Disclaimer: Me no Own, You no Sue.

A/N: Hello once again! Remember me? I would be surprised if you did! You know, because it has been two years since I last posted a chapter. Yeah...about that... You see, I...have no excuse whatsoever. I'm really sorry. I just didn't like where the story was going and lost inspiration. But I've found it again! All because of Eimhear93! (Thank you so much for favoriting this! It means a lot to me! :D) Eimhear93 also followed this story, and it made me think, "Aw, poor person. Bet they didn't realize that this story hasn't been updated in two years." But then, I couldn't get it out of my head! I was so devastated by the fact that loyal Eimhear93 would be following this story for an eternity, never getting another chapter! So I had to write another one. As I said before, I didn't like where the story was heading, so I deleted the most recent chapter and changed/added to it a bit. Please make sure to review and tell me what you think! It is you guys that give me the motivation to keep writing! :D

Quidditch was awful. The Gryffindors only stopped practicing once it started drizzling, ("Have fun practicing in the rain!" yelled Harry on his way to the locker rooms) so Draco and the rest of the Slytherin team was forced to either not practice for the day, or get drenched. Unfortunately, Urquhart stubbornly decided that he wouldn't let the Gryffindors have their satisfaction, so Draco had to fly through tiny, mist-like droplets that got him soaked even faster than normal rain. His goggles were so covered in water that he could barely see anything, let alone a snitch.

After practice, and after Draco had gotten into his clean, dry robes, Draco opened his bag to greet Puff, only to remember that Puff had gone with the Weaselette.

Slightly disappointed, he closed his bag and started heading back to the castle.

A few days later, Draco found himself scared for his life. He had been walking through the hallway, heading for his Transfiguration lesson, when he saw a hand reach out, grab him suddenly, and pull him into an empty classroom. Surprised and confused, he turned around, only to come face to face with a very enraged, very red headed girl.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH ARNOLD!?" she screamed at him, waving her fists threateningly.

Draco tried to get a hold of himself and give a dignified answer. He really did. Unfortunately, all he could manage was something along the lines of "Wha-what?"

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about! Don't even deny it, or I should curse you right here and now! I'm told that I can give a particularly nasty bat-bogey hex! Now fess up!"

Draco hadn't the slightest idea where Arnold was. If he was in his right mind, he would have been a little worried about what had happened to the little pygmy puff, but as it happened, he wasn't in his right mind.

"How should I know what you've done to the poor creature over the past few days to give him such a strong desire to flee?" he responded haughtily, tilting his nose a little higher in the air. "Perhaps it was the smell," he added, scrunching up his features slightly to make sure she saw his repulsion.

The sudden transition from anger to hurt shocked Draco. It seemed, for just a moment, that she truly was offended. When that moment ended, however, she rose up to her full height, thrust her wand in his face, and bellowed, "BOGUS VESPERTILIUS!"

After that day, Draco became personally acquainted with the ferocity of Ginny Weasley's bat bogey hex.

That evening, Draco sat on his four-poster bed in his dormitory, pondering the recent occurrences. He had been humiliated—for two whole hours—by the concerned, yet reprimanding looks of Madame Pomphrey. She had asked him multiple times who had cursed him, but somehow, in his weakened state, he couldn't find it in himself to tell her.

He just kept coming back to the picture of her face, right before she effectively tore out every hair in his nostrils with black, rabid bats. He couldn't help the disproportional amount of guilt that touched him when he thought of what he'd said. But really, it wasn't his fault at all, he kept telling himself. The Weaselette was the real convict, seeing as she was the one who did the cursing, and she was the one who he was covering for without reason. The guilt was probably just a side effect of the stupid curse.

With a sigh, he eased into his bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. The chill he felt in the bed had nothing to do with an insufficient amount of blankets, but rather the absence of a particular pink fluff ball, that he (somewhat pathetically, he reminded himself) wished would be nuzzled up against his side. (Of course, he would deny wishing such a thing until the end of his days, if need be).

In addition to attending his classes and completing copious amounts of homework for Transfiguration (I mean seriously, he thought bitterly, is it really necessary to write a twenty inch essay on G-'s laws?), Draco spent the following week taking strolls around various parts the castle. He'd convinced himself that it was good to get some fresh air every once in a while. If he just happened to look under a few curtains and tables here and there, so be it. There wasn't anything abnormal about making sure there were no boggarts or doxies just waiting to ambush him, was there? No, certainly not. And in no way were his searches…ahem, strolls…related to a certain pink pygmy puff.

Draco also assumed that Weasley must have been looking for Arnold, judging by the "Lost Pygmy Puff" flyers that were now posted around the school.

Whenever Draco passed the redhead in the hallways, he would look the other way, making every attempt to avoid her path. It wasn't that he was scared of her, per se, but he preferred to bypass another confrontation in which there was a chance that the tender new nose hairs that were beginning to cling to his nostrils would be unwarrantedly ripped from their roots, perhaps never to return again.

Plus, the feeling that he got when he saw her face was very unsettling. She always seemed so downtrodden, which made him feel like taking advantage of her temporary weakness to insult her and see what kind of reactions he could get out of her. Then, he would feel inexplicably ashamed of his intentions. Following this would usually come a deep confusion about his former reactions and a determination to ignore the entire train of thought altogether.

But sometimes, he couldn't help himself. Why did he suddenly begin to feel guilty about offending a Weasley, something that he had been doing his entire life without remorse? The question and the shame ate away at him as he brooded the following days. It continued to weigh him down until he realized something in one bright, shining moment of clarity: It was all the Gryffindor's fault!

She was the one to blame for him feeling this way. She was purposefully looking mopey in order to mess with him and get a rise out of him! Well, he had news for her. He wasn't going to let her win this one. He would show her that her plan hadn't worked, and that he was just as strong as ever before! He would find Arnold before he ever crossed her line of sight, and he would use him as ransom in order to make her stop feigning sadness!

End of Chapter 3.

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