The two boys were both hurrying as though they were secretly trying to beat each other to where ever they were going. Unfortunately for me, since Draco was easily the taller and stronger of the two, owing to his perfect construction and Adonis musculature, this meant that I had to walk past the sulky man-child in order to reach him. Regardless, I had to trot to catch up. The professor had left me a pair of black pumps (I certainly hope they weren't his...), which did not help my little speed-chase. I felt like I was such a poser as I heard the crisp tapping noise of those borrowed heels and felt the swishing of that stolen skirt across my thighs.

"Hey," I said breathlessly as I fell into Draco's shadow. He turned at my voice, and the harsh look (that had stolen over his features since the arrival of the angsty beast to my left) softened somewhat. I was surprised as a little naughty look stole into his eyes as they slithered over my new outfit in a way that both repulsed and attracted me. I punched him again. He laughed, again. Apparently I needed to work on my right hook.

"Dis-gust-ing," I heard the Harry-beast whisper, drawing out each sound in blatant insolence, just loud enough in that little English accent so that I could hear every syllable. Draco stiffened again – it was like the boy to my left was his puppet-master, and when he spoke all the strings tightened and Draco was strung up into some bad temper. Just as I hated that Severus Snape for controlling Draco, I hated this little black haired monster for messing with him.

But wait. I should be siding with him, shouldn't I? We were rushing past those little screens again, my heels tapping away on the stone and then shushing romantically across the carpets, and it was all just going too fast. This boy, the sexy, tall, strong blonde boy beside me, had abducted me from my house, convinced me that he was a wizard (or that he thought he was a wizard), dragged me to his principal, and was now glancing over me with a degree of familiarity as though every inch of me belonged to him. Wasn't Harry right to be hating him, hating him for objectifying me and using me and staring at the bared curve of my collarbone in a way that can only be described as extremely intoxicating…

I had to stop then, in the hallway, and shake myself. I ran a hand through my hair, loosening a few curls. They fell into my face, smothering me. I felt strangled. Just breathe.

"Are you alright?" That must have been Harry, sounding concerned for once. So he didn't hate me, just Draco.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Draco had never asked that. "I just… it's a lot to take in."

Harry turned on his more beautiful adversary.

"Is she a Muggle?" he demanded. Draco wheeled and strode off down the hallway. I couldn't let him leave, I had to follow, but it was a breathless, unhappy chase. His pace was slower now – fleeing away from me although unwillingly, not willingly with me towards the class.

"How are you handling this?" Harry intoned quietly, no longer a show for Draco – this was all for me. His green eyes were serious, as though I was some poor damsel in distress dangling off a cliff and he was the one with the tree branch offering me an arm up. And Draco… Draco was that ocean beneath that was utterly the perfect poison that I wanted – but was cold. He had never been interested in my feelings… only interested in me, in my intuitive leaps, in my way of stumbling over words, in my teasing smile and funny right hook, in my bare legs skimming across his silken sheets…

"I think I have a handle on things."

Harry raised an eyebrow, and I watched as it rose above his round glasses. Then I had to remember that he was thinking about magical spells and cauldrons and brooms, not Draco's bed.

"No, really," I continued, fighting to stay on task. "I've decided that if you guys think that everyone at this school is a wizard, then you can be completely right – I believe that you can believe that you are a wizard."

"Or witch," Draco corrected without turning. He was cold now, shut off, that way he had been when I looked at the little televisions. Whenever I said something he couldn't follow, that didn't fit into his little world.

"What?"

"The girls," he repeated, turning slowly and fixing me with that eerily gorgeous glance of his, "are witches."

He turned sharply before I could see that there was something besides coldness in his gray eyes and swung open another ancient looking door that creaked on its hinges.

"How kind of you to join us, Mr. Malfoy," a stern-faced older woman said haughtily. "And Mr. Potter. I see you've brought Miss Cole as well."

Apparently I missed something. The whole classroom turned to look at me.

"I'm sorry if I'm intruding," I offered as politely as I could manage, feeling like such an outsider. All the girls – witches, I reminded myself, they thought themselves witches – were wearing exactly what I wore. I felt like such a fake, such a fraud, such a pretender in my little costume.

"Not at all," the teacher said politely. She had a large falcon feather protruding out of a very pointy hat and a high-necked dress on with a large pendant over her throat. I tried very hard not to stare. "Professor Dumbledore sent me a message by owl mail."

"Email?" I asked, assuming a slip of the tongue.

"No," she replied sternly. "Owl. Mail." She indicated a barn owl with a sweep of her large, bell-sleeve.

"Oh my!" I exclaimed, ducking, expecting the large animal to take flight at any moment and swoop down dragging sharp, mouse-filled claws across my hair. The entire classroom stared. I straightened up slowly. Apparently this was a tamed variety of the almost entirely-wild species.

"I…" I glanced at Draco, and he was staring at the ceiling in utmost humiliation. "I thought I saw a spider," I finished lamely. A lanky red haired boy near my elbow flinched, but a girl with hair that had clearly never heard of conditioner shushed him. I pitied her, and thought of giving her the name of a great stylist I had found. She wasn't completely unfortunate, but it was a lot of raw potential. Really, really raw.

The teacher was looking at me as though I was the most confusing thing she had seen in her entire fifty years.

"I am Professor McGonagall," she said, shaking the confusion finally. "And this isn't an excuse to stop practicing," she continued, raising her voice to the class. "You can sit here, Miss Cole, between Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley" She pointed to a seat next to the red head and Harry.

"But can't I…" I trailed off, looking towards the opposite side of the room where Draco had settled himself. Mrs. McGonagall gave me a stern look. I decided not to question her. Apparently she wanted me adjacent to her desk where she could watch me.

I sat down slowly, and I saw that all the students around me were pulling rabbits out from underneath the table.

"Oh, are you going to make them disappear?" I asked excitedly. The red haired boy gave me a look of panic and confusion. "I did that once at magic camp. Don't you just hide them like this—" I began gesturing, quite competently I might say, how to disappear a rabbit into a hat, sans rabbit, sans hat, and sans handkerchief (so I may have looked a bit odd – but let's be real, these people thought they were witches), and the little red haired boy flinched as though I were a barn owl in a classroom. Or at least, his equivalent of how I saw that oddity.

"Ron," the girl with the afro intoned, as though he were a small child and she his nanny. "Sorry about him, he isn't used to talking with non-Magic people like you. He stared at my parents in the same way. You guys just aren't a part of his world," she replied condescendingly, although I'm sure she meant it to sound as friendly. "Stop acting like she's something out of a zoo, Ron," she ordered without even looking at him. The red haired boy flinched subserviently. I could see who wore the pants in this relationship. What a bossy little trollop. Who couldn't use conditioner. I wasn't sure if I wanted to help her anymore. I attempted a polite smile, the one I give people I secretly hate, but it's my prettiest smile so I think she took it and continued working, probably really jealous of my awesome hair. Hmph.

"Really, Ronald," she continued, still complaining harshly. Now I really disliked her. The boy had barely moved. "What is wrong with you?"

"Martin Miggs," he replied, his voice all trembly and frightened.

"Who?" snapped the girl.

"Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle!" his voice was hoarse. He had obviously heard horror stories of "people like me," as the bushy haired girl had called us normal folk.

"I'm not mad, I promise," I replied, smiling as brightly as I could at him just to piss off his little girlfriend. I even tried fluffing my hair, a trick that some girls use – although they usually have had access to feminine-scented shampoo... Despite the man-musk that may have engulfed the two of his, his expression cleared somewhat, and his ears turned a little pink. He started waving that stick around over the rabbit. The girl grabbed his hand to reclaim his attention and started correct his flourishes. So annoying, so possessive. But I wasn't going to mess with that travesty of a relationship. To my left, Harry was waving his tree branch around over the rabbit.

"Having any luck, Potter?" came a sneering voice. Draco was lingering overhead, under the pretense of getting a spare rabbit from Mrs. McGonagall's desk, where a hutch was hiding five or so terrified bunnies that were cowering in the furthest corner.

"Obviously not, Malfoy," retorted Harry. He sounded like he thought he was pretty tough, but it was clear that Draco had the upper hand – he was just that much more attractive.

"Are you going to disappear a rabbit too, Draco?" I asked, glancing up at him, trying to keep that bubble-gum-hero-worshiping-flirty tone out of my voice.

"No," Draco replied, looking confused again, his voice dropping that abrasive tone as he turned to stare at me as though I were the stupidest person on planet Earth. "This is Transfiguration class," he reminded me as though it was the most apparent thing ever.

Suddenly, Harry's bunny began to wobble a bit, and when it stilled I saw there was a little brown, round jewelry box.

"Wha—" I gasped.

"Transfiguration," Harry explained gently. "It's pretty complex magic, but I turned the rabbit into a jewelry box using—"

"You've killed it!" I gasped. Both boys stared, and then I watched the color drain out of Harry's face. He looked utterly aghast.

"No, of course not," he replied, picking up the box. "I just—"

"Turned it into a box!" I replied, somehow unable to get any breath. "Turned a living, breathing, sentient creature into a… a piece of wood!"

Draco snicked.

"She has a point, Potter," he replied, beaming at me as though I was some prize-winning pumpkin plant at a town fair. "I guess they should call you the Chosen Rabbit Murderer." He guffawed as though this were extremely clever of him.

"I haven't killed it," Harry continued, ignoring Draco, clearly panicking at this point. "Professor, please explain to her that I haven't killed it."

"But he has!" I replied, turning to the teacher. "It used to be a perfectly happy, hopping little bunny rabbit and now – now it's a box!"

"What do you mean, Miss Cole?" she asked, standing up from behind her desk and regarding me sternly over her glasses, feather bobbing as she moved.

"Is this a special box? Is this box different from a box I would buy at a jewelry store?" I sounded lucid and persuasive (albeit a tad upset), a talent that had many a debate team member knocking down my door, but the teacher was staring at me as though I were insane.

However, as always, she remained calm. She walked over. She picked up the box. She opened it – at this point I felt quite faint – and inspected it thoroughly.

"No, Mr. Potter was quite successful in his Transfiguration. This is a box, a normal box."

She thunked it down on the table.

"And it can't feel that?" I asked.

"No, not at all."

"So what about that rabbit?"

"It's a box." She was talking very slowly as if I simply couldn't hear her properly.

"No, it's a rabbit."

"Box." She drew the single sound out, as though this would suddenly help me to understand.

"It's a rabbit!" I exclaimed. "It was born a rabbit, it lived a rabbit, it hopped around being all rabbit-y, and now it's been killed and its cells and its atoms or whatever have all been switched around to make it into a wooden jewelry box!"

"Please calm down, Miss Cole," the teacher replied.

"But you're all murdering rabbits for no good reason and calling Transmogrification—"

"Transfiguration," she interrupted patiently.

"Whatever!" I snapped, drawing a breath to continue.

The teacher tapped her stick on the box. But by the time the baton came down, it was on the back of a brown rabbit. I calmed down.

"So it's back again."

"Yes."

"It wasn't dead."

"No." She was still calm. I felt like a complete idiot. The entire class was silent, as though they had been listening to my little temper-tantrum.
"So then…" I began hesitantly, feeling embarrassed yet again. At least this time I had all my clothing on. "This is all just…"

"Magic," interrupted Draco evilly, a little flourish of a two-syllable word. He spread out the fingers of his spare hand as in a final ta-daa motion meant to inspire awe.

"Oh, alright." I replied calmly.

"'Alright'?" he mocked in that little falsetto. I punched his arm again. "Ow," he complained, rubbing the hard muscle that had probably done my knuckles more harm than vice versa by the way he was smirking. He picked up a rabbit and decisively marched away. I realized that before he reached his seat he was carry a bejeweled jewelry box. It took him only one try. It took Harry six. And for some reason, that made me feel enormously smug.

It took the bushy haired girl, the red haired boy, and the sticky-up-y black-haired boy about five years to pack up. I noticed this because Draco was all ready to go when the bell rang, and he had to linger in the doorway while all his classmates said their farewells. He was leaning against the frame, arms slung casually across his body to hold onto a few books easily, eyes sparkling intensely from underneath those strong eyebrows, his chiseled chin set defiantly…

So yes, it felt like five years. When we finally began walking, he fell into step with us.

"She's our responsibility, Malfoy," sneered the red-haired boy – Ron.
"How do you figure that?" he asked, trying to remain unruffled. I liked him better like that – the calmer he was, the sexier. I considered telling him that. But by Harry's angry, angsty pout I decided that conversation should be left for a more appropriate, private time.

"Professor McGonagall made it clear that she was to remain with us," the girl said stubbornly, in a little I-told-you-so way that made me want to vomit in my mouth. Draco caught my disgusted look and grinned openly.

"Well perhaps Miss Cole would like to make it clear her feelings on the matter," he intoned.

I stared at him, trying to disguise the little unsettling sensation his voice saying those words gave me. I had to think for a minute to remember how to speak. Even then I couldn't think of anything to say, though.

"I mean," elaborated Draco, "what you said this morning…"

"This morning?" Ron echoed, sounding breathless, raising an orange eye brow so that it disappeared behind his shaggy bangs.

"In my bedroom…" Draco continued.

"In your bedroom?" Harry repeated, flustered, despite himself. Boys.

"As long as we don't have to go into what I was wearing," I replied, catching on quickly. That's why Draco liked me – he grinned.

"Or rather," I said, turning conspiratorially to that girl. "What I wasn't wearing, if you know what I mean." I gave my best popular-girl simper. The girl looked utterly disgusted, and repulsed by the near-drooling of her two guy friends.

"Unless you wanted to join us…?" I offered, looking her over as rudely as I could manage. Very Katy Perry. This was fun.

"Americans," I heard her growl as she dragged the two boys away.

Draco and I laughed for a good fifteen minutes.

"So?" I asked.

"So?" he echoed.

"When do I have to deal with Luke, Leia, and Han again?"

"Huh?"
"Those Three Musketeers?" I jerked my head to indicate the group that had just left us.

He sighed, and we began walking slowly in the opposite direction. We passed courtyards, skirted a few open classrooms, and began walking down another flight of stairs.

"In Divination later today. I think Dumbledore wants to keep an eye on us, and he's using them."

The reminder of Dumbledore caught me off guard. It was something in those crystal clear blue eyes that reminded me of my epiphany, of that feeling of dangling off a cliff with Harry as my savior. It was that sick part of me that didn't want to be saved that had me alienating the girl with the bushy hair and clinging to someone I probably should not be trusting. Draco was silent – he was remarkably perceptive for someone who didn't really seem to care about my feelings. I put on my best brave-face.

"Divination?" I asked instead of bringing up a more important topic. "Are we looking for gold?"

"No." He looked confused again.

"Like… a divining rod? Y'know?"

"Obviously not," he replied, and his confused, upset expression cracked into a large grin. "You are so strange."

"Hey!" I smacked him again. "Says the witch."

"Wizard!" he corrected, pouting his lips as though I had insulted him. I gave him a coy look.

"Sorry, there are just so many strange terms to keep track of…"

"You knew that!" he accused, sounding thrilled. I shrugged, but couldn't keep from smiling. His grin softened into an intense expression that was extremely attractive while being the most frightening thing I had seen all day – the spinning, the running, the stolen clothing that belonged to some ghost… it was just all too fast. Most of all him, the way that I couldn't keep my eyes of everything about him.

"Why."

He looked at me, in that strangely-guilty look that sometimes stole across him when I was looking at him.

"Why me." It didn't sound like I was talking to him, but by hunching body language it was clear that he understood what I was getting at.

He still didn't answer.

"Why you." I hoped he didn't hear that part. I was glancing him over now, trying to stare through those gray eyes. Finally it just became too intense, too intense for only having known him for a few hours.

"This is crazy," I finally muttered.

"Tell me about it."

I couldn't ask him, couldn't ask if he felt that strange jitteriness too. It was hard to say how long we stood staring at each other, as much as I hate to admit it. How strange and clichéd. Was this Stockholm Syndrome?

The bell rang.

"Divination?" I offered tentatively.

"Yeah," he muttered, turning and walking away. I followed miserably in his shadow, unable to look at him either.