One morning, Draco Malfoy woke up to find himself half-drowning. He sat up quickly, water running off the planes of his face as he tried to decipher the cause of this nocturnal aquatic apparition. He was in his private room at Hogwarts. Peeves did not appear to be in the vicinity. He looked up to see if perhaps his bed's canopy had developed a leak when he saw it.
Against all the laws of sense and probability, a tiny grey cloud was hovering just above his head, sending out an inexhaustible amount of rain.
"What the hell?" Not, perhaps, the most eloquent response, but it must be remembered that he had just been woken up. Wiping rain from his eyes, he fumbled under his soggy pillow until he found his wand, which thankfully hadn't yet been damaged by the moisture.
Several spells later, the best he'd been able to do was cast a waterproofing charm on himself. He scowled and the rain spattered even harder, turning his previously comfy bed into a swamp of damp linens. Snarling, he tugged on the bellpull that summoned a house-elf.
"Master Draco, you has wet the bed!" Dobby's concerned voice turned into a frightened squeak as Draco gave him a glare that would've made his father beam with pride, or as close to it as a Malfoy gets.
"Look, you stupid elf, there's not that much widdle in the universe, let alone my bladder!" Ignoring the somewhat defiant mutterings Dobby was making that sounded suspiciously like 'is too', Draco wrung out his pajamas before pointing up at the cloud. "What do you make of that?"
The elf's eyes went round and he disappeared with a pop, only to reappear with an umbrella. "Sir must be careful not to catch a cold. Master Draco has always had weak lungs." With a few snaps of the finger, Draco found himself sitting in a high backed chair with his feet in a bowl of hot water, a blanket wrapped around him, and the umbrella over his head. "Would sir like some chicken soup? Dobby will make it with the alphabet noodles sir likes."
"Oh, stop fussing, you stupid--" Draco scowled and threw the blanket off.
He was promptly quieted by a spoonful of pepper-up potion that tasted like cherry cordial. Wheedlingly, the elf said, "Dobby would also make sir gingerbread..."
Draco started to say something, then paused before saying, "The special kind, with the runes iced on?"
"Dobby would never leave them off, but first Master Draco must eat his soup like a good boy." With a grotesquely maternal smile, Dobby pushed a cup of hot soup into Draco's hands.
Pushing aside the little umbrella that kept the soup from being rained on, Draco took a big slurp. "Howsrdfthig?"
"Master must not talk with his mouth full!" trilled Dobby as he used a napkin to wipe a dribble of soup from Draco's chin.
"How do I get rid of this thing?" Draco enunciated, shoving Dobby's hands away so hard that he knocked the elf down.
With gravely offended dignity, he said, "Dobby is sure he does not know, sir. And now, Dobby must report back to the kitchens."
"What about my gingerbread?" Draco whined to the empty air, just before the umbrella collapsed under the weight of the water and soaked his blanket.
Some time later, after finishing his slightly watered down soup and putting on fresh clothes and a hooded cloak, Draco stalked out of his quarters, the cloud trailing slightly behind. He managed to ignore the whispers, for the most part, until he almost tripped over a giggling Weasley. "What's the matter, you've never seen a bloke rained on before?"
Her eyes danced as the girl (Jen? Gwyn?) raised a freckled hand and pointed. "It just looks so funny, with your ears steaming and all."
Draco scowled and the cloud turned a bit darker. "Amazing how little it takes to entertain some people."
"Well, you know us Weasleys. Can't afford to pay for entertainment, so we have to find it where it's priceless." She winked at him and grinned again, and it made her freckles look like they were dancing. Or maybe that was the rain in his eyes blurring his vision.
Before he could think of a comeback, the Siamese triplets showed up, the red-headed one of their group shouting, "You leave Ginny alone, Malfoy!"
She rolled her eyes and shot him a look that he could have sworn was conspiratorial before she cried out, "Oh, Ron, thank goodness you came to rescue me from the amazing soggy ferret! Whatever would I do without you?"
This speech made her brother pause, only to get knocked down by heroic Pot-head, trying to rush in and save the day yet again, who skidded on some of the water that had splashed off of Draco. Their flailing limbs managed to catch Granger, knocking her onto the ground, where her hair got caught under where the two boys were wriggling and trying to separate in order to stand. Draco laughed and the cloud seemed to bounce a bit.
The girl Weasel, Ginny, just looked over the scene and smirked before patting Draco on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Malfoy. You don't look half-bad when you smile."
He shook his head as she walked off and then spared one more sneer for the three prats on the ground before sauntering off towards the hospital wing. Surely Madame Pomfrey would have something to fix the blasted cloud.
But, alas, our hero's hopes were to be dashed. Madame Pomfrey had not only never heard of a case of spontaneous personalized precipitation before, she also insisted on removing the waterproofing charm from his skin and hair, claiming that they weren't authorized for such use. She suggested he speak to Professor Flitwick, who suggested he speak to Professor McGonagall, and so Draco squelched his way back and forth, criss-crossing the castle as the cloud over his head grew darker and fiercer.
He'd just gotten kicked out of the library by an unreasonably cranky Madame Pince when it started hailing.
Banging his head against the wall suddenly seemed a very attractive thing to do, but just as he turned around to get a good running start, a hand closed over his wrist. "Come on, I'll take you to Dumbledore. It must be hard to see with all that in your face."
Draco would have jerked his arm away from the female Weasel if he hadn't been almost completely certain that the motion would throw him off balance and make him fall. Besides, she was warm. And, yes, now that his vision was clearing slightly, he had visual confirmation that that was a bosom his bicep was pressed against. Being close to a real live bosom outweighed an awful lot in terms of Weasley germs.
He was busy attempting to plot ways of getting even closer to what was, upon repeated sidelong inspections, quite a nice bosom when she stopped and said, "Love sugar."
"Pardon me?" He'd always known he was handsome, but he didn't think they were quite ready for pet names yet. Although given long enough to contemplate the wonders of her pulchritude, he was sure he could come up with something.
"We're here," she said, frowning slightly. With careful diction, she said again, "Love sugar."
This might be a good time to remind the reader of the befuddlement abilities of a heretofore unknown bustline on the brain of a teenage male, as he frowned and said, "Thank you, er, honey dear."
The gargoyle they were standing in front of shifted to reveal a set of stairs, and the Weasley-who-might-pass-as-pretty smiled. "I guess the password's changed. I hadn't even known there was a candy called honey deer."
"Indeed, Miss Weasley, indeed, and thank you for helping Mister Malfoy in his hour of need." The two students whipped around to see Dumbledore standing on a step that was spiraling down towards them. "And now I believe that Mister Malfoy needed to see me?"
"Oh! Oh, yes," she said, blushing to the roots of her hair that was still fairly carroty but maybe not as offensively so as her brother's. "I'll just, er, go on to class. Um. Good luck, Malfoy!"
And she was off before he could work out whether the proper response would be to say thank you or to sneer.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and Draco shook himself all over, then winced as the motion sent cold water running down the neck of his robes. The stairs wound their way back up to Dumbledore's office, with both of them stolidly ignoring the patter of water falling to the ground below. Just before Draco stepped into the office proper, Dumbledore waved a hand and the entire office was covered in plastic sheeting.
Draco shot the headmaster an accusatory glare. "Sorry, my boy, but Mister Filch has refused to set foot in this office ever since an unfortunate incident involving Mrs. Norris and the portrait of my great-uncle, and my cleaning spells aren't what they once were."
"All I want to know is how to fix this!" Draco realized belatedly that shouting and banging his fist on the desk was probably not the most diplomatic way of attaining his goals, even if the drama of his thumping the desk had been offset by the plastic making his fist bounce off with a soft thud. Sulkily, he added, "Sir."
The headmaster looked grave as he pulled a dusty book out of his desk drawer and peered at Draco over his spectacles. "Perhaps, Mister Malfoy, it would help you to listen to this." He cleared his throat and started reading out loud. "Every Who down in Who-ville liked Christmas a lot... But the Grinch, who lived just north of Who-ville, did NOT!"
Eventually, the cloud over Draco was pouring out water at such a rate that there was an inch of it accumulated on the ground. Dumbledore cleared his throat once again and looked at the boy that was almost completely obscured by the rain. "Well, Mister Malfoy, what do you think?"
There was a moment of dead silence, except, of course, for the constant plunk plunk plunk of rain hitting the water, which was now at ankle level and rising. Then Draco said, quite calmly, "I think you're a deranged, moronic twit, sir. And that the Grinch lacked a proper devotion to his task. That's the problem, no one has the stones to follow through on evil plans."
Dumbledore gave an embarrassed cough. "Yes, well, be that as it may, I believe that you might profit by following the Grinch's example in your current situation." There was a bit of a snuffing noise and what seemed to be a defiant tilt to the angle at which the rain was hitting, and so Dumbledore said, "Of course, we could continue... Let me see, ah, here. 'At the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows and no birds ever sing excepting old crows... is the Street of the Lifted Lorax.'"
"NO MORE CRYPTICNESS!" Draco's dramatic leap to his feet was only slightly undermined by the giant wave of water he kicked up. "Just say what you have to say and none of this waffling around the point." He sank back into his chair and crossed his arms, muttering to himself about how Potter probably didn't have to deal with this kind of thing.
"I believe, Mister Malfoy, that this dark cloud hanging over you is a physical manifestation of your inner melancholia and bitterness. The darkness which you have lived surrounded by, and the oppressive conditions of your environment, have led to an excess of angst in your psyche which, combined with your magical abilities, has led to the metaphorical becoming reality." Dumbledore sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his slightly soggy beard.
Draco shielded his eyes with a hand long enough to give a proper disbelieving glare. "What does that mean in English?"
"It means, Mister Malfoy, that you must strive to be a better and happier person." Pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, Dumbledore then said, slightly apologetically, "Now, if you will please return to your quarters, I will see what can be done about proper drainage."
And so Draco found himself, slumped dejectedly and trudging back to his rooms whilst feeling very sorry for himself. He'd never been that bad, had he? All right, he had, but he'd enjoyed it. Surely that counted for something? The rain had slackened a bit, but he barely noticed as he continued his grim march towards his room and his last night as an unredeemed and unrepentant bad guy. Come tomorrow, he would start being... Good.
And he never did get his gingerbread.
Against all the laws of sense and probability, a tiny grey cloud was hovering just above his head, sending out an inexhaustible amount of rain.
"What the hell?" Not, perhaps, the most eloquent response, but it must be remembered that he had just been woken up. Wiping rain from his eyes, he fumbled under his soggy pillow until he found his wand, which thankfully hadn't yet been damaged by the moisture.
Several spells later, the best he'd been able to do was cast a waterproofing charm on himself. He scowled and the rain spattered even harder, turning his previously comfy bed into a swamp of damp linens. Snarling, he tugged on the bellpull that summoned a house-elf.
"Master Draco, you has wet the bed!" Dobby's concerned voice turned into a frightened squeak as Draco gave him a glare that would've made his father beam with pride, or as close to it as a Malfoy gets.
"Look, you stupid elf, there's not that much widdle in the universe, let alone my bladder!" Ignoring the somewhat defiant mutterings Dobby was making that sounded suspiciously like 'is too', Draco wrung out his pajamas before pointing up at the cloud. "What do you make of that?"
The elf's eyes went round and he disappeared with a pop, only to reappear with an umbrella. "Sir must be careful not to catch a cold. Master Draco has always had weak lungs." With a few snaps of the finger, Draco found himself sitting in a high backed chair with his feet in a bowl of hot water, a blanket wrapped around him, and the umbrella over his head. "Would sir like some chicken soup? Dobby will make it with the alphabet noodles sir likes."
"Oh, stop fussing, you stupid--" Draco scowled and threw the blanket off.
He was promptly quieted by a spoonful of pepper-up potion that tasted like cherry cordial. Wheedlingly, the elf said, "Dobby would also make sir gingerbread..."
Draco started to say something, then paused before saying, "The special kind, with the runes iced on?"
"Dobby would never leave them off, but first Master Draco must eat his soup like a good boy." With a grotesquely maternal smile, Dobby pushed a cup of hot soup into Draco's hands.
Pushing aside the little umbrella that kept the soup from being rained on, Draco took a big slurp. "Howsrdfthig?"
"Master must not talk with his mouth full!" trilled Dobby as he used a napkin to wipe a dribble of soup from Draco's chin.
"How do I get rid of this thing?" Draco enunciated, shoving Dobby's hands away so hard that he knocked the elf down.
With gravely offended dignity, he said, "Dobby is sure he does not know, sir. And now, Dobby must report back to the kitchens."
"What about my gingerbread?" Draco whined to the empty air, just before the umbrella collapsed under the weight of the water and soaked his blanket.
Some time later, after finishing his slightly watered down soup and putting on fresh clothes and a hooded cloak, Draco stalked out of his quarters, the cloud trailing slightly behind. He managed to ignore the whispers, for the most part, until he almost tripped over a giggling Weasley. "What's the matter, you've never seen a bloke rained on before?"
Her eyes danced as the girl (Jen? Gwyn?) raised a freckled hand and pointed. "It just looks so funny, with your ears steaming and all."
Draco scowled and the cloud turned a bit darker. "Amazing how little it takes to entertain some people."
"Well, you know us Weasleys. Can't afford to pay for entertainment, so we have to find it where it's priceless." She winked at him and grinned again, and it made her freckles look like they were dancing. Or maybe that was the rain in his eyes blurring his vision.
Before he could think of a comeback, the Siamese triplets showed up, the red-headed one of their group shouting, "You leave Ginny alone, Malfoy!"
She rolled her eyes and shot him a look that he could have sworn was conspiratorial before she cried out, "Oh, Ron, thank goodness you came to rescue me from the amazing soggy ferret! Whatever would I do without you?"
This speech made her brother pause, only to get knocked down by heroic Pot-head, trying to rush in and save the day yet again, who skidded on some of the water that had splashed off of Draco. Their flailing limbs managed to catch Granger, knocking her onto the ground, where her hair got caught under where the two boys were wriggling and trying to separate in order to stand. Draco laughed and the cloud seemed to bounce a bit.
The girl Weasel, Ginny, just looked over the scene and smirked before patting Draco on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Malfoy. You don't look half-bad when you smile."
He shook his head as she walked off and then spared one more sneer for the three prats on the ground before sauntering off towards the hospital wing. Surely Madame Pomfrey would have something to fix the blasted cloud.
But, alas, our hero's hopes were to be dashed. Madame Pomfrey had not only never heard of a case of spontaneous personalized precipitation before, she also insisted on removing the waterproofing charm from his skin and hair, claiming that they weren't authorized for such use. She suggested he speak to Professor Flitwick, who suggested he speak to Professor McGonagall, and so Draco squelched his way back and forth, criss-crossing the castle as the cloud over his head grew darker and fiercer.
He'd just gotten kicked out of the library by an unreasonably cranky Madame Pince when it started hailing.
Banging his head against the wall suddenly seemed a very attractive thing to do, but just as he turned around to get a good running start, a hand closed over his wrist. "Come on, I'll take you to Dumbledore. It must be hard to see with all that in your face."
Draco would have jerked his arm away from the female Weasel if he hadn't been almost completely certain that the motion would throw him off balance and make him fall. Besides, she was warm. And, yes, now that his vision was clearing slightly, he had visual confirmation that that was a bosom his bicep was pressed against. Being close to a real live bosom outweighed an awful lot in terms of Weasley germs.
He was busy attempting to plot ways of getting even closer to what was, upon repeated sidelong inspections, quite a nice bosom when she stopped and said, "Love sugar."
"Pardon me?" He'd always known he was handsome, but he didn't think they were quite ready for pet names yet. Although given long enough to contemplate the wonders of her pulchritude, he was sure he could come up with something.
"We're here," she said, frowning slightly. With careful diction, she said again, "Love sugar."
This might be a good time to remind the reader of the befuddlement abilities of a heretofore unknown bustline on the brain of a teenage male, as he frowned and said, "Thank you, er, honey dear."
The gargoyle they were standing in front of shifted to reveal a set of stairs, and the Weasley-who-might-pass-as-pretty smiled. "I guess the password's changed. I hadn't even known there was a candy called honey deer."
"Indeed, Miss Weasley, indeed, and thank you for helping Mister Malfoy in his hour of need." The two students whipped around to see Dumbledore standing on a step that was spiraling down towards them. "And now I believe that Mister Malfoy needed to see me?"
"Oh! Oh, yes," she said, blushing to the roots of her hair that was still fairly carroty but maybe not as offensively so as her brother's. "I'll just, er, go on to class. Um. Good luck, Malfoy!"
And she was off before he could work out whether the proper response would be to say thank you or to sneer.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and Draco shook himself all over, then winced as the motion sent cold water running down the neck of his robes. The stairs wound their way back up to Dumbledore's office, with both of them stolidly ignoring the patter of water falling to the ground below. Just before Draco stepped into the office proper, Dumbledore waved a hand and the entire office was covered in plastic sheeting.
Draco shot the headmaster an accusatory glare. "Sorry, my boy, but Mister Filch has refused to set foot in this office ever since an unfortunate incident involving Mrs. Norris and the portrait of my great-uncle, and my cleaning spells aren't what they once were."
"All I want to know is how to fix this!" Draco realized belatedly that shouting and banging his fist on the desk was probably not the most diplomatic way of attaining his goals, even if the drama of his thumping the desk had been offset by the plastic making his fist bounce off with a soft thud. Sulkily, he added, "Sir."
The headmaster looked grave as he pulled a dusty book out of his desk drawer and peered at Draco over his spectacles. "Perhaps, Mister Malfoy, it would help you to listen to this." He cleared his throat and started reading out loud. "Every Who down in Who-ville liked Christmas a lot... But the Grinch, who lived just north of Who-ville, did NOT!"
Eventually, the cloud over Draco was pouring out water at such a rate that there was an inch of it accumulated on the ground. Dumbledore cleared his throat once again and looked at the boy that was almost completely obscured by the rain. "Well, Mister Malfoy, what do you think?"
There was a moment of dead silence, except, of course, for the constant plunk plunk plunk of rain hitting the water, which was now at ankle level and rising. Then Draco said, quite calmly, "I think you're a deranged, moronic twit, sir. And that the Grinch lacked a proper devotion to his task. That's the problem, no one has the stones to follow through on evil plans."
Dumbledore gave an embarrassed cough. "Yes, well, be that as it may, I believe that you might profit by following the Grinch's example in your current situation." There was a bit of a snuffing noise and what seemed to be a defiant tilt to the angle at which the rain was hitting, and so Dumbledore said, "Of course, we could continue... Let me see, ah, here. 'At the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows and no birds ever sing excepting old crows... is the Street of the Lifted Lorax.'"
"NO MORE CRYPTICNESS!" Draco's dramatic leap to his feet was only slightly undermined by the giant wave of water he kicked up. "Just say what you have to say and none of this waffling around the point." He sank back into his chair and crossed his arms, muttering to himself about how Potter probably didn't have to deal with this kind of thing.
"I believe, Mister Malfoy, that this dark cloud hanging over you is a physical manifestation of your inner melancholia and bitterness. The darkness which you have lived surrounded by, and the oppressive conditions of your environment, have led to an excess of angst in your psyche which, combined with your magical abilities, has led to the metaphorical becoming reality." Dumbledore sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his slightly soggy beard.
Draco shielded his eyes with a hand long enough to give a proper disbelieving glare. "What does that mean in English?"
"It means, Mister Malfoy, that you must strive to be a better and happier person." Pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, Dumbledore then said, slightly apologetically, "Now, if you will please return to your quarters, I will see what can be done about proper drainage."
And so Draco found himself, slumped dejectedly and trudging back to his rooms whilst feeling very sorry for himself. He'd never been that bad, had he? All right, he had, but he'd enjoyed it. Surely that counted for something? The rain had slackened a bit, but he barely noticed as he continued his grim march towards his room and his last night as an unredeemed and unrepentant bad guy. Come tomorrow, he would start being... Good.
And he never did get his gingerbread.
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