Chapter 3 – Crazy Little Thing Called Wife

I wake up with sunlight searing my eyes. God, there's a reason they invented curtains, and there's a reason I chose mine dark and heavy. Mornings are not supposed to be this bright!

And that's when I remember I'm not in my bedroom at the manor. Stupid panoramic window!

I struggle into a sitting position and recline against the headboard, waiting for the last remnants of sleep to wear off and for the will to get up to arrive. Neither completely do, but I eventually manage to drag myself out of the bed.

My movements are still their usual sluggish as I go through the motions of brushing my teeth and putting on my clothes. Twice I drop my damn toothbrush, and after about an eternity sitting on the toilet waiting for feeling to come to my fingertips, I decide to skip shaving altogether.

It's not like Mother will show up here to nag and fuss over my appearance anyway, and the woman with whom she shipped me off here will hate me no matter how much I smarten myself up.

Just the thought of her brings a scowl to my face. Spiteful, insolent, petulant little brat! With that smart mouth that bites instead of kissing and those big blue eyes that look at me full of hate and resentment…

Whatever, I don't give a damn what she thinks. And next time she's rude to me I'll just put her in her place.

Yeah, I think as I tap my wand on the doorknob, that impromptu dive last night was just a warning, next time I'll really show her…

I cautiously open the door a crack to peer out at the landing. As all seems quiet, I step out of the suite and set out to navigate this stupidly bright house in search of some room with less window (or at least more curtain covering it), where I can hole up and be left well alone.

It's not easy though; I swear this whole stupid villa must double as a greenhouse. Even the bloody stairs are made of glass!

And then there's the stupid white marble floors and even whiter walls, and bloody twinkling decorative waterfalls and endless paintings of sunlit oceans, and apparently stupid panoramic windows in every room.

God! I get it, there's a stupid little beach and a stupid little ocean and a stupid little blue sky out there. But is it too much to ask not to have my eyes seared in every single bloody room of this bloody house?

I'm positively daydreaming of burying this whole stupid villa in Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder when, halfway across the ground floor hallway, I'm startled by a jingling sort of voice.

"Ooh, such a pale complexion, sir! By Merlin, do not be frugal with sunscreen potion!"

I whirl around, fully expecting to find the little pest there sneering at me. But the brightly sunlit hallway is perfectly empty and still.

Well, now that I think of it, it didn't exactly sound like that petulant brat. But who else could it possibly be, certainly no elf would dare address me this way?

"Who said that?" I demand to the seemingly empty air, my fingers having already instinctively delved in the pocket of my robe for my wand. "Show your face!"

Still nobody appears, but the voice sounds again.

"I would, had I a face of my own, sir. But I'll gladly show you your pasty one if you kindly look this way."

Turning to my right, I come face to face with myself, scowling back at me from a wide silver-framed mirror above an intricate white console table.

"Bloody talking mirrors!" I mutter as I turn my back on it and firmly walk away.

And that's when a delicious scent of pumpkin, chocolate and sweeter times wafts teasingly to my nose. A second later, my eyes catch up.

A set of glass-paned doors in the corridor off the stairs are thrown wide open, providing a beckoning view of the sunbathed dining room inside, with the domed lids of half a dozen serving platters glinting on the long oval glass table.

But what really catches my eye, sitting in the place of honour right at the centre of the table, is a magnificence of a pumpkin cake complete with a middle layer of freshly whipped cream and sugared pumpkin chunks, and the thick, creamy chocolate glaze still dribbling down the sides.

A loud rumble has me momentarily thinking of a tropical storming brewing overhead, before I realise the sound actually came from my own stomach. Honestly, I would've thought a tropical storm more likely; given the past few years of Mother practically dragging me to sit at the bloody dinner table and my stomach unfalteringly knotting itself up in response, I didn't think it even still knew the difference between edible food and tree bark.

Yet here it is, rumbling loudly again, while my mouth fills with water and my feet carry me toward this table.

No sooner have I reached my seat than a serving cart eagerly races across the room to present me with a choice of three Superior Red vintages, a crystal pitcher of elf made nettle wine and a dusty bottle of Mulled Mead.

"A bit too early for that kind of stuff, isn't it?" I say somewhat harshly to the cart, thinking of Father and the glass of Firewhisky that these days seems permanently attached to his hand.

Promptly a second shelf I hadn't noticed below extends upward with a variety of jugs of fresh juices.

"Will do." I shrug as I help myself to a glass of pumpkin juice. But my attention is on the splendid treat making my mouth water from the centre of the table.

The dishes seem to have different plans, however, because before I can reach for it, all the lids disappear off the platters at once, revealing stacks of steamed vegetables, piles of somewhat squashed roast potatoes, mounds of buttery peas, heaps of slightly soggy rice, and a rather overcooked roasted duck.

And that's when I notice the dinner sized plate and the meat knife and fork laid out before me. Exactly what time is it, anyway?

But, like a magnet, my eyes are again drawn toward the steaming cake at the centre of the table, and I decide I don't really care. My stomach lets out yet another impatient rumble, and so without further ado I help myself to a generous slice of that mouthwatering delicacy.

I take a first tentative bite, not trusting my stomach to even remember how to keep down food. But then it tastes like heaven on my tongue and it's like I'm seven years old again, munching one slice after another and licking delicious molten chocolate off my fingers, before I catch myself.

God, Malfoy, one would think you've never had cake in your life! I quickly wipe my hand on the napkin, with an instinctive glance around me. Though, of course, no one's here to chastise me.

Still, I push my now thrice empty plate away, lest I'm tempted to pull a Goyle and gobble down the whole cake. Then wash down the scrumptious treat with a sip of the comparatively mediocre pumpkin juice, and get up without another glance at the rest of the food.

I am just stepping out of the corridor that I know now leads to the dining room and kitchen, when the irksome talking mirror across the hallway let's out a giggle.

"Why, sir, when I say you could do with a bit more colour, I don't quite mean it that way!"

That's when I catch sight of my reflection on it. And nearly have a heart attack.

It was an early evening at the beginning of my sixth year. I was impatiently waiting outside the bathroom Crabbe and Goyle had gone into with two doses of the Polyjuice Potion I had swiped earlier in Slughorn's Potions class.

"Finally!" I snapped when two little first year girls came out, looking perfectly befuddled. I shoved the old music box onto the hands of the sturdiest one "Here. Drop it as loudly as you can if someone shows up in this corridor."

"Why do we have to be little girls?" the littlest girl of the two protested.

"Because I said so! Now keep your eyes open and your mouths shut."

I set off down the corridor, and they nearly had to run to keep up.

Reaching the stretch of blank wall in front of the tapestry of the trolls dancing ballet, I began my pacing and my mental request.

As the wide doors took shape on the previously empty stone wall, I shot one last warning look in Crabbe's and Goyle's direction and then went inside.

It took me a little longer than I would have wished to navigate the corridors between the endless piles of abandoned contraband and recall exactly where I'd planted the broken Cabinet the first night.

I had just caught sight of it some yards down the corridor to my left, when a delicious scent of cinnamon wafted from someplace close ahead.

I hesitated for a moment. And then took a few slow, quiet steps in its general direction with my wand held at the ready in front of me. Then halted again just before turning the corner at the next corridor, because along with the delicious smell came the sound of quiet, cheerful humming.

I groaned inwardly. Somebody else was in the Room. I didn't have time for this!

Carefully, quietly, I chanced a gauging peek around the corner, the incantation "Stupefy" just at the tip of my tongue. And then the sight that met me took me completely aback.

Up ahead, an old, rusty wood stove oven was alight with bright blue flames and, next to it, a makeshift counter made of old classroom desks was cluttered with numerous bowls, wooden spoons, measuring cups, egg shells, milk jugs, baking pans in all shapes and sizes and a myriad of other kitchen paraphernalia.

In front of it all was a little pigmy with pigtails and hideous violet spectacles, clad in an even more hideous polka-dotted apron, cheerfully stirring something inside one of the bowls.

"The hell are you doing here?!" I snarled in my most menacing tone, jumping entirely into view with my wand pointed at her.

To my satisfaction, she jumped nearly three feet into the air, spattering sticky chocolate on her stupid violet spectacles.

Then promptly stuck her chin up in the air as she took them off to wipe, coldly retorting "Not conferring with you, that's for sure."

And then simply resumed stirring as if I wasn't even there.

My patience was running thin. I had a Vanishing Cabinet to fix, no idea how, and now this obnoxious creature was here making me lose precious time with her elvish complex! My very wand itched to hex her into the nearest pile of broken furniture.

Instead, I jerked it irritably and her bowl flew twenty feet into the air, spattering sticky chocolate all around and smashing with a clatter against a rusted suit of armour.

"The hell was that for?!" the girl whirled around crying, blue eyes flashing at me.

"I need the Room, get out!"

"You get out! I was here first!"

I swear it was all I could do not to hex her. I strode menacingly toward her, shouting "I don't have time for this, you little wench!"

She took a defiant step forward too, crying back "Neither do I! I'm on a schedule here, you prick!"

"You're on a schedule!" I bellowed, now veritably towering over her, with my wand pointed straight at her face "Well, I'm on a bloody deadline!"

The look I saw flit across her eyes at that had me fearing she had caught on to the literal meaning of my words. I glowered menacingly at her.

She rolled her eyes, took a gauging look toward the oven, then back to me, and said firmly "Twenty minutes."

I puffed irritably. "No! Get out! Take your stupid, stinky mush to the kitchens, if you want, but get out! Now!"

"To the kitchens!" she cried indignantly, sticking her little chin out again, her little hands on her hips "The place is crawling with elves! I can't get two steps in without them trying to practically mouthfeed me, let alone get to the ovens!"

I growled.

"I'm taking my twenty minutes, Malfoy. It's not like I'm stopping you, go do your thing and I'll do mine."

I snorted. Like I was going to go anywhere near the Cabinet with her in the Room! She'd extort my whole vault clean with just that information and then probably sabotage my work just for the hell of it.

And that's when it hit me.

"Alright, how much?" I asked, lowering my wand. She looked at me like I had just spoken Gobbledegook "What?"

"C'mon, Greengrass, you're always snivelling for spare change. How much do you want for clearing out right now?"

She flushed deeply, her eyes flashing, and she spat "I don't want your money!"

"Right." I snorted. I reached inside my pocket and took out the velvet pouch with spare gold I always carried with me, just in case for situations like this. "I've got ten Galleons here. If you're a nice little girl, I might find another five later in my dormitory."

She narrowed her eyes at me.

Then took a glance at the oven.

Then back at me.

At last, she crossed her arms over her chest and declared "Ten minutes and you can keep your extra five."

I exhaled irritably. "No. You get out now with ten, or you get out now with your face turned inside out. Now choose." And I raised my wand to her face again.

"Yeah?" She shot back without even flinching "How about I leave now with your ten and come back with Dumbledore?"

I could feel the fury rippling just beneath my skin as I glared at her. She glared right back.

And then a shrill cling issued from a bell on her cluttered desk, startling me. She whirled around, cheerfully piping "Oh, goodie!"

Next second she had a huge, delicious smelling and even more delicious looking apple and cinnamon tart out of the oven, and I found my feet stepping closer before I could stop them.

"Leave my tart alone!" she snarled.

And just because of that comment, I took another step closer.

With her free hand, she grabbed a small cloth bag and chucked it through the air at me, missing my cheek by inches and enveloping me in a cloud of powdered chocolate.

"You…" I choked.

"I" she said, rudely pushing past me while I coughed and blinked chocolate powder out of my eyes "am leaving. But thanks for the ten Galleons!"

When I managed to open my eyes, I looked down at my hand to find my velvet pouch missing.

Outside, there was a raucous clang followed by a jarring string of half disjointed notes.

"Think this is funny, do you?!" I call out as I turn in a near full circle, looking around from the stairs, to the corridors, to every door around the hallway.

"Why, sir, it certainly is a funny look on you…"

I round back on the impertinent mirror, whipping my wand out "You shut the hell up or I'll smash you to bits!"

"And be cursed with seven years of bad luck, sir?" it cockily retorts.

Gritting my teeth, I turn away from it and throw the nearest set of doors wide open with a rattling bang, revealing a wood panelled wide bathroom with a large sunken hot tub in place of honour, and two whole glass walls looking out onto the crystalline sea. With no one inside.

"Astoria!" I growl as I barge next through a set of double glass-paned doors, and into a vast sitting room in tones of white and gold with yet another blindingly bright panoramic view of the stupid beach outside. But from the plush white reclining sofas to the glass encased fireplace at the corner, there's no sign of her.

"You're going to pay for this, you little demon!" I shout as I charge back out and into the adjoining game room "I look like a bloody Weasley!"

But there's no answer whatsoever. In fact, there's no sign of her anywhere. After searching the whole house, I can't even tell where she might have slept.

I find myself back upstairs at the door to the suite I vacated just over an hour ago, with one last hope that she might have somehow slipped up here for a proper bath or a nap on a proper bed now that I'd left.

And indeed, I reckon I can hear a soft rustling from inside.

I unceremoniously kick the door open, growling "You sneaky, little devil!"

There's a squeal and a small thud, and I look down to find a little house elf sprawled on the floor next to the bed, which for some reason is in the process of being made with all the decorative pillows at the footboard.

It would have been a much more amusing scene, if I wasn't certain that the reason for the creature's fright was my hideous red hair.

I scowl at it as it scrambles to its feet. "Have you seen my wife, elf?"

"N-no, s-sir" it replies, shaking its head so hard that its large ears flap from side to side, slapping its ugly face.

Again, it's almost amusing, only I'm not in the mood for laughing.

"Did you bake that pumpkin cake with chocolate glaze?" I ask, though I'm fairly certain I already know the answer.

The creature's eyes go as wide as saucers and it positively starts trembling. "Oh no…"

"No, what?" I snap.

"No, s-sir, Loopa did not…" it whimpers, and then its voice goes up a few more octaves as it starts twisting the hem of its burlap sack faster and faster while bawling "Loopa forgot, sir! Loopa m-meant to bring M-Master his breakf-fast in b-bed, because M-Master wasn't c-coming down-stairs… But Loopa f-forgot!"

And then without warning, as elves usually do, the stupid creature rushes at the neatest wall and starts banging its ugly bald head on it again and again, while crying "Bad elf! Bad elf! Bad elf!"

"Oi! When did you last see my wife, then?" I ask, nearly having to shout over the racket.

"I. Is. Not. Knowing. Sir." It says, punctuating each word with a hard blow to the wall. "Bad elf! Bad elf! Bad elf!"

I leave it to it and step back out, my mind reeling. How long ago can the little brat have made that cake? I myself haven't seen her since she dramatically stormed out of the bedroom last night, and that elf is obviously not going to be much help.

Why wouldn't she have shown up by now to gloat at her handiwork?

As I climb back down the stairs, I replay in my head her spiteful words from last night, her hatred of me and her disgruntlement at our marriage. And each second I become more certain of my conclusion.

Fervently hoping that I'm wrong, I raise my wand as I reach the middle of the hallway and loudly say "Homenum Revelio".

I wait a beat. Then another.

Nothing happens but the annoying mirror making another insolent remark about how my new hair colour accents the deathly pallor of my skin.

Oh no.

Oh God, what will Father say?

I've let my wife run away!

Worse, I've let my wife run away and give me Weasley hair! Oh God, what if I can't change it back? How can I show up back at the manor with Weasley hair and no wife?!

I can feel my face beading with sweat as I look helplessly around the stupidly bright hallway, looking for answers that aren't there.

"You know, sir, some lighter clothing would have been more comfortable in this climate…"

I whirl on my feet. "You, talking mirror! Have you seen a girl about this size" I raise my hand level with my chin "with long brown hair, big blue eyes and ugly violet spectacles?"

Great, now I'm seeking assistance from wall ornaments!

"I have not, sir." It says.

"Are you sure?" I urgently insist, because honestly I'm at a loss what else to do.

"I am sure that I haven't seen a girl about that size with long brown hair, big blue eyes and ugly violet spectacles." it replies "But I have seen a girl about that size, with long brown hair, big blue eyes and a pair of sassy violet spectacles that framed her lovely heart-shaped face quite becomingly."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake" I snap "How long ago was that?"

"I'm a mirror, sir, not a clock."

"Well, which way did she go, then?"

"I'm afraid that too is beyond the observation skills I was built with, sir."

"Bloody useless talking mirrors!" I grumble as I turn away and, gritting my teeth, throw open the only set of doors that I haven't tried.

I shade my eyes with my hand as best as I can, for if I thought there was too much sunlight inside the house, now I'm positively blind with the glare of the snowy white sand and the crystalline sea. And that's not to mention how uncomfortable it is in this suffocating humid heat.

I cross the wide deck, squinting in every direction without knowing what it is exactly that I am looking for. But as I'm reaching the little wooden steps that lead down to the beach, something promising catches my eye.

Just a glimpse of violet at first. I can just make it out on the snowy white sand some fifty yards away to the east.

Grumbling to myself, I climb down the steps and begin to trudge my way over, sinking to my ankles in the soft, hot sand as fine as sugar; a veritable dune pouring into my shoes with every step.

It doesn't take long to verify that the glimpse of violet is in fact a beach towel. A violet beach towel with large white polka dots, and upon which lay a pair of violet spectacles and a battered old book.

Dreadful Denizens of the Deep, as it turns out. Belonging, according to the scribble inside the cover, to the private collection of Hyperion Greengrass, and bookmarked on the chapter on tropical waters of the Indo-Pacific Region.

"Well then" I say, allowing myself a sigh of relief, as I drop the book back down and look out onto the crystalline blue waters, dazzling in the midday sun. "Hiding away with the fishes, are you?"

As if in response, a sort of a cackle sounds from somewhere behind me. I turn around, but it's only a couple of monkeys chasing each other at the edge of the beach, where the white sand meets the first line of trees.

I face the sea again, shading my eyes with both hands as I skim the shimmering surface. "C'mon, you little devil, even with a Scuba Spell you can't stay underwater forever…" I mutter to the air, while trying to spot perhaps a head bobbing in and out of the water for breaths, or at least a bit of splashing.

And after a couple of minutes or so, I think I do. I think I see a small splash and a glimpse of what could be a pair of human feet. But next second it's gone, and I'm left to stare at that area wondering if it was ever really there and not just a reflection of the light on the water.

Then, a few feet from that spot, another shape peeks out of the surface and all my blood runs cold.

Oh God, no!

The same shape emerges again some feet closer, and there can be no doubt about it this time. It's a shiny, dark, slanting triangular fin!

Oh God, please no!

My heart is practically jumping up my throat as I look wildly around the beach again, hoping that, by some miracle, I've somehow overlooked a devious little pigmy peacefully sunbathing on a distant spot of perfectly dry land.

But the only thing there is to see is a set of footprints – human footprints – leading down to the surf. And none coming out.

I don't realise my feet are moving until I feel the water soaking my socks and shoes and the splashes wetting my robes all the way to my elbows. With one hand shielding my eyes from the blinding brightness and the other hastily lifting my wand, I search the vast expanse of the sea. First around the area where I thought I saw a pair of feet, then wider and wider from side to side.

"Oh God, please don't let her get eaten by a shark! Please, please, don't let her get eaten by a shark!"

I realise I'm mumbling aloud, but I don't really care. All I can think about is how just last night, in a fit of pique, I mused on this very scenario.

Oh God, I didn't mean it! I never wanted her to die, I never really wanted anyone to die! Merlin, I should know by now not to make light of these things!

I keep looking and looking but the only thing I manage to spot a couple times more is that terrible fin breaking the shimmering surface. And, I can't be sure, but I think it's swimming in circles… Don't sharks do that when they're about to attack?

"Oh no, you don't!" I cry, slashing my wand through the air. "Confringo!"

A column of steam rises up off the water where my spell hits, missing the telltale fin by some fifteen feet.

Well, all the better, I suppose, so I don't hit the girl by accident. Which I reckon now, I should've thought of before shooting a Blasting Curse.

"Impedimenta!" I cry, with another whip of my wand, bringing about another column of steam wide off the mark.

But at least now the beast, certainly spooked by the spells, has quit the slow circling movements and is sprinting away at a vertiginous speed.

Columns of steam rise out of the water like geysers, one after another as I slash my wand through the air again and again. "Impedimenta! Stupefy! Petrificus Totalus!"

And as the fin disappears deeper into the water and out of sight, in a last ditch effort, I again risk a roaring "CONFRINGO!"

One last tower of water and steam blasts into the air with an exploding shower of droplets and a thousand little rainbows.

Then everything goes still and quiet again, the crystalline blue waters shimmering serenely in the sunlight as if great murderous fish were nothing but a thing of myth.

Panting and sweating and sodden to my knees, I keep my eyes glued on the spot where the fin disappeared, my wand at the ready in my hand.

A second goes by.

Then another.

And another.

As I go to call out, a figure bursts through the surface. My wand is up with a curse at the tip of my tongue, when I make it out as a mermaid.

A mermaid?!

I squint my eyes against the blinding glare.

A mermaid that is swimming this way at a vertiginous speed.

A mermaid with a familiar long mane of brown hair whipping in the wind.

A mermaid that is not a mermaid at all, but a girl with fins and a protruding dark snout over fearsomely sharp teeth. Which, even as I watch, are morphing back into familiar features while she advances, wand flicking and waving through the air.

Then all of a sudden, the water line starts frothing and receding.

"What the…" I sputter, blinking in astonishment as the sand gets sucked from under my feet, severely crippling my balance. That's when a great shadow grows over me, accompanied by a roar of rushing water.

I look up.

And find a wall of water cresting some ten feet into the air. It seems to hang there suspended for a breathless moment. Then crashes down, knocking me off my feet, sweeping me into the churning torrent, to finally discard me on the sand, like a piece of damn driftwood!

It takes me a moment to shakily pull myself into a sitting position, coughing out sand and salty water and taking in big, gasping gulps of air. Then, blinking and squinting through the haze of the burning saltiness, I manage to open my eyes and raise them back to the shimmering water.

From where comes a vision of glistening sun-kissed skin and a long curtain of hair glinting in tones of bronze, as a figure rises from the twinkling surface, gilded in the sunlight like a sea goddess coming ashore in all her splendour and grace.

"THE HELL WERE YOU SHOOTING CURSES AT ME FOR, YOU PSYCHO?!"

Well, that effectively shakes me out of my brain fart.

The figure advancing toward me is certainly not a goddess – Merlin, my brain must've been deprived of oxygen for longer than I thought! – rather a little devil in a bluish one-piece bathing suit that she must've have nicked from the very back of her grandmother's wardrobe.

Her blue eyes blaze as she glowers at me, her breathing ragged as if she's just run a mile – or swam, more like – and her scarred knuckles are white around the handle of her wand as she holds it practically level with my face.

At once I become aware of the emptiness in my own hand, my wand having been ripped out of my grip when I was swallowed up by that massive wave. I need to look for it before it gets taken by the sea or gets buried in the sand, but I don't dare take my eyes off the crazed, armed she-demon in front of me.

The nerve of her, after I probably saved her life!

"You know" I snap, getting to my feet. Rather ungracefully, I might add, what with the sodden clothes caked with sand. The little brat raises her wand to accompany my movement, which only irritates me more. "I never thought much of your manners, but this 'thank you' hits an alltime low!"

"THANK YOU!" she practically bursts my eardrums shouting "YOU TRIED TO BLOW ME TO BITS!"

"I was trying to hit the shark!"

To keep it from attacking you, I add in my head, but hell if I'm saying that aloud! She hates me. I'm not giving her the satisfaction of knowing that I give a damn whether she lives or dies.

"IT WAS ME!"

"IT WAS THE SHARK, YOU STUBBORN, PARANOID MULE!" I finally explode "WHY THE HELL WOULD I TRY TO BLOW YOU TO BITS?! AS INSUFFERABLE AS YOU ARE, YOU'RE NOT WORTH THE LIFE SENTENCE IN AZKABAN!"

"OH, HOW COMFORTING TO KNOW! YOU DIM-WITTED ARSE, THERE WAS NO SHARK! IT WAS ME!"

And then her meaning sinks in. Oh God!

A feeling of horror starts rising like bile in my throat. "You… you were the shark?!"

She crosses her arms over her chest then, wand and all. Her breathing starts evening a bit, though she's still glaring daggers at me.

"No." She impatiently spits. "I was a witch blending in with the ecosystem."

"What! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" I snap.

God, I'm married to a completely brainless lunatic! Who's going to get me arrested!

"The idea was to fool potential wild predators!" she snaps back "What's stupid is nasty curses apparently being your answer for everything!"

"As opposed to tantrums and sulking and sabotaging people's food, I suppose!"

She glances at my defiled hair and snickers nastily.

"It's not funny, you brat! I want my hair fixed!"

"Yeah? And I wanted a nice, relaxing swim without some psycho ginger shooting curses at me. Guess we can't always get what we want."

And with one last impertinent sneer, she turns and dives back into the water.

I'm still fuming by the time I step out of the shower. In fact, my fuming has actually redoubled at the discovery that all my hair is now a lurid, flaming red. All of it!

As I towel myself off, I swear I'm mentally replacing that little devil's face onto every illustration of every book of curses and hexes I can remember. I'm at the Blasting Curse when a bit of an uneasy feeling twists in my stomach.

But I'm pretty sure it's just disgust at my hideous hair, so vividly red that I can make it out even in the fogged up mirror.

Or because of all the salty water and sand and seaweeds and Merlin knows what else I swallowed while getting whirled and tossed in that massive wave that I'm now positive was that demon's doing as well.

After I tried to save her!

By nearly blowing her to bits, a voice at the back of my head reminds me, and there goes that twist in my stomach again. But that's beside the point! It was her own fault for swimming around posing as a shark, the absurd brat!

I wrench open the bathroom door, step out into the bedroom and cross to the walk-in closet on the other side of the room.

It is as I go to get some underclothes from my trunk that my attention falls on the other trunk sitting there beside it. Which just so happens to be unlocked.

And not only that but, as a cursory look around quickly reveals, a certain ratty old camping bag too is to be found emptied and tucked away on a shelf with a bunch of spare beach towels.

Almost as if a Confunded house-elf has been in here tidying up. Oh, the irony!

I can feel the smirk stretching on my face as I reach for the nearest drawer. And then the next. And the next.

Obviously, I don't know how much stuff was in the bag to begin with, or what that stuff was. All I know is that empty is what it certainly wasn't when it fell on me when we arrived. But when I find a drawer with a couple granny swimsuits, I reckon I'm on the right track.

And sure enough, in the next drawer, cradled among a stack of cringe-worthy polka-dotted knickers, I find a small drawstring pouch. Unfortunately, it's made of mokeskin, and I consider a couple of fingers too high a price to pay for a more accurate estimation, but judging by the weight and the jingling sound it makes in my hand, I'd say it must hold the profits of years of extortions and trickery.

I put the pouch back – it's already mine too, anyway – and continue my search.

There's not that much to find. The rest of the drawers and shelves on her side are mostly empty save for a few t-shirts, a pair of ripped worn-out jeans, a scarf with the Irish colours from the Quidditch World Cup like a million years ago, and her ghastly homeless person's getup from last night. Then there's the trunk with the stuff her Grandmother sent ahead, which could probably pass for finery, if one squints really hard and ignores all the ruffles and frills.

It's quite pathetic, really.

And just when I thought this little exploration couldn't get any more deplorable, I come upon a few books propped up on the shoe racks, beside some dirty old trainers and the white high-heels from the wedding.

One's a well-used copy of Enchantment in Baking. I can't help but let out a snort.

Another is a crappy paperback, Hairy Snout, Human Heart.

An image of Greyback's yellowed, pointy teeth dripping with blood comes to mind and I quickly put the stupid book back with a shudder.

Then there's a book I've never heard of, called Pride and Prejudice. It's got a handwritten note on the first page that reads:

This is a classic.

Give it a try, I'm sure you'll find something you can relate to. At the very least, the title.

Only joking!

Sort of.

Anyway,

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Ass.: Naveen R. Balaji

Ugh, a muggle romance novel, as I realise after flipping through it a bit. I put it back.

And then the last book is not a book at all, but a regular old orange notebook. With a lock.

Well now, what's this? Her diary, perhaps?

But before I can do much more than pick it up, I hear some kind of racket coming from the stairs. And suddenly I become aware that I'm still just in my towel.

I quickly turn back to my own trunk and, in a moment's decision as I go to pull my clothes out, throw the orange notebook inside. Then get dressed, close the lid and carefully secure the catch.

I'm about to open the door and step back out into the bedroom, when a thought gives me pause. This seems too precious an opportunity to simply leave it at that, after all that little demon has done.

I hang on a moment, listening carefully. I can hear a muffled sort of thumping out on the landing accompanied by some squeaks that sound a lot like "Bad elf! Bad elf! Bad elf!"

Reckon I might still have about a couple minutes, then.

I smirk. Two minutes might just be enough.

I'm just coming out of the dining room after dinner, when I hear the front doors opening and closing.

Finally!

Soft footsteps cross the hallway, and the jingling voice of the mirror exclaims "Oh my, those split ends! The sun can be terribly damaging to the hair, Miss, you must apply a generous dose of moisturiser and repair pomade! Stat!"

"Thanks, I'll get right to it." the little devil's voice dryly replies.

Nice to know I'm not the only one getting criticised by wall ornaments.

I pick up my pace down the corridor. Turning the corner, I arrive at the hallway ("Why, that hair colour, sir! With your pallor and your tall, lean frame, you positively resemble a matchstick!") just as, upstairs, the bedroom door clicks shut.

I rush to the stairs, but God, it's like she brought the beach into the house! The floor is slippery with water and sand grains that crunch under my soles with every step!

By the time I make it to the bedroom, I can hear the shower running in the adjoining bathroom.

And then it's nearly half an hour before she comes back out, trailing in a cloud of thick steam that practically doubles the already stifling humidity in the room.

"Took you long enough!" I snap, getting up off of the bed.

She startles, her hand flying to clutch the top of her towel. And that's when my eyes take in the sight of her, pink-cheeked, peach skin glistening wetly, and clad in nothing but that piece of cloth that barely reaches her mid-thighs…

And now I'm thinking of the feel of that soft little body on top of me and the taste of her mouth on mine, and suddenly all my blood seems to be rushing south and turning into Swelling Solution.

"Didn't realise there was a timer ticking." the brat insolently retorts. "And my eyes are up here!"

I snap my eyes away from the tops of her perky breasts, just visible above the top of the towel, and quickly arrange my features into a menacing scowl. Thank Merlin for robes, to cover other things not so easy to rearrange. She hates me. Hell if I want her to know the effect she has on my body!

"Fix…" I have to clear my suddenly parched throat. "Fix my damn hair!"

Preferably before you get to the closet, I add in my head.

But it's no good, she's already heading that way.

"You mean a great tough shark slayer wannabe like you can't fix his own hair?"

I scowl at the back of her head. I would if I knew what the hell she used to turn it red in the first place!

"You defiled it, you fix it!" I snap "Right now!"

But she simply disappears into the walk-in closet, sniggering as she shuts the doors behind her.

Well, she doesn't get to snigger for long. Not even fifteen seconds go by before I hear "What the hell?!"

Yeah, who's sniggering now, you little vixen, I think as I sit back and lounge on the vast bed, to the satisfying sound of a string of oaths and expletives as doors and drawers creak and thud and bang open and shut with increasing force.

Then the doors to the closet burst open with a rattling bang, and out comes a seething little devil, her hand clutching the towel the way she probably wants to my neck.

Glaring at me, she throws down on the bed a purple Weird Sisters t-shirt so small it would be hard-pressed to fit a house-elf.

"You've ruined all of my clothes!"

I raise my eyebrow at her. "It's not my fault you've got so fat you can't fit into any of your… er… you'd call that 'clothes'?"

She picks the t-shirt back up, balls it up and flings it furiously at me. It's a mark of how crappy my reflexes have become that I don't even manage to catch it before it lands on my face.

"They won't fit because you shrunk them, you prat!"

I irritably pull the rag off of me and fling it back at her.

"Then certainly such a clever, crafty witch like yourself can put them back right!"

No, she can't. I've made sure that, whatever spell she tries, her rags will only grow smaller. Which, guessing by the curl of her lip as she sticks her chin up and crosses her arms over her chest, she's already found out from experience.

Still, stubborn little thing that she is, she turns on her heel and goes back into the closet.

I can hear her opening and slamming doors and drawers again, cussing and growling in between repeatedly crying "Engorgio!" or "Reparo!" or "Finite!", and see her precious rags jumping through the air with each flash of light, like popcorns in a pan. Except instead of growing, they keep shrinking and shrinking.

I've got to give it to her though, she's perseverant. It's over twenty minutes before she finally admits defeat and comes back out, clutching her towel tightly like it's all she has left in the world.

I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

"Well, what am I supposed to wear now, huh?!" she brusquely demands "Did you think of that, you big git?"

I lock my fingers behind my head, and stare right at her.

"Here's how it's gonna be, wife dear." I say "You're going to start addressing me respectfully. You're going to put my hair back to its natural colour. And you're going to quit acting like a petulant brat."

"And then" I firmly press on, as she seems about to interrupt "when I'm satisfied that you're behaving accordingly to your position… Then I'll consider buying you a whole new, proper wardrobe."

She practically erupts. "You… You vile, condescending, arrogant prick!"

"Keep that up and you won't have even that towel left!"

Her fists clench so tightly around said towel, her knuckles turn white. If it weren't for that, I'd probably have her wand pointed straight between my eyes right now. Merlin knows hers are all but spitting fire.

"Screw you, Malfoy!" she spits.

"Yeah, that's your job, too. Malfoy!" I shoot back after her, but she's already dashing out the door, and all I get in response is the sound of her feet stomping down the stairs.

Well, looks like I'll be getting the whole bed to myself again tonight. At least this time I'm sure she isn't going to run away. Not in her birthday suit.

Proud of this unplanned benefit of my clever revenge, I lock the door behind her and retrieve my crystal phial from the drawer of the night table.

I don't even care that the last rays of sunlight have just barely sunk in the horizon. What with all the running around the house looking for that devious brat, I'm tired to the bones. And that's not to mention the headache coming on, from all the damn sunlight and the little devil's shouting.

Then I remember that this is probably what's in store for me for the rest of this accursed marriage. As I take a hearty swig of the bubbling purple liquid and crawl into bed, I make a mental note to stock up on the stuff. In fact, I better make arrangements for a lifelong supply. I'm going to need it for this bloody lifelong nightmare I'm stuck with.