"Mum is going to lose it," Ron muttered as he and Hermione hefted the heartbroken Harry through the winding halls of Hogwarts. Blessedly, they encountered only a small pack of first-years along the way, all of whom scattered to the four winds when Ron growled at them.
"No, seriously, she is going to lay an egg," Ron gasped, breathing heavily as he pulled Harry through the portrait hole. Though the Quidditch Captain was certainly lighter than a boy his age should be—another thing Mrs. Weasley constantly griped about—they'd had to drag him up five flights of stairs, across several floors, and back down two staircases just to reach Gryffindor tower.
"A Howler's more like it," Hermione replied, catching her breath. They both sank onto the same squashy armchair, and let their bodies regain some stamina as they considered Harry's unmoving form on a nearby couch. "I don't understand, Ron," she said, leaning her head back onto his shoulder to look at his freckled face. Ron merely shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away from Harry.
"Ginny's gone mad, it's quite obvious," he surmised. Ginny HATED Malfoy. They'd all seen her shoot Bat-Bogey hexes at him multiple times, and, in good old days—before Harry's dreadful marriage proposal—Ginny had happily added her brilliant, and oftentimes disturbing, ideas to their buffet of Slytherin-bashing. Next to Quidditch, it had been her favorite sport.
"Not Ginny," Hermione pointed down at Harry, comatose on the couch, "What could possibly be wrong with Harry? I've never seen him so…"
"Feeble?" Ron offered, "He's heartbroken, Hermione."
Hermione shook her frizzy brown head and scratched her chin thoughtfully, "There must have been something we did to make Ginny angry enough to do something so…unthinkable."
"What d'you mean, 'we?'" Ron protested as Hermione excused herself from his lap. "I'm her brother, for Merlin's sake." As she turned to him, Ron immediately knew he'd said the wrong thing.
"Oh, so you expect me to believe that over all those years, when you went on and on about Percy working for the ministry, you never meant it when you called him a backstabbing git?" Ron bit his lip, thinking of an appropriate answer. At last, inspiration struck.
"I forgave him, after the War," Ron smiled triumphantly. Hermione drifted back into his arms, and she patted him on his flaming red crown. She pulled his cheek close to her lips, and kissed him. Ron's entire face, from forehead to chin, instantly became scarlet. Hermione had always loved that Ron was so easy to read; however, she sometimes resented having to explain every miniscule detail. You'd think, after seven years of nothing but mystery and adventure, he'd learn to put two and two together, she sighed to herself, moving her lips closer to his crimson earlobe. Oh well. She had developed a mutually satisfying approach to what she liked to call "the Ron Dilemma."
"Ron, why did you forgive Percy?" she whispered seductively into his ear. He perked up quite a bit; he loved it when they played this game. Of course, for almost a whole year now, he'd been kicking himself. He'd played the same game with her since they were eleven, just without the snogging. If he'd played his cards right, Ron could have been the first boy in their year to learn the truly advanced magic of shagging. Being cruel to Hermione when they were in first year might have been his biggest mistake…
"That's it! Percy admitted that he was wrong! That he'd made a mistake!" Ron cried, startling Hermione, who'd begun to fall asleep on his shoulder. She yawned, and patted him sportingly on the thigh.
"Exactly, Ronald," Hermione said, "But first, we've got to figure out what we've done to wrong Ginny." Ron grinned, pleased with himself. He wasn't a sprinter, but he always made it past the finish line. However, as Hermione lifted her face to give Ron his reward, a muffled groan from the couch brought them both swiftly to their feet. Before she crossed to Harry, Ron grabbed Hermione and pulled her back into his arms. They shared a split-seconds worth of kissing, until Ron broke off.
"I should have done that the first day I saw you," he said softly, burying his face in her hair. She smelled faintly of old leather and ink; he decided to finally put his foot down and make her stop scratching her head with quills, as she was prone to do when deep in thought.
"Stop it you two," Harry moaned again, coherently this time, "You're going to make me vomit."
Hermione hushed Harry, kneeling at his side, "You haven't eaten in since yesterday," she admonished him, as Ron took a seat on one of the sofa's arms, "There aren't any chunks in there to blow." Harry groaned, rolling into sitting position. Ron clapped him mightily on the back.
"That's the spirit, mate," he said brightly, "Here I was thinking you'd gone and caught something deadly, with all this fainting business. Let's grab some supper in the Great Hall," Ron leaped from his seat, always energetic at the prospect of a meal, and pulled Harry to his feet, "Hermione and I can tell you all about out plan." Harry nearly sank back onto the couch.
"Right," he muttered, "I'm thrilled, Operation: Ambush being such a great success and all. Besides, what if she's at supper? With him?" Hermione helped Ron pull Harry to his feet.
"That would be perfect," Hermione informed him, "Because seeing her is part of our plan."
"This just gets better and better, doesn't it?" Harry said, forlorn. Together, the Golden Trio made their way out of the portrait hole. The Fat Lady sniffed loudly when Harry, the last one out, forgot to reseal the entrance. As he trudged back to close the portrait, the Fat Lady beamed at him.
"I've only got your best interests at heart, dear," she called after him as he walked back over to Ron and Hermione, "Remember that awful Sirius Black incident? Although Argus managed to restore me to my former beauty," she waved her feathered pink fan alluringly, "I still feel the scars where that madman tore the canvas." The Fat Lady took a trembling breath, about to go on, but noticed—as did Ron and Hermione—that Harry had gone incredibly pale.
"Harry," Ron said warningly, "I swear, if you faint again, I'm going to have to charge you fare."
"I'm sorry, dear, if I scared you," the Fat Lady apologized quickly, "But I tend to get nostalgic with all my seventh-years. I only remembered that awful evening myself because students keep bothering me at all hours of the night," the Fat Lady fanned herself harder, "A lady needs her beauty rest, after all."
"Who keeps coming and going in the middle of the night?" Hermione demanded, her prefect instincts rising to the surface. If there was mischief afoot, she had a duty to quash it.
"Well, for one thing, that fiery little redhead comes and goes like no one's business. Sixth-year, I think? One time I even saw her bring a boy back with her—I'd never seen him before, I suppose he's from another house. Quiet-type, always very polite." The Fat Lady tittered, "He even bowed like a proper gentleman before following the redhead inside. What a pleasant departure from the usual…"
"What did the boy look like?" It was Harry's turn to demand an answer. If Draco Malfoy had been inside Gryffindor tower, he needed to know. Deep inside, Harry's heart protested that Ginny couldn't have brought that pompous, over-gelled git into the tower while they were still technically dating. It would be more than betrayal…it would mean that Harry needed to find a charm to repel venereal diseases. Immediately. He nearly gagged.
The Fat Lady lifted her nose in the air, and made an insulted noise.
"I am not your doorman," she scoffed, and moved to leave her frame.
"We're sorry," Hermione apologized gently, "But if someone who isn't a Gryffindor has been inside the tower, that's in direct violation of school rules. We'll need to report it." She fixed the Fat Lady with a firm, hazel gaze. The Fat Lady sighed, and returned to her usual plush cushion.
"I never heard her say his name, but he was tall and thin, with blonde hair, and either blue or gray eyes—it was too dark to tell." Without another word, Harry whipped around and made for the staircase leading to Hogwarts' inner sanctum. Ron chased after him while Hermione thanked the Fat Lady, who had risen to her feet with indignant bluster at Harry's abrupt departure.
"He's had a rough few days," Hermione explained, smiling contritely. She turned to go.
"He didn't even stay to hear the best part!" The Fat Lady sulked, having lost two-thirds of her audience. Hermione paused, and waited for the Fat Lady to go on. "Well, what really gets me all riled up," the matronly woman continued, settling back into her seat, "Is the fact that every time that strumpet leaves, she leaves the door ajar, no matter how loud I yell to call her back! The other night, I had to wait an entire hour before that Longbottom boy came up from the Greenhouses, and let me tell you, he smelled to high heaven…wait…where are you going?" The Fat Lady found herself alone in the empty hallway, once again.
"Blast it," she muttered, "They never stick around. Can't a girl catch a break?"
Harry and Ron were halfway to the Great Hall when Hermione caught up with them.
"What took you?" Ron asked, holding tightly onto Harry's shoulders. There was homicidal glint in Harry's eyes, and Ron—thought he felt his friend's pain—would never hear the end of it if Harry murdered Ginny in a fit of jealous rage. Hermione heard the inclement sounds of gathered students, all of their ears undoubtedly tuned to the barest shred of gossip, so she didn't reply and hoped Ron would drop the matter until they settled into a more secure setting for discussion.
As expected, the Great Hall was full to bursting with students. Of course, as they always did, Harry's eyes settled on the staff table at the head of the hall. His gaze lingered on the currently empty headmaster's seat, and then wandered to left, where Professor Snape had sat and fixed Harry with his haunted gaze for six years. Harry now knew the truth behind those beady eyes, but the nearness of Dumbledore's murder made it difficult for him to forgive the man, despite his bravery. Lost in his dark thoughts, Harry seated himself at the far end of the Gryffindor table and commenced to load his plate with food dispassionately. He barely registered Ron and Hermione's whispered discussion, stuffing mouthful after mouthful of tasteless food into his mouth.
"Finally taking some good advice and trying to put some meat on those bones, eh, Harry?" A girl's voice interrupted Harry's brooding, and he looked up at Romilda Vane's vaguely masculine face. He tried to smile, and indicated that his mouth was full. Taking this as an invitation to join him, Romilda plopped down in the tiny space between him and Ron. Ron scooted closer to Hermione with a heartfelt, "Sorry, mate," leaving Harry and Romilda in relative privacy.
"So," she began, as Harry desperately piled more helpings onto his plate, "I heard that you're back on the market." I can't do this, Harry thought, I just can't. Romilda brought a hand up to caress his cheek, which was nearly at its maximum capacity. He was finding it hard to chew, but Harry continued to shovel forkfuls of random entrees into the crowded area.
"Oh, Harry," she cooed, "I'm so sorry. You must be awfully lonely, now that Ginny's out of the picture." The way Romilda said it, she made Ginny sound like an obstacle. "But I hope you know, Harry," Romilda continued, as her hand moved down his neck and across his chest, "That you've always got me. You can come visit whenever you like, in the fifth-year dorms." Her hand moved farther down, and Harry could no longer contain himself. He spit the unrecognizable mush in his mouth onto his plate and stood up quickly.
"Sorry, I have to use the toilet." Without looking down at her, Harry made a break for it. Hermione nudged Ron, who took a final bite of strudel, and rose to his feet, following Harry. Left alone together, Romilda and Hermione regarded each other uneasily.
"What are you looking at?" Romilda finally snapped. Hermione shook her head.
"I'm wondering," Hermione said, pausing to sip her tea, "How you ended up in Gryffindor. I mean, honestly," Hermione looked the raven-haired girl up and down, "What did the Sorting Hat see in you? You're not brave, and you obviously aren't that bright," Hermione shook her head as Romilda alternately paled and flushed, "It makes me wonder if that old Hat is getting a little bit worse for wear."
"Actually," Romilda said quietly, after a moment, "The Sorting Hat gave me a choice," Hermione paused, mid-sip, to listen, "It told me that it saw me doing well in Hufflepuff, but that I might also make a good Slytherin. Considering that both my parents were in Hufflepuff, I hadn't expected anything different. But before the hat shouted out my house name, it asked me why I wanted so badly to be in Gryffindor. I didn't know it could read my thoughts until then, so I told I that I wanted to be in the same house as the famous Harry Potter. The Sorting Hat warned me that it would be difficult for me, in Gryffindor. Even now, most of my good friends are from Hufflepuff. But I still chose to be in Gryffindor." Hermione didn't notice that she'd leaned in closer as Romilda shared her story, but now she leaned back, surprised.
"Why, Romilda?" Hermione was awestruck, "Why would you choose to be unhappy?" The fifth-year girl shrugged, but Hermione sensed that she was on the verge of tears. Perhaps she'd never told anyone this tale before.
"I didn't choose to be unhappy," Romilda's lips trembled, "I chose to follow my dream."
"And what was your dream?" Hermione asked, trying not to roll her eyes; she was quite confident she already knew the answer.
"I want to marry Harry Potter. But he never even gives me the time of day!" Finally, Romilda's walls broke down, and she began to cry, the tears gushing from her dark blue eyes like waterfalls. Hermione was caught off guard; she hadn't expected the poor girl to actually lose it here, in the Great Hall, where everyone could see. Several curious faces turned toward the pair of Gryffindor girls, and Hermione shrugged at them, patting the weeping younger girl.
"Romilda," Hermione said slowly, after a time, "That's one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. You should try to find a dream that doesn't involve having to drug your future-husband into loving you. Really." Romilda gasped, and, obviously offended, shoved Hermione away as she dashed from the hall.
"You'll see, " she croaked as she ran, "Payback's a bitch, Granger!"
Hermione shook her head, and opened a book as she poured herself another cup of tea.
In the nearest boys' bathroom, Harry clutched the stark white edges of a sink and let freezing water fall in rivulets from his face. When the last drops splashed back into the sink, he confronted his damp countenance in the mirror.
"You're a bloody fool, Harry Potter," his reflection said, "If you let them beat you." Harry couldn't have agreed more. "This is what we're going to do, old chap: we're going to get back on that horse, and ride it."
"Then what?" Harry asked the face in the mirror. The face broke into a jaunty, lopsided grin. Harry knew what that face meant—knew it all too well. It was the very face he'd worn the first time he'd ever snuck out in his invisibility cloak; the first time he'd ridden a broom and realized flying was effortless joy; the first time he'd won a Quidditch match; the first time he'd watched Ginny peel off her uniform and show him her perfect, slim…
Harry splashed himself with another handful of water. The face in the mirror shook its head at him, clearly disappointed by Harry's lackluster dedication to horseback-riding. Harry looked away, growing uncomfortable with the fact he was carrying on a conversation with his own reflection.
"I'm going mental," Harry sighed, looking up at the mirror. He froze.
"I'll say, Potter," Draco Malfoy's reflection sneered, "I saw you leave the Great Hall. I figured you might want some company, you know, perhaps a little pick-me-up chat with an old pal," Malfoy pointedly looked at the mirror, "But I see you've already found someone to talk to. I half expected you to start calling it 'Dad,'" Malfoy laughed—rather like a girl, in Harry's opinion. Still, the words sliced into him, and Harry released the sink, drawing his wand in a fluid motion as he turned to face his nemesis.
"Isn't this the same bathroom where I caught you crying like a baby," Harry licked his dry lips, "And then thrashed your sorry arse?" Malfoy stiffened.
"Ah, yes," the Slytherin Prince drew his own wand from the depths of his robe, "But that was when you were on top of the world," Malfoy mocked, "But now, I'm on top of the world. And your girl." Malfoy snickered lecherously.
Harry had never been one for brute force; he preferred to let the bulkier, more substantial Ron—and occasionally, Ron's brothers—handle the physical aspects of their numerous altercations over the years. Usually, Harry chose to deal with hostile situations by relying on his own strengths—those being flying, magic, and his awe-inspiring track record, in that order. However, as Malfoy continued to laugh, thoughts of Ginny entertaining this Slytherin scum filled his mind's eye. Harry shot a glance back at the mirror. His reflection gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
"Punch that nasty wanker right in the nose," the face urged. Harry nodded.
Malfoy must have been expecting him, however, because his long, sinewy arms shot out and grabbed Harry before he ever made contact. Harry grunted, and found himself soaring over Malfoy's shoulder. He landed on his back in a puddle of what he dearly hoped was water.
"Pathetic," Malfoy smirked. Harry struggled to rise to his feet; mercifully, he'd managed to hold onto his wand throughout his short flight through the air, and he pointed it at Malfoy's chest.
"Stupefy!" Harry thought, and without a sound, a burst of light erupted from the end of Harry's wand. It shot through the air, right at that infuriating smirk; then, inexplicably, the bolt of red light fizzled into nothingness. Malfoy yawned, and with a flick of his dainty wrist, bound Harry with a nonverbal command. Harry fell to the floor, back into the puddle, unable to move or speak. Rage bubbled up from his very core, but Harry was powerless to help himself; his wand had slipped from between his wet fingers, and skittered several feet away across the tiled floor.
"What am I going to have to do to you to make you realize the truth, Potter?" Malfoy dropped his voice to an icy whisper, crouching near Harry's head. "How much more of this disgrace can you bear? Now I've got your girl, and your dignity."
With hands colder than the water leeching into his robes, Malfoy grasped Harry's face, pinching his cheeks in a cruel parody of Harry's Aunt Marge. "Just give up, Potter. There's nothing left for you here," Malfoy released Harry's face, letting it fall, slack, back into the puddle, "Without a Dark Lord to cower in fear of, everyone will soon remember what really matters: power. And, Potter, without a Dark Lord to conquer, they'll soon realize that you're powerless. Useless. Just another footnote in a history book. You will be unimportant…and impotent." With that, Malfoy rose, and turned to the mirror Harry had been conversing with mere minutes before. He straightened his tie, and patted down his hair where it's been grazed when Harry flew over his head.
"No wonder that redhead can't get enough," he said to his own reflection, "I am Merlin's gift to the magical world." Malfoy stepped over Harry's prostrate form, and left the bathroom, calling "I'll leave the door open, Potter, to make sure someone finds you!" His laughter continued to echo in the empty bathroom, long after his footsteps dissipated in the distance.
Ginny's laughter brought an uncommon spark of warmth to the Slytherin common room. Across from her, a smug Draco Malfoy had nearly completed relaying his encounter with Harry to all the gathered seventh-years.
"Man, you've got some balls, Malfoy," Blaise Zabini roared, his laugh nearly as rich as the color of his dark skin; Ginny blushed. She'd always had a thing for chocolate. "Just when we all thought you'd been neutered, you're back—new and improved, better than before!" Several heads nodded in agreement.
"Let me get this straight," Theodore Nott reclined on a winged armchair of green velvet, "You actually caught Potter talking to himself in the men's room," He began counting the humiliations on his fingers, "then provoked him into tackling you, at which point you threw him into a puddle of piss, then, you somehow managed to deflect one of Potter's nonverbal spells," This was surely the most unbelievable part of the recollection; Harry Potter's dueling skills were virtually unmatched in the Wizarding world, let alone inside Hogwarts, "Then paralyzed him, mentally traumatized him, insulted his manhood, and then told him you'd slept with his girl?" Malfoy nodded at every finger, and Nott slapped his knee, "Two more and you'd have given him enough payback for every year our parents are spending in Azkaban." The room grew suddenly quiet, and several Slytherin faces let their eyes slide to Ginny. All at once, they weren't comrades anymore—the Slytherins were purebloods and she was blood traitor. Ginny cleared her throat.
"Boy," she said, grinning, "I wish I'd been there!" She noticed a smile crossing Blaise's face, and soon, everyone was laughing heartily once again. Ginny scolded herself mentally, why did I bother with these murderous idiots? It's no wonder that the Dark Lord manipulated them out of everything they own; a monkey with some scary special effects could have done. Malfoy, the newly-restored King of the Idiots, rose from his seat then, and walked over to where she stood, leaning on a desk. She hadn't wanted to sit on a real piece of Slytherin furniture; she wasn't ready for that level of commitment yet.
"Ah, but, Little Weasel, you were carrying out your own delicate mission to further Potter's downfall!" The Slytherin seventh-years, perked up, eager to hear the next part of the ingenious—and delightfully horrible—scheme Ginny had planned for their hated rivals. Malfoy ushered her across to the sofa. Oh, what the hell, she thought, and plopped onto the couch. She didn't burst into flames. Perhaps she could get used to this after all. "Tell us all about how you confounded your own brother! That's something I'd like to have seen firsthand."
"Well," Ginny began, "Mal—Draco and I watched Potter from across the Hall, and once…Granger and…Weasley…got into it about something probably very dull and very likely having to do with my pathetic ex-boyfriend," Several members of her audience sniggered, "I sent Romilda over to, let's say, comfort Potter. In return, I promised to get her a date with the Boy Who Lived, if she still wants anything to do with him after we're through," More laughter.
"She used her…charms…to force Potter to excuse himself," Romilda Vane, in Ginny's opinion, deserved some kind of recognition; somehow, she'd managed to perfect the art of effortlessly repelling men—and not just the ones who'd have her in a drunken haze and regret it the next morning, but the ones desperate enough to welcome her advances. How she did it was more than magic; it was pure talent.
"Potter, of course, went to the bathroom, and we all know what happened after that!" The Slytherins cheered, and those nearest Malfoy congratulated him all over again for a job well done. "Then, Granger, with her great snooping nose, noticed something was wrong, and sent my broth—Weasley—her lapdog, into the bathroom after Potter. But I was waiting for him just around the corner with an extra-strength Confundus charm and a special gift from our friend Blaise over here," Ginny nodded to Blaise, and he briefly bowed his head in silent acknowledgement. Ginny had relished the startled look on Ron's face, and was briefly sorry that she'd had to obliviate him after the deed was done. She dearly wanted him—wanted all three of them—to know just how much effort she had put into her revenge.
"Then I erased his memory and sent him on his way to find Potter. From what I heard in the Gryffindor common room earlier, after supper, they all know that something happened, but they aren't sure yet," Pansy cackled.
"They'll know by tomorrow! Millie and I can guarantee that!" Pansy and Millicent exchanged gleeful looks, but let Ginny continue. Before she could, however, Nott asked the question she'd been waiting for all night.
"What did you give to Weasley? From Blaise?" A chorus of dissonant agreement rose so loudly and suddenly amongst the seated seventh-years that several first-years, only a floor below the common room, were shocked from their dreams of candy and unicorns and streets running red with Muggle blood. Malfoy intervened, silencing his comrades with a placating gesture.
"You'll all find out tomorrow," his anticipation was palpable, "I guarantee it."
"While I was leaving, I heard Granger mention something about increased security at night," Ginny added, warning her coconspirators, "So be careful if you guys decide to go back up there again."
"That cow of a guardian at Gryffindor tower must have blabbed," Nott said from his armchair, "I knew I should have closed the damn thing when I left last Saturday."
"Don't worry, Theo," Millicent comforted him with sharp slap to the shin, "You won't do it again, or else…"
Whatever Millicent had planned to do to Nott, which had seemed to excite him more than frighten him—Ginny shuddered, unable to fathom Bulstrode's squashed face and stocky build exciting a lonely troll—was drowned out by an awful screech that scared Ginny half to death. With a plume of dust and feathers, a mottled, sickly bird burst from a wall-mounted wooden box on the far wall.
"It's nine o' clock," the bird warbled, "Time for you dirty brats to clear off!" The bird repeated itself nine times (each time with a rather inventive and insulting call to retire), and then returned to its chamber inside the wooden box. Ginny couldn't help herself, and snorted derisively.
"Really?" She laughed, "That's…quaint." Several of the Slytherins shifted uneasily.
"It's been here for ages," Blaise said, "We've tried to make Filch get rid of it, but the damn thing's magicked to the floor or something."
"Yeah," Pansy added morosely, "And if you kill the bird, another one hatches by the next morning, and scolds you."
"Did Salazar Slytherin have kids?" Ginny asked.
"Loads," Nott confirmed, "Not that many of them survived to adulthood. If you can't tell from that clock, the old man had a bit of an issue with his parenting skills."
"We'd better clear off before ten," Pansy piped up, "That one's even worse." As one, the Slytherins stood up from their various seats and bid each other a good night. Ginny made her way toward the dungeon's exit, but a thin, gangly arm barred her way.
"Oh, Malfoy," Ginny said sweetly, "Offering to walk me home? How gentlemanly of you."
"Why don't you stay the night, Weaselette? We can make all those lies we've told Potter come true," Malfoy's silky drawl sent chills down her spine. In Ginny's fifth year, Adele Erskine, a Ravenclaw in her transfiguration class, had related the story of a night spent with Malfoy using a clever metaphor: "Let's just say that Slytherin's Heir unlocked my Chamber of Secrets."
Adele's phrasing did more to turn Ginny off than even the thought of her parents doing the horizontal tango could, and she didn't dare explain to the group of onlookers the real reason why she'd suddenly grabbed the nearest rubbish bin and emptied her stomach's contents into it.
"I don't think so, Ferret," Ginny grinned evilly, "There's nothing in our…arrangement…indicating I need you for anything more than show. Besides, after having had the Chosen One," Ginny ran her long, pale fingers across his equally long, pale jaw, "Not even a pureblood could satisfy my needs. And you…well, you, Draco, would have to wait a long time for me to forget what it feels like to be with a real man before I came crawling to you for comfort."
She pressed a soft parcel into his arms, "Thanks for letting me borrow your cloak tonight." The redhead plucked one of her own hairs off his robe, and dropped it on the floor on the other side of the portal. She followed the abandoned strand, and with a soft hiss, the hatch resealed itself.
Malfoy stood, frozen, where she'd left him. He, the Slytherin Prince, Lord of the Forbidden Dance, turned down by a freckle-faced blood traitor? Unheard of. Malfoy lifted a sleeve of his robe and sniffed under his arm. A perfectly acceptable mixture of man-musk and cologne. His hands scoured his face—no blemishes on his deathly pale skin. Giving up, he turned back to the common room. A couple shadowy forms still milled about, gathering their odds and ends.
"You, girl," Malfoy said, crossing to a fifth-year with olive skin and light brown hair, "Smell me." Not sure whether he was having her on, the terrified girl bent forward and sniffed him several times. "Now, having smelled me, answer my question: Would you deny yourself the pleasure of my company?" All the color drained from the teenager's face, and she could barely shake her head no. "Just as I thought; the Weaselette is bluffing." Malfoy swept away, but paused at the archway leading down to the seventh-year boys' dormitory.
"You may accompany me," he said somberly. The girl began to shake so hard that her bag slid right off her shoulder and onto the floor, spilling a random assortment of quills and parchment across the polished floorboards.
"Twitchy thing, aren't you? Come along, then."
"Uh," the girl looked sideways, at her half-finished essay on concealment charms. I should have paid more attention to Professor Flitwick, she lamented. "I think I'd better not." Malfoy cocked an eyebrow at her.
"What is your name?" He said, casually, crossing over to where she stood.
"Astoria," she replied softly, then, louder, "Astoria Greengrass."
"Well, Astoria Greengrass, I am Draco Malfoy," he narrowed his stormy gray eyes at her, "And what Draco Malfoy wants, Draco Malfoy gets. Now, be a good girl and join me, I haven't got all night."
"I'm feeling ill." Astoria brought a hand to her cheek, "I'd better go lie down. Alone."
"Nonsense, I'll have Crabbe—or Goyle, whichever one it is that's still alive—go nick something from the Hospital Wing for you." Malfoy brought an enrobed arm to rest around her shoulders; Astoria repressed the urge to shudder.
"No, really," she brushed the arm away, "I must have caught something from my boyfriend," Astoria lied. And then, for good measure, "I think you know him? Neville Longbottom, from Gryffindor."
Malfoy's jaw dropped. "You," he sputtered, "and Longbottom?" He turned around sharply, heading back to the archway leading to the lower dungeons with an expression of utmost bewilderment. Along the way, Astoria heard him muttering something about the utter lack of values in the younger generation, and only when she heard a door slam several stories down did she exhale. Then, with a start, she realized what she'd just done and groaned, bending to pick up her scattered supplies.
Cutting off the nose to spite the face, she believed, was the proper term. Not even the thought of a lonesome Malfoy tossing and turning and eventually probably wanking it off in his private bathroom could settle her troubled thoughts and she bedded down for the night. Boys, she decided then and there, were utterly useless.