An Interesting Chapter in Dumbledore's Memoirs

Draco Malfoy hated Ron Weasley.

He really did.

Okay, he accepted that certain recent events may have left some elements of society (the entire school, most of the population of the mer village and perhaps the giant squid) unconvinced about this. But at least he was sure.

Yes, Draco definitely, definitely hated Ron Weasley.

Really.

Oh, bugger it all.

Because, of course, he didn't.

At all.

Bloody adorable bastard.

See? It was those sort of stupid thoughts that had landed Draco in his present predicament.

He thumped his head back down onto the inadequate hospital pillow. Stupid bloody infirmary bed. He glared over at the depressingly empty jug on the bedside cabinet. Useless bloody Pomfrey. He clearly needed more water but the incompetent excuse for a medi-witch was off somewhere and failing to provide even the most basic care. Gross dereliction of duty is what it was.

Draco swallowed slowly and grimaced. His mouth tasted foul. As if some of the snails that he had murdered earlier in the day had come back to haunt his mouth, leaving little snot trails across his tongue. What a lovely thought; now Draco really wanted to vomit. And if those stupid molluscs had revenge issues they should take it up with Potter. It wasn't Draco's bloody fault that The Boy Who Makes Me Hurl resembled a slimy, slow-moving, gastropod.

But, really, what had been in that awful potion that silly, old bat had made him swallow?

Madam Pomfrey had been languishing in the lower echelons of Draco's Death List for the last few years. She had failed miserably on several occasions to treat Draco with the respect that befitted a Malfoy (and had called him a big sissy more than once). She had been particularly dismissive last year, when that deranged hippogriff had attempted to claw off Draco's arm and had moved up several places on The List as a result.

But today the woman had out done herself. Oh yes, today she had earned herself a place in his top five.

The potion itself Draco probably could have stomached. Okay, bollocks to that. What's the point of being a Malfoy if you have to 'stomach' anything? No, he would have whined, bitched and moaned about that alone but the fact that the stench from the bloody thing had chased away the last remnants of Weasley's scent was really beyond the pale.

When you added in the fact that the vile bloody taste had then robbed – robbed I tell you! – the taste of Weasley on his tongue, well Pomfrey was just sitting up and begging for disembowelment; especially as Draco had a sneaking, wee suspicion that the Weasel wouldn't be volunteering to replace the taste anytime soon (every time he closed his eyes Draco could still see the look of horror in the shocked boy's eyes).

But the thing that had really clinched Pomfrey's brutal demise was the manner in which she had dispensed said hideous potion.

For the loathsome, old hag had actually had the temerity to be nice to him.

Well, Draco wasn't fucking putting up with that.

She'd even gone so far as to stroke Draco's cheek and call him her "poor boy"!

The gall of the woman. And exactly what the fuck did she mean by it?

The fact that tears had pricked (in a most unfortunate fashion) at the back of his eyelids as she'd said it, Draco rather deftly managed to ignore (along with his total failure to tell her to 'sod off').

How dare she be sympathetic to him.

Reconsidering the incident, Draco mentally scratched out her name at number four and moved her up to number two.

"Poor boy" indeed!

Meanwhile, Pansy Parkinson was having a rather enlightening conversation with Hermione Granger (much to the surprise of both).

Hermione had needed answers. So, as was her fashion, she had carefully considered the best place to gather information regarding Draco Malfoy. Well, the answer was obvious. What Hermione hadn't expected was the other girl's willingness to share that information.

"Look, Granger, I won't lie to you. Draco's recent little stunt has rendered keeping certain confidences moot at best. Truth is the sad, silly boy has something of a huge crush on your boy. What can I tell you? The stupid git has been positively swooning for Weasley these last three years."

And then, not for the first time that day, Pansy had cause to mumble, "Oops."

He'd leave.

Yes, that's it.

Draco would tell his father that he wanted a transfer to Durmstrang. He'd say he was so sick of Dumbledore's atrocious bias to Gryffindor and sickening goody goody approach to everything that he needed to leave before the saccharine made all of Draco's teeth fall out.

The smug, satisfied smile on Draco's face lasted approximately thirty seconds. Then, he let out a loud sob and placed his head in his hands because, of course, his father would already know. Some underhand, conniving bastard (probably one of Draco's close friends) would have already owled Lucius with the wonderful news that his big poofter of a son had sexually assaulted another boy in front of the entire school. Draco knew this for certain because if the tables had been reversed that's exactly what he would have done.

Draco hoped it had been Crabbe or Goyle. It would be nice to know that it was at least one of his best friends who had totally destroyed his existence.

A glimmer of hope spluttered to life. Draco really did hope it had been one of those two dolts. They were just stupid enough to have missed the significance of who he had assaulted. There was a slim chance that they may have failed to mention that the boy in question had been a Weasley.

If it had been Pansy on the other hand, well, all hope was lost; Draco's gravestone would have been ordered and his mother would have already spoken to the caterers regarding canapés at the wake.

Dear Pansy – and where the fuck was that silly bint?

She should have been here to visit him by now. Draco could have faded away from shame and grief and Pansy hadn't even bothered to come and say goodbye. He might have slipped off into the great unknown without a single thought from anyone.

Forgotten.

Alone.

Sniff

Dumbledore stood in Madam Pomfrey's office as she gave him the latest report on the two fourth year students.

"Mr Weasley's head wound is healing nicely and I don't think there will be any lasting damage," she paused and sighed, "physically speaking. But I would like to keep him here one more night for observation; just to make sure that he suffered no concussion."

The headmaster nodded slowly as she spoke.

"As for young Mr Malfoy," and again Poppy paused to shake her head sadly. "I can think of no reason to keep him here longer –" Seeming to catch herself, she coughed and continued. "That is to say, he is completely recovered from his – er – little episode and can return to his dormitory."

"And how is he really, Poppy?"

She shook her head again and sighed. "Well, you know Mr Malfoy, headmaster. He's trying his best, bless him, to be an insufferable little tit but I can tell his heart's just not in it." She raised her head to look directly at the old wizard. "He's hurting, Albus."

Dumbledore nodded sadly in response. "All things considered, I think it would be best if Draco remained here, at least until tomorrow; give him time to gather his thoughts."

He smiled at the obvious look of relief that passed across the medi-witch's face at his words. Aah, Poppy, people saw her as a rather brusque, surly figure but in truth she was just a big softie. Dumbledore knew that she cared for each and every person in the school (well, with the possible exception of Filch, who he was sure one day she'd bludgeon to death with a bedpan).

On that last thought, Dumbledore flicked his wand at the picture on the far wall of a group of dogs playing cards (compassionate she may have been, but Poppy really did have appalling taste in art), muttered an incantation under his breath, and fished out a bag of sherbet lemons from inside his robes.

No, all in all, Dumbledore was confident that dear Poppy encapsulated perfectly that feeling of compassion and caring that he tried to impress on all within his sphere; that feeling of understanding and caring that he himself had always nurtured.

Sighing contentedly, Dumbledore relaxed into the squashy armchair that had appeared just in time to catch his reclining body. Adjusting his spectacles, he took in the scene before him of two somewhat tense teenage boys, glanced down at the bag in his hand long enough to retrieve a sweet, and then, turned to Madam Pomfrey with a smile.

"A cup of tea would be lovely, Poppy."

Yes, indeed, Dumbledore liked to think that he was someone who empathised with his fellows, sympathised with their trials and tribulations as it were. And he encouraged others to do the same; to reach out a hand to help, not sit idly back and watch…

"Headmaster!"

Dumbledore was suddenly pulled from his reverie. Pausing, he looked up with raised eyebrows.

Madam Pomfrey's mouth was stretched into a thin line. "Surely, Headmaster," she said curtly. "You do not intend to intrude on the privacy of Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy."

Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, actually yes," he said. "I had intended to do just that. After all, how will I be able to take notes otherwise?" And with a flourish, a quill and parchment appeared in front of him.

"Professor!"

Dumbledore could tell from her tone that Poppy wasn't happy with him. But for the life of him he couldn't see why.

"Poppy, you seem a little upset."

The medi-witch snorted loudly. "I should think I am! Professor Dumbledore, you cannot be proposing to sit and take notes on what those two poor, traumatised boys are going to do next."

Dumbledore looked at the quill and parchment floating before him, glanced at the boys, and then back to Madam Pomfrey. "Well, yes that was pretty much exactly what I intended to do. I would have thought it quite obvious."

For a moment, it looked like Madam Pomfrey might well use the bedpan (hitherto reserved for Filch) on the grey haired old man in front of her, but seeming to rally her patience, she took a deep breath and through slightly gritted teeth asked, "But don't you think that that might be an invasion of their privacy, Headmaster?"

The old wizard smiled in relief. Oh, was that all.

"Most assuredly, Poppy," Dumbledore replied with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. "But it will make a rather interesting chapter in my memoirs, don't you think? Now do sit down." And with a flick of his wrist another armchair appeared next to his. "And where's that tea?"

With an exasperated sigh, Madam Pomfrey gave up trying and settled into the chair, "One lump or two?" she asked resignedly.

Which by a remarkable coincidence…

Hermione scowled darkly at the other girl and rubbed the back of her head in a very marked manner.

Pansy sniggered and shrugged, "No pun intended."

Earlier, after she had helped the bushy-haired Gryffindor up off the floor, Pansy had suggested a trip to the kitchens where privacy and a cup of tea could be had. When they'd arrived Dobby had immediately pushed his way through the throng of other obsequious house-elves anxious to help.

When he'd caught sight of Hermione he had stepped back in awe. Bowing so low that his pointy nose almost touched the ground, Dobby had straightened, turned to his fellow house-elves and declared loudly, "Her-moaney!"

A mortified Hermione had immediately responded with a brusque, "I am NOT!"

But Dobby had been adamant. "Yes! Yes, you are! I've seen you - you're Harry Potter's Wheezy's Her-moaney!"

Closing her eyes Hermione had eventually worked her way through his words and had replied with an affronted. "I am not Wheezy's – er – I mean, Ron's Hermione. I'm – I'm – well, I'm my Hermione. I do not need validation from a boy!"

(Dobby thought perhaps Her-moaney needed validation from a shrimp - he was pretty sure that's what humans called people who checked their heads - but she was a friend of the great Harry Potter and his Wheezy so he supposed he should be polite).

A short while later, Pansy and Hermione had found themselves in a relatively secluded area of the kitchen with a pot of tea, two cups and a plate of cream cakes in front of them. Dobby had walked away shaking his head sadly. Hermione was pretty sure she had heard him mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, "Wheezy could do a lot better…" and she began to feel that perhaps Ron and Harry's view on House-elf rights may have been the way to go after all.

Hermione shrugged as she responded to Pansy's question. "I think perhaps three lumps might be in order. I have had rather a lot of nasty shocks today."

Pansy nodded in sympathy and dropped the cubes of sugar into the cup with a loud plop.

Draco glanced over at the white screen.

He was behind there.

Draco could hear him breathing. There was a faint rustle of bed clothes, followed by a soft sigh.

Aaaah!

This was driving Draco nuts. When were they going to let him leave? Did they have any idea what he was going through? To know Weasley was that close; wondering what he was thinking. Did he know Draco was lying in the next bed? Was he plotting ways to murder Draco in his sleep? Did Weasley hate him more than he did yesterday? Was that even possible?

Bastards.

This was absolute torture.

Why didn't they just let Draco leave?

And then Draco thought about that and what leaving would actually mean - returning to his dormitory; past the sniggers and whispers. To face the looks of derision and hate; to find out which of his friends now despised him. Draco's face burned with shame and he closed his eyes in the vain hope that it would make the images fade.

Another sigh drifted past the screen, a cough. His cough.

And suddenly the fear of having Weasley so close, that tight ball of nausea in Draco's stomach, slipped away. This was where Draco wanted to be, away from everyone else, close to him.

Draco didn't even realise that he was smiling as his eyes drifted closed.

And opened again about fifteen minutes later when a herd of elephants rampaged through the ward.

Okay, so it was actually only that stupid bloody woman back again. But Voldemort, it might just as well have been a troop of pachyderms.

Draco scowled over at Madam Pomfrey as she bent to pick up whatever had fallen from the bag she was carrying. He shook his head. It looked like a set of hand bells, cymbals and a pair of maracas – didn't know the old hag was in a band. Draco's eyes began to close again.

"Ow!"

This time he sat up.

Rubbing the top of his head, Draco glared at Madam Pomfrey. She was now standing next to his bed clutching a large bottle of Pepper-Up tonic in her hands. Draco had a strong suspicion that she had just tried to brain him with it.

"What the fuck are you playing at woman?" He shouted.

"Language, Mr Malfoy!" Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. Then, smiling at him she said more softly. "I am sorry, dear. I seem to have caught you slightly as I reached for the bottle."

Draco was livid, "Slightly! You nearly took my bloody head off!"

"Oh, for goodness sake, don't exaggerate, Mr Malfoy. It was merely a tap."

Draco's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair.

Tap! He'd hate to see her take a swing if that was a bloody tap.

Draco began to feel a growing respect for the witch (together with a determination not to get on her bad side any time soon).

"Right, now that you're awake, would you like a cup of tea?"

It was on the tip of Draco's tongue to tell the old girl to bugger off but then he noticed that she still had the bottle in her hand and a certain glint in her eye.

"Um, that would be lovely, thank you," he said nervously.

With a wave of her wand, Madam Pomfrey conjured a steaming cup of tea onto Draco's bedside cabinet.

"Drink it while it's hot," she commanded then turned and left.

Draco was relieved and extremely thankful to see her and the bottle leave.

Hidden bloody depths that one.

Right, that was it.

Tonight he would re-write The List once and for all; with a certain grey-haired old lady firmly ensconced at number one.

And this time Draco was bloody well going to laminate it.

"Well done, Poppy! I knew you could do it."

Professor Dumbledore beamed at the medi-witch as she walked back into her office.

"The musical instruments were an inspiration!"

"Yes, well you didn't exactly give me much choice." Madam Pomfrey frowned, remembering the way the old wizard had pushed her into the ward with an abrupt, "Wake the silly sod up! I'm not here to take notes on the sleep patterns of adolescent boys!"

Suppressing her desire to wallop the old git she continued. "I know from past experience that Mr Malfoy sleeps like the dead; I knew it would take something quite spectacular to wake the boy. As it was, he still started to slip off again. In the end I had to practically pummel the dozy, little tyke with a bottle."

She shook her head sadly. "He probably now sees me as a bottle wielding member of a mariachi band!"

Madam Pomfrey sank back into her armchair with a disconsolate sigh, "I don't mind being seen as homicidal, Headmaster, but really - mariachi?"

"Oh don't worry, Poppy, by the time Mr Malfoy has his tongue firmly ensconced down Mr Weasley's throat again, all your little foibles will have been completely forgotten."

Madam Pomfrey was torn between horror and well… something else entirely. In the end, she decided to pretend she hadn't heard.

"Would anyone care for a cold drink?" She asked, wiping her brow as nonchalantly as she could manage, while trying to ignore the headmaster's knowing smirk and suggestive wiggle of the eyebrows.

"And just what is going on here?"

Dumbledore nearly fell off his chair.

Oh Bugger.