Squeak

"Squeak."

"Aww... what a cutie!" the third-year girl cooed. "I wonder who owns you," said Catherine Bloomside as she stooped to pet the ferret that had scampered down from the boys' dormitory steps in the Gryffindor tower.

Wary of the girl's intentions, or perhaps said ferret just did not like being pet at, the sleek white gold-furred form dodged her hand and the hand of her friend, who had also knelt to better look at the animal and touch its shiny coat.

"I thought we were only allowed to bring cats, owls, and toads," the friend, Anne Ruthslow, puzzled aloud.

"Oh, who cares, Annie? It's such an adorable little thing." She tried again to approach the blond rodent, but it backed away again with an indignant-sounding squeak, looking decidedly affronted by being called as such.

Anne, who had caught on a little faster than her ever-persistent friend that it would do well not to touch the ferret, noted to Catherine, "It doesn't have a collar. Maybe it doesn't have an owner."

Looking to the side at her fellow third-year, the girl hopefully asked with wide pleading eyes, "Do you think we could keep it in our room?"

But the question was for naught, as, in the brief moment Catherine took her light-brown eyes off the furry animal, it had fled along the wall, as far away from the girls as possible, and out the portrait hole. Neither of the two could figure out just how a creature just over a foot long got over the two-feet high bottom of the entrance, nor how it opened the heavy painting covering it.

~*~

"Squeak."

The next day, Catherine and Anne spotted the ferret coming down the very same stairs, and Catherine, once again, tried to catch it, with the same (lack-of) result as yesterday. Some other Gryffindors caught sight of it, but did nothing more than comment on how cute it was (the girls, that is). And it was back the next day, and the next.

Pretty soon, it became a consistent spectacle and people began to set their watches by its appearance.

On the next Saturday after, the white ferret came down the stairs once more, but this time, it was being carried in the arms of none other than Harry Potter, now a seventh-year and Twice Defeater of the Dark Lord. The mystery was solved, Harry owned the rodent, but...

"Since when did you own a ferret, Harry?" Ron asked inquiringly from his perch on the arm Hermione's squashy sofa chair.

The two had been dating for quite a while now and as any fool could see, they were both very much enamoured with the other, if not evident by the moon-eyed looks they sent each other whenever in the same room, then at least by Ron's obvious reluctance to leave his girlfriend's side, even though she was working through her monstrously large mountain of homework. It was something that was endearingly annoying to the bushy-haired Head Girl and annoyingly endearing to everyone else.

Rodent teeth sank into the sleeve of Harry's robes, gnawing and pulling on the material. Harry looked down fondly at the bundle he cradled. "I wouldn't exactly call it owning him, and if you must know, it's been several months, actually. I'm surprised you haven't noticed, I mean --" Here, Hermione gave a light scoff and muttered something under her breath that sounded like 'I'm not' "-- he's been in our room loads of times."

Alarmed at the news, Ron tore his gaze from the frizzy head bent over a piece of parchment and stared at Harry in growing horror. "You didn't let the bugger under my bed, did you?"

The ferret growled, offended by the name-calling, and gave up chewing on Harry's robes in favour of adopting a sulky expression on his furry face and burrowing deeper into the crook of his owner's elbow. Harry laughed at Ron and reassured him, "Don't worry, Ron, he didn't get to your Playwi-" Oops. "Er... playbook collection," he hastily amended, "your Quidditch playbook collection," and shot an apologetic look at Ron. "I'm going to sit with the first-years now. Er, bye!"

In a sudden dash, he bolted, not wanting to be close-by when Hermione got worked up. He'd rather have the firsties mob him and his rodent friend than sit through another rant that he'd partially provoked.

He was not five steps away when he heard from behind him, and rather volubly, Hermione hiss out slowly, "What collection, Ronald Weasley?"

Finally safely ensconced in a ring of first-years all wanting to pet the "cute little ferret," Harry relaxed remotely and tried not to hear what was transpiring across the common room, though snatches of the 'discussion' kept floating into his ear. Like Ron meekly trying to explain that the collection was a "family heirloom" and that Fred and George had passed it on to him when he hit puberty and "I haven't looked in it since last year, honest, dear!"

Then Harry lost the strain of conversation as he was distracted by the ferret climbing down his collar to get away from the grab-happy fingers that were trying to get at him. That, and the laughter the younger students were emitting at his frantic squirming dance drowned out most noises. Soon, he retreated to his and Ron's room again to deal with the lithe creature in hiding discreetly and, hopefully, without flashing anyone.

~*~

Several Saturdays later, Harry and his ferret had spent more evenings sitting by the fire in the commons and that too became a regular occurrence. Life went on as usual and Hermione finally forgave Ron for having a sizable stack of Playwiz magazines with their moving pictures under his bed, on the condition that he owled them all back to Fred and George.

Ron swore up and down that he would, and when he hid a select few at the bottom of his trunk under his socks, he made Harry swear up and down not to tell. Given Harry's track record though, Ron didn't think it was good enough and hid them instead, at the last minute, under Dean's socks in Dean's trunk. Just in case. Dean didn't look like he believed it when Ron explained that those were the ones with the useful articles on proper broomstick care, but didn't complain as Seamus, his roommate for the year (seventh-years were two to a room), seemed quite pleased to have them so conveniently placed.

It was a snowy Sunday night, the first one of the winter holidays to be precise, leaving them quite alone in the common rooms, and with the large flakes falling merrily outside the tower windows, quite a good night to be snuggled before the fire. Ron was holding Hermione, who was perusing a copy of Arithmantic Application in Modern Astronomy, by Metrius Twinklinger. Opposite the happy couple, Harry was sprawled casually on his favourite beat-up couch with a bundle of golden white fur by his head, lazily stroking the bundle's triangular head, which was curled next to Harry's cheek. The bundle itself was, of course, the ferret that oddly only let Harry even so much as touch him. If anyone else tried, he would growl low in his little throat in warning, and if that wasn't enough... well, some poor second-year boy found out that ferrets (at least, this one) have very sharp teeth. First-hand _ and the lad was still rather favouring his left one. Right now he sounded as if purring, lying there contently.

"You know," Ron said, breaking the peaceful silence that was rare in the commons, "I never did quite catch the thing's name."

Harry slowly opened one eye to check if the redhead was talking to him, and indeed, he was. He passed a hand down along the ferret's back, scratching him to pacify the small growl that was working to come out. The ferret did not take well to being insulted, and being called a 'thing' definitely was not flattering.

"Squeak," squeaked the ferret in admonishment of the boy, causing Harry to chuckle softly.

Thinking for a while as if just then picking a name for his furry friend, Harry put on a deliberating look and then declared, "Twitchy."

Hermione snorted in barely-suppressed mirth and buried her face further in her book. The ferret had an expression of mortification on his pointed face as he registered what Harry just said. He raised his head sharply and butted his pinkish nose, the only spot of colour on him besides his stormy grey eyes, against Harry's as he growled in annoyance.

Ron gave a bark of disbelieving laughter and half-shouted, "Twitchy the Ferret?" He laughed some more in a decidedly giggly manner. After he had subsided in his man-giggles, he mused distractedly, "That sounds vaguely familiar..."

Another snort came from behind Arithmantic Application in Modern Astronomy. Unbeknownst to Harry and Ron, Hermione rolled her eyes skyward, exasperated by her boyfriend's cluelessness and her best friend's childishness. She loved them -- she really did, but sometimes they were just too much.

"Hmm," Harry dismissed Ron with. He didn't care anymore if Ron thought it sounded familiar or not, he was much too drowsy to, the warmth and comfort that surrounded him at the moment acting more effectively than a Sleeping Draught to put him in sleep's cradle.

"If you're going to fall asleep, go do it in your bed, Harry," Hermione called out softly, still absorbed in her book.

Harry let out a noise that sounded like a cross between a groan and a whine, but cute-like in essence. "Yes, mother," he answered back somewhat mockingly. It was amazing how well she knew him. With another sleepy and whiny moan, Harry pushed himself up from the couch, and picking up the ferret, walked to the portrait hole. Dumping him outside pulled a squeak of protest from the blond-furred animal, but Harry firmly informed him that no, he may not spend the night this time.

Back by the fire, Ron showed a face riddled with confusion. "Harry, mate," he said loudly so as to make himself heard. "You do realise you're talking to a ferret."

Withdrawing his head back into the common room, Harry gazed at his friend plainly. "Yes," he replied matter-of-factly.

"In the Queen's English."

Nothing of what Ron was trying to get at seemed to connect for Harry. If it was a joke, it definitely wasn't one of Ron's better ones, thought he. "Well, I would use French but I'm afraid I'm not fluent."

Ron thought he heard something else from Harry's direction, but couldn't be sure what it was. His point was lost on the green-eyed boy: ferrets didn't understand English, much less French. He threw up his freckly hands in defeat and shook his freckly face. "Never mind."

"Hmm. Good night, then." Having said this to Hermione and Ron, he stuck his head out through the still open portrait hole and said, "Good night to you too," then shut the door and went up the stairs to his room for a full eight hours of sleep. From down the staircase, he heard Ron and Hermione talking.

"I swear, 'Mione, Twitchy the Ferret does ring a bell; which one, I'm not sure."

"Oh Ron..." was followed by the distinctive Smack! of palm on forehead. Whose palm on whose forehead, Harry never found out, and didn't care to in his somnolent state.

~*~

The holidays passed by and soon the halls were filled with milling students once more. Things resumed their regular schedule as winter metamorphosed into spring, the snow melting and giving leeway to budding flowers and tender green leaves.

"Squeak."

The ferret continued to visit the Gryffindor tower, his comings and goings as elusive as the Bloody Baron. And like the Bloody Baron, no one (save perhaps, Harry Potter) quite knew where he dwelled. Some nights he, the fuzzy ferret -- not the Bloody Baron, spent with Harry and some nights he didn't.

Many afternoons and evenings were spent peacefully, the three seventh-years and Twitchy the Ferret. On one such lazy weekend afternoon, Ron remarked, "You know, we haven't heard much from that bloody Malfoy prat lately."

Harry hmm'ed noncommittally and asked Hermione to look over his Potions essay, which Ron didn't have to do as he wasn't enrolled in the Advanced N.E.W.T.s class like his companions.

It was true, they haven't had much trouble from Draco Malfoy as of late. Some months ago, when the blonde-haired Slytherin let out some choice information about Ron and Hermione that only they themselves, and Harry and his ferret of course, were privy to, was the last time. How Malfoy had gotten hold of it confounded Ron to an extreme and he and Hermione were ribbed severely for several weeks hence. But Draco himself had shown up the next day with a bite mark showing at the collar of his robes, looking very chastised. Miraculously, he approached the couple and apologized, though grudgingly. Not that it stopped the rumours and teasing that flew about, but it definitely appeased (or at least stunned) Ron enough that he didn't seek retribution, as he would normally have done.

Finally, in late spring, when Hermione was almost frantically attempting to reread every book in the school library in preparation for the upcoming Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests and Ron was left to himself for long periods at times, it hit him. It wasn't that he wasn't studying for his own N.E.W.T. subjects, which were different from his girlfriend's and the cause for their different studying schedules (as in, Hermione was studying fourteen hours a day and Ron was only putting in about five paltry hours, at which the frizzy-haired witch had scoffed), it was just he liked to take breaks and just think.

During one of these think sessions, he finally got it. Twitchy the Ferret, ha! He knew there was a reason that sounded so familiar. The grin on his face grew wider and wider as he thought some more and began to appreciate the brilliant insult Harry'd laid on Malfoy, reliving some precious moments in their fourth year when Faux-Moody had transfigured the prat into a whitish ferret. Those were the days...

He must go congratulate his mate on a job well done, playing such a joke on their long-time nemesis. Now.

~*~

"Harry! Hey, Harry!" Ron shouted as he dashed up the stairs to their shared dormitory room.

As he ascended, he mentally admonished himself for being so thick. Really, most times he was quite fleet on the uptake when it came to a joke on the ponce of a Slytherin's behalf; he didn't understand why it took so long to strike him this time. At least, he could console himself that it was practically three years ago, and no one should be expected to call up events from so far back in the past. Mind you though, that some refrains of 'Weasley is our king' (the unedited version) still managed to float to his ears from time to time.

"You could have clued a body in, mate," he said upon reaching the door and stepping inside. "Was that what Hermione kept --"

He stopped. The curtains around Harry's four-poster bed were closed. "You're not asleep at," he glanced at the snitch-clock on Harry's nightstand, "five o'clock in the afternoon?"

Well, in any case, he should have woken from the terrible racket Ron had made as he clamoured up the steps and stomping about. He approached the bed and pulled the curtain askew to look in on the black-haired boy. And froze in shock.

Harry Potter was indeed asleep, but that was not the problem here. The sight that greeted him -- and he was quite sure in that instant that no matter how many times he was Obliviated, it would not erase itself from his mind -- was the PROBLEM. Yes, it was capitalized. For Harry was not alone in his bed, beneath the sheets that were only covering what modesty demanded. A pair of arms too pale to be Harry's encircled the boy's naked torso intimately. A pair of arms, Ron noted with a dawning sense of horror, attached to none other than the Devil himself.

Draco Malfoy.

The noise that followed next cannot be put into discernable letters, but let it be suffice to say that it was most unmanly, quite shrill, and very loud. Some where in the Forbidden Forest, a flock of Thestrals took flight in a slightly ominous manner and a roaming Acromantula wet itself.

Eyes snapping open at the piercing scream that, unfortunately for Harry, originated in close proximity to his ear, he awoke with a start. Surprisingly, Draco slept on, undisturbed and peacefully unaware.

"Wha..." words failed the redhead for a moment and he had to try again after taking a deep breath. "What -- what is that bugger doing in your bed, Harry?" Ron stammered out.

Not so surprisingly, it was now that Draco decided to rouse. After all, a Malfoy did not let an insult pass uncontested. He glared venomously at the Weasel, or as venomously as he could, given that he'd just woken. But, as he had Harry in his arms still and Weasley didn't (he noted with smug satisfaction), he gave no audible complaint. It wasn't so bad being a bugger when the one he was buggering was Harry Potter, who was very naked and deliciously so at the given point in time.

Harry took a while to think about this. "Sleeping?" he offered tentatively.

Still supine as he was, Draco had to press his face against the sheets and Harry's unclothed hip to muffle his laughter.

Ronald Weasley stared.

Sensing the silent vibrations along his skin, Harry looked down with a frownish smile, as if he couldn't decide between the two as a reaction, and said to the shaking head nuzzled into him, "Well, what do you have to say for yourself? This is... an altercation of your creation, after all." Couldn't his lover do anything more helpful than laugh at him?

Draco heard the hint of a warning in Harry's tone and did well to wipe his face of mirth as he raised his head. Then almost collapsed into fresh giggles as he took in the look on the redhead's freckled face, but stopped when Harry sent him a discreet look that was decidedly a frown, telling him soundlessly, 'you're not helping.'

"Ahem," he cleared his throat. Harry's emerald eyes pleaded with him to say something, anything, to break the awkward tension permeating the air that once was filled with the scent of sweat and the sounds of moans and -- ahem. Right, back to Draco.

He coughed slightly, and then, in the meekest voice anyone had ever heard from the Malfoy heir, said,

"Squeak?"