If there was any justice in the world, Rubeus Hagrid would have been killed by the Basilisk in some misguided effort to clear his monstrous pet’s name. Or perhaps shoved in Azkaban on charges of excessive hugeness and stupidity. Bloody plebeian oversized mongrel. If it hadn’t been for that great hairy git, Draco Malfoy would have been reaping the benefits of the deliciously private Head Boy’s room and Pansy Parkinson’s older sister’s hen’s night over the summer – a whole gaggle of girls had gone out to a pole dancing class, and Draco was very interested to see what she and Daphne had learned. But alas, such debauched delights were not to be enjoyed for an indefinite period of time. Draco had been roped into helping out the school nurse after the half-giant (his other half obviously being moron, in Draco’s considered opinion) had borne witness to his significant talent for healing magic after the brute’s latest class topic, the Graphorn, had ravaged Draco’s previously pristine ivory arm. The privilege of being Head Boy apparently came with specific obligation, and Draco had found himself unable to beg, bully, cajole, argue or bat his eyelashes out of this particular obligation. Damned upstart half-breed oaf with no taste in suits.
Draco was sure it wouldn’t have been quite so bad if Nott hadn’t turned out to be some kind of black horse, star Chaser. The once retiring bookworm had been seen flying on his own one evening while Zabini had been taking some unsuspecting fifth year Ravenclaw for a moonlit stroll. Her chastity would have vexed him any other night, had he not stumbled upon Nott’s, and soon to be the Slytherin Quidditch team’s, best kept secret. He’d mercifully put the painful so-called “date” out of its misery and set off to inform his Quidditch Captain.
Which brought Draco back to the direness of his current predicament. Nott’s talent wasn’t without a touch of aggression, and the little Weasley bint had managed to get herself between Theo and the Quaffle one time too many. She’d been knocked bodily from her laughable Comet Two-Sixty by an enraged Theo, and though the resulting penalty shot from the foul aided in yet another Gryffindor victory, the little bint had been put out of action by Theo’s hit. She’d dropped like a stone, more of a pebble really, Draco thought, she was such a small thing, after all, and the bones in her left arm and leg had been snapped like dry spaghetti. Add to this a cracked rib or three, and Draco’s enforced “volunteer” work in the Hospital Wing was marred by the girl’s stay, “a week long at least, Mr. Malfoy, and do try not to be so insensitive when the poor mite wakes.”
Draco felt glaring daggers at an unconscious, heavily bandaged, undersized Gryffindor was quite justified, considering her presence upset his usual routine of cataloguing the potions store and generally standing around practicing his nonchalant pose. He simply couldn’t risk being caught practicing his favourite suave lines on bottles of Dr. Ubbly’s Oblivious Unction when she might wake up at any time. In fact, it was the bottles of potions that had Draco most perturbed. In a moment of what Draco was sure was early-onset Alzheimer’s, Pomfrey had forgotten to order more Skele-gro. Considering Snape’s prodigious potions prestige, this normally wouldn’t have been a problem, but for the fact that the company that produced Skele-gro, Magisoft, were big fans of Muggle copyright laws, so that home-brewing was simply not an option. So Draco was forced to endure not only the presence of the little red-haired twit, but her complaints, however occasional they might be.
And yet, it seemed Draco’s divine punishment for some unknown crime (his former illustrious career as a bigoted bully conveniently forgotten) never ended. Being as he was compelled to spend extra time in the Hospital Wing, Dumbledore had conveniently decided he could “help poor Miss Weasley with her homework.”
Great. So now he’d have to tutor the ridiculously undersized brat as well.
“No time like the present,” he muttered to himself as she began to stir.
Draco forgot his grumbling for a moment as he began to stare. The top button of the girl’s flannel pyjamas had conveniently come undone, offering Draco a flash of creamy rounded flesh before she regained full consciousness and he spun around to avoid being caught peeking.
Who knew Weasley was that well endowed? I’ll have to bump into her on the Quidditch Pitch more often. Or against a wall, or a desk, or in the most private reaches of the Restricted Section… His internal monologue could have continued for several minutes, cataloguing the various places around the castle where bumping into the curvy redhead would be most enjoyable, but an incredulous voice jolted him out of his particularly pleasurable reverie.
“Malfoy?” He decided her voice wasn’t nearly so grating when it was suddenly breathy like that.
“What are you doing in here? Can I see Charlie?”
He was about to offer a scathing retort when he realised she wasn’t asking after some besotted boyfriend, but rather one of the fraternal sextet.
“Charles graduated before you even started here, Weasley. Why, pray tell, would you ask for him?” He made an admirable effort to keep the sneer out of his voice, lest Madame Pomfrey appear round the corner.
“Because he’s the one I miss the most,” she whispered. “Can you find Ron?” she implored, before settling into a light doze.
Silly bird must have been hit harder than I thought, if she expects me to go and fetch Oaf number six, he mused. Nevertheless something about the tiny voice and big brown eyes were affecting him more than he’d rather admit, and so he slipped off to the library, where he assumed any friend of Granger’s would be sequestered for a portion of every evening.
Sure enough, he came upon a table full of Gryffindors: Finnigan, Granger, Potter, the resident idiot Longbottom, and penultimate Weasley.
“Stop glaring, Ronald, it’s terribly infantile. How can we help you, Draco?” The brunette had made an annoying habit of insisting they use first names ever since they’d been made Head Boy and Girl at the start of term.
“Actually, I’m here helping someone, shocking as it may seem. Your sister’s awake. Do try not to startle her.” He turned on his heel and was walking away when Ron gulped audibly, “Thanks, Malfoy.”
“Oh, no thanks required, Ronald. Just doing my job as Head Boy.” Draco couldn’t resist the urge to rub his office in Weasley’s face, even if a seldom listened-to voice in the back of his head told him getting on this Weasley’s good side would make it considerably easier to see the other Weasley’s wild side. Or backside. Or any side angle without clothes on, really, Draco wasn’t terribly fussed. Perhaps being a virile seventeen-year-old male had a few drawbacks after all, it was certainly affecting his impeccably high standards. No Malfoy should settle for anything less than hard core nudity, he told himself firmly, before setting off back to Purgatory, or the Infirmary, depending on how one looked at things.
Draco was sure it wouldn’t have been quite so bad if Nott hadn’t turned out to be some kind of black horse, star Chaser. The once retiring bookworm had been seen flying on his own one evening while Zabini had been taking some unsuspecting fifth year Ravenclaw for a moonlit stroll. Her chastity would have vexed him any other night, had he not stumbled upon Nott’s, and soon to be the Slytherin Quidditch team’s, best kept secret. He’d mercifully put the painful so-called “date” out of its misery and set off to inform his Quidditch Captain.
Which brought Draco back to the direness of his current predicament. Nott’s talent wasn’t without a touch of aggression, and the little Weasley bint had managed to get herself between Theo and the Quaffle one time too many. She’d been knocked bodily from her laughable Comet Two-Sixty by an enraged Theo, and though the resulting penalty shot from the foul aided in yet another Gryffindor victory, the little bint had been put out of action by Theo’s hit. She’d dropped like a stone, more of a pebble really, Draco thought, she was such a small thing, after all, and the bones in her left arm and leg had been snapped like dry spaghetti. Add to this a cracked rib or three, and Draco’s enforced “volunteer” work in the Hospital Wing was marred by the girl’s stay, “a week long at least, Mr. Malfoy, and do try not to be so insensitive when the poor mite wakes.”
Draco felt glaring daggers at an unconscious, heavily bandaged, undersized Gryffindor was quite justified, considering her presence upset his usual routine of cataloguing the potions store and generally standing around practicing his nonchalant pose. He simply couldn’t risk being caught practicing his favourite suave lines on bottles of Dr. Ubbly’s Oblivious Unction when she might wake up at any time. In fact, it was the bottles of potions that had Draco most perturbed. In a moment of what Draco was sure was early-onset Alzheimer’s, Pomfrey had forgotten to order more Skele-gro. Considering Snape’s prodigious potions prestige, this normally wouldn’t have been a problem, but for the fact that the company that produced Skele-gro, Magisoft, were big fans of Muggle copyright laws, so that home-brewing was simply not an option. So Draco was forced to endure not only the presence of the little red-haired twit, but her complaints, however occasional they might be.
And yet, it seemed Draco’s divine punishment for some unknown crime (his former illustrious career as a bigoted bully conveniently forgotten) never ended. Being as he was compelled to spend extra time in the Hospital Wing, Dumbledore had conveniently decided he could “help poor Miss Weasley with her homework.”
Great. So now he’d have to tutor the ridiculously undersized brat as well.
“No time like the present,” he muttered to himself as she began to stir.
Draco forgot his grumbling for a moment as he began to stare. The top button of the girl’s flannel pyjamas had conveniently come undone, offering Draco a flash of creamy rounded flesh before she regained full consciousness and he spun around to avoid being caught peeking.
Who knew Weasley was that well endowed? I’ll have to bump into her on the Quidditch Pitch more often. Or against a wall, or a desk, or in the most private reaches of the Restricted Section… His internal monologue could have continued for several minutes, cataloguing the various places around the castle where bumping into the curvy redhead would be most enjoyable, but an incredulous voice jolted him out of his particularly pleasurable reverie.
“Malfoy?” He decided her voice wasn’t nearly so grating when it was suddenly breathy like that.
“What are you doing in here? Can I see Charlie?”
He was about to offer a scathing retort when he realised she wasn’t asking after some besotted boyfriend, but rather one of the fraternal sextet.
“Charles graduated before you even started here, Weasley. Why, pray tell, would you ask for him?” He made an admirable effort to keep the sneer out of his voice, lest Madame Pomfrey appear round the corner.
“Because he’s the one I miss the most,” she whispered. “Can you find Ron?” she implored, before settling into a light doze.
Silly bird must have been hit harder than I thought, if she expects me to go and fetch Oaf number six, he mused. Nevertheless something about the tiny voice and big brown eyes were affecting him more than he’d rather admit, and so he slipped off to the library, where he assumed any friend of Granger’s would be sequestered for a portion of every evening.
Sure enough, he came upon a table full of Gryffindors: Finnigan, Granger, Potter, the resident idiot Longbottom, and penultimate Weasley.
“Stop glaring, Ronald, it’s terribly infantile. How can we help you, Draco?” The brunette had made an annoying habit of insisting they use first names ever since they’d been made Head Boy and Girl at the start of term.
“Actually, I’m here helping someone, shocking as it may seem. Your sister’s awake. Do try not to startle her.” He turned on his heel and was walking away when Ron gulped audibly, “Thanks, Malfoy.”
“Oh, no thanks required, Ronald. Just doing my job as Head Boy.” Draco couldn’t resist the urge to rub his office in Weasley’s face, even if a seldom listened-to voice in the back of his head told him getting on this Weasley’s good side would make it considerably easier to see the other Weasley’s wild side. Or backside. Or any side angle without clothes on, really, Draco wasn’t terribly fussed. Perhaps being a virile seventeen-year-old male had a few drawbacks after all, it was certainly affecting his impeccably high standards. No Malfoy should settle for anything less than hard core nudity, he told himself firmly, before setting off back to Purgatory, or the Infirmary, depending on how one looked at things.
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