A

 Lot  to  Be  Upset  About  

                                 By  Cassandra  Claire  
 
Draco  Malfoy  was  a  bitter,  bitter  boy.  
 
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.”  
 
Draco  squinted  suspiciously.  “You  don’t  think  I’m  pointy?”  
 
“Not  at  all.  You’re  chiseled.”  
 
“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?”