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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.

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