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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*

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