A/N: Sorry, for some reason, once it uploaded, all the quotation marks turned to question marks.

Once again, I have descended on my fanfiction, wielding a fork and a knife. Some parts I dissected very neatly and delicately. Other parts? Well, I just hacked at the paragraphs, hoping they'd fall in some minutely understandable pattern. But I digress.

As per usual, actual quotes from 'Downfall' are in bold.

On with the mayhem.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling lays claim to all Harry Potter characters and their world. I'm only borrowing them.

Chapter Three


(Pop!Pop!Pop!)

Madam Pomfrey eyed the two mutinous-looking teens. “Cease your theatrics, the both of you. It’s very unbecoming.” She looked round the room before closing her eyes. With a crack, one of the wooden chairs turned into a comfy armchair.

Ginny opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by a stern glance from the medi-witch. “I am quite a few years older than you, Miss Weasley. My bones appreciate a little comfort.”

The author intervened when both Ginny and Draco began to snicker and point at the nice lady that fixed all of their injuries (AHEM! This is your cue...). “That’s enough out of you two. The poor woman deals with bratty, self-absorbed teenagers on a daily basis. I sympathise with her. Besides, you half-wits, you’re perfectly free to conjure your own.”

Ginny had the good grace to blush before she turned her own wooden chair into a chaise. “What?” she asked as she threw herself down on it. “I always wanted one.”

Draco, meanwhile, had drawn himself up to his full height and cast an irate look at the ceiling. “For your information, you uneducated cow, I am neither bratty nor self-absorbed. And I am certainly not a half-wit, though I am beginning to think that you are,” he said indignantly. “I am a Malfoy. Rule #672, paragraph 4, sub-paragraph k, line 3 of the ‘Malfoy Family Code of Conduct’ clearly states-”

“Spare me,” the author sneered. “Perhaps I misspoke. Instead of a bratty, self-absorbed half-wit, I meant to say a snide, pompous moron of the highest order. Better?” the author asked in a syrupy voice.

“I despise you with a burning passion,” Draco declared as he stuck an impressive pose.

“Good to know,” the author responded cheerfully. “Did you know that you have a cowlick?”

Draco’s face was a mask of horror. “No! It can’t be! Weasley,” he wailed, dashing to the chaise and dropping to his knees, “Fix it!”

Ginny, immediately on to the author, gave him a sweet smile. If he was less preoccupied with the state of his coiffure, Draco would have noticed the evil glint in her eyes. With great relish, Ginny spit into her hand and slicked it across his head. From back to front, of course, maximising her opportunity.

Draco, now with very unkempt, spit-dampened hair, slumped to the floor and clutched his head. “You are so mean. Both of you. Weasley! Where’s your loyalty?” he whined.

“Not with you, Malfoy. Really, after centuries of barely contained hatred between our families, you thought I’d help you?”

He twisted round on the floor so he could look at the redhead reclining regally on the chaise.

“Really, Author, is all the alliteration absolutely necessary?” Madam Pomfrey asked with a disapproving twist of her lips. Realising her error, she sniffed self-consciously. “My alliteration was unintended. What’s your excuse?”

(The author wishes to insert her sincere apologies; it seems that she honestly can’t help herself. Damn! I did it again! Sorry. Really. I’ll try to quell the urge.). “I have just inserted my apologies. I feel terribly. I do. Please, let’s move on to chapter three. I seem to be a bit off-track tonight,” the author chirped brightly.

With a reproving glance upwards, Madam Pomfrey picked up the stack of papers. “I’ll just read aloud, shall I?”

“Wait!” Draco shouted. “Weasley, fix my hair.” At her smirk, he heaved an aggravated sigh. “Please.”

Ginny swung her legs over the side and sat up, pulling at him. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Malfoy! Move back so I can reach your head! Honestly, all this drama about your bloody hair. Who cares if it’s messy?”

He readjusted himself so the back of his head rested against her thigh after shooting her a glare and muttering, “My hair is my trademark! It has to be perfect.”

Ginny conjured a hairbrush and began to fix his hair. Without looking up, she said, “Go ahead, Madam Pomfrey. We’re listening.”

Clearing her throat, she began.

"Stop being so petulant, Mr Malfoy! The first years whine less than you do. Now drink that potion!"

Ginny entered the hospital wing to see Madam Pomfrey standing at the foot of a curtained-off bed, her arms akimbo.

"But it smells vile. Can't I have a glass of pumpkin juice to wash it down with?" came Malfoy's beseeching voice from the other side of the curtains.

"Oh, very well." Madam Pomfrey glared sternly at the bed. "You'll take your medicine then and be done with it?"

"Yes."

"Fine." She pushed the beaker of medicine at him and stalked away, presumably for the pumpkin juice...


“You know,” Draco mused, “All the potions and remedies I remember ever getting from you really were vile. Funny, that.”

“Yes, well, every time I recall you coming to the hospital wing, you really were being a drama queen. You’re a very talented whiner, you know,” Madam Pomfrey shot right back.

Draco opened his eyes and lifted his head from Ginny’s leg. “I’m gifted in every endeavour I undertake. Besides, I have a very low threshold for pain.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear that, you delicate little flower, you?” Ginny asked as she pulled him back. “If you want me to fix your hair, you need to sit still,” she admonished, giving his hair a deliberate yank.

“Ow! Madam Pomfrey!” Draco whined.

Quirking an eyebrow, she raised the paper again.

... Ginny walked over to the area Malfoy's whining was emitting from, edged around the curtains, and dumped his things into the chair next to the bed. "Well, here you are. Hope that's everything, because if it's not, you're flat out of luck." She turned toward the bed to say goodbye. "I..."

Malfoy was propped up in the bed, braced against a mound of pillows, hair wildly mussed, bare from the waist up except for a swath of bandaging around the upper right portion of his chest. She stared, absently noting the crinkly blond hair arrowing down his belly and disappearing beneath the bed-sheets...


“I am NOT reading this tripe,” Madam Pomfrey ground out. “It’s like a particularly bad romance novel.”

“Hey!” the author said, obviously wounded. “That’s not nice! Besides, everyone likes a poorly-written romance novel. They’re familiar and comfortable. Even when pizza’s bad, it’s still good.”

Draco smirked. “I never tire of hearing how devastatingly gorgeous I am. On a side note, I’ve heard a different version of that saying.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you have,” the author sniffed. “Read on, darlings, read on.”

... Funny, I always pictured him as the hairless sort. Well, not actually pictured. More a passing thought, really. But the view is rather nice, no?

Aargh! Stop it! No more thoughts about Malfoy as a human being, let alone a male. Got it?...


(Pop!Pop!)

Draco’s eyes widened when a set of hands began to caress his chest. He sat bolt upright. “What the hell is...” He trailed off as he turned.

There, sitting on the chaise, was not one, but three Ginny Weasleys. One was staring at him as if he was on the menu for the evening, the one in the middle was covering her face and clutching the hairbrush, and the last was sitting very primly, with her mouth set in a disapproving grimace.

“Ooh, it’s Draco Malfoy,” the first one cooed as she leered at him. “And look at what a perfect position he’s in to go dow-“

“SHUT UP!” both the other Ginnys screeched. The last one leant around the centre Ginny and shook her finger. “If you finish that thought, I will kill you where you sit!”

Regaining his ability to speak, a very dry-mouthed Draco intoned, “Three Ginny Weasleys. And two of them are about to fight... Is this what heaven is like?” He looked back and forth between them. “If clothes come off, I’ll give you the key to my Gringott’s vault.”

The author laughed herself sick, realising that this is every teenaged boy’s favourite dream. She waved her hands at the computer in surrender. “You lot are on your own. I’m going to feed the cat and have a cup of tea. Here are the rules. Madam Pomfrey?”

“Yes?”

“No sex. You’re allowed to use your wand if things get... iffy.”

“Got it.”

“Ginny?”

Three voices, ranging from lascivious to severely depressed to furious, answered. “Yes?”

“Okay. Let me rephrase. Original Ginny?”

“If you have any compassion at all, you’ll kill me right now,” she moaned from between her fingers.

The author waited a moment. “Okay, I thought about it, but you’re the heroine. I can’t kill you. Remember, they’re not actually real. They represent the different aspects of your personality. And on the bright side, they’ll be gone soon. If things get too bad, maybe I’ll let you give him a Memory Charm. Deal?”

She brightened, but only a tiny bit. Instead of suicidal, now she merely looked homicidal. “Fine, I guess.”

“Wild Child Ginny?”

Her lips quirked as she reached forward and stroked Draco’s mouth. “Can I play with him now?” she purred.

“Er... I don’t see why not. But please keep it to a PG-13 level, so I don’t have to change the rating.”

She smiled wickedly as she slithered off the chaise and straddled his lap. “I can do that.”

Draco, wide-eyed, nodded vigorously. “Oh yes,” he gulped. “Toddle off now, Author. We’ll do just fine here.” He paused thoughtfully. “Don’t suppose I could persuade you other two Ginnys to join in, can I?”

The original Ginny snorted and smacked him on the side of the head with the hairbrush.

Conscience Ginny flounced off the chaise in an outraged huff. “This is appalling! I can’t believe you’re letting yourself act like some... some... slag!”

“Conscience Ginny?” the author interrupted before she could get into full sulk-mode. “Darling, consider yourself the censor. But remember, you’re also supposed to be the nice, sweet, easily embarrassed Ginny. Not the nasty, insulting, angry Ginny. Comprenez-vous?” The author moved to get up. “Madam Pomfrey, if you please?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Seeing triple is a bit distracting.”

The author finally takes pity on her meowing cat. “Okay, I’m off. Have fun.”

Madam Pomfrey shuffled the pages and began.

... ENOUGH! My brain! Get out, or shut up, or something!

I said almost handsome, didn't I? Not really, but there's something there. And stop with the yelling, it's irritating. By the by, seeing as how I am you, that makes this our brain. Not yours. I'm the id, the 'inner Ginny', for lack of a better name.

Oh, really? Well then, inner Ginny, who am I?

You're 'conscience Ginny'. The superego.

The what?

The superego. The stick-in-the-mud who tries to ruin all of my fun.

And who, precisely, is the one breathing?

That's Ginny, you gormless cow. She's the whole package. We are part of her unconscious.


A slight pause. Oh.

Ginny stood there, staring at a mostly naked boy she had always thought of as her enemy, and realised that all he was wearing under the sheet was a pair of trousers. Her stomach began to do very strange things...


... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

The author reseats herself and cracks her knuckles. “Okay, I’m back. Let’s just see where we are... No! BAD GINNY!! GET OFF HIM RIGHT THIS INSTANT!!!”

Madam Pomfrey woke up with a snort. “Wha? Who’s there? What’s going- OH MY WORD! MISS WEASLEY! I DEMAND YOU GO FIND YOUR TOP!”

Shaking her head, the author decides to remove Wild Child Ginny from the story. Right now.

(Pop!)

“Draco Malfoy! What would your mother think?” the author, unfortunately, said the first thing that popped into her head.

Smirking and re-fastening his trousers, he panted, “She’d think I was giving her grandchildren. Or at least practising for it. After- OW!!”

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. Please slap him again, once more, for me,” the author said, feeling slightly better.

“OW! Damn it!” Draco yelped, attempting to dodge the older witch.

“And one more time, just to remind him that this is PG-13, and I specifically told him to mind his manners!” the author shouted, pounding the desk in frustration.

“OW! Hey! Alright, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It’s not my fault, really! She was-“

The author took a deep breath. “Not. Another. Word.”

Draco, showing a previously unknown shred of intelligence, did as he was told.

“Now, where are the other two Ginnys?” the author asked.

Looking round the room, she finally found them in the far corner, facing the wall, with their fingers stuffed in their ears, humming quite loudly. Not giving Conscience Ginny a chance to express her moral outrage (since the author and Madam Pomfrey have already claimed a corner on that market), the author sent her away.

(Pop!)

“Alright. Madam Pomfrey, how in HELL did this happen?” the author yelled, losing her temper again.

Defensive, Madam Pomfrey threw the pages on the floor. “Don’t you dare blame me. YOU wandered off to do whatever it was you left for, and I was reading your hideous, nauseatingly bad romance like you wanted. You really can’t blame me. It was so awful, I fell asleep. And it’s your fault. Write better fanfiction,” she finished, her face pinched with disdain.

“Fine,” the author sniffed. “If that’s how you feel...”

(Pop!)

“Good riddance, I say,” the author said. “Nasty old woman. And to think I felt bad for her in the beginning. Ginny? Ginny. Ginny!”

Ginny continued to hum, oblivious, in the corner.

With a very large sigh of disgust, the author glared at Draco. “Go get Ginny.”

“With pleasure,” he said.

“Hormonal little git.”

“Yes I am. But I’m a teenager, so it’s to be expected. You’re just jealous, you old bag.”

“Old? Old! You scrawny little shit; I am going to kick your...” the author paused. She had hit on a rather brilliant punishment. “Nevermind. You’re right, Draco,” she conceded.

Crack

Draco looked down. His trousers and oxford shirt were now a set of very pink, very frilly dress robes. Dress robes he had seen before. In his fourth year. At a Yule Ball. He looked up. “You are a (word omitted for rating; however, it rhymes with ‘witch’) of cataclysmic proportions. I hope you rot in hell.”

The author smirked and overall felt very satisfied with herself. “I warned you in the first chapter. Don’t say I didn’t. You’re lucky, Draco. Next time, it’s Harry for you.”

Showing surprising fortitude, Draco sneered. He seemed a bit green around the edges, but he conducted himself rather well. For a green-faced platinum haired boy in pink dress robes, that is.

After a brief sneering contest (brief because he couldn’t actually see the author sneering back at him), Draco poked Ginny in the shoulder.

With a start, she turned around, eyes very wide. And then she began to laugh. She pointed at him and laughed, eventually falling on her side and rolling round on the floor.

The author let this continue for a good five minutes, simply because she thought it would be good for Draco’s ego. Little shit. Calling me old... Sorry. Right. Back to the story.

Ginny finally picked herself up off the floor and moved back to her chaise, straight-faced except for the occasional snort.

Feeling that she had made her point, the author returned Draco’s clothes to their previous, more masculine, state. “Alright, back on track. My, we’re all just a little silly tonight, aren’t we?” she mused.

“Indeed,” Draco grumbled, picking up the papers from the floor where Madam Pomfrey had dropped them. “Ready?” he asked, waving them at Ginny.

She nodded and patted the spot next to her on the chaise. “As long as you don’t mention what you did with my doppelganger, you can sit here, and we’ll read together.”

“Okay,” he said neutrally, sitting down. “Can I ask you one thing, though?”

Ginny gave him a suspicious look. “What?”

He grinned. “Where did you learn how to do that thing with your-“

“Draco,” the author warned.

“Sorry,” he said immediately, “but the curiosity is killing me.”

“Read,” the author commanded.

... STOP. Oh shit. There was an interesting piece of imagery. "No! I was just thinking about why you don't ... erm, I mean when I was gathering your things, I couldn't find any, er ... never mind." Oh. Bloody. Hell. Come on Ginny, think before you open your mouth.

Malfoy looked at her appraisingly for a long moment, a predatory smile gliding over his features. Softly, he asked, "Would you like to know why you couldn't find any?"...


“No pants, huh?” Draco drawled. “Always ready...”

Ginny gave him a good hard shove to the shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Like I’d ever be interested in your pants,” she said derisively.

Draco lifted his eyes. “Please, please don’t hurt me for this. She walked right into it,” he begged.

The author acknowledged his point. “So she did. Have at it. But you only get one sentence,” she warned.

He grinned. “I take it back. You’re not old.”

“Don’t suck up. I’m still annoyed with you. Say it or don’t, but hurry up,” the author said.

He turned to Ginny with a suggestive look. “Oh, I’d say you were VERY interested in my pants a few minutes ago; actually-“

“I said ONE sentence!” the author yelled.

Draco smirked. “I’m not done with my one sentence yet. If you were paying attention, you would have noticed the semi-colon.”

With a look of grudging admiration, the author said, “Well-done. Sneaky, but well-done.”

He turned back to Ginny, who was looking very apprehensive. “As I was saying- You were very interested in my pants a few minutes ago; actually, you were much more interested in the things my pants contained.”

Ginny blushed a bright red. “That wasn’t me,” she defended.

“The hell it wasn’t,” he laughed. “That was the fun side of you, without all those nasty Gryffindor do-right moral thingies.” He patted her shoulder soothingly and began to read again.

... "Why did you help me?" he asked seriously, brow furrowed and lower lip caught between his teeth. "What do you want?"

Ginny sighed, suddenly sad in the face of his suspicions. I guess that's what happens when you grow up a Malfoy. "I don't want anything, Malfoy. You may be a rude, nasty git, but you were injured. You needed help."...


“Aww,” he cooed, batting his eyelashes at Ginny. “Aren’t you sweet?”

She grimaced. “Just keep reading. The sooner this chapter ends, the sooner I can go lick my wounds in private.”

His lips twisted. “Ginny, darling, I wouldn’t use words like ‘lick’ around me right now.”

Her eyes widened in understanding. “Oh,” she breathed. “Right. Yes. Got it.” She cleared her throat and squirmed, decidedly uncomfortable. “Where were we?”

... He shifted, trying to lie down, and she saw him wince in pain. Without thinking about her actions, she moved back to the bed and rearranged the pillows behind him so he could lie back comfortably...

“That’s more like me,” she said with satisfaction. “I like to help people. I’m very good at it,” Ginny claimed proudly.

“Really?” Draco asked, looking very innocent. “Because I have a problem you could help with...”

“Draco,” the author growled.

He did an excellent impression of a little boy. “What? It is a problem, and she can fix it for me,” he said.

“You don’t even like her,” the author stated. “In chapter one you called her fat, remember?”

“Yes, I seem to recall something along those lines,” he acknowledged. “But recent experience has altered my perceptions. Just trying to get into the spirit of your little romance.”

“Well...” The author was at a loss for words. How do you argue with logic like that?

... He continued to hold her gaze. She felt a light touch against the delicate inside of her wrist. Startled, she looked down at where he had brushed his fingers against her.

"We're not done with this conversation. Not by a long-shot. See you around, Weasley."

Unsettled by his strange behaviour, she whirled round to flee...


“See?” Draco pointed out. “In your story, I seem a little intrigued by her. Of course, she had to run away, which wasn’t much fun at all.”

Ginny closed her eyes, looking completely overwhelmed. “Tell me I don’t just hop into bed with him,” she said dully.

“You don’t just hop into bed with him. You get to fight and humiliate him and be angry and just a little evil,” the author reassured. “In fact, I haven’t decided yet if you’ll sleep with him at all in this story.”

“Really?” Ginny asked. “I get to be all fiery, feisty, bad girl?”

“Yep, sure do.”

“Sweet!” Ginny said. “When do we see the next chapter?”

“Soon, dear. But it’s time to say goodbye to Draco now.”

“Ta, Malfoy!”

... Malfoy leant back against his pillows, watching her lithe figure move quickly towards the door. Her coltish walk drew his gaze to her slim legs. He noted how long they seemed for someone as small as she was. He closed his eyes as the door banged shut, a wolfish smile playing about his lips...

(Pop!)

Draco lay back on the now-empty chaise, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Can’t decide if I like you or hate you,” he mused.

“Don’t feel bad, I feel the same way about you,” the author agreed.

... He chuckled, thinking of a line from one of his favourite works of literature. 'Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire'. Milton sure knew his redheads...

“Who’s Milton?”

“A Muggle; I shouldn’t be surprised you haven’t heard of him,” the author grumbled. “Ignorant prat; I love Milton.”

“Well, I’ll check it out. Nice quote. Might be worth my time.”

“Why, Draco!” the author exclaimed. “There may be hope for you yet.”

He smiled and put a finger to his lips. “Shh, don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

... Reaching over to the bedside table, Malfoy drew his wand. Pointing it at the lamp, Malfoy said a quick Extinguishing Spell and tossed the wand back in the general direction of the table. He readjusted the sheet around him and settled down to sleep. Well, never was one for listening to Mum about dangerous things. Always did try to play with the fire in the drawing room as a child. Thought it would make a pretty pet, if only I could catch it. Those damn burns hurt every time.

"Fire that's closest kept burns most of all."...


“Hey, I know that one!” Draco said, looking up in surprise. “That’s Shakespeare!”

“Very good, grasshopper.”

“I’m thinking I probably shouldn’t ask why you just called me an insect,” Draco said around a yawn.

“No; pop culture cinema references are way beyond you, Draco,” the author agreed.

... When Draco was young and his father was out on business, his mum used to take him into the library and let him pick a book for her to read to him. He would wander the room for many minutes, always very careful to choose one they hadn't already read. This was their special time together, when he could sit on her lap and get lost in a story without worrying if his father thought he was being silly and childish. They would sit and read together for hours, and when he was older, they would take turns reading aloud. One of his mother's favourites was a chap named Shakespeare...

“Now, isn’t that just precious?” Draco said, miming sticking his finger down his throat. “The books in our library fall into two categories: Dark Arts and decorative. And I’m not sure my mother would be able to read either one, anyway. That would strain her eyes and give her wrinkles.”

“Last line, Draco, my sweet little git.”

“Can’t wait to see what’s next,” he laughed.

“You’re liking it so far?” the author asked, surprised.

“Think, lady. I got my brains turned to mush by a nympho redhead because of this. Bring it on,” he laughed.

He picked up the story and quickly read the last lines.

... He may have been a Muggle, but the bloke sure knew his women. Blaise is wrong, there's no way that man could have been a poofter.

(Pop!)

***


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A/N: To be on the safe side, the Milton quote is from 'Paradise Lost' and the Shakespeare quote is from 'iThe Two Gentlemen of Verona'.
To Be Continued.
Mourning Broken Angel is the author of 14 other stories.
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