Continued from chapter 3

Draco had just stepped out of the portrait hole when he was startled by a loud "Mr Malfoy! A word with ye, if ye don't mind!"

Draco rather did mind, but it was too late to disappear, as Filch and his slinky companion Mrs Norris materialised from the shadows.

He kept his sigh to himself. "Good morning, Filch."

Filch didn't have good mornings. "You are not permitted," he wheezed, leaning a liver-spotted hand against the hallway's stone wall for support, "to move your bedroom furniture either round and about or willy-nilly. So stop it."

Something was lying on Draco's foot. He looked down. Mrs Norris was rubbing herself against the shiny toe end of his shoe.

Hiding his distaste, Draco asked Filch what he thought was a reasonable question. "Why not? It's my room for the year."

"Damage, Mr Malfoy!" Filch spat. "If any of that furniture becomes damaged through its travels, guess who has to fix it! Me! Do you think I have time to regularly repair sticks of furniture that far exceed the quality of the furniture Dumbledore sees fit to outfit my piss-miserable accommodations with? Also," he tacked on as an afterthought, "it's a fire hazard to be blocking exits. Personally, I don't think it will make much difference. Bloody castle's made of stone."

Draco didn't particularly want Filch or Mrs Norris bumbling about his bedroom, touching his things, shedding hair everywhere. Both of them. Or burning to a crisp in his bed. He sighed. "All right, I'll leave my furniture where it is."

"Good." Flich nodded curtly and limped down the hall. Then he stopped and turned around. "And keep that blasted tomcat away from my Mrs Norris!" he hissed. "Mrs Norris is a lady and should not be subjected to such deviant behaviour."

Draco stared after Filch. "I don't have a cat!" he said, confused.

But when he made to head off in the opposite direction, he realized something was lying on his foot. He looked down. Mrs Norris had been replaced by a large, orange cat-kneazle. Who was enthusiastically rubbing his face against the spot on his shoe where Mrs Norris recently laid.

"Who the hell are you?" Draco asked him. "Get off my damn shoe!"

The cat heaved himself up, glared at him, and sauntered through the portrait hole into the Heads' chambers.

"Hey!" Draco gasped at his effrontery. "Not that way" –

But the portrait hole closed behind the cat's fluffy bum, and Draco was left alone in the corridor, wondering what the rest of the day would bring.

Most of Draco's day passed as if he were waiting for a terminally-late train that never bothered to show up. He wanted to stay out of Hermione's way, but he also wanted to know if or when she encountered Flitwick, so this resulted in a rather Clouseau-esque display of peering around corners, hiding behind tapestries and squinting over large academic scrolls that hid most of his face at mealtimes.

Blaise was one of a growing group of students (and Snape) who were watching Draco with interest (or annoyance, in Snape's case). "Did you and Granger have a fight?" he asked over that evening's pumpkin quiche in the Great Hall.

"Not yet," Draco mumbled, imbibing potato and leek soup from behind his scroll. Then he sighed and put the scroll down. "What have I become?" he asked out loud to the Slytherin table.

"I think the stress is getting to you," Blaise replied. "Maybe you've taken on too much this year?"

Draco stared at Blaise. "I didn't do this to myself, you know," he smarted, nodding his head at the Gryffindor table. "It's her! If it weren't for her, I could do this Head Boy lark standing on my head!"

Blaise patted Draco's shoulder sympathetically. "Denial is the first stage, I've heard," he said seriously.

"The first stage to what?"

"Going mad, of course. I hate to say it, mate, but you haven't been acting terribly rationally since you started this school year."

Draco wagged his soup spoon at Blaise. "If you had to put up with what I've had to put up with, you'd probably go mad, too." Then he stood up. "As much as I would love to continue this conversation, I have detention to supervise and prefect rounds to do. And it would be really handy if you could let me know if Granger talks to Flitwick this evening. Goodbye."

With that, Draco sailed out of the Great Hall.

Theo, sitting nearby, topped up his glass of pumpkin juice. "I know what you're doing," he said to Blaise.

Blaise tried out his innocent face. "What's that, then?"

"You want the Head Boy role," Theo replied, pulling apart a bread roll. "You want to convince Malfoy that he can't do the job, so he resigns and then the teachers give it to you." He took a bite of bread. "Assuming they pick you over the other contenders. Potter's pretty strong."

"You're barking up the wrong tree, mate," Blaise sniffed and left the Hall, wondering how to discredit Potter and convince Malfoy he's going mad at the same time.

It was late when Draco tiptoed up to the portrait hole and climbed inside. So late, he'd rather hoped that Hermione had headed off to bed already; but alas, he found her sitting on a settee, reading under the nearby light of a stained-glass lamp. She looked rather fetching, except for her face, which he saw when she looked up from her book. She looked knackered.

"I haven't seen you all day," she yawned in response to Draco's presence. "I wanted to tell you about my chat with Professor Flitwick."

Every nerve and muscle in Draco's body tensed for action.

"I asked him to double-check the wards for our bedrooms," she continued. "He did, and said they were working perfectly."

Draco peered at her. Was that it? "Did Flitwick say anything else?" he asked cautiously.

She frowned. "In relation to what?"

Huh. Maybe Flitwick took one for the team and kept quiet about Draco's identical request? Who knew the old duffer was such a romantic?

Romance. Pft.

"Ah, well, that's good news about the wards, then!" Draco smiled. "I know I'll rest easy tonight. And, of course, so should you."

"Yeah." Hermione yawned again, and climbed off the settee. "On that note, I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, then," Draco murmured, and followed her up the stairs. Then he remembered something. "Hey Granger, do we have a cat?"

"Oh." Granger looked over her shoulder at him. "I do. He's a ginger cat-kneazle called Crookshanks. He's asleep on my bed. Are you allergic?"

Draco frowned. "Not to my knowledge. How come I haven't seen him before?"

"He's been living in the Gryffindor dorms all these years, and he's very set in his ways. He wasn't too pleased that I've moved rooms, and I've been trying to bribe him to this chamber since term started. I think I've succeeded, even though it's cost me a small fortune in treats. Anyway, I'll explain to him that your bedroom's out of bounds."

"Don't the wards affect him?"

"They don't seem to. Professor Dumbledore caught him in his office, eyeing up Fawkes. And Professor Snape told me that if he caught Crooks in his private quarters again, the house-elves will be serving up kneazle fritters for tea." Hermione scowled. "If it was any other person I'd assume they were joking."

The perfect spy, Draco thought, impressed. Aside from the getting caught part. "Rightio. See you in the morning, Granger. And cat."

Hermione yawned-nodded. "Night."

Later that night

Draco's feet were toasty warm. Too warm. And they felt like they'd been cast in lead. Struggling awake, he flashed his wand down the length of his bed, and was not amused to discover an enormous kneazle-cat curled up on the blankets above his feet. Crookshanks blinked slowly in the wand-light.

"What is it with you and feet?" Draco asked, annoyed. He tried to shift them but Crooks wasn't feeling it. Draco sighed. "Go on, off you get. Snuggle up with your princess."

Crooks blinked, then yawned.

Draco sighed. "Out!" he snapped, pointing to the door with his lit wand –

Hermione was standing there in her ugly cat nightie again. Come to think of it, the nightshirt cat bore a striking resemblance to the real thing shedding on his duvet, no doubt.

"Great! Just in time," Draco said, forgetting for a moment that there shouldn't be two intruders in his bedroom, let alone any. "Can you get your cat off my bed and out of my room, if you would be so kind?"

Hermione didn't reply.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh shit. Not this crap again. Draco rubbed his tired eyes.

With much effort, he rescued his feet from Crooks' bulk and climbed out of bed. He searched for his underwear and put them on, noting that Hermione hadn't screamed or lectured him on his au naturel state. All she did was stand there and do nothing.

"This had better not be habit-forming, Granger," he muttered, taking her arm and escorting her to her bedroom. Crooks padded along in front, possibly deliberately right where Draco was walking; possibly not.

As he half-expected, Hermione's room let him inside. He helped her back into bed and tucked her in. Crooks sat on the bed in bodyguard mode. Draco scowled at him.

"Next time, stop her from leaving her room, all right?"

Crooks lifted a leg and started grooming his unmentionables.

Draco threw his hands in the air and headed back to his bed. He wished he could block his door with furniture, but obviously there was some charm on them that notified Filch if they got messed with; and if there was a fire, his only hope of a quick exit was through his bedroom windows. And considering they were at the top of a jolly tall tower, that meant a mighty long drop without a broom.

He made a mental note to relocate his broom from the Quidditch sheds to his bedroom before falling back asleep.