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