How I Lost My Pink Bunny Slippers

How I Lost My Pink Bunny Slippers
Or rather,
How My Pink Bunny Slippers Got Stolen (Because They Don't Just Lose Themselves, You Know)

"Where the hell are my pink bunny slippers?"

I stare in dismay at the empty spot on my closet floor. No one answers, so I repeat my question with what I hope is deadly calm. "Where are Flopsy and Mopsy?"

My wife, Hermione, finally looks up from her book. "Who?" she asks distractedly.

"Never mind," I say quickly, remembering that I hadn't told Hermione that I had named them.

"Oh, you mean your slippers? They were right there yesterday."

So apparently I had told Hermione their names.

"How did you know their names?" I ask nonchalantly, shutting the door to the closet and joining her on the bed. I was quite proud of having chosen such fitting names for them myself. They had sprung right out of my imagination. I can still remember holding the slippers, and thinking, 'Flopsy and Mopsy'. The perfect names for the perfect slippers.

"It said so on their tags, remember?" She gives me a strange look.

Okay, so maybe I didn't think of their names myself. Why does Hermione have such a good memory? It's a blessing and a curse, honestly.

"Remember, Draco?" she prods, setting down her book. I choose not to answer, deciding to brood a bit. I pout slightly, for good measure. "What's wrong?" she asks, eventually. I almost smile, but remember myself just in time.

"Flopsy and Mopsy are missing," I tell her glumly. "I told you about them about... thirty seconds ago? No, wait, about fifteen seconds ago, but you were too busy reading to pay attention."

"Don't throw a tantrum," Hermione snaps. "I set them out yesterday when I was doing summer cleaning, remember? I asked if I could donate them to S.P.E.W. and you said no. I set them in Pile A. Check if they're there."

"What the hell is Pile A?"

"The 'to keep' pile. Honestly, I should be the one throwing the tantrums, you never seem to listen to me..." Up goes the book, down goes her head, away goes her mind.

"Oh yeah." Now that she mentions it, I can clearly remember the feeling of dread, seeing Hermione kneeling in a pile of my things, deciding which things to discard or keep.

"What about these?" she asked, holding up the bunny slippers. "Can I give them to the elves? They probably need them more, so their feet don't freeze in the winter."

"I need them so my feet don't freeze in the winter," I objected, snatching up the precious items. "Besides, the other elves who don't have the slippers will feel jealous. Can't have that, can we? Unhappy elves mean unsatisfactory service."

"Fine, we'll keep these." She had a small smile on her face, like one of amusement. "You really like these, don't you, Draco?"

She's laughing at me, I realized. "They're warm," I said defensively. And cute. And pink. I have to admit, I've fallen in love with that color ever since I saw the shirts saying 'Real Men Wear Pink'.

"Here then, give them over. I'll put them in Pile A, so the elves don't get confused."

I go over to the two piles, as neatly arranged as piles can be, and begin going through Pile A. I don't see anything remotely pink, or fluffy, so I look again. Still nothing. Frowning, I check the other pile.

"Hermione, they're not in either pile," I tell her, going through the 'to discard' pile (which I assume is Pile B) a second time. "I do see your hairbrush, though." I raise my eyebrows at her teasingly. "I have to admit, I'm insulted. I thought you liked it."

"It... doesn't work," she falters, pretending to be engrossed in her book, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

Seeing the hairbrush reminds me of my slippers. I got them the very same Christmas I gave Hermione that brush. Every Christmas, it's our tradition to give each other three or four enjoyable, expensive, nice gifts, and one or two jokes. Three Christmases ago, I gave Hermione the brush. It would annoyingly count the number of brushstrokes she would make as she'd brush her hair- and if she stopped before reaching a hundred brushstrokes, it would emit a high pitched whistle. She hated it. I found it amusing.

As a joke, she had given me the bunny slippers. Refusing to be daunted, I had slipped them on with as much dignity as I could muster, although I was a bit- inwardly- reluctant. In exchange, Hermione began brushing her hair, a pained smile on her face. But honestly, the slippers were the best things I had ever had on my feet- they were soft, warm, and cozy on my toes.

I pick up the brush and raise it to my hair, watching Hermione's reaction. She ignores me. Perhaps the brush doesn't work, after all. With a little more confidence, I run the brush once through my hair.

"ONE!" the brush cries triumphantly.

"Bloody hell," I mutter, glaring daggers at my wife. She smiles back sweetly at me.

"Oops, I guess it does work after all."

"TWO!!" the brush calls again.

"You did it on purpose," I accuse her, rapidly brushing my hair.

"THREE! FOUR! FIVE! SIX!SEVEN!EIGHT!NINE!TEN!ELEVEN!twelvethirteenfourteen..."

"Oh, shut up," I tell it, reaching the hundredth stroke with a flourish. I have to say, my hair does feel better, if that's possible. "Now... where would my slippers be?" I look at Hermione expectantly. She must have hidden them, as a joke. It was the most likely solution.

She shrugs. "Why are you looking for them, anyway? It's a hot summer night."

"I just noticed they were missing, that's all." I get up from the floor and lie down beside her, trying to think of the best way to get her to tell me where they are. Perhaps I could grab her book and not return it until she gives me my slippers. What is her book, anyway? I peer at it. It's a romance novel. I raise my eyebrows. I didn't know Hermione was into those things. I know she reads a wide variety of things, but she seems so wrapped up in this book. In fairness to her part, it is a large, old and dusty book, much like the ones she usually reads. It's probably the romance story of some famous old witch and wizard, who only people like Hermione have heard about. I don't want to touch a book that dirty with a ten foot pole. Perhaps I should just offer to make her some tea and slip Veritaserum into it. Maybe I could hold Potter ransom until she gives in.

I can see it now. I'll sneak into Potter's house, and he'll either be asleep, or watching his television. I could come up behind him and Stupefy him, then throw him into the dungeons. Then I'll write Hermione a ransom note, anonymously, telling her that Potter will be returned once she returns Mr. Malfoy's bunny slippers. And maybe I should ask for money too, so she won't be suspicious.

But aside from the fact that I loathe the idea of creeping into Potter's house at night, I'm far too lazy. I'll just-

"Summon the slippers," Hermione suggests.

"That's what I was going to do," I reply. And it was. Really. "Accio-" Then I stop. 'Accio fluffy pink bunny slippers' doesn't sound right. 'Accio Flopsy and Mopsy' sounds strange too.

I can feel Hermione watching me. I can also feel my cheeks heating up. "Why don't you do it? Since it was your idea." Ha. Let's see what she'll say.

"Fine." She takes her wand from the bedside table. "Accio Draco's bunny slippers."

Nothing comes flying. I think she should try being more specific. But then again, I only had one pair of bunny slippers. It's rather painful to think about it. I had bunny slippers. I don't have them anymore.

Hermione looks at me sympathetically. "I guess they're not here. Don't worry, we'll ask the house elves tomorrow. And we can buy new ones near winter."

"You're right," I answer. But I don't really mean it. I won't get new bunny slippers. I'll find mine. I can already feel determination welling up inside me. Whoever I find has stolen my bunny slippers should be prepared to feel the wrath of Draco Malfoy.

I jump slightly when Hermione puts her arms around me. I was so wrapped up in my musings that I wasn't prepared for it. I hadn't noticed when she put her book down. "Relax," she says, craning her neck so her lips reach mine. "Honestly, they're just slippers."

"You just ruined a perfect moment," I tell her, and I mean it too. She just laughs and looks at me with a twinkle in her eyes, almost like Dumbledore's, but far more interesting. I've learned by now that when Hermione gets that look in her eyes, I'm a lucky man. She must have reached an... exciting... part in the book. "What are you thinking of?"

"It's a hot summer night, and there's ice cream in the kitchen. Chocolate, even."

"And would we need bowls for this idea of yours?" I ask hopefully.

"Be more creative," is her reply, but she kisses me in such a way that almost nothing is left to my imagination. Honestly, I'd never have guessed just how naughty Hermione could be. Good thing I married her.

I can hear her moan as I pin her beneath me, trying to regain some sense of self-control. "You'd better send up for some ice cream," I say while kissing her neck. "It's getting hotter."

The next morning, I am awake even before Hermione is. It's slightly later than I had planned, because I did have rather a late night last night. I smirk just thinking about it. Hermione really knows how to make me feel better.

Nothing says 'I love you' more than three scoops of chocolate ice cream. And some fun in bed with it, of course. Good thing we're not poor muggles or it'd be a nightmare to clean up.

But back to business. I cast a glance at my sleeping wife and tiptoe across the room to the two piles I had messed up last night. I frown. Sometime during the evening she had cast a straightening charm, and now the piles were back to being neat and orderly. I needed that evidence. Now it was ruined.

Never mind. I find a rather large magnifying glass in Pile B and begin poring over Pile A.

Strange. With a sinking heart, I realize that most of the belongings in Pile A belong to me. All of Hermione's items have found their way to the 'to discard' pile. Whoever stole my bunny slippers must have wanted Hermione to lose many of the expensive and seldom used decorative items that will one day be worth even more than I bought them for. They're an investment, really. She shouldn't give them away yet, she should sell them in the future. Surely she's smart enough to realize that.

I set my jaw with renewed determination. I would find the fiend who stole my slippers and tried to do away with Hermione's things.

What is it that detectives are always looking for? Fingerprints? Well, I don't see any. Carefully, I levitate a picture of me and Hermione that I am sure she would never discard. I don't see anything other than a few smudges on the glass of the frame.

I knew detective stories were purely fictional.

Feeling slightly conned, I set the frame back in Pile B, to show Hermione when she wakes up, and continue looking for clues. What I was looking for, I wasn't sure. Some fluff? A footprint? A personal belonging left by the thief?

But what am I talking about? The thief didn't have any personal belongings, which was why he took my bunny slippers. Yes, I'm quite sure it's a male thief we're dealing with. Only real men wear pink, and besides, women would rather shop than steal.

Fifteen minutes later and I'm still clueless. I did find a strand of blond hair, and I almost woke Hermione to show her, until I realized it was mine. False alarm.

Great Merlin, this detective stuff is harder than I thought. Am I ever going to solve the case of the missing bunny slippers?

Of course I will, for my name isn't Draco B. Malfoy for nothing.

I begin to get excited. One day, even the private detectives will come to me. They'll ask-no, beg- me to help them in the most trivial, most mundane cases. And I'll say I'd love to help them, only I'm busy with something else, and the cases will pile up, and I'll pretend I'm too busy to help anyone, but by the end of each week, all cases will be solved. The Muggle detectives will hear of a mythical detective who is almost too good to be true (me, of course). And the wizards will award me for being the greatest detective of all time. Malfoy Manor will be too small to hold me and my many minions- most of whom I don't need- so I'll move into Hogwarts, and the school can take the manor.

And all of that because of some missing bunny slippers. I really must thank the thief right before locking him up in Azkaban.

"I would have gotten away with it, if it weren't for that pesky brat," the thief would say.

I chuckle to myself. Draco Malfoy, the Greatest Detective of All Time. It has quite a ring to it, if I do say so myself.

"What's funny?"

Ah. I see Hermione has woken up. "Nothing," I lie. After all, first I have to catch the bunny slipper thief, don't I? No use getting ahead of myself.

I turn back to the piles, then remember what I was going to tell my wife. "Hermione, I think the thief messed up your piles. All of your things are in the 'discard' pile, and you have nothing in Pile A."

"Oh," Hermione seems to turn a bit pink. "No, that- that's my fault, Draco. I decided to get rid of everything and... start afresh."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning, I put most of my stuff in the discard pile."

I stare at her, dismayed. "No."

She nods, wringing her hands. "It's just that I don't wear the jewelry, and I figured we could auction them off or something. Discard means many things, you know. It's not just for S.P.E.W."

"But- Hermione!" I can't even begin to think of the most manly way to tell her how hurt I am. "I thought you liked the jewelry! I thought you liked the singing hairbrush, in some weird twisted way!"

"Just because you're mad about your bunny slippers doesn't mean I'm mad about the hairbrush," she smiles wryly.

"Why do you want to sell our picture, then?"

Hermione makes one of those loud 'tuh' sounds that she knows irritates me so much. It meant something like this. "Tuh. I do not want to sell any of our pictures. Why would I? Even if I knew what picture you were talking about, which I don't, by the way, I wouldn't sell it." I never knew, until I heard her say it, that a tuh could mean so much.

"What do you call this then?" Triumphantly, I walk over to Pile B and levitate the picture frame. "In the discard pile, just like I said."

Hermione gets out of bed. "There's the proof you've been looking for, then- I never put that in the 'discard' pile. Someone must have been looking through the piles." I hand over the frame and she looks at it fondly. "This wasn't taken too long ago."

Oh, well. The fingerprint thing was useless anyway.

"Someone's been going through our things then. We should ask the elves."

"They wouldn't mess it up!" she exclaims in dismay.

"Of course," I say hastily. "But maybe they saw someone suspicious..."

Finally, Hermione relents. She's a great ally to have- her brain power is always more than welcome.

Unfortunately, none of the elves noticed anyone snooping around our room. I had to ban all cleaning for the day- the little creatures looked at me as if I had betrayed them, because I usually allow them to work even when Hermione disapproves. But I can't have them sweeping away evidence.

And sure enough, I find evidence. Right beside the fireplace, in fact, which means that the thief Flooed away.

"Hermione, look!" I hold up the tiny piece of fluff in front of her face. She looks up, annoyed, because she's reading.

"Fluff," she observes, very astutely.

"Pink fluff," I emphasize. "It was near the fireplace."

"So whoever it was Flooed, or walked really close to the fire." Hermione turns another page, not appearing overly interested in my problem.

"Any ideas?" I ask, annoyed.

"It was probably a guest who the elves don't find suspicious," she replies, and I envy, not for the first time, how quickly answers come to her.

"You might be right," I say slowly. "Someone like Potter, or Weasley. They're always dropping by uninvited. Maybe I should do the same to them, right now."

"Try not to lose your temper before you can prove it's them, if it is one of them. But I can't imagine either of them wanting bunny slippers."

"Bet you couldn't imagine me wanting them either," I reply, quietly, of course.

I Floo to Weasley's place first. The manor, being unplottable, is also impossible to Apparate to, or from.

"Weasley!" I yell as soon as I step out onto the hearth. "Get your arse over here."

"What?" Weasley appears, looking as tall, gangly, and angry as ever. "I'm cooking."

"Bunny slippers," I say, beyond caring how silly it sounds. "Have you seen any?"

"Bunny slippers?" he repeats, looking at me now as if I've gone insane. "Where would I have seen bunny slippers?"

"In my manor. In my bedroom, if sometime between the day before yesterday and right now you were ever in there."

"You own bunny slippers?" he asks, just to clarify the matter. God, he's annoying. He completely misses the point. But a white lie is in order.

"They're Hermione's, and she'd like them back."

Technically, since we're married, what's mine is hers. And, for my sake at least, she does want them back.

"Oh. Well, I haven't seen them. I haven't been to your house since last week."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now would you mind? My vegetables will burn." Weasley looks angry for some reason.

"Very well, go on. I know my way out." But I stand there for a few more minutes, lost in thought. Weasley didn't sound like he was lying. Thank goodness he didn't invite me to stay for lunch. I was his classmate in Potions for years, and I can imagine what his cooking is like. And what's funnier than me owning bunny slippers is him in a too small apron.

I Disapparate from Weasley's flat and Apparate into Potter's slightly larger, but more cluttered, flat that he shares with Weasley's sister. "Potter!"

There's no need to shout, of course, because he's sitting on the sofa, right in front of me. A delicious smell is coming from the kitchen, and I can hear Ginny moving pots and pans around inside. Potter is pathetic. He's just loafing around on the sofa, while his girlfriend, several months pregnant, is cooking him meals. What, just because he's saved the world, does that mean he never has to do anything else, ever? If Hermione were pregnant...but I'd rather not think of it yet. Or, rather, I'd like to think of it, but so far we've had no luck. We decided at first that we'd wait a few years after marriage to start a family, but now that the time has come, Potter's beat us to it.

"Hermione's misplaced a pair of bunny slippers, and I've come to collect them."

"And what makes you think I have them? What would I be doing with bunny slippers?"

I suppose he has a point. He's Harry Potter- bunny slippers wouldn't be very impressive on a war hero.

"Well, they weren't so much misplaced as stolen. Have you been to the manor these past few days?"

"No," Potter replies, looking annoyed that I'm interrogating him.

"No?"

"No."

"And your girlfriend?" I ask, stressing the last term. I don't approve of the fact that they're not married. And they beat us to having a child. What if they choose the best name in the world for their child, and we're left with the second best name, when the time comes?

"How would I know? She doesn't tell me every single place she goes to."

"She should," I huff. This is getting me nowhere.

"And Hermione tells you whenever she goes somewhere?"

"Of course. Maybe because we're married, not just living together." I casually tilt my hand to show off the ring, letting the light glint off the metal.

"And you're sure she tells you everything?"

God, Potter must be the most annoying git You've ever created. And You had to make him a hero, no less.

"Of course," I say firmly. "What are you getting at, Potter?"

"Nothing. I'm just wondering how you can be certain that Hermione tells you every single place she goes, and not just some of the places." Potter pushes his glasses up his nose in the most annoying way. It just screams attention-Seeker. "How do you know she tells you everything?"

"I know, of course." I flinch inwardly, not wanting to count how many times I've used the words 'course' and 'of', though not necessarily in that order.

"Because you're married?" Potter asks wryly.

I swear, I want to smash his face here and now. He has a point. He always has a point. His points are as pointy as the pointy end of his bloody lightning-shaped scar. I can hardly think of a better comeback, so I stick my nose in the air and look down at Potter scornfully. "Yes."

Right then, I see them. I see my bunny slippers. My pink, fluffy bunny slippers. MY bunny slippers. They walk- no, hop- right out of the kitchen, behind Potter, and come towards me, their little ears waving in welcome.

My heart stops. I don't know if I'm breathing or not, although a small part of my brain logically tells me I must be. The world seems to crash all around me, as I'm not aware of anything else, except some silly background music playing in my head. It's just me, and my slippers.

And the person wearing them.

My eyes travel from my slippers, up a pair of legs, coming to rest on a large belly. I stare for a moment before forcing my gaze upward. I cringe slightly.

Ginny Weasley.

Potter seems to have noticed the slippers too. "Where did you get them?" he asks his girlfriend, keeping an eye on me.

"Get what?" she asks innocently. I can see right through her. She's as guilty as the Niffler they once had caught in Gringotts.

"The bunny slippers."

Ginny looks down at her feet. I briefly wonder if she can even see her toes. "Oh, I borrowed them from Hermione. Aren't they cute?"

"Hermione doesn't know you have them." I somehow manage to keep my temper. My voice sounds a bit strangled, but I don't think they notice. "Did you borrow them? Or did you steal them?"

Potter stands up from the couch. "Malfoy," he says warningly.

"I suppose I didn't tell Hermione I was taking them," Ginny considers my question. She seems oblivious to the danger she's in. Potter, however, isn't. He comes to stand beside me, apparently ready to subdue me if necessary. "I walked into her- your- room, and saw them on the floor. I tried them on, and they were really comfy, so I took them."

"I suppose you also saw a framed picture of me and Hermione?"

"I don't remember," she shrugs. "It's not like I really care about the picture, is it? Why are you asking all this, anyway?"

God, I have found someone more annoying than Potter. Spare me the knowledge of their children, I have no desire to see them, ever.

"I want the slippers back. I mean, Hermione wants them back. We both do."

Ginny casts a glance at Harry. "Can't I keep them? They're really nice on the feet, especially now that my body's getting heavy."

"No," I say shortly.

Another glance at Harry, and he intercepts. "Come on, Malfoy, she needs them more than you do."

"Buy your own," I answer nastily. "These are mine. Hermione's. Ours," I hastily correct myself. "I want them now, by the way."

But the two are Gryffindors, bless them. (I'm sarcastic.) They're known for their courage, nobleness, idiocy and stubbornness. Ginny crosses her arms on top of her stomach and raises an eyebrow in challenge. "Make me."

And so I do.

I dive to the ground and lift up one of her ankles. She loses her balance, and Potter has to dart in to catch her. I manage to take Flopsy off, and tuck it deep into my robes while Potter tries to support Ginny. She places both her feet on Mopsy and refuses to let up. Hermione arrives and gives this huge gasp- I ignore her, she can wait- as she sees me tugging at Ginny's two feet.

"Let go," I grunt, sitting on her feet and trying to pull the slipper out from under her.

"No!"

"Draco, let go!"

"Malfoy, so help me, you are in so much-"

"Shut up, Potter. Weasley, you're so bloody heavy!"

"Draco, stop it!"

And Ginny Weasley is screaming bloody nonsense throughout the whole of it. I can't for the life of me understand what she's saying.

Suddenly, we all freeze. Hermione has gotten her wand and has bewitched us all. The suddenness of the spell causes Potter and Ginny to fall, and suddenly the slipper is in my hands.

But I can't move.

Hermione rushes to break their fall, and in no time at all, it seems, Potter and his pregnant girlfriend are back to normal. Un-spelled. Moving.

And I'm holding the prize, but I can't move.

After what seems like an eternity- Potter and Weasley are sitting on the couch- Hermione removes the spell on me.

I straighten, glaring at them all. Then I look down at the slipper in my hand.

"Mine."

Ginny bursts into laughter. Potter stares at me, then starts laughing too. I look at them, confused.

"What the hell is this all about?" I ask. This makes no sense, honestly.

"You said- the slippers were Hermione's!" Ginny tries to speak between her laughter. "I thought they were hers! But they're yours! And they're pink! And they're... haha- hahaha- bunny- ha- slippers, heehee!"

Potter is clutching his stomach. "The thought of you, Malfoy, in those slippers!"

Hermione is giggling too, but I can tell she's angry, and her laughter is meant to insult me. "It is pretty funny," she admits.

"No, it's not." I throw the slipper on the floor, kick my shoes off, and step into it, taking the other from my robes and putting it on as well. "See? They're comfortable!" I protest. "And they're pink! Real men wear pink!"

They start laughing even harder. I can't take this anymore. I march over to the chimney and Floo home, wishing I had a snappish comeback.

I don't.

Later, Hermione finds me sitting in front of the fireplace, my feet- in my bunny slippers- propped up on a footstool. I pretend to be asleep, not wanting to face more ridicule, but she isn't fooled. She walks right up to me and puts her hands on her hips.

"What was that display earlier? It was uncalled for."

"It was for my slippers," I retort, glaring at her, forgetting to pretend to be asleep.

"Ginny is pregnant! You could have hurt her, or the baby."

"Like I give a damn! She should just have handed them over. You only arrived later on, you shouldn't be mad at me, I did ask for them!"

"Maybe you should start giving a damn about other people, then. It was humiliating for me, I had to-"

"Humiliating for you? I was laughed at. And my wife took their side- you left me frozen for ages!"

"Because you're making such a big deal over a pair of bunny slippers!" Hermione shouts. "You care more about them than you do for living people!"

"They're mine!" I shout back. "She stole them!"

"That's not the point anymore! You couldn't for once be selfless and just let her have them, could you? She'd have given birth before winter."

"Just because she was poor before and probably used to steal for food-"

"Draco! If she stole, she'd have been in Slytherin."

"You're right, she never stole from anyone, she begged! But then Potter fell for her and she figured that being Potter's girlfriend gave her the right to just take whatever she wanted."

"I'm not saying what she did was right, but what you did was- was-"

"Was what, Granger?" Damn, I slip back into calling her that. "Like you've never done anything stupid for something you want, one of your worthless elf causes." Okay, I don't really mean it, and this whole argument is actually pointless. We just haven't fought in a while, and all the little things have built up. This is the perfect opportunity to yell at each other- I do miss doing that sometimes.

"At least my causes are selfless ones," Hermione snaps back, and I see her face reddening, maybe because I called her Granger.

"Since I'm so selfish, I'm just going to take care of myself and go to sleep. You go visit the elves and have some counseling sessions." I stand and, with one final glare at her, head to our bedroom. Our bed is thankfully so large that we don't have to be close to each other at all. I slam the door shut and jump into bed, pounding the pillows as hard as I can. I barely sleep a wink that night, still seething with anger and humiliation.

The fight lasts for days. I'm not bothered- Hermione and I sometimes need to slip into our old ways. We've done it before, and I actually believe that it's what saves our marriage. I love her, but I don't like her at the moment. By the time almost as week has passed, I'm not angry anymore- I just can't bring myself to make the effort to speak to Hermione again. The only things we say to each other are things like "pass the salt" or "are you done in the bathroom?". I think Hermione doesn't feel like speaking to me either.

But eventually we do, of course, at the Ministry's charity ball. We go together, barely touching, but only a few people are bothered by it. I suppose they're used to it, just like me. After a few drinks, I'm already feeling more lighthearted than I have since our fight started. Near midnight, I'm already swaying to the music. I look around, and there's Hermione, looking straight at me.

I do believe it's time to end this fight.

"Want to dance?" I ask as she approaches. I can kind of tell that she won't reject me, but she can be quite unpredictable.

"Sure," she replies, taking my proffered hand. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. She can look quite beautiful when she wants to, and I think tonight she did want to. I mean, she is always pretty in her own way, but sometimes I take it for granted. And with her standing in front of me now, it's not easy to forget how pretty she can be. I smile at her.

And just like that, our fight is over, no apologies from either of us. I don't tell her she was right and I was wrong, and she doesn't tell me that I was wrong and she was right. It's understood that we've gotten our bad feelings out, and are ready to build them up again.

And that's how I lost- and how I found- my bunny slippers. Brilliant piece of detective work, if I do say so myself. I'm already considering writing a book. How I Found My Bunny Slippers, from the incredibly handsome mind of Draco Malfoy. (Not that a mind can be handsome- well, mine can be, of course- but my fans will get the picture). I've always thought that I have a knack for writing. My flair for making the ordinary extraordinary, and my way with words, would make my book an instant hit. I'll be bombarded with fan mail, all asking me to sign their bunny slippers. Maybe I'll keep them, instead of returning them. I chuckle at the thought.

But the story doesn't quite end there.

A moment later, Hermione pulls away. "Now, what is it that always makes you feel better?" she asks with a suggestive smile.

"Chocolate ice cream," I answer, drawing her closer so I can kiss her properly. After a while, she draws back.

"Let's go home."

I nod eagerly before kissing her again, but my eyes flick over her shoulder, to where Potter and his girlfriend are watching us. Really, who cares if they have a baby first? Besides, tonight could be our lucky night. And maybe I won't even have to wait nine months. I mean, who can? I'm sure that, being a Malfoy, my baby will be ready to see me in less than nine months.

"What are you thinking of?" Hermione asks, noticing my distraction.

"Nothing," I lie. No reason for her to know, really, other than the fact that she wants to. And Hermione doesn't always have to get her way. I do. I kiss her yet again, trying to take her mind off my thoughts. I run my hands over her body until I hear a soft moan.

God, I love being back on speaking terms. And kissing terms, because one always goes with the other, at least for me and her. We should have made up ages ago.