Fights, Chocolate Frogs and Suggestion Boxes
Draco sighed and rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. He really would have to speak to Dumbledore about the décor. Honestly, a blind paraplegic could do better. He sighed again and rolled back onto his stomach. It didn't take him long to decide that he hated his pillow almost, but not quite as much, as the ceiling.
Sighing, Draco sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. Sundays should be banned. Merlin he hated Sundays. Why was Sunday longer than any other day? But then once you got past Sunday you tended to end up at Monday and Monday meant…
Draco let out another loud sigh (and that was getting old really quick) and dropped his head in his hands.
Fuck.
Seamus kicked his blankets off. He wasn't particularly warm he just couldn't stand the feel of them trapping his legs. Blankets were so outdated. Hadn't Dumbledore heard of duvets? Fucking English – retards the lot of them.
He glanced at his alarm clock. 3am. Nice. He had to be up in four hours and he wasn't even close to sleeping.
Seamus sat up and let out a loud sigh. He wondered if Ron was sleeping. Of course he was, after all, why wouldn't he?
Harry was contemplating his surroundings. Curtains… why? And why have them around a bed? He'd have to have a word with the headmaster. The rest of the world had chrome high sleepers and they had four posters with musty tattered curtains.
And, oh Merlin, please let him sleep soon.
Ron slept.
His mind wasn't always the sharpest; his psyche was quite often a whole frame of reference behind everybody else, but his body, his body always knew the score. And this time it knew sleep was definitely the way to go; Ron's body was very pragmatic – Monday was coming whether they wanted it to or not, best to face it well rested.
Hermione shifted her wand under the bedcovers. "Lumos," she whispered. She'd already placed a Silencio charm around her bed so she wasn't concerned about the crackling of the pages as they turned (bugger knows why she was whispering then).
January 12th
You know that phrase 'when hell freezes over'? Well, I think there's a good chance that Satan is dusting off his skates and spending this weekend practising his pirouettes!
Let's just say I never thought I'd see the day that Draco - don't touch the hair - Malfoy would actually enjoy a fist fight! Apart from anything else he has to be one of the biggest cowards I've ever met. Consider: at the age of seven he had quite literally wet himself when my pet snake, Algernon, had escaped his cage and decided to curl up in Draco's cloak, falling onto his bony, little shoulders when he had attempted to put it on. Algie went missing very soon after that and the next time I saw Draco he was wearing a brand new pair of snake-skin boots. I suppose I should have been more upset about it but truth was I'd gone off Algie quite a bit myself after he had shed his skin in my bed (and they really were very nice boots).
Over the ensuing years I had witnessed innumerable similar instances of Draco's craven nature (although as far as I know that was the last time he had actually left a puddle in his wake) so the thought of the big sissy willingly participating in any sort of physical altercation was surprising to say the least. I was in for a shock that day then.
I had been enjoying a quiet afternoon reading my favourite Muggle fashion magazine, everyone else having gone off to watch that stupid Quidditch match between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. They're all mad. Why would any sane person stand out in the freezing cold to watch fourteen idiots flying around chasing after a number of cylindrical objects?
Unfortunately, my solitude was interrupted all too soon when the end of the match was heralded by the returning crowds. Then Draco arrived. And well, I began to wonder if Quidditch might not be interesting after all…
{~~~~~~}
Draco walked into the common room looking so unlike himself that I was forced to raise both eyebrows (one simply lacking the impact to convey the full extent of my shock). I was somewhat irked by having to make this extra effort (after all it was the weekend) so didn't feel particularly charitable.
"What on Voldemort's scorch blackened earth do you think you've been doing?"
I mean honestly! What a sight. Draco's hair was positively wild – which I presumed would also be his mood when he eventually caught sight of himself in a mirror! He had the beginnings of a very impressive black eye, his shirt collar was torn and his lip bleeding; also his usually pasty face was flushed and his eyes were unnaturally bright.
Breathing heavily, Draco jumped onto the nearest sofa, legs stretched out along its length, a self-satisfied smile playing across his bloody lips.
If Draco's strange appearance wasn't enough to convince me that he wasn't quite himself, then the manner of his response to my question most definitely was – normally he would have bristled to say the least at the fact that I'd had the gall to snap at him and done one of three things –
1. Kicked me (Draco had a very vicious right foot when vexed).
2. Mocked my intelligence while casting aspersions on my species (called me a stupid bitch).
3. Thrown the nearest heavy object at my head (as long as it didn't require too much effort of course – he was a spectacularly lazy git as a rule).
But to my amazement Draco just shrugged and licked at his bleeding lip, sighing happily. Happily? Draco Malfoy looked like shit and was happy about it?! Well, bring on the dancing hippogriffs.
Just then Crabbe and Goyle walked in sniggering. They were boasting loudly about how they'd put Longbottom in the infirmary. I was very tempted to point out to them that the fact that it had taken two of them to put that little dough ball into hospital was really not something to boast about but I just couldn't muster the energy to care. So I ignored them instead.
Until that it is they started to ask Draco about his fight with Weasley. Now that I couldn't ignore. Draco had actually fought – as in touched/ made contact with – another human being, albeit the Weasel? Well, this was intriguing. I turned curious eyes towards Draco.
He still looked flushed and his colour deepened as he turned those bright eyes to me.
"You should have seen it, Pans," Draco gushed. "It was fantastic." His breathing had sped up now too. "One minute I was teasing him, the next I was on my back and he was on top of me. Straddling me… holding me down!"
With a hitched breath Draco suddenly jumped to his feet. "I'm a mess… must go shower!" And he practically sprinted from the room.
Silly boy. He's forgotten his shampoo.
Draco must have managed to find some suitable toiletries as he didn't return for over an hour. At least he looked more like himself when he did return (if a little languid). Draco had had his eye healed but for some reason was still sporting the split lip. I gave him time to settle in an armchair before returning to the earlier topic.
"So, Draco, you and Weasley had a fight. I do hope he looks worse than you do otherwise I might suspect that you lost."
I prepared to duck having spotted a heavy looking paperweight lying on the table close to Draco's hand. But once again he surprised me – he smiled. I had just implied that he had lost to a Gryffindor, moreover a lowly Weasley and Draco was smiling. He was beginning to freak me out now. Perhaps he had hit his head during the fight?
He turned to face me, "Oh, I think it safe to say it was a draw," Draco said dreamily. And he sat there for the rest of the evening wearing that rather unsettling smile, only breaking it to intermittently lick at his wounded lip.
I felt almost sorry for boy-Weasley. Draco was clearly planning their next encounter and by the looks of things he intended to do some serious damage.
January 13th
I had been surprised and a little disappointed last night that Draco hadn't shared the details of his little tussle with Weasley. Clearly I didn't know when I was well off! The annoying git has gone on about it all bloody day today and I am heartily sick of the whole nasty episode. Over and over, again and again, throughout breakfast, lunch and dinner and everywhere in between. I've actually found myself longing for Monday morning and the welcome distraction of lessons. At least the boring little tit will have to shut up in McGonagall's class!
It's been 'Weasley grabbed this, Weasley grabbed that', 'Weasley felt like this, Weasley felt like that' and (this just makes me shudder) Weasley smelled like this, Weasley smelled like that'. I mean that is just plain wrong. Okay if he had said the stupid prat had smelled like a cesspit or a dung heap fair enough. But – 'the cold… like autumn leaves'?! Wrong, wrong, wrong! And why after talking for five interminable minutes about Weasley's cold hands did Draco suddenly run off to the kitchens with a desperate need to lick an ice lolly? Not right I tell you! Not right at all.
And another thing – what was Draco doing in the Gryffindor stand at the match in the first place? Surely he should have been in the Slytherin one? And why did he sit behind Weasley of all people? After all Draco never tires of telling us how he can't stand the sight of the boy, so why go anywhere near him? I'm sorry but I really don't think "to poke him in the back of the head of course" is an adequate explanation whatever Draco says! Boys!
March 2nd
Oh dear, I'm beginning to suspect that the rarefied air of Malfoy Manor may have proven a little too rare for Draco. It appears to have addled his brains. I mean, is collecting empty Chocolate Frog boxes a healthy past-time for an eleven year old boy? And yet that is exactly what the poor boy has been doing.
I discovered him yesterday huddled over his treasured horde, smiling contentedly. Merlin, it made me shudder. I mean, have you ever heard anything so creepy? Draco contented… and not a drowning kitty in sight! He was fingering each crumpled box then lifting it to his nose so he could take a deep sniff. Urgh! It made me gag.
I stayed hidden, unable to approach Draco for fear of what I might say (not to mention the usual fear that he'd give me a good kicking) but also unable to move away (a bit like watching a broom crash really but without all the exciting sights and sounds). Poor Draco, he's obviously one very sick individual.
Looking closer at the wrappers themselves I noticed that they each had a date engraved onto their surface – presumably the date Draco had eaten them. Odd really… Draco isn't much of a chocolate eater as a rule. Or at least I thought he wasn't… ooh, maybe he has an eating disorder! And he keeps the boxes as a reminder of the fat boy trapped inside his skinny little body (apparently kept sedated by chocolate).
March 3rd
Okay, maybe not an eating disorder then, but definitely an unhealthy obsession with discarded chocolate wrappers. It's become so bad that I actually saw D picking up one of Weasley's Chocolate Frog boxes today!
The Trying Trio had been walking in front of us when the ginger prat tossed the empty box over his shoulder (litter lout!). I thought nothing of it at first and had in fact made to crush it under foot imagining that it was that [expletive deleted] bushy-haired [expletive deleted] pig-faced [expletive deleted] mutant-retard's skull-
[Hermione paused frowning – she was really going to have to speak to Pansy about her apparent inability to discuss her in anything less than glowing terms!]
-but before I could bring my foot down Draco pushed me off to the side. When I demanded an explanation he claimed he'd seen that Mudblood [expletive dele - Hermione rolled her eyes and read swiftly on….] casting some sort of hex on the box before it landed. Bollocks! If she did then she did it through the back of her [expletive deleted] head! No, I had my suspicions about Draco's real motives. And sure enough, two minutes later just as we turned the corner into the quad, Draco suddenly said that he'd forgotten his book and turned to run back for it. I was feeling highly suspicious at this point, so hid behind the nearest bush so I could watch where he went. Draco immediately ran straight back to Weasley's abandoned box and proceeded to pick it up and… well… hug it! Then, looking around shiftily, Draco tucked it away inside his robe and started to walk back towards me.
I'm really worried now.
March 4th
I've been thinking a lot about Draco's OBD (Obsessive Box Disorder). I mean it's bad enough that he retains his own rubbish but now he's started collecting other people's too. It can only end badly I'm sure. Is this how it starts for those mad people one sometimes hears about? You know the ones who live alone (apart from their twenty-nine cats) and when the stench from their decomposing body finally gets too much to ignore, some civic minded fool will break down their front door, only to discover forty-six tons of accumulated crap strewn about the premises…
Well, bugger that, I've had my sights on the Manor for far too long to surrender it to mountains of litter and Draco's latest psychological quirk!
I've decided to humour him for the moment. Perhaps if I encourage Draco's little 'hobby' now he'll get it out of his system quicker. I've owled mummy asking her to send me two dozen Chocolate Frogs (I knew she'd be concerned by my request so I have assured her that I will stick my fingers down my throat after each and every one).
March 5th
My parcel from mummy arrived this morning at breakfast – together with a book entitled 'The Dangers of Snacking' – silly woman!
I had expected Draco to comment on it but he seemed preoccupied by something going on over at the Gryffindor table. At least it meant I was able to take my prize back to my dorm without having to make up some excuse.
Now to put my cunning plan into action…
9.30pm
Well! Seems I shouldn't have wasted my precious time on the silly boy and his strange foibles after all! It turns out that this fetish of Draco's has already run its course all by itself and fizzled out naturally. Honestly that boy! He is so fickle! None of his obsessions ever last!
I had started out subtle, casually dropping a box as we walked around the grounds after lunch; he kicked it into the lake.
I tried again as we made our way to Herbology; he trod on it.
The third time was after dinner and this time Draco immediately bent down and picked it up. This led me to the not unreasonable assumption that previously he had just been trying to protect me from his guilty little secret but now temptation had obviously proven too much. Apparently, this was not the case.
The little shit threw it back at me – hard! – hitting me on my otherwise perfect nose and thereby possibly marring me for life (I don't care what that stupid medi-witch says!). While I was still preoccupied with rubbing the abused spot and before I could utter a word of protest that - that obnoxious little tit shouted, "For Merlin's sake, Pansy! If you have to stuff your silly fat face full of calories then please do so without dropping your rubbish in the path of others!"
He carried on walking and had just reached the foot of the boys' stairs when Draco turned and carried on with, "And a note of warning – with a nose that pug shaped you really can't afford to blow up like Millicent too. I know you come from reasonably good stock and your father would probably be willing to pay a considerable amount of money to off-load you, but remember Pans even greedy men have their standards!"
Bastard!
I know I'm probably just being paranoid but sometimes I doubt Draco's commitment to our betrothal.
Hermione closed the book and stifled a snigger. She almost felt sorry for Pansy which in turn made her feel bad for laughing… then she remembered the number of [expletive deleteds] she'd encountered so far and suddenly felt a lot less guilty. What Hermione couldn't quite believe was the other girl's willingness to share her humiliation, especially with one of her supposed biggest enemies. And once again she thought back to that first conversation that they had shared and Pansy's conviction that Draco was sincere regarding his feelings for Ron. Hermione reminded herself that the Slytherin girl was doing this to convince Hermione of that sincerity. And wondered how much longer she could continue to doubt it. Realisation came swiftly – doubt had never been the problem – hope on the other hand…
Shaking her head, Hermione placed the book back under her bed then settled back under the covers. She really ought to get some sleep… she had a feeling tomorrow was going to prove particularly interesting.
Dumbledore emptied the overflowing box for the third time that day. He was beginning to suspect that a suggestion box may not have been one of his better ideas. Clearly he was being punished. Minerva had said it would come back to bite him in the arse (granted she may have termed it slightly differently) and she was right – Dumbledore held the proof in his hands.
He glanced at the top parchment – seems someone took particular exception to the blandness of the ceilings; the precise, if somewhat cutting nature of the words brought a certain Slytherin to mind.
The next, while worded carefully to cause least offence, at the same time left one in no doubt as to the author's firm belief in the superiority of the suggestion within. It concerned the introduction of a Muggle postal system to replace the "quaint but arcane" owl system that to the author's rather extensive knowledge had not been in vogue "well… ever." Ah, Miss Granger. Still, she might have a point. Dumbledore had been deeply disturbed himself three days earlier when he'd complimented Dobby on the new cereal he'd enjoyed at breakfast that morning, only to be assured by the eager little House-elf that there was, in fact, no cereal within Hogwart's kitchens that contained raisins.
Another seemed to take exception to the school's "outdated by at least 20 years" bedding; it went on to further elucidate, "why we Irish are considered backwards by you English is beyond me – for fucks sake we invented the wheelbarrow for a reason!" Dumbledore would have to have a word with Mr Finnigan regarding the use of appropriate language even on supposedly anonymous suggestion forms.
Dumbledore frowned in confusion at the next piece of parchment. All it said was "Just an idea…" Huh? He turned it over to find a torn strip of glossy paper attached. It appeared to be a picture of a bed suspended in the air by long metal poles. How intriguing… Shaking his head Dumbledore sighed and decided perhaps it was time for bed.