A/N: Finally, I finished the next chapter! I'm so sorry it's taken so long, life was being a bitch, and my muses decided to take a little vacation. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed my story so far, and to all of you who've favorited this or added it to your alerts: I'd love to hear your opinions as well! And now, on with the story!
Disclaimer: Nope, Harry Potter still belongs to J.K. Rowling.
Chapter 4: Of plotting, sneaking around and guilty Gryffindors
In which universe is it fair, or plausible for that matter, that someone like Harry bloody Potter can turn the tables on a Malfoy, on me? Oh, I will not stand for this: you shall live to regret this day! A Slytherin does not let himself be outplayed by a Gryffindor without exacting horrible, humiliating, epic revenge. (And maybe I've got a shit-eating grin on my face, and maybe my heart is beating a million miles an hour, but the alternative to epic revenge would be epic swooning, and Malfoys do not swoon.)
Also, bloody hell, you silly little knucklehead, you just walked out into the Slytherin common room. After my carefully crafted plan and the perfect execution thereof, you're ruining it all!
Not wasting another second, I run towards my door and throw it open, hopefully in time to prevent you from providing the Slytherin rumour mill with fuel for months. But as I look out into the common room, I don't see you anywhere. Neither are there any slack-jawed housemates, shell-shocked from seeing Boy Wonder walk out of the Death Eater's chambers. However, I do see the portrait opening and closing without anyone walking through it…
Of course: the Invisibility Cloak. And where exactly were you stashing that? Bloody deathly hallows with their bloody sneaky powerful magical abilities, I can't believe McGonagall is letting you keep it, that's blatant favouritism! I'm so going to tell my father…Oops. Still, being Harry Potter shouldn't mean you get special treatment. (No, the irony is not lost on me, yes, I know technically it was nepotism for me, and no, I don't care, my witticisms are superb, thank you very much.)
Closing the door again, I walk back to my bed and flop down on it, finally able to relax after the mess that was this evening (and maybe I lie down on the exact same spot you where resting on, maybe I can still feel your residual body heat and smell the distinctive scent of treacle tart and wand polisher and something uniquely you… but that's neither here nor there).
In any case, I guess it is time to do what a Slytherin and a Malfoy does best: plot revenge. It shall be epic and, sadly, since I must take painstaking care that it may not be traced back to me, subtle. You need to be able to know that it was I, or what would the point of it be? But everyone else? At best, they shouldn't even be made aware of it. At worst, they should believe it happened due to either you being clumsy or your friends playing a harmless prank on you.
Well, that leaves the more crude options out of the question. So, nothing that could permanently hurt you: scratch maiming, scarring, and pushing you off the Astronomy tower off that list. No psychological damage (not like you don't have enough of that already): so no conjuring up a spectre of Voldemort or sneaking a couple of Dementors into the school. And no humiliating grand schemes designed to embarrass you in front of the whole school: so no spelling your clothes invisible during breakfast in the Great Hall tomorrow morning (maybe I'll just keep that in the back of my mind as an emergency back-up plan).
Ugh, what else is there? Harmless pranks have never been my forte… Maybe I should take some clues from the way your friends have pulled pranks on you over the years. Ok, so, think like a freckled, red-haired, lanky Gryffindor… Hmm, I guess tomorrow will be the day I first set foot in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' new shop in Hogsmeade.
It's a good thing that I spent most of last year hiding from He-who-must-not-be-named, crazy aunt Bella and pretty much every mental Death Eater at the mansion: I've become a master at hide and seek, a very convenient commodity since Draco Malfoy idly meandering through Hogsmeade would probably not be looked at favourably by the locals. To think that there was a time when shopkeepers would attend to my needs with nervous glee, trying to impress me with the quality of their ware while monumentally overpricing it in order to help themselves to whatever scrap of the Malfoy fortune they could get their grabby fingers on.
I probably should be thanking McGonagall for even being allowed to come to Hogsmeade on weekends like every other 8th year student. Her belief in treating all students equally in order to promote inter-house unity extends even to us detested "war criminals", and while that works in my favour, I cannot quite decide whether to find that incredibly naïve or surprisingly generous.
Still, I have to be very careful to disguise my presence here as well as I can, it would not do to incite these peasants into chasing me out of their village in righteous fury with the proverbial torches and pitchforks. My clothes look plain enough, a simple black coat and black leather boots of the lowest quality in my possession and a grey cashmere scarf with a matching hat (I couldn't resist some luxuries, I honestly tried, but common cotton chafes). Furthermore, the several appearance-altering glamours I cast on myself should be enough to prevent anybody from recognizing me (shorter forehead, higher cheekbones, blue eyes, brown and shorter hair), but just in case I need to stay away from people who might notice the shimmer of magic over my features. It would be rather inconvenient to happen upon a nosy Nellie (yes it's a Muggle expression, get over it) determined to find out who is hiding behind the mask of magic.
Approaching WWW's, I make sure not to look in any way suspicious. Which means no rearranging my hat to cover my face or pulling up my scarf to cover my chin, the trick in hiding in plain sight is to act as if you are supposed to be there: calm and slightly bored. Since this is one of the weekends where none but the 8th year students are allowed to visit the village, there aren't many customers in the shop. No Slytherins are around, but that's not surprising, with me going undercover and Pansy and Blaise deciding against leaving the relative security of the castle, that's all three of us 8th year snakes accounted for.
I see two Ravenclaw girls debating over the properties of several brightly coloured love potions, a group of Hufflepuffs admiring the Spell Checking and Self-Writing Quills, and, how did I ever think I'd be lucky enough to evade you lot, the Golden Trio talking with George (or is it Fred? I can never remember) Weasley.
Avoiding you for now, I walk down the nearest empty aisle to start examining the merchandise. Hmm, while the fireworks would be quite lovely to behold, they would also attract too much unwanted attention, I don't need the professors looking into this. Maybe a Nose Biting Teacup? Minimal damage but a nice reward: I've seen students walking around with red noses for days after being bitten by those silly little toys. They do lack a personal touch though. I guess I could modify the cup to display the Slytherin house colours, maybe even the crest, but there's no way you would touch that, let alone drink anything out of it.
The Self-propelling Custard Pies would be nice if they were treacle tarts instead…or if they looked like ones…hmm, yes, I think I've got it. This may take some creative spellwork, but it will definitely be worth the hassle. Now all I need to do is buy this and get back to the castle without being recognized.
As I walk towards the checkout, I see you, Granger and Weasley walking towards me, presumably to exit the store after concluding your conversation with the surviving Weasley twin. Turning slightly in order to let you and your sidekicks pass, I chance a look at your face. You seem to be lost in your thoughts, barely acknowledging your friends' bantering ("Ron, you better not be planning on using those things to skip class! These are our NEWT's!" "Come on Hermione, after last year, don't we deserve a break? And it's only just November! We still have more than half a year left until the exams!").
Except for half a smile from a lecturing Granger and a distracted nod from Weasley, none of you pay me any further attention. I patiently wait until you exit the store before walking up to the cash register, noticing that I'm the only customer left in the shop.
"Well hello dear customer! What's it gonna be for you today? Puking Pastilles for the mortal enemy? Nosebleed Nougats to skip that one annoying class? A love potion for the girlfriend, or possibly the boyfriend? We've got everything your prankster heart desires!"
"Thank you," I drawl, lifting an eyebrow to demonstrate my opinion of this rather exuberant sales pitch. "But I've already made my choice."
"Very well, one Pie for you," George Weasley says jovially, ringing it up. "That will be 17 sickles and 14 knuts."
Once I hand him the coins, I take a moment to look at his features more closely. The Weasley children have always been thin, but this one seems to be putting a real effort into looking like a freckled beanstalk. I can see the familiar sheen of a glamour spell: if I were to guess, it is currently concealing heavy bags under tired eyes and gaunt, sunken cheeks. I also notice the pictures of the late Weasley twin on the counter, and how the one still counting the coins keeps sneaking glances at them. And to my surprise, I can feel a familiar anger surging within me. While it's not quite as strong as it tends to be around you, it's most definitely there. I know what grief looks like, and this isn't it, or at least not only. The look in his eyes is the one I see every day in the mirror, the one that won't leave you either: guilt. And before I can stop myself, it just slips out:
"Don't you Gryffindors ever get tired of blaming yourselves for everything that goes wrong in the world? Is it some type of contest between you people? To see which one can carry the world on their shoulders for the longest time?"
"What are you talking about? Did you eat one too many Sugar Hexes? They can have some unpredictable effects…"
"Do not insult me, I'm not under the influence of any type of candy, spell or potion. Do you or do you not feel guilty for the death of your brother?" I demand to know (I've already dug my grave here, I might as well lie in it.)
And there it is, the ridiculous Weasley temper, one of the reasons that insulting members of that family has always been a favourite pastime of mine: anger makes his face break out in horrible red blotches, his freckles are practically glowing and I swear I can see his red hair bristling in fury.
"Do not ever talk to me about my brother again, brat. What would you know about him or me, about what we went through during the war? I bet your family hid like all the other wizards and witches too afraid to stand up for themselves and what they believe in, too afraid to actually fight for their homes and lives. And now you're here telling me to what? Move on already? Just be happy I'm alive? Let bygones be bygones? Forget that if I'd been just a little bit faster, a little bit more alert, I could have saved him? Ignore the fact that he should be standing here right next to me, trading jokes and chasing insolent, spineless little rats like you out of our shop?"
Snorting, I decide to resort to more drastic measure to get my point across (bloody thick-headed Gryffindor) and remove the appearance-altering spells I put on myself:
"Finite Incantatem. No, my family fought for what they believed in and I fought so we could stay alive, no matter what I had to do to ensure our survival. They took the lives of people that didn't deserve to die, and I hurt people I had no business hurting. And I will have to live with that; I will carry that guilt with me until the day I die. But you, you fought for your family and your friends, and you did so honourably," I spit out, almost vibrating in anger myself. "You may choose to grief in whatever way you deem appropriate: starve yourself or hey, how about some cutting? But if you feel guilty about your brother's death, you're just as much of an idiot as I always thought you were. He chose to fight and he chose to risk his life to save others. You feeling guilty about it, thinking you should have saved him, blaming yourself for not getting to him in time or whatever goes on in that ginger head of yours, it just dishonours the choices he made in his life."
"Get out, Malfoy, get out now, before I hex your big mouth shut, permanently."
Taking in his shaken appearance, the way his skin has gone from an angry red to a deathly white, I decide to cut my losses and make my way back to Hogwarts, hoping this encounter won't mean I'll be accosted by an angry Weasel in the near future.
As it's getting dark, I just cover my face and my hair as best as I can: reapplying the glamour spells would take too long and would look highly suspicious to boot. Luckily, nobody takes notice of me; the cold is hurrying everyone's steps back to their homes or the nearest pub. Alas, neither the Hog's Head nor the Three Broomsticks are places where I'd be welcomed in. My trip back to the castle and down into the dungeons is fairly uneventful, something I would have liked to be able to categorize this whole trip as. Still, I have what I set out for, and tomorrow, Potter, you're going down.
A/N: So that got more depressing than i expected it to. I promise the next chapter will be more light-hearted, and will definitely feature some interaction between our favourite two boys. It should be up fairly soon, it's already in the works. Like always, thank you so much for reading and please review, I'd love to know how I'm doing!