Ginny Weasley seemed to have made it her goal to date every male student at Hogwarts. Draco malfoy had never thought about her before, But now she was everywhere he went. He'd dated pansy Parkinson, broken up with her, gotten back together with her. But he was bitter. And it was all because of her.
Some Stupid Prophecy About Me and Voldemort, I'll Avenge You Sirius, and The Countless Others That Have Suffered Because of Voldemort and His Death Eaters, I Promise.'
Ginny Weasley seemed to have made it her goal to date every male student at Hogwarts. Draco malfoy had never thought about her before, But now she was everywhere he went. He'd dated pansy Parkinson, broken up with her, gotten back together with her. But he was bitter. And it was all because of her.
Ginny Weasley seemed to have made it her goal to date every male student at Hogwarts. Draco malfoy had never thought about her before, But now she was everywhere he went. He'd dated pansy Parkinson, broken up with her, gotten back together with her. But he was bitter. And it was all because of her.
Ginny Weasley seemed to have made it her goal to date every male student at Hogwarts. Draco malfoy had never thought about her before, But now she was everywhere he went. He'd dated pansy Parkinson, broken up with her, gotten back together with her. But he was bitter. And it was all because of her.
He
hadn’t
started
out
his
sixth
year
bitter.
Things
had
been
going
fairly
well.
His
father
had
gotten
out
of
Azkaban,
and,
except
for
the
fact
that
he
now
fainted
at
the
least
provocation
and
was
wont
to
address
Draco
as
“Charles”,
seemed
little
worse
for
the
experience.
Draco
was
a
prefect
again,
and,
although
he
was
still
losing
to
Harry
Potter
every
time
they
played
Quidditch,
he
had
found
that
adding
gold
racing
stripes
to
his
Quidditch
ensemble
made
him
look
snazzier
and
softened
the
sting
of
defeat.
He
had
dated
Pansy
Parkinson,
broken
up
with
her,
gotten
back
together
with
her,
and
had
her
break
up
with
him,
which
had
given
the
other
Slytherins
lots
to
gossip
about
and
enhanced
his
playboy
reputation.
And
yet
he
was
bitter.
And
it
was
all
because
of
Ginny
Weasley.
Or
Ginny
bloody
Weasley,
as
he
had
taken
to
thinking
about
her
these
days.
He’d
never
thought
about
her
before,
at
least
not
before
this
term.
She’d
always
been
a
vague
redheaded
blur
hovering
around
behind
Potter.
Just
like
her
brothers,
except
smaller,
maybe
a
bit
curvier,
not
that
he’d
been
looking.
But
this
term,
suddenly,
she
was
everywhere
he
went
—
and
always
with
a
different
boy.
It
wasn’t
just
him.
Everyone
else
had
noticed
as
well
that
Ginny
Weasley
seemed
to
have
made
it
her
goal
to
date
every
male
student
at
Hogwarts.
First
she’d
worked
her
way
through
the
Gryffindors
and
Ravenclaws,
moving
from
Dean
Thomas
to
Seamus
Finnigan
to
Terry
Boot
with
astonishing
speed.
Then
she’d
descended
on
the
Hufflepuffs,
causing
no
end
of
bad
blood
between
the
Houses
and
provoking
a
dramatic
tabletop
library
duel
between
Justin
Finch-‐Fletchley
and
Ernie
McMillan.
Draco
found
all
this
amusing;
pretty
soon,
he
figured,
she’d
get
around
to
him,
and
he
could
have
fun
turning
her
down.
Only
she
didn’t.
She
didn’t
have
anything
against
Slytherins,
either.
He
stood
by
and
watched
as
she
asked
out
Malcolm
Baddock
and
Theodore
Nott.
He
gnawed
his
lip
thoughtfully
as
she
cuddled
in
corridors
with
Dex
Flint.
He
played
with
his
ink
bottle
while
she
snuggled
in
Advanced
Charms
with
Alastair
Higgs.
The
rumors
of
her
affair
with
Millicent
Bulstrode
(who
wasn’t,
admittedly,
a
male
student,
but
was
often
mistaken
for
one
from
a
distance)
did
not
leave
him
unmoved.
It
wasn’t
that
he
cared
what
she
did,
of
course.
It
was
that
he
felt
snubbed.
Rejected.
Overlooked.
After
all,
he
was
the
best-‐looking
boy
in
school.
Also
the
most
charming
and
the
best-‐dressed.
And
yet
she
avoided
him
like
the
plague,
preferring
cross-‐eyed
and
smelly
Desmond
Midgen.
It
was
cruelly
unfair.
It
was
embarrassing.
Draco
seethed.
He
muttered
to
himself.
He
squeezed
his
ink
bottle
in
rage
as
Ginny
sashayed
by,
giggling,
on
the
arm
of
Gregory
Goyle’s
less
intelligent
younger
brother
Geoffrey.
The
ink
bottle
exploded
and
ruined
his
new
suede
jacket.
Draco
was
incensed.
Something
would
have
to
be
done.
He
decided
to
seek
outside
assistance.
It
had
always
seemed
to
Draco
that
Harry
Potter
was
everywhere
he
went,
getting
in
his
way,
clogging
up
traffic
in
the
halls
with
all
the
stupid
people
who
wanted
to
gather
around
him
and
stare
at
his
stupid
scar
and
his
stupid
glasses.
It
appeared,
however,
that
when
one
was
looking
to
have
a
private
conversation
with
him,
he
was
nowhere
to
be
found.
Eventually
Draco
managed
to
find
Hermione
Granger
sitting
by
a
table
in
the
Great
Hall,
absorbed
in
a
gigantic
volume
entitled
Spells
for
Anger
Management.
When
he
asked
her
where
Harry
was,
she
regarded
him
with
dark
suspicion.
“I
don’t
see
what
you
could
possibly
want
to
talk
to
him
about,”
she
said.
“Man
problems,”
Draco
said.
“I
mean,”
he
added
hastily,
“not
problems
with
other
men
per
se,
but
you
know,
problems
of
a
manly
sort.”
“Never
mind.”
Hermione
waved
her
hand
dismissively.
“It’s
your
funeral,
Malfoy.
Last
time
I
saw
Harry
he
was
heading
down
towards
the
lake.
And,”
she
added,
“he
was
in
a
bit
of
a
strop,
too.”
“Oh?
Any
reason?”
Hermione
looked
at
him
with
scorn.
“Well,
he’s
got
a
lot
to
be
upset
about,
doesn’t
he?”
she
snapped.
“I
suppose
so,”
Draco
muttered,
and
headed
down
towards
the
lake.
***
Draco
found
Harry
down
on
the
path
that
led
towards
the
Quidditch
pitch.
He
was
stalking
along
with
a
pack
of
matches
in
one
hand.
With
the
other
hand
he
was
towing
a
dented
steel
canister
attached
to
a
knotted
rope.
“P-‐e-‐t-‐r-‐o-‐l,”
Draco
read
off
the
words
on
the
side
of
the
canister,
bewildered.
“What
the
hell’s
that
when
it’s
at
home?”
“NONE
OF
YOUR
BUSINESS,
MALFOY,”
Harry
bellowed
at
the
top
of
his
lungs.
He
did
appear
to
be,
as
Hermione
had
said,
in
a
bad
temper.
His
black
hair
stood
out
wildly
all
around
his
head
and
his
green
eyes
were
blazing.
“WHAT
DO
YOU
WANT,
ANYWAY?”
“I
want
to
talk
to
you
about
Ginny
Weasley,”
Draco
said.
“I
want
to
know
why
she
hasn’t
asked
me
out
yet.”
“HOW
WOULD
I
KNOW?”
The
canister
had
gotten
jammed
on
a
rock;
Harry
gave
it
a
vicious
tug.
“SHE
HASN’T
ASKED
ME
OUT,
EITHER.”
“Really?”
Draco
tried
to
hide
his
smug
satisfaction
at
this
news,
and
failed.
“I’d
have
thought
she’d
have
asked
you
first.”
“NOT
SO
MUCH
AS
A
BLOODY
POSTCARD,”
Harry
snarled.
“IT
PISSES
ME
RIGHT
OFF,
I
CAN
TELL
YOU.”
He
freed
the
canister
with
a
jerk,
and
it
bounced
across
the
gravel
path.
Draco
jumped
to
avoid
getting
hit
in
the
shin.
“IT
MAKES
ME
SO
ANGRY
—”
“Yes,
but
Ginny,
Draco
interrupted.
“Has
she
ever
said
anything
about
me
to
you,
ever
mentioned
me…?”
“NOBODY
TALKS
TO
ME
THESE
DAYS,”
Harry
screamed.
“I
can’t
imagine
why,”
Draco
muttered.
“Look,
you
whinging,
pie-‐faced
newt,
this
isn’t
about
you,
this
is
about
me.
Why
would
any
girl
go
out
with
every
boy
on
this
campus,
and
yet
neglect
me,
when
I’m
obviously
the
handsomest
bloke
at
this
school
and
in
fact
for
several
surrounding
counties?”
“THINK
A
LOT
OF
YOURSELF,
DON’T
YOU,
MALFOY?
BOY,
DOES
THAT
MAKE
ME
SICK.”
“Does
anything
not
piss
you
off?”
Draco
wondered
aloud.
Harry
paused
and
thought
for
a
moment.
“I
don’t
mind
Hedwig,”
he
said
finally,
in
a
normal
voice.
“She’s
a
good
listener.”
Draco
blinked.
“You’re
barmy,
Potter,”
he
said,
in
a
more
respectful
voice
than
he’d
ever
used
towards
Harry
before.
Harry’s
cheeks
flushed
an
angry
scarlet.
“NOBODY
ASKED
YOU,
MALFOY.
I’M
TIRED
OF
YOUR
FACE.
GINNY
PROBABLY
IS,
TOO.
NO
WONDER
SHE
DOESN’T
WANT
TO
GO
OUT
WITH
YOU.
NOW
SOD
OFF,
BEFORE
I
KICK
YOU
INTO
THE
LAKE.”
Draco
mulled
over
the
possibility
of
shoving
Harry
into
a
mud
puddle,
but
Harry
was
waving
his
box
of
matches
threateningly
and
Draco
didn’t
want
his
hair
singed.
Instead
he
made
a
rude
gesture
at
Harry
and
sloped
off
back
towards
the
castle.
He
was
halfway
up
the
path
when
he
heard
a
soft
*bamf*
noise
behind
him,
and
turned
to
see
that
the
Quidditch
shed
had
gone
up
in
flames
and
was
burning
merrily.
How
odd,
he
thought
to
himself,
before
heading
back
to
the
castle.
***
Draco
stood
in
front
of
the
full-‐length
mirror
in
his
bedroom
and
stroked
his
palms
up
and
down
the
front
of
his
silk
shirt.
He
eyed
his
reflection
thoughtfully.
The
mirror
had
been
a
present
from
his
mother
and
he
occasionally
suspected
it
of
providing
a
biased
viewpoint
as
regarded
his
looks.
“Hallo,
mirror,”
he
purred.
“How
do
I
look?”
“You
look
fabulous,”
the
mirror
gushed.
“There
isn’t
a
man,
woman,
or
talking
portrait
in
this
castle
who
wouldn’t
get
down
on
their
knees
and
thank
Merlin
for
the
opportunity
to
lick
chocolate
sauce
off
your
incomparable
instep.”
Okay,
maybe
it
wasn’t
biased.
“And
my
hair?”
Draco
demanded.
“It
is
a
glorious
golden
nimbus
that
frames
your
angelic
face
and
moonlight
eyes
like
a
halo.”
“Or
pale?”
Draco
set
his
jaw.
“Tell
me
the
truth,
I
can
take
it.”
“Well,”
the
mirror
hedged.
“Maybe
a
little
on
the
pasty
side
—”
“You
lying
piece
of
tin!”
Draco
shouted,
seized
his
tortoiseshell
hairbrush
from
the
nearby
nightstand,
and
hurled
it
at
the
mirror.
The
shattered
mirror
made
an
apologetic
burbling
noise.
Draco
tapped
his
feet
impatiently
for
a
few
moments,
then
stalked
over
and
thrust
aside
the
sheer
floral
voile
curtain
that
separated
his
side
of
the
room
from
Crabbe
and
Goyle’s.
“Goyle,”
he
barked.
“Could
I
borrow
your
bronzer?”
***
It
took
all
morning
and
entire
bottle
of
bronzer
for
Draco
to
achieve
what
he
considered
to
be
a
truly
impressive
hue.
Because
of
this,
Draco
arrived
late
to
Practical
Charms
class,
almost
careening
into
Flitwick
as
he
raced
through
the
door.
A
low
murmur
of
surprise
ran
around
the
room
as
everyone
stared
at
him.
Draco
gazed
back
at
the
stunned-‐looking
class
impassively.
He
had
rolled
up
the
sleeves
on
his
button-‐down
shirt
and
opened
his
collar
so
that
the
maximum
amount
of
his
newly
tanned
flesh
was
visible.
Gently,
he
flexed
a
bicep.
Flitwick
rolled
his
eyes.
“Do
sit
down,
Mister
Malfoy,”
he
said.
As
Draco
edged
towards
the
back
of
the
room,
he
eyed
Ginny,
who
alone
among
her
classmates
was
not
staring
at
him.
She
was
busy
holding
hands
with
Neville
Longbottom,
who
was
licking
her
ear
in
a
dedicated
manner,
like
a
cocker
spaniel
with
a
peanut-‐butter-‐covered
bone.
Nettled,
Draco
paused
directly
in
front
of
her
desk
and
cleared
his
throat
loudly.
Ginny
glanced
up,
and
her
eyes
widened.
“Draco,”
she
breathed.
“You’re
orange.”
Draco
was
stung.
“I
am
not
orange,”
he
said.
“I
am
bronzed.”
“Maybe
you
have
jaundice,”
Ginny
suggested
helpfully.
“Jaundice
turns
your
skin
orange.”
“Actually,
jaundice
turns
your
skin
yellow,”
pointed
out
Neville,
mid-‐lick.
“Better
get
yourself
to
the
infirmary,
Malfoy,
and
find
out
what
you’ve
got.
I
hope
it’s
fatal,”
he
added
thoughtfully.
Draco
ignored
this;
he
was
gazing
mutely
at
Ginny
with
what
he
hoped
was
a
searing
look.
She
appeared
largely
unaffected.
If
there
was
anything
in
her
expression,
it
was
pity.
Draco,
however,
was
not
above
using
pity
to
get
his
own
way.
Perhaps
his
tragic
circumstances
(however
self-‐inflicted)
could
melt
her
heart.
“Look,
Weasley,”
he
began.
“About
this
Hogsmeade
weekend
—”
The
classroom
door
banged
open
with
a
crash,
and
Harry
Potter
half-‐fell
into
the
room.
He
was
staring-‐eyed,
and
his
robes
were
smeared
with
what
looked
like
luminous
yellow
paint.
He
glared
at
Flitwick.
“SO
WHAT
IF
I’M
LATE?”
he
bellowed.
“WHAT
RIGHT
HAVE
ANY
OF
YOU
TO
JUDGE
ME?”
“Potter’s
in
a
strop
again,”
muttered
Draco
wearily.
“Well,
he’s
got
a
lot
to
be
upset
about,”
said
Neville
indignantly.
“Oh,
shut
up,
Longbottom,”
said
Draco.
Unfortunately
he
had
spoken
so
loudly
that
he
had
attracted
Harry’s
attention.
Harry
stared
at
him
in
fury.
“WHY
THE
HELL
IS
MALFOY
ORANGE?”
he
demanded
of
no
one
in
particular.
He
glared
around
at
his
silent
classmates.
“FINE,
DON’T
TELL
ME.
NOBODY
EVER
TELLS
ME
ANYTHING.”
“Mister
Malfoy,”
Flitwick
squeaked.
“Ten
points
from
Slytherin
for
upsetting
Harry
and
coming
to
class
orange.
Now
sit
down.”
***
Draco
was
the
first
one
out
of
the
Charms
classroom,
and
so
was
the
first
student
to
notice
that
someone
had
spray-‐painted
FUCK
THE
DARK
LORD
in
luminous
yellow
lettering
all
up
and
down
the
corridor
outside.
So
taken
aback
was
he
by
this
new
development
that
he
failed
to
notice
Ginny
being
escorted
off
down
the
corridor
by
Dean
Thomas
and
Seamus
Finnigan,
who
appeared
to
be
fighting
over
who
got
to
carry
her
books.
“Corridor
looks
different,”
Ron
Weasley
observed
as
Hermione
hurried
him
towards
Potions.
“Must
have
been
Peeves,”
Hermione
replied
brightly.
“I
do
hope
Dumbledore
gets
out
of
the
infirmary
soon
and
can
deal
with
him;
he’s
been
up
to
all
sorts
of
trouble
lately.
It
really
is
just
too
bad
that
Dumbledore
mistook
that
Exploding
Snazzbomb
for
a
sherbet
lemon…”
Last
out
of
the
classroom
was
Harry,
who
shot
Draco
an
unfriendly
look.
“WHAT
ARE
YOU
MALINGERING
OUT
HERE
FOR,
YOU
GIT?”
he
shouted.
“You
know
you’ve
got
yellow
paint
all
down
your
front,”
Draco
said.
“SO
WHAT?”
Harry
demanded.
“WHAT
ARE
YOU
TRYING
TO
IMPLY,
MALFOY?”
“Oh,
never
mind.”
Draco
did
not
care
enough
to
press
the
point.
“Look,
could
you
pass
along
a
message
to
Ginny
for
me?”
“OVER
MY
DEAD
AND
ROTTING
BODY
WILL
I
BE
DOING
YOU
ANY
FAVORS.”
“Yeah,
great,”
said
Draco.
“Tell
her
I
want
to
talk
to
her
about
this
weekend.
Tell
her
to
pop
by
the
dungeons
after
dinner.
The
password’s
‘Blutsauger.’”
Harry
looked
interested
for
a
moment.
“With
or
without
the
umlaut?”
“I’ve
told
you
enough,
Potter,”
Draco
snapped,
recollecting
himself.
“Tell
Ginny
I’ll
be
in
the
dungeons
when
she
wants
me.”
“THAT
WILL
BE
ON
A
COLD
DAY
IN
HELL,
MALFOY.”
Draco
turned
away,
flicking
a
dismissive
wave
at
Harry
over
his
shoulder.
“Yeah,
whatever
you
say,
you
total
wingnut.”
***
Draco
skipped
both
Potions
and
dinner
as
he
spent
the
evening
in
the
prefects’
bathroom,
scrubbing
off
the
bronzer.
Several
tubfuls
of
orange
water
and
six
Scrub-‐ Away
bars
later,
he
ambled
back
towards
the
Slytherin
common
room,
dressed
only
in
a
low-‐slung
towel
and
his
own
skin,
now
restored
to
its
former
milky-‐complected
glory.
Unfortunately,
his
peaceful
mood
was
rudely
shattered
when
he
opened
the
door
to
the
common
room
to
discover
that
it
was
full
of
drifting
white
objects
that
it
took
him
several
moments
to
realize
were…
feathers?
“Bloody
hell.”
Draco
stared
around
him
in
amazement.
“Looks
like
the
Owlery
blew
up
in
here.
What
happened?”
“Someone
sneaked
in
and
slashed
all
the
sofa
cushions
to
bits
with
a
knife,”
said
Blaise
Zabini,
who
was
perched
on
the
arm
of
a
denuded
armchair.
White
feathers
clustered
in
Blaise’s
curly
dark
hair.
“Goyle
and
Crabbe
are
in
trouble
for
giving
out
the
password.”
“How
does
everyone
know
they
gave
out
the
password?”
Draco
inquired.
“Who
else
would
be
stupid
enough
to
give
out
the
password?”
Blaise
shrugged
philosophically.
“Good
point,”
Draco
said.
A
feather
had
alighted
on
the
tip
of
his
nose;
he
brushed
it
away
impatiently.
“Hey,
has
anyone
come
by
looking
for
me?”
“Nobody’s
come
by
but
Ginny
Weasley.”
Draco
perked
up.
“What,
really,
she
was
here?”
“Yeah,”
Blaise
said
thoughtfully,
“she
asked
me
out
for
next
Hogsmeade
weekend.
Boy,
was
I
floored.
I
didn’t
even
know
she
knew
who
I
was.”
Draco
was
enraged.
“But
you’re
a
girl!”
Blaise
looked
injured.
“I
am
not!”
Draco
looked
more
closely.
Up
close,
he
had
to
admit
that
Blaise
was
indeed
not
a
girl.
If
the
beard
hadn’t
given
it
away,
the
luxurious
moustache
would
have
certainly
torn
it.
“Well,”
Draco
said,
“You
have
a
very
girly
name.”
“You
mean
to
say,”
sputtered
Blaise,
“that
we’ve
been
going
to
school
together
for
six
years
now
and
you
never
knew
if
I
was
a
boy
or
a
girl?”
“I
never
gave
it
any
thought,”
Draco
said
loftily,
and
gave
the
knot
on
his
towel
a
savage
jerk.
“Anyway,
I’m
off
to
bed.
I
hope
you
and
Ginny
Weasley
have
a
miserable
time
in
Hogsmeade,
you
rotten
lesbian
bastard.”
With
which
incoherent
pronouncement,
he
flounced
off
to
his
room,
leaving
Blaise
staring
after
him
in
amazement.
***
Despite
having
performed
a
swift
Reparo
on
his
mirror,
Draco
felt
that
it
was
no
longer
operating
at
its
previous
standard.
Its
tone,
when
replying
to
his
questions,
was
distinctly
resentful.
“So,
mirror,”
he
said,
turning
around
to
admire
the
back
of
his
new
gray
flannel
trousers.
“How
do
I
look?”
“Fabulous,”
said
the
mirror
sulkily.
“You
always
look
fabulous.”
The
mirror’s
indifferent
tone
pained
Draco.
“Yes,
but
do
I
look
distinguished,
different?
Will
I
stand
out
among
all
her
other
admirers?”
The
mirror
fetched
up
a
heavy
sigh.
“Who
are
you
trying
to
impress
again?”
“Ginny
Weasley.”
“Hmm,”
said
the
mirror,
“word
in
the
corridors
is
that
she’s
kind
of
skanky.”
“I
KNOW,”
Draco
wailed.
“She
is
skanky
with
everyone
but
me!
What
have
I
done
wrong?
How
can
I
win
her
cheap
and
sluttish
heart?”
The
mirror
sighed
again.
“Swear
you
aren’t
going
to
throw
another
hairbrush?”
Draco
crossed
his
fingers
behind
his
back.
“I
swear.”
“Try
leather
trousers,”
the
mirror
murmured.
“All
girls
like
leather
trousers.”
“I
haven’t
got
any
bloody
leather
trousers,”
Draco
said,
disgusted.
“You
could
borrow
Millicent’s
chaps
and
Transfigure
them,”
the
mirror
suggested
brightly.
“Millicent
has
chaps?”
“Yes.
Also
a
gimp
mask.”
Draco
was
struck
dumb
with
awe.
“Who’d
have
thought?”
***
Draco
suspected
something
had
gone
slightly
wrong
with
the
Transfiguration
spell
he
had
worked
on
the
chaps,
but
it
was
too
late
to
do
anything
about
it.
They
were
painfully
too
small.
Breathing
was
a
problem,
sitting
down
out
of
the
question.
Draco
hated
everything
about
them,
but
the
mirror
had
waxed
so
enthusiastic
about
the
way
they
looked
from
behind
that
Draco
had
felt
it
was
nothing
less
than
a
moral
imperative
that
he
wear
them.
Due
to
their
constriction
of
his
every
major
blood
vessel,
he
was
forced
to
take
very
small
steps
all
the
way
to
Hogsmeade
and
so
was
the
last
student
to
arrive
at
the
Three
Broomsticks.
It
was
full
of
noise,
laughter,
and
the
sound
of
clanking
tankards.
Draco
glanced
around
wearily,
pushing
sopping
hair
out
of
his
eyes.
The
trousers
were
making
him
sweat.
A
quick
sweep
of
the
room
revealed
no
sign
of
Ginny
or
her
escort.
He
did
however
see
Harry,
stalking
towards
him
from
behind
the
bar.
He
was
zipping
up
his
own
trousers
and
looking
furtive.
“WHAT
ARE
YOU
STARING
AT
ME
FOR,
MALFOY?”
he
demanded.
“I
was
looking
for
Ginny,”
Draco
panted.
The
trousers
were
making
it
difficult
to
breathe.
“Have
you
seen
her
around?”
“I
SAW
HER
IN
THE
BACK
ROOM
SNOGGING
TERRY
BOOT,”
Harry
yelled.
“BOY,
DID
THAT
PISS
ME
RIGHT
OFF.”
“Oh?”
Draco
inquired.
“Why?”
“IT
JUST
DID,
IS
ALL.”
“Hey,”
Draco
said,
recollecting,
“Did
you
slash
up
all
the
sofa
cushions
in
the
Slytherin
common
room
with
a
butcher
knife?”
Harry
looked
more
furtive.
“I
MIGHT
HAVE.”
“Okay,
then,”
said
Draco.
“Just
wondering.”
Shouldering
his
way
past
Harry,
he
limped
towards
the
back
of
the
room,
seeking
the
cool
solace
of
a
shaded
alcove.
He
leaned
against
the
wall
and
pondered
unzipping
for
relief
but
before
he
could
make
a
move
towards
his
belt,
a
familiar
voice
spoke
out
of
the
shadows
beside
him.
“Hi,
Draco,”
said
Ginny.
He
spun
and
saw
that
she
was
sitting
on
the
windowsill
behind
him,
her
wide
dark
eyes
fixed
on
his
face.
Her
red
hair
was
done
up
in
pigtails
with
yellow
ribbons
and
she
looked
unreasonably
pretty.
“What’re
you
doing
back
here
anyway?”
she
asked,
chewing
the
end
of
a
ribbon
in
a
distracting
manner.
“I
could
ask
you
the
same,”
said
Draco.
“Where’s
Blaise?
Or
Terry
Boot,
for
that
matter?”
Ginny
shrugged.
“No
idea,”
she
said.
“Why?”
“No
reason,”
Draco
snarled.
“NO
REASON
AT
ALL.”
Realizing
he
sounded
like
Harry,
he
rallied.
“Would
you
like
me
to
get
you
some
butterbeer?”
Ginny
beamed.
“I’d
love
some.”
Barely
had
Draco
taken
a
step
forward,
however,
when
a
piercing
scream
rent
the
smoky
air.
It
was
Madam
Rosmerta.
“The
butterbeer!”
she
shrieked.
“The
butterbeer
is
tainted!
Everyone
put
down
your
tankards
immediately!”
She
put
a
hand
to
her
impressive
bosom.
“Someone
here
has
urinated
in
the
butterbeer
vat!”
Sounds
of
choking
and
gagging
filled
the
Three
Broomsticks
as
students
spat
their
mouthfuls
of
butterbeer
back
into
their
tankards.
Crabbe
was
downing
his
quickly,
before
it
could
be
snatched
away
from
him.
Some
students
fled
outside
to
be
sick
in
the
snow.
Only
Harry,
quietly
buffing
his
nails
against
his
lapels,
seemed
unmoved.
“I
can’t
believe
someone
peed
in
the
butterbeer,”
Draco
observed,
watching
the
melee.
“Oh,”
said
Ginny,
“it
was
probably
just
Harry.”
Draco
was
so
surprised
to
hear
her
say
this
that
he
sat
down
suddenly.
This
was
a
mistake.
There
was
a
loud
rending
noise
that
could
be
overheard
despite
the
din.
Ginny
bit
her
lip
and
leaned
forward.
“Your
trousers
have
split
all
down
the
back,”
she
whispered
kindly,
“did
you
know?”
***
Back
in
his
bedroom,
Draco
eyed
his
mirror
with
loathing.
“You
told
me
I
looked
good
in
these
trousers,”
he
hissed.
“You
do,”
said
the
mirror.
“Yeah,
well,
they
split
all
down
the
back
when
I
sat
down,”
Draco
snapped.
“It
was
utterly
humiliating.
Ginny
had
to
do
a
Vestitarus
Reparus
spell
on
my
bum.
Very
debonair
that,
very
impressive.”
“Nobody
told
you
to
sit
down,”
the
mirror
said
huffily.
“My
knees
collapsed
with
shock
upon
hearing
that
Harry
Potter
had
peed
in
the
butterbeer
vat,”
Draco
explained.
“Anyone
would
have
been
surprised.”
“I
don’t
see
why,”
said
the
mirror.
“Because
he’s
off
his
rocker!”
Draco
yelled.
“Well,”
said
the
mirror,
“he
has
a
lot
to
be
upset
about.”
It
was
the
last
straw.
With
a
guttural
howl,
Draco
seized
up
his
hairbrush
and
flung
it
at
the
mirror,
which
shattered
with
an
accusatory
squeaking
noise.
***
The
next
day,
Draco
went
in
search
of
more
professional
assistance.
“Professor
Snape,”
he
declared,
presenting
himself
in
Snape’s
office
between
classes,
“I
need
your
help.”
Snape
leaned
back
against
a
wall
full
of
jars
containing
spell-‐frozen
monkey
parts
and
regarded
Draco
through
sensuously
hooded
eyes.
“Yes,
Mister
Malfoy?
What
can
I
do
for
you?”
“I
need
something
that
will
make
me
seem
more
alluring,”
said
Draco.
Snape
had
begun
to
fiddle
with
the
top
buttons
on
his
robe.
He
often
did
this
when
Draco
came
to
his
office
between
classes.
He
claimed
to
be
very
sensitive
to
small
changed
in
temperature,
which
caused
him
to
overheat
easily.
“But
you
are
already
very
alluring,
Mister
Malfoy,”
Snape
murmured.
“That’s
true,”
Draco
admittedly
candidly.
“But
I
need
something
that
will
make
Ginny
Weasley
love
me.”
Snape’s
robes
had
fallen
open
to
his
waist.
He
began
languorously
to
caress
his
tangled
chest
hair.
“Tormented
by
the
pangs
of
love,
young
Draco?”
“I
wouldn’t
say
tormented,”
Draco
hedged.
“More
slightly
harassed.”
“Perhaps
a
spanking
would
take
your
mind
off
your
troubles?”
“No,”
Draco
said
hastily.
“No
more
spankings.”
Snape
looked
disappointed.
“Very
well,
but
you
are
missing
out,”
he
said,
and
reached
behind
himself
to
pluck
a
small
vial
off
the
shelf
over
his
head.
He
handed
it
to
Draco.
“This
is
some
of
my
own
personal
aftershave,”
he
said.
“It
has
never
failed
to
work
wonders
for
me
in
the
romance
department.”
Draco
was
heartened.
“Thank
you,
Professor.”
He
examined
the
vial
more
closely.
It
was
made
of
thin
glass
and
gave
off
a
faint
stench
of
decay.
Snape
eyed
him.
“Do
not
spill
any
of
it,”
he
said.
“Or
I
will
have
to
punish
you.”
Draco
clutched
the
vial
to
his
chest.
“Does
that
mean
another
spanking?”
Snape
leered
coldly.
“Everything
means
another
spanking.”
***
Snape’s
aftershave
smelled
no
more
pleasant
on.
In
Care
of
Magical
Creatures
class,
everyone
kept
edging
away
from
Draco.
Only
Harry
seemed
unmoved
by
the
smell
of
rotting
garbage
that
was
wafting
from
Draco’s
general
area.
Even
Hagrid
looked
as
if
he
were
suffering.
“Where’s
that
smell
coming
from?”
Parvati
whispered
to
Lavender.
“It
reeks
like
a
dead
Niffler.”
Draco
tried
to
look
unconcerned.
Beside
him,
Harry
was
staring
fixedly
at
an
empty
patch
of
grass
a
few
metres
away.
“What
are
you
goggling
at,
Potter?”
Draco
demanded
finally,
knowing
he
would
live
to
regret
having
asked.
“THE
THESTRALS
ARE
GATHERING,”
Harry
intoned
angrily.
“THEY
ARE
DRAWN
BY
INNOCENT
BLOOD.”
“Er,”
said
Hagrid,
“Not
‘xactly,
Harry
—”
He
glanced
around,
confused.
“I
‘adn’t
meant
to
do
thestrals
today.
Usually
they
only
gather
about
when
I’m
shoveling
out
the
rubbish
pits…”
“DOOM,”
said
Harry,
with
some
satisfaction.
Hagrid
was
scratching
his
head.
“They’ve
got
to
be
after
something,
but
what…?”
The
rest
of
the
class
looked
around
nervously.
“Do
thestrals
eat
people?”
worried
Lavender.
“No,”
said
Hagrid.
“Rotting
meat,
mostly…”
“IN
OTHER
WORDS,”
yelled
Harry,
“IT’S
YOUR
FAULT,
MALFOY.”
“It
bloody
well
isn’t,”
Draco
began,
incensed,
but
before
he
could
get
another
word
out
a
massive
invisible
weight
smashed
into
his
chest,
knocking
him
to
the
turf
and
pinning
him
there.
The
great
wet
raspy
tongue
of
a
monstrous
creature
slobbered
its
way
over
his
face
and
neck,
coating
him
in
drool.
“Help
me!”
he
shrieked.
“It’s
trying
to
eat
me!”
“EAT
HIM,”
Harry
bellowed
at
the
thestral.
“HE
IS
A
ROTTEN
RAT
BASTARD
AND
DESERVES
IT.”
“I
hate
you,
Potter!”
Draco
howled.
“You’re
insane!
Nobody
else
has
noticed
it
BUT
I
HAVE!”
“He
shouldn’t
talk
to
Harry
that
way,”
Parvati
whispered
to
Neville,
“Harry’s
got
a
lot
to
be
upset
about,
you
know?”
“Get
it
off
me!”
Draco
shouted,
flailing.
“I
am
being
killed
dead!”
“You’re
not
dying,
you’re
fine,”
said
a
calm
voice
in
Draco’s
ear.
A
moment
later
the
crushing
weight
was
gone,
as
was
the
slobbering
tongue,
and
he
was
staring
up
through
drool-‐blurred
eyes
at
the
pretty
face
of
Ginny
Weasley
hovering
above
him.
“I
Banished
it,”
she
said,
putting
her
wand
away.
“But
you’d
better
get
back
to
the
castle
before
any
more
show
up.”
Draco
was
too
dazed
to
be
polite.
“Harry
Potter
is
completely
psycho,”
he
said.
Ginny
bit
her
lip.
“I
know,”
she
said.
Draco
clutched
madly
at
her
sleeve.
“What
do
you
mean,
you
know?”
“He’s
a
flipping
fruit
loop,”
she
said,
looking
down
at
his
hand.
“I’ve
been
saying
so
for
months.”
A
wave
of
love
swamped
Draco.
He
forgot
about
being
covered
with
thestral
spit,
about
Potter’s
lunacy;
he
forgot
about
the
spanking
that
surely
awaited
him
when
Snape
discovered
that
he
had
fallen
on
the
vial
of
aftershave
and
crushed
it.
He
wanted
to
ask
Ginny
to
the
Yule
Ball,
he
wanted
to
kiss
her
passionately;
he
wanted
to
ask
her
to
marry
him
on
the
spot.
But
when
he
opened
his
mouth,
all
that
came
out
was
a
peevish-‐sounding
question:
“What
are
you
doing
here
anyway,
Weasley?
You
don’t
have
Magical
Creatures
with
us.”
“I
know,”
Ginny
said.
“I
just
came
by
to
pick
up
Crabbe
and
Goyle
for
our
date
after
class.”
Draco
stared.
“I’m
sorry,
I
think
I
heard
you
wrong.
I
thought
you
said
Crabbe
and
Goyle.”
“I
couldn’t
choose
between
them,”
Ginny
giggled.
“So
I
decided
to
go
out
with
them
both!”
Draco
gazed
at
her.
“You
should
have
let
that
thestral
eat
me,”
he
said
hoarsely.
Ginny
patted
him
lightly
on
the
shoulder.
“See
you
later,
Draco!”
she
chirped,
and
skipped
away.
Draco
stared
blearily
up
at
the
sky,
too
depressed
to
move.
After
a
few
minutes,
another
shadow
blotted
out
the
sun.
It
was
Harry,
gazing
down
upon
him
with
great
satisfaction.
“SUCKS
TO
BE
YOU,
MALFOY,”
he
said.
Draco
could
not
help
but
feel
that
he
had
a
point.
***
Draco
spent
much
of
the
next
two
weeks
moping
in
bed,
eating
chocolate
mice
and
feeling
bitterly
sorry
for
himself.
Despite
the
fact
that
the
Yule
Ball
was
coming
up
and
Pansy
had
strongly
hinted
that
she
was
hoping
for
an
invitation,
Draco
had
not
had
the
heart
to
extend
one.
If
he
could
not
go
with
Ginny
he
did
not
want
to
go
with
anyone.
He
was
plagued
by
frequent
nightmares
in
which
he
showed
up
to
the
Yule
Ball
looking
dashing
only
to
discover
that
Ginny
was
already
there,
dancing
passionately
with
Snape,
Mad-‐Eye
Moody,
or
the
Patil
twins.
On
one
memorable
night
he
dreamed
that
she
had
gone
to
the
Yule
Ball
with
the
entirety
of
the
Ravenclaw
Quidditch
team
who
were
taking
turns
dropping
the
Snitch
down
the
front
of
her
dress.
The
next
day
he
wrote
his
father
a
letter
saying
he
was
in
love
with
Ginny
Weasley
in
hopes
of
picking
a
fight.
Unfortunately
the
antidepressants
Lucius
had
been
on
ever
since
the
Azkaban
episode
had
muddled
his
memories
somewhat,
and
it
was
evident
from
the
letter
he
sent
in
return
that
he
had
mixed
up
Ginny
Weasley
with
her
brother
George.
Oddly
enough
Lucius
still
seemed
not
to
mind
very
much.
Draco
sent
Crabbe
and
Goyle
off
to
find
out
who
Ginny
was
in
fact
going
to
the
Yule
Ball
with
but
they
returned
without
any
information.
They
seemed
to
have
enjoyed
their
date
with
her
but
would
not
say
much
about
it
beyond
the
fact
that
Ginny
was
surprisingly
good
at
darts.
The
day
of
the
Yule
Ball
dawned
bright
and
clear,
and
found
Draco
still
in
bed,
sucking
on
a
blood-‐flavored
lollipop
and
ignoring
Crabbe
and
Goyle
as
they
primped
for
the
festivities.
They
offered
to
bring
him
back
some
cake
from
the
Great
Hall,
but
he
merely
snarled
at
them.
He
soon
had
cause
to
regret
this.
The
pain
of
his
broken
heart
faded
into
insignificance
as
they
were
overtaken
by
pangs
of
hunger.
He
had
eaten
nothing
but
chocolate
mice
for
days
and
was
beginning
to
feel
decidedly
lightheaded.
Telling
himself
he’d
just
pop
into
the
Great
Hall
long
enough
to
nick
some
biscuits,
he
clambered
out
of
bed,
threw
on
jeans
and
an
old
sweater,
shoved
his
feet
into
carpet
slippers,
and
shuffled
off
towards
the
Ball.
As
always
at
Christmas,
the
entryway
to
the
Great
Hall
was
full
of
sparkling
crystal
icicles,
singing
bronze
ornaments,
musical
suits
of
armor,
and
colorful
floating
green
and
red
ribbons.
Draco
noticed
Harry
standing
on
one
of
the
tables
near
the
double
doors
to
the
Hall.
He
was
busy
laying
into
an
ice
sculpture
of
two
swans
with
a
mallet.
Draco
rolled
his
eyes.
Once
inside
the
Great
Hall
he
made
a
beeline
for
the
banquet
table,
keeping
his
head
down.
This
method
turned
out
to
be
counterproductive
as
halfway
to
the
table
he
crashed
directly
into
someone
—
a
redheaded
someone
in
floating
blue
robes.
“Ouch!”
said
Ginny
Weasley.
Draco
blinked
at
her.
“You,”
he
said.
She
raised
an
eyebrow
at
him.
“You
look
terrible.”
“I
know,”
Draco
said,
with
some
satisfaction,
and
transferred
his
gaze
from
Ginny
to
her
dancing
partner,
who,
Draco
realized,
with
a
glum
shock
to
the
pit
of
his
stomach,
was
her
brother,
Ron,
wearing
peacock-‐green
robes
and
looking
down
his
large
nose
at
Draco.
“Bugger
off,
Malfoy,”
Ron
suggested.
Draco
pointed
a
trembling
finger
at
both
of
them.
“Now,”
he
declared.
“Now
you
have
gone
too
far!”
They
both
looked
surprised.
“What
are
you
talking
about?”
Ginny
asked,
detaching
herself
from
Ron.
“You!
And
him!”
Draco
jabbed
his
finger
at
Ron,
struggling
for
coherence.
“It
was
bad
enough
when
you
went
out
with
everyone
in
Gryffindor.
Fine,
I
could
have
expected
that.
Then
you
moved
on
the
Ravenclaw.
Then
you
dated
all
the
Hufflepuffs!
HUFFLEPUFFS!
Who
dates
them?
And
then,
to
add
insult
to
injury,
you
went
after
everyone
in
my
House!
Blaise!
Malcolm!
Crabbe
and
Goyle!
They
can’t
even
spell
‘date’!
They
think
it’s
a
dried
Mediterranean
fruit!”
Ginny
was
staring
at
him.
“I
don’t
see
what
this
has
to
do
with…”
“What
about
ME?”
Draco
screamed
at
the
top
of
his
lungs.
He
was
well
aware
he
was
making
a
scene,
but
didn’t
care.
“Is
there
something
wrong
with
me?
Am
I
too
tall?
Too
short?
Too
fat?
Too
thin?
Too
unbelievably
hot?
Too
much
hair?
Not
enough
hair?
I
mean,
what
is
wrong
with
me
exactly?”
“Well,”
Ginny
said,
“I
mean,
I
haven’t
asked
out
Harry,
either.”
“Yeah,
but
he’s
demented.”
“Hey!”
Ron
said
indignantly.
“He’s
got
a
lot
to
be
—”
“Stow
it,
Weasley!”
Draco
turned
on
him.
“And
you,
you
pervert,
going
after
your
own
sister,
you
should
be
ashamed,
just
because
she
obviously
has
some
kind
of
problem
controlling
herself
doesn’t
mean
you
should
—”
“I
do
not
have
a
problem
controlling
myself!”
Ginny
snapped.
“I
am
not
a
pervert!”
protested
Ron.
“Yeah,
sure,
Weasley,”
Draco
sneered,
“tell
me
you
weren’t
hoping
to
get
any
action
tonight.”
Ginny
put
her
hands
on
her
hips.
“Draco,
don’t
be
stupid.”
“Yeah,”
Ron
said,
flushing
a
sickly
violet,
“what
a
ridiculous
suggestion…now
if
you’ll
excuse
me
I
have
to
go
return
a
room
key
to
Madam
Rosmerta
at
the
Three
Broomsticks…”
Ron
sidled
away.
Draco
looked
back
at
Ginny.
His
temper
was
starting
to
fade.
From
the
look
on
her
face,
though,
hers
was
just
beginning
to
rise.
“Draco
Malfoy,”
she
snapped,
“you
want
to
know
why
I
didn’t
ask
you
out?
Because
you’re
an
idiot.
A
complete
utter,
and
total
idiot.
There
is
no
boy
at
this
school,
not
one,
who
is
as
big
an
idiot
as
you.”
Draco’s
heart
sank,
but
he
didn’t
show
it.
He
raised
his
chin
and
glared
back
at
her.
“Fine,”
he
said.
“I
hope
you
and
your
brother
will
be
very
happy
together,”
and
with
that,
he
stalked
out
of
the
Great
Hall,
pausing
only
to
swipe
a
chocolate
custard
off
one
of
the
banquet
tables
as
he
passed.
***
The
entry
hall
was
quite
deserted.
There
was
no
sign
even
of
Harry,
or
his
mallet,
although
the
floor
was
covered
with
shards
of
broken
ice.
Muttering
under
his
breath,
Draco
kicked
his
way
through
the
ice
and
out
onto
one
of
the
balconies.
It
was
a
frosty,
moonlight
night
and
he
had
a
beautiful
view
out
over
the
grounds.
In
the
distance,
down
by
Hagrid’s
hut,
he
could
see
a
small
dark
figure
darting
back
and
forth.
“Raisins,”
Draco
said
darkly,
poking
at
his
custard,
“I
hate
raisins.”
“I
wouldn’t
eat
that
anyway,
you
know,”
said
Ginny,
appearing
suddenly
on
the
balcony
beside
him.
“Fred
and
George
catered
the
party
—
there’s
no
telling
what
it’ll
do
to
you.”
Draco
lowered
his
custard.
“Like
you
care,”
he
said
ungraciously.
Ginny
sighed,
and
tossed
back
one
of
her
braids.
“Look,”
she
began.
“Are
you
going
to
apologize
for
calling
me
an
idiot?”
“No,”
she
said.
Draco
thought
about
this.
“Why
not?”
“Because
you
are
an
idiot,”
Ginny
said.
“If
you
weren’t
one,
you
would
be
able
to
figure
out
on
your
own
why
I’ve
never
asked
you
out.”
“Oh.”
Draco
felt
he
was
not
coming
off
at
his
best
in
this
conversation,
but
had
no
idea
what
to
say.
“Because
you
hate
me,
I
suppose?”
“No,”
Ginny
said.
“Because
I
like
you.
I
really,
really
like
you.
I
could
ask
all
those
other
boys
out
because
it
didn’t
mean
anything,
and
I
thought
maybe
if
I
could
like
one
of
them,
I
could
forget
about
you.
But
it
didn’t
work,
and
I
couldn’t
ask
you.
I
was
too
shy.”
“Too
SHY?”
Draco
was
incredulous.
“You
snogged
Terry
Boot
in
the
back
of
the
Three
Broomsticks
and
you
were
too
shy?
You
fooled
around
with
Dennis
AND
Colin
Creevey
on
the
Quidditch
pitch
DURING
a
game
and
you
were
too
shy?
You
did
a
striptease
dance
for
Millicent
Bulstrode
under
the
third
floor
staircase
and
you
were
too
shy?”
Ginny
shrugged.
“I
was
shy,”
she
said.
“But
you
like
me,”
Draco
said,
focusing
at
last
on
what
was
important.
“Yeah,”
Ginny
said.
“I
do.”
“Ah,”
said
Draco,
and
preened.
This
was
the
good
bit.
“Why,
exactly,
do
you
like
me?”
Ginny
shrugged
again.
“Well,”
she
said,
“you
seem
so
conceited
and
so
superior,
like
you
know
just
how
good-‐looking
you
are,
and
how
cool
you
are…”
“Yes,
yes,”
Draco
said,
edging
closer
to
her,
“pray
continue.”
“…
But,”
Ginny
went
on
blithely,
“really,
you’re
just
completely
goofy,
and
sort
of
dorky
and
insecure,
and
you
have
no
idea
how
to
apply
bronzer,
and
while
I
was
watching
you
writhe
around
under
that
thestral,
all
covered
in
drool
—”
Draco
was
appalled.
“Silence,
woman!”
he
cried.
“—
and
completely
helpless,
I
just
couldn’t
help
thinking
that
you
needed
rescuing
—”
“Oh,
be
quiet,”
Draco
wailed
in
an
excess
of
frustration,
seized
hold
of
Ginny
and
kissed
her
—
just,
he
told
himself
to
shut
her
up,
of
course.
Normally
he
would
never
kiss
someone
who
had
just
insulted
him
so.
Even
someone
who
curled
up
so
nicely
in
his
arms
when
he
kissed
them,
who
wrapped
her
hands
around
his
neck
and
had
soft
lips
that
tasted
faintly
of
mulled
cider
and
who
murmured
his
name
in
a
manner
that
suggested
that
perhaps
she
didn’t
think
he
was
quite
such
a
hopeless
case
after
all.
“WELL
IF
THIS
ISN’T
JUST
THE
LAST
STRAW!”
came
a
furious
voice,
and
Draco
broke
away
from
Ginny
to
see
Harry
clambering
down
over
the
side
of
the
balcony.
His
robes
were
open
and
he
looked
oddly
bulky.
He
was
glaring
at
Ginny.
“KISSING
DRACO
MALFOY,
YOU
SHOULD
KNOW
BETTER.
WAIT
TILL
RON
HEARS
ABOUT
THIS.”
Ginny
was
still
holding
Draco’s
hand.
“Harry,
what
on
earth
is
that
you’re
wearing?”
Harry
glanced
down
at
himself.
Under
his
robes
he
appeared
to
be
wearing
a
complicated
array
of
colored
sticks
tied
around
his
waist.
“DYNAMITE,”
he
said,
with
dark
satisfaction.
“I
AM
GOING
TO
BLOW
UP
THE
SCHOOL.”
Ginny
looked
agitated.
“Why?”
“BECAUSE
I’M
VERY
ANGRY,”
Harry
said,
“I
SHOULD
THINK
THAT
WOULD
BE
OBVIOUS.”
“That
it
is,”
said
Draco.
“Well,
cheers,
Potter.
Good
luck
and
all
that.
School
needs
a
bit
of
blowing
up.”
He
held
out
his
hand.
“Here,
have
a
custard.”
“RAISINS,”
Harry
said,
taking
the
custard,
“I
HATE
RAISINS.”
He
stalked
off
the
balcony.
A
moment
later
there
was
a
loud
popping
noise,
and
a
few
feathers
drifted
out
onto
the
balcony.
Draco
leaned
just
far
enough
away
from
Ginny
to
peer
through
the
door.
“Excellent,”
he
reported.
“He’s
turned
into
a
pelican.”
Ginny
looked
concerned.
“Let’s
hope
it
lasts
long
enough
for
us
to
get
the
dynamite
off
him,”
she
said.
Draco
cast
his
eyes
heavenward.
“Just
the
way
I
wanted
to
spend
the
evening,
picking
explosives
off
a
pelican
that
used
to
be
Potter.”
Ginny
squeezed
his
hand.
“Tell
you
what,”
she
said.
“After
we’re
done,
we
can
head
over
to
the
third
floor
stairwell
and
I’ll
show
you
the
striptease
I
did
for
Millicent.”
“I
haven’t
got
a
gimp
mask,”
Draco
warned
her.
“I’ll
make
do,”
said
Ginny.
“Only
—
don’t
be
too
angry
at
Harry,
all
right?
I
mean,
he
just
needs
a
little
therapy
and
possibly
some,
er,
prescription
drugs,
and
he’ll
be
all
right.
I
think.”
“I’m
not
angry,”
Draco
said,
and
bent
to
kiss
her
again.
She
wound
her
arm
around
his
neck
and
he
smiled
at
her
in
the
dark.
“After
all
—
he’s
got
a
lot
to
be
upset
about,
doesn’t
he?”
Some Stupid Prophecy About Me and Voldemort, I'll Avenge You Sirius, and The Countless Others That Have Suffered Because of Voldemort and His Death Eaters, I Promise.'