The Red Haired Weasel and the Amazing Bouncing Ferret

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Draco Malfoy

September 1st 8:32 p.m.

I hate my parents.

If one more person attempts to pat me on the back in sympathy or smile kindly I may throw up.

But, honestly. Two years later and everyone thinks I’m still mourning their absence. Hello?! I turned them in. Me. Not because my dad pissed me off one day, not because I would naturally inherit everything (though both are quite true) but because, despite what Scarhead and the two members of his fan club think, I *do* happen to know the difference between good and evil. And, in spite of evidence to the contrary, I don’t actually want all Mudbloods head.

Not that I was ever, er, less than what I am, but I’m not the same as the 11 year old that stepped onto Hogwarts grounds 6 years ago. Some of my more violent tendencies have curbed ever so slightly. Not, of course, that I would want anyone to think I’m going soft.

Which is why I picked a fight with the youngest Weasley in the hall on the way to the dorms.

Well, on some level, the idiot asked for it. She brushed past me! Okay, here’s the deal:

1-Nobody, ABSOLUTELY NOBODY, brushes past Draco Malfoy. First years know this. It’s like a built in knowledge all children possess. So don’t try to throw me some guilt trip crap.

And 2-She didn’t even mutter one word of apology.

I sneered (something I have been attempting to perfect from years of observing Snape), and snapped, as she started walking away, “You know, Weasley, I am well aware your family has to struggle to feed the lot of you-” I paused to sweep a gaze up her thin body as if to say, ‘Obviously,’ then continued, “but one would think they could afford you some manners.”

The Slytherins surrounding me laughed appreciatively, while the other three students-7th year Ravenclaws-rolled their eyes, having witnessed variations of this scene many a time.

Mentally I took down their names (Julianne Truman, Robert Lawrence, and Josephine Pilard) for later ‘use.’

Anyway, the youngest Weasel-Genie or something-turned to me with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from someone with *your* family background,” she returned.

Since when did a Weasel have a backbone? And why had no one alerted me? No matter.

“Watch your tongue, Weasel,” I warned.

“Why? Afraid someone might actually say out loud what the entire school thinks?” She slid a sideways glance at the other students from my own house. “Everyone with a soul, that is,” she added definitely.

…

Hmmm….

*This* was interesting.

“And what,” I began, taking a threatening step forward (no, she did not back down), “would *you* say the entire school thinks?”

She then spouted off an entire list of adjectives to describe yours truly. Adjectives that, I shall admit, were impressively used.

Which would be when Professor Snape appeared, his eyes glittering dangerously.

“Mrs. Weasley,” he hissed, “you kiss your brothers with those lips.” he smirked. “All 26 of them. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

He paused, as though expecting her to argue, but she said nothing.

“Now get to your common room.” And I swear, his eyes dropped in disappointment when she agreed with nothing more than a “Yes, sir.”

As the rest of the students did as told, the Potions professor returned his attention to me. “Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy, on becoming Head Boy.”

I almost shrugged, but knew better.

“Thank you, Professor.”

He stood there, silently, and I wondered exactly what else he wanted to say.

“Are you enjoying living at your aunt’s,” he continued after a moment.

Oh, great. More sympathy.

“Yes, sir.”

At least I could answer him honestly. My aunt Erika was from my mother’s side, and wanted very little to do with me. She had no children of her own and, I expect, wasn’t quite sure how to handle them. I was given free reign during the summers I spent with her, as long as I returned before the end of the evening and disappeared while she had gentleman company.

Professor Snape nodded, apparently pleased. “I’m glad. But, Draco, I would like to say, if you would ever like to spend a vacation with me, you’re more than welcome.”

Hadn’t expected this at all.

I must have been staring at him in disbelief, because he elaborated, “I know that in the end, your father and I were pitted against each other, but back before you were born, I considered him a very close friend-my best friend, really, when I was a student here.” He stopped, and I couldn’t ignore the regret that laced his voice. “I’ve always considered it a shame that I couldn’t do anything to bring him to our side.”

“Me too.”

Ugh.

Was that out loud? I was beginning to sound like Potter.

He stared down at me sadly. “You did what I could not bring myself to do. I was impressed when I heard.”

“I wish it had been more.”

“You did what you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“You saved a lot of lives.”

“Not theirs.” I took a deep breath and met Snape’s eyes.

“Don’t make me out to be a hero,” I muttered. “Potter’s a hero. With a hero, everyone comes back.”

I cleared my throat, and turned. “I should get back to my common room, Professor. It wouldn’t do for the Head Boy to be unaccounted for.”

“I understand, Mr. Malfoy. I bid you good evening. And don’t forget what I said about vacation.”

“I won’t, sir.”

And I haven’t.

Okay, so it’s only been about an hour since my talk with Snape, but I’m already thinking it over. It’s a tempting offer, one that’s been in the back of my mind ever since I turned my family in.

(Family. Ha.)

I’ve never been to Snape’s before, and it could be intriguing. And besides, he’s really the only person who could even pretend to understand.

Not that I care, of course, if people understand or not.

Shut up.