey and Bletchley backed out, saying they had too much work to compensate with already, as they were in their N.E.W.T. year. Ironically, the pair was also missing from the slight congregation in the library. He decided he would point this out at a more convenient time.

For some reason, Draco was not in a very pleasant mood, now earning glances every so often because of his new hair cut. He mentally cursed Ginny as a pack of fourth years went by giggling, most likely at his new look. Draco's mind snapped back to his present situation; he could not let himself be bothered by such petty people, which were obviously inferior to him. This, though, did not mean he was not going to plot his vengeance against the Weasley and her pestilent friends. In fact, he had barely been able to concentrate on his lessons today, wanting to make a perfect scheme to get back at the girls. He often thought of hexing them, but he decided that would not do much, and he would most likely be caught. Then Weasley, Potter, and Mudblood Granger would have his head. In addition, he was not as pesky as he used to be and had found that once he left the threesome alone, the action would be returned. It was not as if he did not hate them—no, he loathed them, and was not afraid to display his opinion at all, for he was sure the feeling was mutual.

He arrived at the quidditch pitch and went into the broom shed to recover his broom and the wooden crate containing the Quidditch balls. Draco nodded at each of his teammates as he passed them and recited his mission statement:
'You are here to play Quidditch. Anyone screws with the given instructions, behaves outrageously or is just really annoying will have to answer to me. Got it? Good—first, laps. And no crap, Zabini,' he said, sneering at his unfortunate Chaser.

'Right, because I'm stupid enough to listen to a Malfoy, the egotistical git,' Blaise muttered.

Draco's temper already on the border of rising and gone, he clenched his teeth and repeated in a deadly whisper, 'I said no crap, Zabini. I just hope it's not too much to ask for when someone's so full of it.'

'That's okay, Draco, you'll soon learn to comply with yourself, I'm sure,' said a smirking Blaise.

'Oy, lay off, Zabini,' Bletchley said thickly before Draco could answer. 'He's Captain—no pain, no game.'

Draco looked back at his Keeper.

'Huh?' he asked.

'Well, you do know what they say,' Bletchley started. 'One size fits all.'

Draco looked at him, muttering, 'You have got to be kidding me.'

'I think it would be wise if we just started this practice. Captain's orders are laps all around. How many, Malfoy?' Pucey called from where he fidgeted with the shed lock as he took to securing the broom lodge.

'I think ten should do it. And while you're at it,' he yelled as the players zoomed into a blurred circle surrounding the pitch. 'Watch out for the Bludgers. I'm letting them out.'

He released the Bludgers, Snitch, and threw the Quaffle into the air, all the while hoping that he had not underestimated the sheer horrendousness of his fellow players. He was responsible for them, and as a crappy team, he would also be responsible for the team's performance during games. Now he wished he had paid more attention to Flint and Montague during their pep-talks.

'c.'

Because Margaret Rusche was stalking her, demanding an apology for what happened in last week's Transfiguration class, and also due to the fact that she was pretty sure that Malfoy's next trick was around every corner, Ginny was forced to seek refuge in Gryffindor Tower after lessons, leaving it to her oh-so-very loyal friends to bring her books and keep her informed. The most common thing they did to help Ginny, though, was to make copies of their notes with a simple Duplication Charm, and to keep in contact with her at all times.

For that to happen, Ginny would have to cut off from civilization completely, which meant savouring the solitaire and quiet dormitory meant for the fifth year girls. She sat in the window seat facing the Quidditch pitch, pouring over her homework. Half the seat was covered in just books. Her lap was stacked with parchments, ink-wells, and quills. She glanced back at her two-way parchment.

What a freak, it read.

Then more words appeared, as if an invisible hand were writing them.

He just sneered and left the library. Who knows where he is now.

Ginny smirked.

She dipped the quill in her hand into an ink-well and wrote:

Who cares? As long as he's nowhere near us.

True, the parchment wrote, in a different script than the first.

Why was he sneering anyway? Was he thinking about how he desperately needed a manicure? Ginny wrote.

Ha ha ha! We dunno . . . a new hand answered.

Alexa, you always have some sort of stupid assumption, wrote Ginny quickly.

The parchment was blank for almost a minute before words slowly appeared, as if they're author were hesitant.

Er, he did sort of mutter "girls" before packing up. I suppose he was wondering why nobody noticed him before—you know. . . .

A frown deepened on Ginny's face as she read this.

You don't think . . . ? she wrote.

We really don't have any proof if that's true, Gins.

Any proof? He's a Malfoy! What more do you need to know?!

Look, Ginny, it was Little Amber. Malfoy is not after you! If he were, it's probably just to thank you.

Thank me? That's ridiculous!!

Yeah, it is, wrote a funky hand—Liza.

See? Malfoy thank a Weasley? That's unheard of! Absolutely rubbish! —…——……………————…………———————………———……———…

Her hand whipped across the page in an indefinite line as her head also whipped around. She could've sworn a huge black blur had just passed by her window.

Ginny? Liza's hand wrote again.

Sorry, she began to write. I just saw something black pass by my window.

An owl? That was Alexa.

Shut up, maybe. . . .

The strange incident troubled Ginny—surely an owl wasn't so large? Oh well, she thought to herself.

She turned back to her Care of Magical Creatures assignment ("What is a kneazle, and what does it resemble? Explain its magical characteristics."), and out of the corner of her eye, she saw something black bobbing up and down in the window.

Ginny's head turned swiftly, but the object had already left. She was sure it had been framed in the window.

Much too big for an owl. . . .

'c.'

If Draco hadn't been thinking about how he desperately wanted to abandon his teammates and find a Weasley butt to kick, he would've noticed that he was flying faster than ever, and that his team's effort was nastily close to zero.

A few of Hogwarts' fourth, fifth, sixth and even seventh year girls had come to watch Draco and his team practice. It was humiliating. They all stood together, whispering fervently, and giggling like mad. He knew no one would've come if it hadn't been for that crap Weasley and her comrades. He would've given almost anything to behead her at this moment—

Whoosh!

A bludger had nearly missed his head. He turned his broom around to look for whoever had thought it funny to behead him.

It was Goyle.

But he hadn't time to comment on his aiming—the bludger came spinning round, this time grazing his right arm. It had come from behind him—Crabbe. Apparently he was caught in a game of Monkey in the Middle. Dodging the oncoming bludger again, he spun around, grabbed Goyle's club, and batted the bludger back to curve towards Crabbe. Crabbe then thickly hit it over his shoulder, right towards the castle.

Usually a Bludger wouldn't dare to exit the Quidditch pitch, but then again, Bludgers are very bold things. The accelerating Bludger was going to hit a window on one of the castle towers. Draco swore under his breath and sped after it.

The experience was a rush; almost like trying to catch a large Snitch. He kept his eyes on the window. He doubted he would ever forget its location in the wall. The Bludger, right about to crash into the window, veered to the left around the wall. As Draco followed it, he caught a flash of red in the corner of his eye. That was when the Bludger decided to begin playing games. Swerving to the right and bouncing off the stone castle walls, it zoomed backward and caught Draco in the gut.

Draco gasped as the Bludger hit him in the stomach, and his broom went racing backwards. Catching his breath, he grasped the Bludger in his bruised right arm and got in control of his broom. He paused in mid-air, to re-adjust the struggling Bludger. He could very well throw it back towards the Quidditch pitch, though it was very far off, and he doubted the Bludger would be flying in a straight line. He looked up and realized he was a bit away from the window which would've suffered severe consequences if the Bludger hadn't zipped away from it. Draco one-handedly flew to it, and his eyes widened in surprise.

Sitting on the window seat, and surrounded with books and parchment, was the Weasley girl, looking very troubled and confused. She looked as if she were about to spot him—he turned around and sped off towards the Quidditch pitch. Unable to erase the image of her, he deduced that the tower was only the rumoured Gryffindor tower, and that she was in her dormitory, safe and sound.

Watch out Weasley, he thought. I know where you live. . . .

'c.'

A/N: Okay, that last sentence sounds extremely tacky, and that's what makes it kind of funny. Anyway, I have to give credit to my friend William for writing a few paragraphs up there and helping me with the Quidditch practice scene. I had to cut it from this chapter, but I will probably use it somewhere else. Thank you, Bobo!

Another thing, William and I are having a sort of contest. We are competing for reviews—and so far he is winning. It would be really great if you could help me and just sort of type in 'Cookie Monster!' if you have nothing else to say. That would still count as a review and perhaps I can get ahead. So, please, please, PLEASE review! And check out his wacky story, The Epic Battle, by actionmaster. You can find it by going to .

Be a dear and review. Cheers and toodles!

--blufiresprite