It happened at breakfast time, when Ron was trying to slip Draco an espresso without Hermione noticing.
“Oh, Ron!” she sighed. “You didn’t buy that. I’m sure it can’t be good for him.”
Draco had, in desperation, raided the dregs of Hermione’s coffee cup. Ron had discovered him, and now Hermione’s life was a campaign to stop Ron spending his last penny to feed his pet’s caffeine obsession.
“Quiet, woman,” ordered Draco, doing his best not to scramble into the cup. “What do you know about it? I like it. It makes me feel good.”
Mmmm, coffee. Life-giver.
“I want a little milk, too,” he said in imperious tones.
Ron lifted the milk carton and Draco fell into his espresso.
On the carton was… himself. Simply himself.
Tall and white-blond, in a formal picture wearing his black dress-robes and with his wand dangling casually from his fingers. His head was flung back and he had a disdainful expression on his face that, in Draco’s opinion, made him look devastating.
Not that this was anything new.
Ron gazed at the picture with dreamy distraction that Draco understood but was extremely disturbed by.
“Malfoy’s still missing,” he said, looking as if he wanted to vomit with glee.
Hermione glanced at the picture. “I thought he was supposed to be in one of the family’s holiday homes?”
“Nah,” Ron waxed expansive in his happiness. “Dumbledore contacted Malfoy’s father, and his dad said he had probably run off to one of their holiday homes. Imagine, he didn’t even bother to check! If it hadn’t been for Snape going ballistic and running a check—bane of my existence that he is—Malfoy would never have been missed.”
Hermione’s nose wrinkled. “You mean—he’s just gone? Really gone? But it’s been nearly three weeks now!”
Ron sighed blissfully. “Best three weeks of my life.”
“But something terrible could have happened to him.”
“Hermione, don’t get my hopes up. The disappointment would crush me.”
Hermione sighed, but to Draco’s outrage did not appear unduly concerned by his own possibly tragic fate.
But then, why should she? he thought. When Father…
He’s very busy, he reminded himself. He always is. Besides, it’s Muggles and vermin like Weasleys who get coddled when they’re brought up. He gets me presents, doesn’t he?
Affection is a poor substitute for material goods. Rule 328 of the Malfoy Code.
And he—spends time with me. Ordering me to join the Voldemort Youth, and all that. Which undoubtedly makes up for the fact that they’re both so cold and self-obsessed they wouldn’t notice if I dropped dead.
Whoo bloody hoo.
“Awww, Fluffikins,” Ron fussed. “Your gorgeous fur is all manky with coffee. Come on, we’ve got to get you a bath.”
Draco snapped out of it.
“You are not bathing me, Ron! No! I mean it! Keep your hands to yourself!”
Hermione ate her egg with callous calm as Ron seized Draco in his merciless grip, and gave him one of his crude and vehement pettings.
Vermin like the Weasleys…
Draco blinked, for some reason.
He was slightly cheered by observing, as Ron carried him off, that Lavender and Parvati had just breakfasted on nutritious cups of milk, bowls of milk and toast made nice and soggy with milk, and were now getting into a bitch fight about who got to have the picture on the empty carton.
He had a suspicion that they were going to paste him inside their lockers.
Ron was carrying a damp and disgruntled Draco back in his shirt when he went crashing into Cho Chang.
“Urgklekuh,” said Ron, which had not been how their conversations started when Ron was practising them with Draco reluctantly cast in the part of Cho.
Cho smiled as if this was a masterstroke of wit.
“Ron! Just the boy I wanted to see.”
“No wonder Ravenclaw sucks at Quidditch,” Draco commented to the air. “Their Seeker needs glasses.”
Ron swept some red hair off his brow, trying desperately to look casual, and poked himself in the eye.
“Arghargh!”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“I… was wondering if you’d like to walk me to class?” Cho inquired delicately, going a little pink.
“Forgotten your way, have you?” Draco asked sweetly. “And they say Ravenclaws are smart.”
“I, uh. Sure. Where is it?” Ron wanted to know.
“With that smooth talk, you must have to beat them off with a broomstick,” Draco commented.
Cho put her little hand on Ron’s large one. Her long black lashes swept her cheek in a way that made Ron swallow and look faint.
“I’ll show you,” she said.
“Down, girl,” Draco put in severely. “The corridor is no place to strip.”
“Uh, I, I… great,” Ron answered. Then the red, excited, embarrassed flush in his cheeks faded. “I—wait. Harry.”
“That’s not her name,” Draco told him.
“Cho—he’s my best friend.”
“Apologise for it later!” Draco howled. “No. You’re not doing this. I will not let you do this. Do you realise that this could be your only chance ever, and then you could… ugh, get all twisted and bitter, and end up dying with me in a room with a rat as your only friend! And that would be funny, except I would be that rat!”
“I need to—” Ron began, looking miserable but determined.
“Kiss her,” Draco ordered.
Ron stiffened, his ears suddenly flaring scarlet. He stopped talking and stared at Cho.
Draco got enthused.
“Smooch the girl. Give her an amateur tonsillectomy. Land her one. Shower her with affectionate salutations, seize her in your arms, waggle her about and say ‘You are my mate, dash it!’ Give her a big wet one! … Huh, innuendo.”
Ron leaned towards Cho, looking as if he was not at all certain this was a good idea, and he expected Cho to shriek and slap him across the face… but looking like he really, really wanted to.
Cho blushed a little and leaned in.
Ron hesitated.
“Oh, just snog the girl already!”
Ron did. There was a small awkward pause, and then Ron’s arms went around the small dark girl and gathered her up towards him.
There was a long, involved pause.
”… can’t breathe… crushed,” said a small voice nobody heard. “… going to bloody die of oxygen deprivation, Weasley, you selfish bastard…”
Cho’s arm slipped around his neck.
”… of course, you might go the same way…” Draco added.
Ron sighed and Cho kissed his jawline.
“Tease,” noted Draco, kiss connoisseur.
Then she moved to his neck.
“Oooh, vixen!”
Which was when another passionate lip-lock ensued.
”… squashed into ratty pulp…” Draco desperately tried to get some air. “… still cute, though… all right, all right, come on now, kids, it’s time for class, can’t miss it, those fascinating Magical Creatures won’t wait around all day. A blasted Blast-Ended Skrewt may be pining for you.”
Draco began to pray for anything which could break these two up.
O’Toole’s Law—Murphy was an optimist.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived—Worse Luck!—came around a corner.
“Ron, you’re going to be…”
“Damn you, O’Toole!” Draco said violently into the emptiness.
Potter stared. Cho and Ron sprang apart. All of them stood looking at each other.
“Bugger me, this is awkward,” Draco remarked cheerfully in the miserable silence.
“Um, Harry,” Ron began wretchedly. “I wasn’t—”
“Kissing her,” Draco explained ingenuously. “She just dropped something—uh, in her mouth, and he was helping her look for it.”
Ron paused and frowned as if he was having bizarre thoughts.
“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” Potter said in a strange, tight voice. “You looked so very busy.”
Then he turned and walked into the Gryffindor entrance, where the Fat Lady had been getting an eyeful.
Ron stared at Cho with a look of horror on his face.
“Oh God, Cho,” he exclaimed. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“Could it be a) raging teen hormones b) you really like her and see her as a special human being or c) a mad rat has you under his evil sway?”
“I guess I just… I really, really like you, but…”
“Wrong answer! You are the Weakest Link! Goodbye!” said Draco, who had been watching too many game shows.
“I—I’m sorry, Ron,” said Cho, turning and fleeing down the corridor.
“Follow the girl, follow the girl,” Draco advised urgently. “You’re not likely to get a snog from Potter… ew, vivid mental picture…”
Ron sighed, squared his shoulders and walked into the Gryffindor room.
O’Toole, you bastard!
With Draco’s luck, Ron would snog Potter.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lurked, was standing in the Gryffindor common room.
“Clearly waiting for you,” Draco sniffed. “Wants a scene.”
“Look, Harry…” Ron began. “I want to apologise—it was an accident—”
“Oh, you tripped and fell on her lips?” Harry inquired coldly. “Maybe you were put under the Imperius Curse by someone anxious to see young things getting it on? Could this be a dastardly plan of Voldemort’s?”
“Could be,” Draco agreed ingenuously. “Could very well be. Or Cho could have slipped him a Mickey Finn.”
“No,” Ron said miserably. “No, look… It’s this way. I really like Cho—”
“Oh, of course,” Harry snapped. “Like you really liked Fleur, and Padma Patil, and Lavendar, and Hermione—”
“Don Juan Weasley,” Draco said, and shuddered. “Never let me think that again.”
“Listen, Harry, just because I haven’t been obsessed for three years doesn’t mean I can’t care about her,” Ron snapped. “Just because you like her doesn’t mean she can never have a relationship.”
“No,” Harry said bitterly. “But I did think that my best friend would keep away from her—would have some kind of consideration for my feelings. Couldn’t you have thought about me?”
“While he was kissing Cho?” Draco inquired. “Nasty concept.”
“Harry… I never intended to hurt you—”
Potter, the Boy Who Whinged, was not paying attention.
“Ron… you have this great family, you have happiness, you have everything. Couldn’t you have left me this one thing?”
“Women aren’t things!” said Ron, who had obviously never read Rule 117 of the Malfoy Code.
Harry’s lips set into a straight line.
“You know, Ron, when Malfoy told me not to mix with the wrong sort of people—maybe he was being smart.”
“No I wasn’t!” Draco yelled. “I was being an arsehole!”
Good Lord, had he really just said that?
“I don’t want to speak to you anymore,” Harry continued coldly.
“When will you want to speak to me?” Ron asked.
“Never,” Harry answered.
“Hmmm…” said Draco. “I don’t know, Ron. Is never good for us?”
“Harry, don’t be thick… we have that match against Slytherin tomorrow…”
Potter’s eyes flashed behind his nerdy little glasses.
“Then I’ll speak to you when I absolutely have to… Beater.”
He turned and ran up the stairs.
Ron leaned his head against the wall.
“Well, that went well,” Draco remarked.
Next day, Draco was too concerned with his own problems to worry about Ron’s.
“Sitting on the Gryffindor side,” he said crossly. “Watching Malcolm bloody Baddock taking my place as Slytherin Seeker. I might as well be a Gryffindor. Pause, marvel, shudder at the concept.”
Hermione had him in her lap and was sitting between Lavender and Parvati. Lavender and Parvati’s touches were frankly becoming a bit intrusive.
“Bubble space, girls,” Draco grumbled. “We Malfoys are used to fawning women, but moderation in all things.”
“Ooody burble goo,” cooed Lavender. “You precious, precious thing.”
“I’m really sorry someone hit a Bludger at your head when you were a child,” Draco snapped, squirming away.
However, he could have done with a bit more attention from Hermione. She was looking terribly faraway. She was clearly concerned about Ron and the Boy Who Lived To Make Things Difficult.
“Hey, Herm, is it true about Ron and Ch—‘ began Parvati, when suddenly a boy came dashing through the stands to Hermione.
He had a camera slung about his neck, and Draco vaguely recognised him. He was a Gryffindor who had recently been made the team photographer. His name was Goblin Greevey, or something.
“Hermione! Hermione!” he shouted. “I’ll take Fluffy. You have to come and do something. It’s all my fault. I mentioned Cho Chang, and now Harry and Ron are fighting! And the match is starting!”
The stands were electrified.
“Oh no,” said Hermione. “Oh no, what shall I do?”
“My Slytherin sneakiness says stall,” Draco suggested. “Buggered if I know how, though.”
“I’ve got to stall,” decided Hermione. “But… I know! Fluffy!”
“What? Me? What?”
Hermione stood up in her seat.
“Accio loudspeaker! Accio radio!”
The items came whizzing towards her, one right out of the hands of a very surprised Millicent Bulstrode, who had taken Lee Jordan’s place as commentator—though Jordan had never talked so much about how Potter looked in his Quidditch robes.
Draco considered her an invaluable weapon for the Slytherin side.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and those on the Slytherin side!” Hermione shouted. “I—uh, before the match, I request you to lend your attention to the performance of—er—the new Gryffindor mascot!”
“You blasted woman!” Draco said with deep conviction.
Now he bloody was on the Gryffindor team.
“He will now dance for us,” declared Hermione.
“Oh, will he? Think again, missy,” Draco told her severely. “I won’t be part of the Gryffindor team, and I certainly won’t be the rodent equivalent of a Gryffindor cheerleader!”
Which was when Hermione switched on the radio, and it began to play one of the Insects’ (or Beetles) songs.
Draco’s very favourites!
“Oh, you fiend of cunning,” Draco groused.
“Lucy in the sky with diamonds…” carolled the radio.
Well, maybe just a few steps… All right, just a flick of the tail… ooooh, listen to the crowds scream!
“Yes! Yes!” said Draco, after his encore with “Hey Jude” and having thoroughly gotten down with his funky rat self. “You love me! You really love me!”
He was vaguely disappointed when the Gryffindor team jogged out at last. Ron, sporting the latest in fashionable cut lips, stopped by the stands to thank Hermione and admire Draco.
“Well, my smart little boy,” he crooned. “Since you’re the Gryffindor mascot now—”
“There’s no need to start calling names,” Draco snapped.
“You should fly with us,” Ron continued, scooping Draco up and placing him in his pocket.
“Ron, no!” said Hermione.
“Ron, you imbecile, I will visit the curse of the Malfoys upon you!” shrieked Draco. “No. You’re not to. I insist upon it. Ron, the penalty I will make you pay will be whispered by demons in the darkness, recorded in Books of Pain… you just put me in your pocket, do you know where I can bite you now? Ron, I’m a tiny rat, if I fall I will splatter on the Quidditch pitch…”
Ron launched off into endless space.
Part of the Gryffindors, Draco thought. Unloved by my family. A rat. Quite definitely about to die. What did I ever do to deserve this?
Well, yes, but apart from all that stuff.
Panic was fading for Draco now. His feet were cold, and Ron’s pocket was decidedly uncomfortable, and the Slytherins were messing up so badly that the score was 20–180 to the Gryffindors, but at least Potter looked miserable and he was getting a black eye.
Mmm, shiny silver lining.
Draco was peeping out his pocket to get another sight of the dejected boy when Ron’s broomstick jolted violently and almost tipped him out.
Panic, Draco’s familiar friend, came rushing back after its quickie cigarette break.
“Bugger! Watch it!”
Ron’s broomstick spun around as Ron’s hand went to clutch at his pocket.
“Both hands on the broomstick or we both die!” Draco shouted, the world tipping over. As it turned, he saw Potter’s face go ashen, and Hermione and camera-boy staring up at Ron with fixed terror.
The broomstick careened downwards and Ron let go of the pocket, grasping the stick to jerk it upwards.
Which was when Draco fell out.
There was a dazed moment when Draco thought, Whee. I’m flying.
Then he realised he was about to become Draco Malfoy, the amazing splatting rat.
Until Ron shouted incoherently, twisted the broom around and smacked onto the ground.
There was a sickening thump.
Draco landed on him, the redhead effectively breaking his fall.
“Ron!” screamed Potter and Hermione in terrified unison.
And Draco, who had never felt scared for anybody in his life before, stared at his pale still face and gasped,
“Is he dead? Oh God, is he dead?”
Potter landed beside Ron so quickly it was a miracle there wasn’t another accident. Draco looked at the boy dazedly and realised Harry was crying.
He wondered in a strange, distracted fashion if he had ever cried for anyone else in his entire life.
“Ron,” sobbed out Potter. “Oh God, Ron, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be dead, I don’t care about Cho, I don’t care about anything…”
Ron’s eyes opened a slit.
Draco felt swamped by relief.
“Look after Fluffy,” he croaked as Madam Pomfrey’s aides came onto the field to pick him up.
“All right, Ron,” said Draco, “clearly you hit your head a bit too hard…”
“Of course, of course,” Harry answered, seizing Draco in his filthy paws. “You’re going to be just fine, Ron…”
That might well be. But Draco, on top of unwelcome rodentdom, on top of being the damned damned Gryffindor mascot, was now in the power of his arch-nemesis.
Draco was not going to be fine.
And once he got his hands on Murphy and O’Toole, those bastards were dead.