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.
Honestly...it 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. Yes...now 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.
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