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Welcome to My Litter Box by firefawn

Format: Short story
Chapters: 7
Word Count: 12,549
Status: WIP

Rating: 15+
Warnings: Mild Language, Scenes of a Mild Sexual Nature

Genres: Fluff, Humor, Romance
Characters: Hermione, Draco, OC, OtherCanon
Pairings: Other Pairing

First Published: 08/17/2005
Last Chapter: 06/24/2011
Last Updated: 06/24/2011


Humility is a funny thing. Especially when it takes a Mudblood, talented in the art of the animal transfiguration of humans, to teach it to you. My name is Draco Malfoy, the amazing, bouncing ferret, and the Mudblood Granger's new pet.

Chapter 1: Welcome to My Litter Box
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Prologue/Chapter 1 ~ Welcome to My Litter Box

Three days, twenty two hours, and forty five minutes.

That is precisely how long I have been residing within my current state of a pathetic, helpless existence.

Normally I would not object to being locked inside the dormitory, unable to attend those miserable excuses that the mudblood loving Professors call classes, but if you could see me now, you would understand the reason for my anxiety.


You heard me.

I'm anxious.

My name is Draco Malfoy, and that was the first honest statement that I have made in....

Well since.... Um...


Three....carry the two....

In Salazar only knows how long. But I suspect it numbers somewhere around four years, seventy two days, and thirty sex...I mean six...hours.

What? Stop looking at me like that! I'm a randy teenage boy and if you had been locked up in the girl's dormitory, staring at girls in their knickers for as long as I have, you would have sex on the brain too! Be you male, female, still deciding, or in transit on some muggle nutters operating table somewhere.

Now you may ask why Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin stud, is not doing something about his raging hormones, when he is obviously surrounded by willing and able girls.

And if you didn't ask, then you may ask what I am doing in a small cage, locked up, in the corner of the Gryffindor girl's dormitory.

You're obviously confused, and if I were in your place, I would be too.

You're also probably wondering why I have been so polite to you thus far. Because obviously if you are up here, you must be one of those Gryffindor, mudblood-loving freaks, whom are never lucky enough to be graced with my prestigious presence.

But when one has been transfigured into a ferret for calling the Head Girl a stupid mudblood one too many times, one tends to learn humility.

Do you see my dilemma?

Who would have thought that the mudblood had it in her?

Of course she did do this while we were conducting Prefect rounds together, against our will. Do you honestly think I would ever willingly sign on for Prefect duty with the Know-It-All Granger?

Frying Skrewts!!! What do you take me for? Some sort of inter-house unity toting half-blood freak!?!?

Now you would think that when only one of us returned from Prefect duty, that someone (one of my house mates, perhaps?) would have wondered why my amazing self did not show up in the dorm that night.

Of course they probably assumed that being, well….me, that I had found some gorgeous beauty to occupy my time.

So my dorm mates are forgiven for that lapse.

But Granger!

As it was, before the insult (*cough* Harsh Truth *cough*) was even out of my mouth she was able to whorl around, hex me, and bounce me to the girl's lavatory, thereby dunking me repeatedly into Moaning Myrtle's toilet, then back out to where she nearly drowned me in the sink's faucet claiming she could not bring a stinky pet back to her dorm.

As if anyone would have noticed my stench above her own.

All in all I put up quite a fight, and now the meddling mudblood has claw marks up and down her forearms.

I hope they get infected.

Salazar knows that it took me the better part of an hour, licking my claws clean in the moonlight, to get her filthy essence off me.

It was only after I had finished that horrid task that it occurred to me that I had just ingested that filth.

Yes.... Yes father, if you can see my now, please strike me dead where I hang upside down.


Damn him! He never was one for niceties!

Ah but where was I....

Getting to the dorm, pre-claw licking trauma.

Well on the upside, I found out the Gryffindor password. What kind of house uses flavored mints as passwords anyhow?

Well the kind that has four clingy, annoying girls waiting upstairs for you. The kind of house where the seventh year girls will coo, ooh, and ah at how cuddly a pet ferret looks.

They even tried to pet me!

I am not some common house pet people!

And that damnable Granger just looked on with her 'oh so annoying' smirk.

Slytherin house I hate her!

I did try to bite that Patil twin's finger off when she had the audacity to mar me with her own filthy touch, but that only resulted in her flipping me upside down and petting my stomach.

And let me tell you something, that girl had no idea where her hand was.

Needless to say, the first night like this was better than expected.

After that it was only down hill, with Granger doing her best to avoid me.

The mudblood's hatred of me runs so deep that her SPEW promoting self has even been ordering the house elves to feed and care for me so she does not have to come near me.

OH! And the worst of that is that my old house elf DOBBY is the one feeding me! I went on a hunger strike for about two hours, for fear that he would try and poison me since he seems to know who I really am, but hey... ferrets have fast metabolisms, and it was either that or start eating the bars again.

If I ever get out of this cage I am going to shit in Granger's shoes.

Ferret or not.

The only up side to this whole fiasco is that my hair is still the sleek, silky white that one of my stature should only naturally possess.

The biggest downside is the litter box.

I mean have you ever had to back up your rear end in order to do your business, in bare feet, over rough gravel?

Just picture doing that, naked, in full view of the opposite sex, who are constantly cooing at you from behind your jail cell bars, while you are trying to take care of your animalistic functions!

I mean if they are stupid enough to stick their noses that close to where I am doing my deed, then they could at least have the courtesy to not recoil in terror, holding their noses, making "Ew! Stinky!" noises as if they were pittyling first years!

Of course, these are Gryffindors that we are talking about. I have a sneaking suspicion that their IQ's border on the non-existent.

Merlin must know that this Lavender priss is the only one in the school who can honestly compete with Goyle for the school's lowest academic rank.

Speaking of my underlings shouldn't they have begun looking for me by now.

Salazar I hope so.

Do you see what being reduced to this state has done to me!? Instead of thinking Salazar they better! I wind up thinking nicely!

Damn you to hell mudblood! Your stupid slight of wand is messing with my mind!

And if my underlings don't find me soon....

Well I'm going to have one hell of an excuse for practicing Unforgiveables.

Of course, they deserve Unforgivables after this. I've been stuck drinking out of this water bottle for days.

Speaking of which, did you know that any pet-water from these dangerously dangling bottle like contraptions tastes like plastic? Perhaps the mudblood gave me a fresh, right off the shelf, bottle. It's the least I deserve after all, and it might taint the flavor slightly for the first few days of usag...


I will not follow that train of thought any longer.

No. Instead I will curl up in my nice, soft hammock. It's rather comfortable you know. With its soft cottony clumps of fabric that I can curl up in. And oh so fun to dig at!

Ah, the joys of digging! I never knew how satisfying it was!

It's about the only thing that can piss off the Mudblood responsible for my current condition.

At least until someone puts a silencing charm around the cage. Then they can't hear me when I sharpen my nails by digging at the hard plastic platforms of it.

But I digress yet again! I swear!

Being a ferret. It does things to you.

My name is Draco Malfoy, the amazing, bouncing ferret, and Hermione-Mudblood-Granger's new pet.

A/N: Authors Note: In all fairness, the insanity that this has brought me should be dully accredited. So thank you Timeturner for challenging us all to write 'Out of Our Realms.' Goodness knows writing in the first person and writing humor has driven me, at the very least, 'Out of My Mind.' So thank you to Timeturner and all of the others participating in the Out of Your Realm Challenge. May our psychiatry bills be covered by our insurance companies.

Another thank you goes out to JKR, for allowing us hopeful writers to use your characters in fanfiction, to improve and hone our own writing skills. All your characters obviously still remain yours

A special thanks to NJHill22 for helping me brainstorm unwittingly, and to Julie for suggesting I give Remus Lupin a pet ferret in Eclipse of the Sky. Had she not suggested that I may never have had this idea.

The opening picture is courtesy of Rogue, one of our lovable ferrets who has a penchant for stealing shoes.

Chapter 2: The Orange Abomination
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Chapter 2 ~ The Orange Abomination

                                                  * * * * * Monday ~ Dawn * * * * *

Purebloods, we have a problem.

A rather large, pug faced, ORANGE problem.

Perhaps I should elaborate on this, for those of you who are too stupid to figure it out on your own.

Have you ever woken up, stretching your long, slinky-like body out into the warm April sunshine....

Well of course you haven't. Unlike me you're not a bloody slinky!

And if you are, my condolences. You must have met Granger.

Hem Hem.

Anyways, just for arguments sake, say you had.

Well picture that type of luxury, and then picture seeing two huge, gleaming eyes, the size of Quidditch stadiums staring in at you, with fangs the size of goal posts.

Then picture this same Ginger abomination licking its lips, inches from your face, and just for good measure make the bars of your prison spaced just widely enough for it to get its claws through, and you are getting close to the level of horror I experienced this morning.

And right when my hair is standing on end, my tail tucked safely between my hind legs (That was involuntary! It's some type of cowardly ferret reflex! I swear!), and my body coweri…I mean sheltering for safety, on the far side of the cage from the beast, Granger happens to walk in!

That’s right. Miss Know-It-All mudblood Granger came back in from her shower, her hair in such a tangled mass that it's a marvel she gets a comb through it, to find me in such a state.

And you know what that wench did?

She laughed!

Not only did she break into raucous peals of mortifying laughter, but she crouched down besides my cage on all fours, like the mudblood she is (AHA! She's finally learning to bow down to her betters!), and started cooing at me!

I swear to Slytherin that when I get out of her I am going to CRUCIO her around the grounds until even the Weasel looks good!

It would serve her right after all. To wind up with some stupid, poor, pathetic excuse of a wizarding family. They do not deserve to call themselves purebloods!

Hem Hem...

I swear, that fat toad's Hem, Hemming haunts me even to this day, whenever I find my thoughts straying off topic.

May she be poisoned by Furetta's Finest Ferret Feed and rot.

So after the Mudblood was done cooing at me, putting on a spectacle so all her dorm mates would actually think she liked her new pet, she had the audacity to pick up that blasted cat and to shove its smushed face right where I was hiding.

"Aww....Finally learning what it's like to be afraid wittle Malfoy?"

She then turned to rub noses with that hideous thing!

"Wittle Crookshanks won't do anything to Wittle Malfoy though now will he?" The mudblood continued. "He's just going to watch his slimy, smelly self while Mommy's at class isn't he?"

I am NOT smelly!

To add insult to injury, the blasted cat actually nodded.

* * * * * Several hours later * * * * *

Since I've been left with nothing to do (save to ward off unwanted advances from the orange abomination now perched atop the nearest bed watching my every move), I actually got to thinking.

And I grudgingly have to admit this. But the whole 'turning me into a ferret' thing was a good move on Granger's part. Or at least from that mudblood's point of view.

Not from mine. Because personally, I do not relish the flavor of this sludge that I am forced to consume, better known as Furreta's Finest.

Just picture liver flavored Kibbles and Bits, with the smell of an over-flowed lavatory toilet, and you're closing in on what eating this shit is like.

So I am now left with only one question.

What were these food manufacturers thinking!?

I would have thought that Dobby (Surely you didn't think Granger was taking care of me?) would have fed me normal, you know, human food, seeing as how the little slack skinned pillow sack knows I'm his rightful master. But unfortunately the elf is too stupid to do so.

No, instead it has taken to feeding me this shit with a gleefully sadistic fashion.

He immobilizes me so I cannot escape, fills my dish, then lies down on his stomach right outside my cage, propping his skinny little chin up with his hands.

Then he watches me eat, with raised eyebrows, while the orange abomination flicks its tail, licking its lips.

I've concluded that that cat either wants to eat me, eat this shitty food, or mount me.

Scratch that last idea. I just scratched a bunch of food out of the dish, and nosed it onto the floor, and the cat is not going for it.

Dobby, however, is smirking like my father did when he escaped from Azkaban.

Salazar that elf must have a lot of latent hostility for me.

                                                           * * * * * Even Later * * * * *

Alright, classes should be ending in about 10 minutes, and you can't try to tell me that no one has noticed that I'm missing. Surely there is a massive, school wide search being conducted as we speak, because no one here can survive without my commanding presence for long. Least of all my Quidditch team, which has it's last match coming up this Saturday.

Yes... It's now only a matter of time before the mudblood transforms me back, and meets her rightful end.

In the meantime, I have come to a decision.

Immediately after escaping this cage, killing the mudblood, punishing my minions for taking so long, and winning the Quidditch cup, I plan on buying Furetta's Ferret Food farm, and blowing it up.

This food is pure shit, and anyone dumb enough to think otherwise and then market it, so as to torture ferrets like me, deserves to die.

Now don't look at me like that! I'll be doing a public service!

And if that’s not enough to convince you, just think how happy the ferrets will be!

At this point my eyebrows, which you cannot distinguish from the rest of my face for all the fur, scrunched up, as I paused to think about this.

*Pauses to think about this.*

Slythering Salazar! This mudblood has turned me into an animal-bloody-rights activist!

This will just not do.

So scratch that.

I'm going to buy that ferret farm up in eastern Surry and burn it to the ground.

Then I'll blow up Furetta's Ferret Food farm.


See? That's much better. I'll rid the world of this infestation we call ferrets, thereby starving the Hippogriff population into extinction, so the next time anyone transfigures me into a ferret the Ministry will be on their arse's so fast it'll make heads spin.

Because if there are no ferrets, then no mudblood will be able to pass me off as just her pet.

See? I'm already returning to my cunning, heartless self. Humility lesson or not.

Speaking of Humility, I'm still reeling that the Mudblood had this in her! I actually am beginning to honestly think that if it were not for her cursed blood, that she may have stood a good shot of being sorted into Slytherin.

It's enough to give me nightmares, which I've been told (by that girl named after some Crayola Crayon color), cause me to make odd squeaking sounds.

Lucius thank you!!!!! That arse of a father of mine's is finally doing something good! Surely I could only have his damned soul to thank for this! That Crayola girl has just run in here to change clothing, without the mudblood around to inconspicuously block my view, (DAMN HER!), so I am going to leave you now while I get on with....


Well with entertaining myself.

You do the math.

I'm just glad Granger hasn't yet had me neutered.

                                                       * * * * * Dinner Time * * * * *

That elf is at it again, as is that damned cat, so I am going on a hunger strike, so as not to give either of them the satisfaction of watching me eat this shit.

No, instead I have begun to count the days I have been locked up by scratching marks into my cage.

This way, once my exile is over, I will know exactly how many times to Crucio the mudblood around the school grounds.

Of course, I may just feed her to the giant squid. I haven't quite decided which is more appealing.

One thing I have noticed though, is that my life is worse than that of a Prisoner of War.

Prisoners of War at least have hands with which they can chalk down the days of their imprisonment.

All I have are claws, and a plastic basin, at the bottom of this prison, into which to scratch off the days.

I've been at this task for nearly an hour now, but it turns out that ferrets, unlike that damned cat over there, lack retractable nails.

Who would have thought.

So since I can't retract even one nail...

Wait. Nail? That seems wrong because nails are growing out of these things where my fingers are supposed to be.

So what exactly am I supposed to call these things? Certainly not fingers? Phalanges?

Sodding Hell, I'm debating over the proper name for paws I do not intend to keep.

For purposes of my sanity, since I am still in denial about my current plight, we shall refer to these as fingers, yes?

So since I can't exactly retract any of my fingers, or these insufferably long nails on them, I can't mark individual days accurately. The best I can do is leave four long consecutive scratches. One for each 'finger' on my 'hands.'

So we're counting paws instead of individual marks. And ignoring the fact that I have five nails, because one sticks off to the side in an unnatural manner.

That’s okay though. I can deal with this.

Which brings me to my next complaint.

Prisoners of War at least have the fear of death to keep them sane.

What do I have? Surely Granger will change me back eventually. And she certainly won't kill me. She's far too goody-goody for that. What would the Weasel and Boy Wonder say then?

They'd probably profess their undying love because she is the only one clever enough to transform someone before killing them. It hides the evidence.

Bloody hell, it seems that even my thoughts are against me this morning.

You have to admit that it is a wicked idea.


I'm just glad the orange abomination hasn't gone into hunting mode yet.

A/N: The opening picture is courtesy of our other lovable ferret Lexi. She'll lick your hand clean if you have treats.

Chapter 3: Escape Pod
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Chapter 3 ~ Escape Pod

* * * * * Tuesday afternoon ~ Sometime before lunch * * * * *

As you can see, considering how you are standing there, listening to my inner-most thoughts like the sadistic freaks you are, with some form of dark magic that I am unaware of, you can see that I am still here.

So you can obviously tell that my minions have been slacking.

Of course it's only understandable. They aren't exactly Minister of Magic material.

But would think that given the amount of time they have had, that at least one of the imbeciles would realize that the Mudblood loving freaks were responsible for my sudden disappearance.

Scratch that.

For a Slytherin, that would be giving the Gryffindors waaaaay too much credit.

No self respecting Slytherin would even consider that a Gryffindor could be smart enough to pull something like this off.

Damn that Granger. Damn her straight to Hades.

Or to Pansy…

Merciful Merlin I'm doomed.

But instead of leaving me to contemplate how utterly screwed I am, perhaps one of you slimy gi... I mean enchanting individuals, could quell a poor ferrets boredom by sharing this dark magic of yours with him.

After all, it's only the polite thing to do after invading one's thoughts. Didn't your pureblood parents ever teach you that?


Oh... Silly me... I forgot that if you are up here, capable of listening to me, that you are surely a Gryffindor girl.

You know I'd feel sorry for you, but I'm having far too much fun laughing at your pathetic state of existence.

Hey! Wait a second! Where are you going!?

Don't leave me here!!

* * * * * 10 minutes later ~ Panic Sets In * * * * *

Sodding hell!

These ruddy Gryffindor bastards have left me locked up with nothing but my cushiony hammock and squeak toys for comfort, and I AM TRAPPED!!!

You heard me! Trapped with a capital T!

Not that I haven't tried to remedy the situation! Because I have been digging at the bottom of this cage for the past 10 minutes!

TEN MINUES! To no avail!

I mean beneath all of these shavings, there has to be a way out! What happened to fire safety laws and the Board of Governors' Regulations?!?!

What if there was a fire?! Surely as air-headed as that ruddy old bat Dumbly-dorey is, he would still realize that over half his students (especially Gryffindors) would be too cowardly and stupid to run back and save their pets (To whom they have a responsibility!) in the event of one!

Can you just picture it? There they are…all gorging their faces full of a luscious, house-elf-prepared meal in the Great Hall when Voldemort gets his way and all hell breaks loose.

The cowardly, ungrateful swine would go running for the Forbidden Forest before they would go running back to their dorms to retrieve their trusty, faithful pets. (To whom they have a responsibility!)

I mean were ruddy magical creatures people! We know not to leave our cages except for in the most dire of circumstances! We can be trusted with things like escape hatches even in the presence of evil orange felines, who we want to skin, and mudbloods, who we long to poison in their sleep!

And what about those of us with owners like Granger!? Not to say that Granger would ever own me, but just think about that abomination of hers!


On second thought, don't. That blasted thing tried to claw its way into my cage this morning. It can burn in the afore mentioned hypothetical inferno, which I plan to set ablaze in this cursed tower's turrets any day now.

But evil orange puffballs aside, it would only make logical sense for there to be an emergency escape door, or pod, or something to be built into every ruddy magical creature's cage!

So where the hell is it!?

Slithering Salazar!

This is a Muggle animal cage isn't it?

I'm infected!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mudblood-ness is not contagious is it?

I mean not for purebloods like myself?

Surely it cannot be!

Salazar not only am I doomed to eternal hell amidst giggling girls and the Orange Abomination, but I'm going to burn to death too!


Wait?! What am I doing? Surely panicking is not the answer.

Scratch that.

I am not panicking.

Malfoys do not panic.

We simply yell, scream, and Crucio-round mudbloods to take out our frustrations.

And since the mudblood has ever so kindly deprived me of my wand, not to mention hands, I will have to resume digging.

But why am I making no progress?

Are my claws are not sharp enough?

Perhaps the manufacturer charmed this cursed cage to be inescapable?


That can't be it!

It's a Muggle cage so the manufacturers couldn't charm it!


But then again...

The Mudblood could have...

That’s it.

If the Mudblood wasn't going to die before, she certainly is now.

I'll just have to keep digging. Yet I still cannot understand why my claws are not getting the job done! I mean, I'm a frigging wizard ferret! And this thing is just plastic! It's only one of the sturdiest materials on earth, but surely it is no match for my claws?

Is it?

* * * * * 5 minutes after that... * * * * *


Ow with a capital O.

If I had thought that I was miserable before, I have been proved wrong. Not only do I now have shavings stuck all over my head, but my front paws are bleeding.

Bleeding, you may ask. Well who would have thought that incessant, panic-induced scratching could do that to a ferret?

On the upside, my nails have now been filed down to lovely little points. All the more perfect for scratching Granger's eyes out.

Or her miserable cat's.

Whomever comes first.

In the interim I have decided to be productive.

Yes, you heard me. Without my minions around I'm learning to do all sorts of things for myself.

However, as soon as I have those easy-to-manipulate baboons around again, I have every intention of never partaking in such a futile activity, like work, again.

Thank you. I know I'm brilliant.

But back to my list.


Are you sure you can handle my brilliance?

Too bad, because here it is.

A Ferret Owner's Commandments

1. Thou shall not allow pitiful excuses of house elves to feed thy ferrets.
Nor shall thou allow such pitiful excuses of house elves to watch thy ferrets eat
while wearing a self-satisfied smirk, or any kind of smirk for that matter.

2. Thou shall never enclose thy ferret within a muggle or mudblood contaminated cage.

3. Thou shall always allow thy ferret a bit of private time,
while Crayola changes out of her school uniform.

4. Thou shall supply thy ferret with fresh shavings, premium kitty litter,
pre-cut, tiny slices of premium meat, and miniature Wizard Weekly cut outs.

5. Thou shall kill thyself if thou even considers feeding thy ferret anything from Furreta's Ferret Food Farm.

6. Thou shall equip thy ferret's cage with an escape hatch and/or pod,
for the possibility of thou being too lily-livered to save thy pet from a natural disaster.
And yes, natural disasters do include Potter being within a 10 meter vicinity.

7. Thou shall provide thy ferret with daily entertainment.
The skinning of all orange abominations constitutes a good activity.

8. Thou shall make sure thy ferret's cage bars are small enough
to prevent all Mutant Abominations from sticking their paws through them.

9. Thou shall not beat thy ferret for scratching any and all mudblood eyes out.

10. Thou shall not turn any humans into ferrets.
Unless they are Mudbloods.

See? There you have it! The Ferret Owner's Commandments!

Please excuse me.

I need to see about finding that escape pod.

Perhaps I can find one going to hell this time of day. Because being around my father would surely be better than this.

The opening picture courtesy of Lexi, caught on camera despiter her adversion to flashes.

Chapter 4: Vindictive Elves and Stolen Wands
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Chapter 4 ~ Vindictive Elves and Stolen Wands

***** Wednesday ~ Late Morning *****

It's not every morning one wakes to discover a vindictive house elf twirling a stolen wand between its abnormally long fingertips. And if you ever have, I extend my sympathies, because you most certainly have met Dobby.

The triumphant smile and evilly arched eyebrows of that defiant thing's face will forever be burned into my mind's eye.

For now I am a clawless ferret, with a feathery tail.

I think that sad excuse of a species got a little offended when I tried to gouge his eyes out last feeding time. But who can blame me when he was dispensing Furetta's Finest.

I would rather eat my own shit.

So given that I was forced into either starvation or slow death via Furetta's Finest toxicity, one can understand why I felt the need to scale the inside of the cage when Dobby - the hostile elf - completely missed my food dish, proceeding to pour it all over the top level of my palace.

After all, if I am going to eat that shit, it should at least be served to me on a golden platter.

Or in my case, a clean plastic dish.

Now the entire cage reeks of that 'nutritional' pet food.

How the little ingrate came by the wand I do not know, however I think that blasted cat had something to do with it.

Perhaps I should explain how this victimization began.

Par norm, I woke up on this blistery spring morning, glad to have another day of respite from my prefect duties, only to roll over in eager anticipation of Crayola's morning dressing ritual.

And yes it is a ritual, I know this after only 5 days here.

You see, much to my delight, Crayola unknowingly obeys my telepathically relayed commands and comes back from the shower in only a towel, not fully dressed like the other girls.

Thank God for that. The thought of seeing Granger in anything less than a mummified rapping is enough to send one to an early grave.

But ah, back to bliss. Crayola in a towel.

Once Crayola has showered, she comes back, hair soaking the back of the woolen towel wrapped so tightly that it leaves little to my furry imagination. She then proceeds to slip on her lacy panties as the others snatch up their satchels for the day. Right about now is when the mudblood shoots me a disapproving glare, and attempts to cover my cage with a sheet.

Damn her.

Fortunately for me, as the tainted wench vacates the premise, allowing the air to freshen in the absence of her stench, the others follow suit, leaving poor, innocent, scantily clad Crayola alone with me as they run off to stuff their faces with breakfast.

Cue Crayola's sympathy as I scratch frantically at the sheet, attempting to rip it to shreds.

It only takes a few moments of this before the sheet disappears, revealing Crayola's sympathetic face.

Not that I have ever seen her face. Usually I am attempting to look er...elsewhere.

"Aw..." She coos, her pouting lips pursed sumptuously. "I can't believe she does that to you! Covering you up like you're some sort of blasted bat! Just because she is content to waste away in a dark library does not mean the rest of us are as vampiric!"

Vampiric…is that even a word?

Oh screw it. It's not like I was admiring her intellect.

Crayola generally goes on like this for awhile, indignant on my behalf, reaching her fingers in between my tiny bars, which I dutifully lick as the loving little 'pet' I am.

Oh what I would do to be her personal pet.

Not that I'm little...

I'm not!

Just in my present state...

Well you get the idea!

By now all noise in the cursed Gryffindor tower has come to a halt, since the other heathens have invariably left for breakfast without my temptress, and I silently thank the mudblood for putting me in this position as Crayola steps back towards the mirror, and drops her towel.

Oh how the heavens could sing!

Or the hells, whatever does it for you really.

Now, seeing my temptress in all her glory, as she searches through her trunk for other silky articles to cover her creamy skin, bent over with her derrière waggling in my direction, is enough to make a ferret die and go straight to heaven, regardless of all previous transgressions.

Such as plotting the deaths of all Muggles, mudbloods, and in general anyone who pisses me off.

But then again, if God really would condemn one for such actions, he most surely is a mudblood lover.

Dear Salazar, if it wasn't for the fact that Crayola's ritual was about to begin, I might be sick.

Because mind you, this is where things get really weird.

Yet oddly enough, very arousing.

Because Crayola, purple crayon, Brown, the object of every ferret's most erotic fantasies, throws her chosen articles of clothing upon her bed, stands topless, and begins to hum.

You heard me right. She hums.

She stands in front of the mirror, playing with her long, wispy tendrils, throwing them behind her shoulders, standing as tall as her small frame will allow, and hums.

And as she hums, half naked before me, she beings to dance.

And by dance I do not mean the silly little dancing that silly little girls do at silly little things like Yule Balls.


The dancing that Miss Lavender Brown does would put the witches at Amore's Enchanted Gentlemen's Club to shame.

She will wrap her arms around her tall bed post, swinging a leg around it so high that I mentally cringed the first two times I saw her do so, and twirls around as if it were the bough, and she were the swing.

I think I'm in love.

Once she finally is done with her morning ritual, I have to fight the urge to slip little bits of pine shavings into her thong when she comes to say goodbye to me before she leaves for class.

And I know what your thinking, Pine Shavings. But hey, when you're a ferret, and out of paper galleons, shavings will have to do.

Now the problem with today, is that as I said, this is Crayola's normal morning ritual. Or at least it was on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.

But when I awakened, rolling over in eager anticipation of this, only to realize that I had slept in...

Needless to say, I was sufficiently pissed off.

The phrase, "Pissed off enough to kill a half-blood," comes to mind.

Of course, nothing could compare to what happened next. Because one is not angry until they have awoken to find not Crayola, but Dobby - the vindictive house elf - perched atop a bed, smiling gleefully. And I am telling you there is nothing that compares to a house elf with a vendetta. Particularly a cheerful house elf, prone to singing Christmas carols out of season, at random intervals.

As if dealing with the mutant dwarf were not enough, directly across from it upon the mudblood's bed was the Orange Abomination, licking its lips as if just waiting for a tasty snack of ferret à la carte.

It was only then that I noticed the wand clutched within the spindly confines of the elf's hands.

Dobby's protrubent green eyes met my own, a sinister spark much like my own father's flashing within them.

Oh damn...

In that moment, as the Abomination jumped down from the bed, and began slinking stealthily across the floor towards me, shackles raised, I realized one thing.

Both of their name would forever be etched upon my "To Kill or Torture?" list, right after Grangers.

It was right about then that the feathers began sprouting upon my tail, a high pitched, highly unpleasant rendition of "Jolly Ole Saint Nicholas" filling the room as Dobby danced around, the pilfered wand emitting bright yellow sparks in conjunction, the Abomination flicking it's tail in rhythm as I scrambled out of my hammock, promptly falling three levels to the shaving covered floor of my cage.

Thank you father. My humiliation is now complete. That sadistic little curse you cast upon me in your dying moment has worked. Not only am I, Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret, and the mudblood Granger's new pet, but now I am covered in pine shavings and have a sodding Turkey tail.

Blasted American foul...

My hatred of the damn tail only grew as the Abomination began taking swats at me through the bars, causing me to scuttle to the back of the cage in an attempt to hide underneath the bottom level, as far away from that damn cat's claws as I could get.

Unfortunately the miniaturized turkey tail had other plans in mind, since even miniaturized it was so damn large that I wound up getting stuck with my rear end and tail hanging out, as the cat's extended claws shredded the feathers off one by one, sending a mass of red fluff everywhere.

Sadistic Salazar I am glad feathers do not have nerves.

Son of a bitch.

That damn cat is actually smiling again.

Keep smiling kitty. Because as soon as I am out of here, I have every intention of skinning you and attaching Dobby's unsightly ears to your mangy hide.

Dobby and the Abomination: To Kill or Torture?


Decisions... Decisions...

I'll just ponder that while that thing keeps shredding my tail feathers. However, I may die of that elf's singing first.

Spontaneous aneurysm?

Not a bad way to go Salazar... Not a bad way at all..

Authors Note: Another huge thank you goes out to not only Timeturner, but to crystal allan, animagus girl, flutterby, jynx67, Jellyman, summer rain, strengthfairy937, Bella, Hufflepuff, Violet Gryffindor, BitterEpiphany, icy, LisaMacKay, Rebekka, shortiibabi, jembo, Wintershadows, JaxGranger, and jeniiiiii for all granting me endlessly amusing banters to read in our "Loss of Sanity" support group on the forums. Not to mention Timeturner's dancing butterbeer icon!

Another special thanks to IchigoPan and njhill22, for listening to my insane ramblings at one in the morning as we all attempted to subdue our untamable chapters!

Opening photo courtesy of the unsuspecting sleeping ferrets. Yet again, they somehow got into our pantry.

Chapter 5: I'm a Ferret. Aren't I?
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Chapter 5 ~ I'm a Ferret, Aren't I?

* * * * * Thursday Morning ~ Post Crayola's Ritual * * * * *

It was with considerable trepidation that I greeted the day, and one may ask why that was.


I am a ferret, and it has finally occurred to me that the entire school has been brainwashed by Saint Potter and his infantile cronies. I can only conclude this since it has been nearly a week, and still no one has summoned Granger to questioning by the Wizengaumat, exiling her to Azkaban for a sentence of no less than 10 years past eternity for the crimes she has committed against me.

And when I say crimes, I mean it. For even Furetta's Finest is beginning to taste wonderful in comparison to the daily dose of story telling that Dobby has taken to giving me.

That elf works for Satan. I know it!

Thus, I have come to realization that I must take matters into my own paws…er… I mean hands.

And to start it all off, today I thought I’d try my hand at telepathy.

Now don't give me that look. You know exactly what it is to which I am referring.

You know, thought transference, extra-sensory perception, intuitive transmission, parapsychology, inter-mind communication.

There, see, who said us ferrets possess merely the intelligence of a toddler!

Thank Salazar that I am not a toddler though, because I have a few 'plans' in mind for Crayola once I get out of here.

Ah…Crayola…Did you know that Crayola was into Divination? That thought had escaped me until recently, but I am so glad to have rediscovered that simple fact, for I have a plan.

Go ahead, applaud me! For I, Draco Malfoy, have formulated a plan that requires no help from any of my incompetent cronies!

My plan is simple, so simple that it is sheer genius. For I plan on using the ridiculous discipline of Divination to communicate with Crayola! And once we have established contact I will order her to both free and transfigure me!

And yes, I know what you are thinking! You are thinking that I am certifiable to even consider trusting Ms. Crayola Brown with a wand, however I have a good reason to trust her with this!

One: I'm desperate.

Two: Last night brought to light something that caused me to trust Crayola with something other than the ability to pole dance.



I think that may be the first time I've ever used that word and actually meant it. Sadly this cannot be allowed, and I will have to purge myself of the weakness that is Crayola once I am released from this pathetic excuse of a home. Perhaps I'll send her to Siberia with a healthy monthly stipend, keeping her away from my enemies, yet useful.

Regardless, it was with great trepidation that I found myself being set upon her lavender scented bedspread last night, for she had not only come back to the dorm earlier than the others, but she had come straight to me.

I guess she wanted to play with the new pet.

But do you see? I'm a bloody ball of fur and the ladies still bow to me!

Obviously upon lifting the sheet that Dobby had thrown over my cage, and seeing the half-transfigured state that I was in, courtesy of the snickering elf hiding out beneath Granger's bed, Crayola took the opportunity to 'help' me out.

And yes, for you sick saps there was a lot of cooing on her end, and a lot of clawing on mine. There was no way in hell that I was letting that incompetent pole dancer anywhere near me with a wand.

I did my best to extricate myself from her grasp when she unlocked the cage to get me. Sadly my tail feathers were caught in the mesh wiring of the lower level, making this impossible. With the loss of a few feathers later I found myself perched atop her bed, and I was sure as hell not about to attempt escape. Not only was the dormitory door closed, but that mangy feline was stalking around, licking his chomps, and that twisted elf was still humming insane Christmas carols out of season.

I swear Crayola is deaf and dumb, for she was completely oblivious to the putrid rendition of Jingle Bells going on near her ankles.

And when she put her wand tip too close to my tail for comfort, that elf poked his head out from beneath Granger's bed, grinned sadistically, and began humming a funeral march.

Die Dobby! Die! When I get out of this situation I am going to take up Voodoo and make a nice Dobby elf plush, then I am going to feed it to Hagrid's boarhound.

So as I braced myself for my imminent doom, assuring myself that Crayola's botched spell attempt would be both slow and painful, I was numb with surprise to find my tail fully restored, not a trace of a turkey feather anywhere within a ten kilometer vicinity.

Mentally I upped Crayola's Siberian stipend, and began to formulate a plan, for if she could transfigure me back into a fully functional ferret, surely she could transform me back into my glorious, silver eyed form once again.

But how to communicate my demands to her…

Unfortunately she took my bounces and leaps upon her mattress (which is oddly like a soft trampoline when you are ferret sized) as begging to be held. So she scooped me up into her lap, absentmindedly stroking my pelt as she idly poured over a copy of Madame Uranus' Guide to Heavenly Interpretation while I partook in this enforced cuddling session.

I swear, what is it with girls and cuddling?

And it was then that my plan hit me with full force. Mind control.

It is quite like Occlumency or Legilmancy, however I need to figure out how to do it without a wand.

But hell, I am a wizard am I not? And I have all day to figure it out while my mistress is at class. Surely I will be able to discover a whole new brand of magic by noon.

Now all I have to do is hope that she is actually good at it so she can hear me.

Free the ferret…Free the ferret…He will give you a stipend…

Now I know what you are thinking, and before you ask no, I have not gone round the twist. I simply have assessed the futility of my present situation, factored in the length of the Orange Abomination's nails if that cursed Mudblood persists in her blatant refusal to trim them, considered that Dobby is still armed with that ditzy Patil girl's wand, and have come to the following conclusion.

On Saturday, during the Quidditch match that I should rightfully be playing in, the entire dormitory will be empty.

Meaning vacant, unoccupied, deserted, as in no witnesses.

Conveniently the Orange Abomination's claws will be an inch long by then, just long enough to scratch my rump even when curling in the farthest corner of the cage. Right now he is scarcely missing my rather attractive booty, and by Merlin it shall not be marred with the foulness of that Mudblood's pet!

To summarize: I have no place to hide, and that damn cat keeps stalking past, extending its claws in violent bursts, and slashing anything in sight with a semblance of fur upon it while wearing a demonical grin.

I am completely, undeniably, screwed.

Not to mention that Patil girl. That Orange Abomination made mincemeat of her mink scarf. It was rather expensive looking, surprising given the rest of that poor excuse of a pureblood's wardrobe. But nevertheless, in her place and in this abhorrent winter climate, I'd be rightly pissed. After all minks, closely related to ferrets, possess a lustrous, thick coat perfect for the adornment of the luxuriously fashion-conscious.

Speaking of coats I'd very much like to keep mine intact. Hell, the lustrous white shine of mine would beat the pathetic hide of a mink any day. Commercial demand be damned! My coat would go for twice the galleon amount of the pitiable mink's! It's just too bad a market for ferret hide has yet to be established because my fur would show the upscale fashion designers of Paris a thing or two!

Could you just picture it? Me, in my fleece-like, pure as a crisp mountain snow, perfected glory! And there I would be, embellishing the attire of a tall, long-legged blonde of the Parisian runway, gracing her slender neck as it has never been adorned before! It would surely be the pinnacle of the fortunate beauty's career!

And of course, being the well respected and well positioned member of society that I am, I would be perfectly placed to advance both my marketing strategies for ferret fleece in addition to advancing my own fortune in gold, resting safely, tucked away as it is within one of my many Gringotts' vaults!

Why if my lucky model could just have a moment of the media's attention to showcase my lovely, velvety hide we cou…


Son of a Nargle! Was I really just considering the possibilities that could stem from skinning myself!?

Salazar…Cage life has been tough. Really tough.

I can see the outside world through my bars, and the glory of even the Gryffindor girls' dormitory is looking wondrous!

Oh…To be free… Free of tyrannical reign of the tabby abomination belonging to the busy haired one! Free to romp farther than three paces from my litter box and free to romp through the silky lingerie drawers of my mistress Crayola! Oh Salazar…the joys that life could bring….

It was right about then when the author cut off the ferret's thoughts, for fear of the reader's sanity. After all, delving into the mind of the truly delusional is neither healthy nor something that should be encouraged, even by the Medi-nurses of St. Mungo's psychiatric ward, who have shamelessly been praying for less self-absorbed clientele than Lockhart for quite some time.

But then again, Malfoy the ferret wouldn't exactly be an improvement now would he?

              * * * * * Still Thursday Morning ~ After the Return to Lucidity * * * * *


For the past twenty minutes I have been ramming the door. Yes, that's right. Ramming the door!

Not that I would have anywhere to go if I did escape. That damn dormitory door is shut again.

But that aside, I have been reduced to the whims of the protuberant eyed elf and the mad feline! Malfoys do not get reduced! We do the reducing to others!

And not only that, but I am also beginning to lose my mind! For Merlin's sake! I was beginning to fantasize about being skinned alive and being made into a scarf so that I could use my lustrous coat to conquer the fashion industry and enhance the Malfoy fortune that my father dessicated! And Malfoy's do not fantasize about anything!

Well…Asides from my favorite recurring one, where I levitate Granger and that mangy feline over the great chasm of death in Northern Siberia, while the whole of Slytherin house chants, "Round and Round the chasm they goes, the mudblood deserves to diiiiiie!" And in the background Crayola stands smiling, waiting for me with a hot, steaming cup of cocoa…

You get the point.

Malfoys do not fantasize, they do not lose their sanity, and they do not get stuck with poor excuses of American foul for tails! Did you know that it took three hours for that error to be corrected last night!? Those damnable Gryffindor girls (save for Crayola) cannot be counted on when it comes to returning to their dormitories post haste, after their hot, steaming meals are served to them on their golden platters!

*breaths deeply*

Pardon me, my head is spinning a bit. That last leap I took at the door closely approximated the direct head butt of an African Plains Bull, and the impact of the cheap metal bars against such a small skull…

Well you get the idea.

The point that we have arrived at though, is where we began.

Mind control.

Obviously I would need a wand to achieve this, and seeing as how Dobby has procured the only available one in the room (that Patil girl has yet to notice her wand is missing…), and seeing as how one actually needs an apposable thumb in order to incant well…

And again, I have come to conclusion that short of inventing a new brand of magic, that I am completely, undeniably screwed. It's a good thing that I am a Malfoy, because surely the rescue party will come along any minute.

That is to say, sometime this week.

Any minute now…

And of course these things do take time. I mean surely checking the wands of everyone in the school… Well, that's some 649 wands to check! Quite a feat for that cruddy old bat of a Headmaster with barely functional spectacles, let alone a functional search squad.

Yes…I can see it now.…Granger locked in the stock room of the Potions chambers, Professor Snape standing ominously before her, the only light source a dim candle levitated directly above her frizzy head, slowly dripping hot wax onto one of her precious books…

Sod it all. This is beginning to sound like a Grade C pornography fantasy, and I for one never again want to think of those two things in the same sentence, let alone in the same millennia.

Granger, and porn….Sadistic Torturous Salazar…When Bookworms Go Bad indeed.

Ah but again, I am digressing. Not that one can blame me. One does get a bit stir crazy after being locked away like a criminal for several days.

Seems like forever…

You know, criminals in Azkaban are actually lucky in that they lose their minds almost immediately, because this downward spiral process is simply infuriating.

Just think, you go from sanity, still think your sane, and continue to think you are sane even though you are having delusions of Parisian runway grandeur post destruction of Furetta's Ferret Farm, and then you suddenly realize, "Crimey! I've lost it!"


Exactly. I'm glad you see my point.

Not that I am losing my mind. I am perfectly lucid thank you very much. See, just look, even the idea of the Orange Abomination and that poor excuse for a Gollum look-alike lurking around here….somewhere….

Well even those thoughts are not enough to drive me over the edge so to speak.

And those voices I think I am hearing. Those indiscernible ones that really ought to be a bit more quiet, even those are not a figment of my imagination!

Speaking of peace and quiet, did you know that ferrets are actually relatively quiet creatures? Because we ar… I mean they are. And I should know, I've been trying to let loose squeaks of help since last Friday when Granger got wand happy.

Speaking of Granger, I do believe that one of those loud voices coming from the common room belong to that Mudblood, and I am pretty sure that other voices are getting closer.

Could the telepathy that I had not even tried have worked?

Oh sinister slithering Salazar, are all my curses of that demon I called my father actually being rewarded?

Please excuse me while I attempt to squeak for help. I may have to ram the door again. Perhaps the rattling of that loose door and my addled brain will alert someone.

Chapter 6: Yet Another Lesson in Humility
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Chapter 6 ~ Yet Another Lesson in Humility

***** Still Thursday ~ Still Hearing Strange Noises From the Girl's Stairwell *****

The footsteps have been pounding up and down the girl's dormitory stairwell for no greater than ten minutes, and no less than half of that. And I would know. I have had nothing better to do other than tapping out one-one thousand, two-one thousand with my pointed claws, in a rhythm that closely resembles that annoying Pinocchio personification of a house-elf's theme song, which he has taken to humming upon entrance and exit. I do not know what tone deaf demon from hell composed it, but I can tell you one thing: Chorus lines are not a house elf's strong point.

If I hadn't known better, I would say that the noise just outside sounded like a herd of Gryffindors pacing up and down the stairwell, as if they were unsure about whether or not they really wanted to ascend.

Stubborn, self-righteous Gryffindors! Honestly, if any of them possessed a shred of intelligence then at least one of them would be able to figure out exactly what Granger had done, and then that worthy soul would most assuredly come and free me, thereby earning my thanks.

Not that I would verbally thank them. Actually thanking someone implies that you needed their help in the first place, and a Malfoy certainly does not need anyone's help. It would simply be appreciated, and when one appreciates something they give a curt nod.

So there. It's settled. Whenever some hot-blooded arse of a Gryffindor figures it out and rescues me they shall receive a curt nod. Unless it's Crayola, because she'll be receiving directions to my private estate's bedchamber.

Suddenly the steady sound of pacing outside stopped, a quick shout drawing my attention. A shame that I could not make out what exactly was said, but it sounded like the person was calling for someone.

My ears pricked up, for now there was the pointed march of several footfalls coming up the stairwell.

And wait...Lest my pointed ears deceive me, or is that the exquisite sound of bickering?

"Hermione! You're telling me that you've known how to get us up the stairs all this time, and you've only just now decided to let us in on that minified fact!?"

My tail puffed out, my pointy teeth bared. Please Salazar no! Anyone, anyone but the Weasel.

"Miniscule Ron. Miniscule," Granger retorted in a ridiculously loud whisper. "Honestly one would think English is your second language."


Curious...I never knew the Weasel spoke caveman.

"Ronald just shush. Do you want us to get caught?"

All at once several nightmarish visions flew through my mind. Merciful Salazar....the things I could be forced to watch! After all, asides from sex what other reason could a woman have for dragging a man to her dorm?

"Caught? Who would catch us?"

A sudden snake like hissing, or perhaps shushing, came from the hall. "Ronald, do you or do you not understand the meaning of quiet?"


Suddenly I felt much better. There was no way that the Mudblood would lay someone that stupid.

Of course, I have been wrong before. After all, I never would have guessed that I would one day be Granger's pet either.

A second later the dormitory door cracked open, emitting a glorious glimpse of the freedom laying just outside of this hellish dorm. Of course, that freshly ignited hope within me was unceremoniously extinguished the second the Weasel's cursed head of unsightly hair poked through. was a wonder anyone disagreed with the well known truth that the Weasel-bee family was cursed. Not only are they poorer than the granules of litter stuck between my toes, but God himself had cursed them with that abhorrent ability to clash dreadfully with almost any room's decor.

And there you go. The Weasel-bee's shockingly clashing hair is proof that God has a sense of humor.

As if anyone could have doubted God's humor, what with my being a ferret and all. Besides, the only feasible explanations for this having happened to me are that either God has a perverse, sadistic sense of humor, or that he is punishing me for something, like my arrogant father's misadventures.

Wasn't there something in that Muggle leather bound book, the Holy Bribal or something or other, stating that the son should not be punished for the sins of the father?

I snorted, sending pine shavings scattering everywhere. Well if that book really stated that, then it shows how little Muggles know. Imbeciles. After all, everyone knows that on the off chance that one is actually offed before paying off their lost bets, that their son is the next one in the line for lynching.

Perhaps once I am out of here I can lynch the Weasel. that would cheer me up considerably.

With that happy thought in mind, I redirected my attention back to the half-open dormitory door, where the Weasel stood bug eyed, looking around as if he had never before seen the likes of a woman's sanctuary.

I snorted. He probably hadn't.

"RONALD! Don't just stand there!"

Following this hissed pronouncement Granger's hand shot through the doorway, shoving the Weasel all the way in.

But everyone knows that a weasel does not like to be unexpectedly disturbed, particularly when they are having a reverie about all of the things that probably do go on in a girl's dormitory. Things that they will never personally see...

"HERMIONE!" Yes...sure enough...the Weasel was bellowing at being man-handled. "Hermione! What in the ruddy hell was that for..."

In the Weasel's pathetic attempt to turn around while speaking, his diminutive brain lost control of his gangly legs. He teetered over backwards, flailing his arms at Granger before one of his hands finally caught around her sleeve. With a resounding grunt the freckled wonder fought for balance, only for the dormitory door to get thrown the rest of the way open, right into the Mudblood's back.

"You two okay? I thought I heard a grunt."

Haha! Enter Scarhead!

I jumped up on my hind legs gleefully, pressing my paws against the cage bars, looking for all the world like the convict I was as I strained for a better view of the unfolding chaos. And sure enough, the door's collision knocked Granger right into the Weasel, the force knocking the Weasel's feet right out from under him.

The bushy haired beast let out a high pitched squeal, making her sound like a Hypogriff's chew toy, as she clawed frantically at Scarhead's cloak. The boy wonder's eyes went wide as saucers as the three went tumbling forward, disappearing behind Patil's bed, the resounding crash and cacophony of yells sounding like a Beethoven sympathy.

Inwardly I cackled, bouncing up and down, doing the most dignified jig that one can do while possessing slinky-like vertebrae.


Pausing my victory dance I craned my neck, seeing the soles of Scarhead's shoes sticking out from beneath Parvarti's bed. I grinned, resulting in a bizarre baring of teeth, as I gave into my momentary fantasy , picturing congealing blood pooling around his feet ...

"Bloody hell... Mione, is that you?"

"Honestly! Who else would it be Ronald! Open your bloody eyes, it's not dark!"

And my reverie was once again, shattered by Weasel-bee's incomprehensible mutterings. It's truly a shame that Granger didn't muck up the charm. If she had just added an extra swish at the end of it I could've wound up as an over-sized, elephant sized ferret. And then I could've swallowed Weasel-bee whole...

I immediately began hacking. Had I seriously just contemplated ingesting that filth? Scratch that. If I ever wind up as the abominable ferret I'll simply squash the red headed nightmare beneath my paw, taking extra care to dig a nail right through his stomach. I'll make sure my croonies have a camera handy. I want to see Potter cry and have a record of it.

I snickered at the thought of Scarhead falling to his knees in agony, mourning his friend's timely ending, only for him to become my paw's next victim. Hasta la vista wittle potty.

At some point I had began dancing in a circle, making over exaggerated stomping motions with my paws. I paused mid-slashing motion, catching sight of my snow with fur. How dare I even think of soiling my pristine coat with those Muggle lovers dirty blood?

For the second time that day I began hacking.

"Hey Hermione! Who has the ferret?"

I froze, my coat puffing out like an electrocuted animal.

The freckled wonder had clambered to his knees, and was peering curiously in my direction. I had barely a moment to register how horrible his orange-red hair clashed with the deep crimson sheets of Pavarti's bed before Scarhead had stood up, dragging Granger to her feet.

"Hey Harry? Remember that time Moody turned Malfoy into a ferret?" The clueless Weasel asked, propping his elbows on the bed, leaning against them with a contented sigh. "One of the best moments of my entire life..."

And at that moment Scarhead caught sight of me.

I squeaked, backing up until my rear smacked into the back of the cage.

Potter's mouth hung open like a fly trap, realization evident in his expression.

Hermione calmly dusted her hands off on her jeans, tossing her hair over shoulder, before turning to fix me with a meaningful look.

And then the Mudblood with the oversized teeth smiled.

She smiled sadistically.

Chapter 7: As If Weasley Could Get Any Dumber
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Chapter 7 ~ As If Weasley Could Get Any Dumber


Oh this was better than I could have pictured it. Once Scarhead had figured out what his prefect-extraordinaire-of-a-bushy-haired-excuse-of-a-practice-girl-friend had done his mouth had immediately stopped flapping open like a flytrap, and he had actually shouted.

Bouncing back and forth with my hind legs in anticipation, my claws kicked up a good deal of pine shavings as I pranced in delight. Potter looked livid! He looked more livid than he had the time I suggested that he could sell his Orphan story to get those pathetically poor red headed freaks more money.

Clearly he was so shocked by Granger's treachery and unfair play that he was going to be forced to turn his precious little straight O's friend into the Ministry of Magic for unspeakable deeds committed. I didn't care that the very thought of Potter turning his own friend over to the Ministry over a Slytherin was half-deranged. I justified it by thinking that Gryffindors were all about fair play, weren't they? And besides, none of you can see Potter's face.

But I can, and boy is it good. I wonder if the Dark Lord ever got him to turn quite that shade of red before while detailing just exactly how much his father had sniveling begged for his life?

Clearly the stars were aligning, because Potter was yelling at Granger, Weasel was still opening and closing his mouth like a suffocating goldfish – how I longed to lodge some of my used litter down his trachea while he was doing that. If he just got close enough... – and clearly had not wrapped his insufficient brainpower quite yet around what his bookwormy friend had done.

But Potter had, and I squeaked with happiness. Even if this didn't go in my favor right now, Potter and the Weasel were dumb and didn't know how to keep their mouths shut. They were bound to slip up eventually, and when they did someone else would find out and release me from my prison!

And then I would begin working on my Post Encagement To Do List, beginning with hauling Crayola into my bedchambers and discussing the finer points of her stipend for when she would inevitably become my pole dancing mistress.

After all, a pureblood cannot take such a dim witted witch as anything other than that, pure blood in her veins or not! It would be simply uncouth!

Granger had just sputtered, that sadistic little grin gone from her face quicker than a Basilisk's look could kill! (Damn it to hell that the snake hadn't killed her when it had gotten the chance!) Clearly this was not going as she had planned.

I didn't care if I was doing the classic ferret-happy-dance complete with primitive-squeaking. This was a monumental occasion. Potter would get furious. Granger would defend herself. The Weasel-bee would defend his busy-haired-woman's honor. Someone would overhear the fight, and my freedom would be ensured! The potential destruction of the golden trio was at hand, and it all would have been brought about by me, and I wasn't even a human anymore.
Malfoys are just that good.

And before you can ask, no I did not care that my train of thought was leading me into multiple directions of how this would go down. All that mattered to my hairy self was that it would go down in my favor, because if there was one thing I could count on, it was the inferior intelligence of the two male nitwits of the golden trio.

Salazar, there were pickled newts that possessed more sense than they. Had Potter possessed any sense or stealth, I never would have caught him eavesdropping in that train compartment.

As it was, I did, and I'm still entirely convinced that the only reason he's survived the Dark Lord's wrath this long is that God character's twisted sense of humor.

The train of logic goes as follows: An almighty, all powerful being has seen and done it all, is immortal, and therefore is consequently prone to boredom. So to conquer boredom he set about doing the following:

Creating the Earth, to see just how many things he could put into one tiny planet to make things go bang.

Creating Helen of Troy, to see just how many jaws could drop (or to see just how large breasts could be made without succumbing to the gravitational laws he had enforced upon this large conglomeration of rocks).

Immediately regretted creating Helen of Troy due to the incessant wars the dazzling piece of ass stirred up, and instead created women to the polar opposite of looks, and created Granger.

Created Ceaser, amongst many other competent emperors and heroes, in attempts to unite the world to see what would happen.

Nothing. They conquered, then died. How dull for a god. So when he grew bored with that, he decided to try his hand at making a hero out of an incompetent scarhead. See the section on Potter.

At some point along the lines he created purebloods, with superior looks, intellect, and clear mobility, if my agility bounding from level to level around this cage is anything by which to judge.

And that, you mind-reading-and-entirely-useless-in-aiding-my-escape-attempt-imbeciles, is precisely why this higher power has allowed Potter to survive this long. He was bored.

"Harry, it's not what you think..."

Oh this would be good. The mudblood was pulling her lower lip between her teeth and actually appeared nervous.

Potter continued to glower, his gaze darting between Granger and the cage.

My tail hairs puffed out in anticipation, and I bounded to the upper level of the cage, smushing my nose against the bars for a better view.

"Wait a that-is that-?"

Oh look, the Weasel was having some signs of brain activity, and had gone all wide eyed from his perch on Crayola's bed.

I peeled my snout's lips back at him and gave him my best pointy toothed sneer for defiling my future mistress' sheets with his filth.

Granger finally let out a frustrated huff, rolling her eyes. "Yes Ron, that's Malfoy. It's a wonder you complete any revisions catching on that quickly."

I snorted, actually snorted, out my snout.

A moment later I recoiled in horror – I had just agreed with that Mudblood on something! - and began hacking on the hairball that I didn't quite yet have. (Oh yes, we ferrets get hairballs, and we can't hack them up like that mangy orange abominations feliney kind can. Oh no, instead we have to sit and choke on them until they come out our other end in a most explosive-)

Well, you get the idea. Besides, there are more important things going on right now than my presently and pathetically short digestive tract – like the fact that the Mudblood had just done the unthinkable and voiced disdain with the Weasel.

Don't look at me like that. That busy haired thing doesn't show disdain for him. I've heard her dream-induced-moans into her pillow at night while all her dorm mates are having dreams of breaking into the Slytherin dormitories to sleep with that Slytherin prince.

Speaking of, where in Salazar's name is my search party? By this point all the dormitories should have been subjected to a mass search by now!

I didn't have time to reflect on that though, because a moment later the Orphaned Scarhead had let out a sound not unlike a charging bull – I shuddered to think of that poor ginger Weasley faced girl if she had to listen to that in bed - at my humble, barred abode.

It took that overgrown giant with his beastly, normal human sized feet about two seconds to reach my cage, and another second for me to realize that he was trying to infiltrate it!

Granted, judging by the way he was fumbling with the cages little plastic snaps, it was a wonder how he ever caught a snitch at all.

And as one of his big fingers slipped just past the bars of my cage, I did what any pure, Slytherin Malfoy would do.

I jumped up on my hind legs and sunk my teeth into his finger.

"OW! Damn't MALFOY!!" Potter yanked his hand up so fast that my head was still attached to his finger.

And it subsequently smashed my tiny skull into the bars yet again, with much more verocity than my previous escape attempts had held.
Dizzily scampering backwards at an odd sort of wobble, I was dimly aware of swearing, and a reasonable tone of voice trying to talk to the other. It wasn't until the cage top opened that I was able to shake my head injury induced stupor away long enough to see the enraged looking Potter hovering open my now unsecure abode with a look of malevolent fury.

Oh, there just had to be some way I could sue him in the Wizengamut for this.

Potters hand lunged in and once again, I did what any true Malfoy would do.

I squeaked and made a slinky-esque dive for the bottom level in a scurrying attempt to hide.

"Harry! What are you doing!? Stop!"

Skidding in a frenzy of four flailing paws I bounced off the middle level, then beneath the lower level, just narrowly avoiding the Weasley-girl-tainted hands of Potter, his fingers clasping on empty air behind my tail. Granger was still shouting, and I egged Granger on through my newly established telepathy with the Gryffindor female's dormitory.

Not that Crayola had as of yet heeded my telepathically imparted instructions to release and change me back to my true and proper form so I could be her properly, but I was convinced that it was working.

After all, I'm a Malfoy, and by default I cannot fail.

Of course getting changed into a ferret had been a somewhat minor setback...

It was during this momentary lapse of attention that fingers seized quite hard around my tail, and with my newly beedy eyes bulging out and my claws – no wait, we had decided on Monday to call them fingers – digging desperately at the plastic basin of my cage (a cage that I was suddenly fond of when the alternative choice was my arch enemy Potter's hand – proof that the world had gone mad that I was desiring to stay locked up!) I was yanked up and out.

Only the impending doom that I had expected didn't come.

Oh no, what came was much worse.

Saint Potter was holding me up, directly in front of his oversized, glasses-bespeckled nose, glaring like he was contemplating a particularly hard potions equation. Like how many cups of mandrake root bits are needed to double a potion if one portion requires one cup.
I always knew Potter had problems with basic mathematics.

Scarhead's ineptitude's aside though, I now found the back of my neck being pinched between his fingers as the Gryffindor Saint glowered at me. At me! When he was supposed to be glowering at Granger, for some...unknown reason.

My tail swung down between my hind legs as a dangled, and much to my displeasure I found that the skin behind my neck was being pulled back with such verocity that it actually pulled my lips back and away from my snout, revealing my pathetically pointed incisors in a strange form of grin.

In case you are of the particularly dimwitted variety, like the Weasel over there who was still sputtering like a merman out of water, Saint Potter was scruffing me.

Somewhere in hell my father was laughing.

It only took another moment for the source of his previous anger and shouting to become known, as he spat out spittle with his questions. "What. Did you do. Malfoy. To MAKE her do to this to you?"

Ah, so that was why he had been shouting furiously and turning those interesting shades of red. He assumed the little Mudblood wouldn't have finally snapped to the point of ignoring her precious little rules to turn me into this abomination, unless I had done something particularly vile to her.

To be fair, he wasn't wrong.

I stared back with the best glare I could muster with my eyelid-less beedy eyes, and contemplated the neverending limits of Potter's stupidity.

He was, after all, still glaring at me as if waiting for a verbal answer.

To appease him I attempted to cough up that insufferable hairball, succeeding in covering his glasses with spittle.

Ah, sweet success.

Author's Note:
Annnd like with Eclipse of the Sky, I am also finishing up this story as well. *grins cheekily, apologizes profusely to everyone for such a long wait, and skips off quickly*