Only Corgi had better be reading this!
owns all the characters and some of the dialog, and I owe her thanks for inspiring me to write parodies.
This story ©2004 by Lady Narcissa. In this chapter, we reconstruct
the Day of the Ferret, and various strange things begin to happen.
‘Breakfast time, Draco.’ Goyle’s voice sounded far too loud for the room
to contain him this early in the day. Draco’s head pounded but he sat up in bed, stretched, and yawned.
The morning dawned grey and stormy. Draco got up, dressed perfunctorily,
and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. It was another day just like any other day at Hogwarts, without all
the luxuries and comforts of home. He waited eagerly for the regal eagle owl that would be bringing special treats
from his mother, which he would, once again, neglect to share with even his closest friends. Across the way at
the Gryffindor table, Draco noted with some disdain that Potter, Weasley, and Granger sat with their heads together,
listening to something that the ridiculous Weasley twins were plotting. Lee Jordan, the patently biased choice
for Quidditch announcer, was also in on whatever the latest stupid prank was going to be. Young Master Malfoy was
so glad he hadn’t been stuck with the losers on the far side of the hall.
‘Oi, mail,’ grunted Crabbe from his left. As usual, his father’s magnificent
owl Persephone fluttered by with Mum’s heavy box of sweets. Goyle looked on like some lovesick puppy as Draco opened
the box to reveal a homemade cake, a spider-nest pie, and the usual assortment of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans,
Chocolate Frogs, and Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum. He tucked them away into his book-bag and sneered at the forlorn
look on Goyle’s face as, once again, he received no treats. And why should he share? Crabbe and Goyle had their
own parents to send them things. These were for him and for him alone.
He stood and headed off to History of Magic, Crabbe and Goyle at his
side just like the morning before. He would spend this class, he knew, with his Quick Quotes Quill taking notes
for him as he worked his way through the spider-nest pie, into which his mother always baked a special treat. One
time it had been a Galleon, another time a family heirloom ring he knew his father wanted to wait to give him until
his sixteenth birthday. His mother was such a pushover; he’d admired it and she’d sent it. It was so easy to get
what he wanted from her.
Professor Binns droned on as usual, and as usual Draco paid no attention
whatsoever, letting his quill take the notes he would undoubtedly never read. He opened the spider-nest pie beneath
the desk and tossed the wrapper aside. As he bit into it, wishing Crabbe would stop making those little whingeing
noises, his teeth met something hard. There was the treat, and what a treat it was. A small silver serpent charm,
coiled and at the ready.
Draco shook his head slightly; he had an awfully odd feeling he’d gotten
one of these same snake charms just the other day—Mother must be slipping. But he took it out, licked the pudding
off it, and tucked it away in his robe pocket nonetheless. In short order he’d made his way through the homemade
cake (pumpkin today) and torn up the duplicate Chocolate Frog cards. He was bored; Binns was boring; he saw no
reason why he should have to sit through this class. He glanced at his timetable: Care of Magical Creatures was
next with that oaf Hagrid—and, much to his chagrin, the Gryffindors. Why they insisted on having the two houses
study together was beyond him. But there were some things that even a Malfoy couldn’t control at Hogwarts. He should
know: his father had tried.
When Professor Binns finally stopped talking about the Goblin Rebellion
of whatever year it was (all the Goblin Rebellions ran together in his brain), Draco stood and collected his supplies.
He packed his parchment and quills away, once again fingering the snake charm in his pocket. If she sent another
one of those, he might start giving them away in return for favours from his friends. Now there was a thought.
They’d worship him forever for that.
With Crabbe and Goyle at his side (‘will you give me some breathing room,
you mongrels!’), he made his way toward Hagrid’s hut near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Draco did not like
the forest or any of its inhabitants. His idea of enjoying the outdoors more closely resembled staying in a luxury
suite with a view rather than gracing the earth with his hands and fingertips. He knew that he was destined for
things far more refined than mucking about with that which got one dirty; his white willow wand was proof of that.
He remembered his mother’s squeal of delight at Ollivander’s when this particular wand chose him. He had, of course,
rolled his eyes in embarrassment—his mother could be something of an idiot. But she was a decent cook who never failed to send
him what he wanted, so on that basis alone he’d decided to keep her.
As usual, the Gryffindors were already at class. Hagrid was speaking
in that dimwitted manner he had. ‘On’y jus’ hatched, so yeh’ll be able ter raise ’em yerselves! Thought we’d make
a bit of a project of it!’
‘And why would we want to raise them?’ Draco heard himself say, and for a moment he was annoyed with
himself. This sounded awfully familiar—hadn’t they started on Skrewts yesterday? Hagrid shot him a look of complete
non-comprehension; Draco continued. ‘I mean what do they do? What is the point of them?’
Hagrid gaped at him and when he finally found his voice, he looked as
though he couldn’t have been more pleased. ‘Tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ’em today…’
Draco rolled his eyes as Hagrid droned on and on about what they might
try to use to feed the Skrewts. Obviously the giant knew even less about these beasts (for they were definitely
beasts) than the usual creatures he used to torment them. Draco didn’t see the point—you couldn’t tell one end
from the other—but there was no arguing the fact that Care of Magical Creatures was a required class and he would
have to make his way through it. Maybe he could force an accident much like he had the year before. That had almost
gotten Hagrid taken care of, but not quite. And it was all Potter’s fault, in some way, shape, or form.
Everything was Potter’s fault somehow.
Crabbe and Goyle moved forward to work with the Skrewts; Draco joined
them half-heartedly. There seemed to be no point to it other than the point at either end of the Skrewt. It was
impossible; an exercise in complete futility. This was so far beneath him. Let the Gryffindors learn to work with
these nasty things; he didn’t have to. The mudblood Granger even had the nerve to compare their usefulness to that
of dragon’s blood, as if these Skrewts would ever amount to anything. Draco ignored her and instead cast his attention
on Pansy Parkinson’s chest as she tried to walk her Skrewt: now there was something worth focusing on. He smiled
to himself; the rest of the class passed relatively uneventfully. After an hour they headed back to the Great Hall
for lunch. Then it would be time for double Transfiguration, and then dinner.
And then time to hold court in the Slytherin Common Room. That was Draco’s
very favourite time of day.
He’d been waiting for just the right time, of course, and the opportunity
presented itself as the students queued up for dinner in the Entrance Hall. Saint Potter, Weasley, and Granger
were together, as usual; Draco fingered the newspaper in his pocket. He called out to Weasley, who spun round in
annoyance. ‘Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley! Listen to this!’
And he read in a very loud voice indeed, so that the entire crowd could
hear him. It filled him with a great deal of glee to watch as Weasley’s face began to redden to match his hair.
Draco read the whole article, including the part where Weasley’s father’s name was written in wrong. For some reason
that was just too funny; The Daily Prophet would never dare to get his father’s name wrong, would they. By the time he’d finished reading the article,
Crabbe and Goyle were howling, slapping their knees, and generally rolling around on the floor.
But there was something oddly familiar about all of this, too… Draco
shook it off and said a few choice words about Mrs Weasley’s body shape. And suddenly Potter strode forward to
defend his ickle friend with a very pathetic Get stuffed, Malfoy.
Draco was unable to resist that one. ‘Oh yeah, you were staying with
them this summer, weren’t you, Potter? So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?’
To his left Goyle sniggered and muttered ‘good one!’ under his breath,
but Potter wasn’t quite so readily put off. ‘You know your mother, Malfoy? That expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose?
Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?’
Draco felt himself flush—no one talked that way about his mother! She was perfect,
and only he
could say otherwise, and only to himself. ‘Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.’
‘Keep your fat mouth shut, then.’ Potter turned his back.
Now that was a mistake. Insult my mum,
then turn your back? It’s just too good to imagine…. Draco pulled
out his wand and in an instant had cast the spell. ‘Capillus Inflammare!’ A jet of white-hot light streamed from his white-willow wand and just missed
the side of Potter’s face. Had it hit him, Potter would be on his knees apologising for his comments, begging for
a way to stop his hair from flaming in front of the whole school! That would be some vindication. But…
‘OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!’
Wait… this wasn’t how it was supposed to go! This had already happened,
hadn’t it? Or had it been a dream, a déjà-vu, a precognition? Instinctively, Draco curled up into
a ball, expecting the worst.
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
The next thing he knew he was unceremoniously sprawled on the floor,
staring up at that stupid enchanted
ceiling. Why, oh why, did this have to happen to him? ‘Wait until my father finds out about….’
‘Oh yeah?’ Moody limped forward menacingly. ‘Well, I know your father
of old, boy… you tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son… you tell him that from me… now, your Head of
house’ll be Snape, will it?’
‘Yes.’ Draco felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.
Moody cast him a malevolent glare with his real eye, while the magical
one fixed on him unblinkingly. ‘Another old friend. I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape… come on,
you….’ And with a painful grasp, Draco found himself being pulled up and marched off to the dungeons in front of
the entire school!
If his father ever found out….
Draco sat up in the privacy of his four-poster with a start, head pounding,
chills crawling up and down his arms and legs. He heard Moody’s voice echoing inside his brain, a relenteless reminder
of the mess he’d made of things just before dinner. His skin itched as though he had fleas, and every time he started
to fall asleep he felt himself being bounced mercilessly off the stone floor of the entry hall.
And worst of all, it had been McGonagall who’d had to rescue him. Oh,
if his father ever found out!
He pulled the blankets up over his head in abject misery. Snape had actually
sided with that Moody character! The nerve of some people. If only he’d been able to hit Harry with that spell….
When he finally slept he did so restlessly. He dreamt of a mirror, and
when he looked in it his face was flushed with embarrassment and his arms covered with sleek white fur. He awoke
many times, always with the same thought: tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be better.