Chapter Six- Romance.

He's doing it again."

"For heaven's sake, Ron, will you hush up?"

"That's the fifth time this week."

"Yes, Ron, I know. You've told me so repeatedly."

"It's disgusting."

"Then quit looking at it!"

Ha. As if I could. "Hermione, he's doing it in public! He couldn't get more attention if he were running around naked yelling 'Wahey!'"

She rolled her eyes and bit into her toast. "Have you ever considered trying to ignore him?"

"How?" I demanded. "How the hell am I supposed to ignore that?"

Malfoy was sitting at the Slytherin table, next to Ophelia Nott. Nott's one of those pretty girls who doesn't know she's pretty, like Hermione—not really my type, but there you are. She looks like she's been put through the wash a few too many times, sort of faded-like, with white-blonde hair and white skin and green eyes that, I swear to Merlin, have streaks of yellow in them. At that particular moment, she also looked royally pissed, because Malfoy was leaning in close to her and flirting as through his life depended on it. He buttered her toast for her. He topped off her orange juice.

"I'm going to be sick," I muttered.

Hermione shut the book she'd been reading and put it down on the table. "Ron, that's it. If you say another word about Malfoy, I'm going to go sit next to Neville."

"Don't tell me you actually approve—Hermione? Hermione, where're you going? Hey!" I yelled at the back of her head, "I didn't know you were serious!"

I watched her sit next to Neville, who probably could've been struck by lightening without noticing; he was alternately glaring at Colin Creevey and staring at my sister, the pervert. Seamus was flirting with Lavender, Parvati was with some older boy, and Dean kept peering at the one Chinese girl over at the Ravenclaw table (you know—the one who's not Cho Chang). Justin and Michael were talking near the Hufflepuff table. Blaise Zabini was perusing a large pink Valentine card that sang whenever it was opened. Harry finally showed up for breakfast and sat across from me, yawning.

"You're not in love, are you?" I asked him.

He blinked at me. "Hrrm?"

"Good." I concentrated on my sausages.

Because it's not like I needed somebody or anything. I was perfectly happy just the way I was. I'd been as chaste as a hermit for nearly a month and it was just so bloody wonderful I could scream. It was a miracle I didn't break into a song and dance routine, I was so happy. And Valentine's Day was a stupid idea anyway, because if you really love somebody you shouldn't need a holiday to tell them so, and you shouldn't rub it in the noses of the losers and the hermits who don't. And—

"Ron, were you planning to eat that?"

I'd smashed my sausages into a thin paste all over the plate. And Malfoy was slicing Nott's for her. "Oh, to hell with it," I mumbled, and shoved my plate away.

Harry poured himself some orange juice and sighed. "What exactly is the problem now?"

"There isn't any problem."

"That's why Hermione's sitting over by Neville, then?"

"Hermione's in a bad mood this morning." Harry coughed. "Oh, don't you start, too."

"I didn't say anything."

Nott jumped to her feet and tried to leave; Malfoy cut her off, and I got the impression that he wanted to make Goyle carry her books for her. He was pouting, for crying out loud. "That's obscene," I muttered.

"What is? Malfoy and Nott?" Harry actually laughed at the whole sick display. "You'd think by now he'd have figured out she's not interested."

"He's an ass. He's a stupid ass. What the hell is he doing now?"

Somebody had knocked a goblet over, and there was a puddle of orange juice on the floor. Malfoy had actually knelt down and draped his cloak over the mess. Apparently he meant for Nott to walk on it. She said something that sent the entire table up in laughter and went around him, and he just sat on the floor and glared at her with his face all pink. Crabbe and Goyle were staring at each other helplessly; I couldn't really blame them.

"She treats him like so much flobberworm slime and he hasn't tried to kill her yet. He just comes back again and again for more. Has he lost he bloody mind?"

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until I noticed Harry giving me the Completely Baffled Look of Doom. He put his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Well, yes, Ron. People tend to act like that when they're in love. And you have to admit she's an improvement over Parkinson, visually speaking..."

I have no idea why I was so certain. I had no idea why I cared. Malfoy was an evil-minded son of a bitch and I should have been gloating over how badly he was embarrassing himself. Instead I was sitting here fuming over every nauseatingly cute little overture he made, because...why? Because they were absurd, for one thing. And for another...there wasn't another, was there? Damn. But he absolutely could not be in love with Nott, not now, not in this world. Which meant he had another reason for ogling her and then smiling while she kicked him in the teeth. Which meant he was up to something. And I had a duty as someone who was, you know, not evil, and that duty was to stop people who are evil when they're up to something. Malfoy, being evil and up to something, needed stopping. It was perfectly logical when you thought about it that way.

I finished my breakfast and went to class. Harry fell asleep during Flitwick's lecture while I finished my Transfiguration essay. I showed it to Hermione during our morning break, but she refused to check it for me. "You should've had it done last night, I had plenty of free time to look it over for you then." I stuck my tongue out at her behind her back.

Harry rummaged through his bag and started muttering to himself. "Er...neither of you have seen my essay, have you?"

I shrugged. "You probably left it in our dormitory."

He said a couple of words that would've shocked my mum.

Hermione scowled at him. "Just run back to Gryffindor and get it, Harry. You've got plenty of time."

He checked his watch. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

I nudged him with my elbow. "Want me to come with you?"

He shook his head. "No, no sense in both of us being late..."

"You won't be late!" I yelled, but he was already running back to Gryffindor Tower. Not like he meant to be rude, mind you, but his marks had been slipping, enough that even the teachers were worried. Personally, I thought he was entitled to it, things being as they were, but apparently Professor McGonagall didn't consider You-Know-Who a good reason not to hand your homework in on time. I thought she had her bun pulled a bit too tight, myself.

Hermione just shook her head while she watched Harry go, then turned the other direction down the hall. "Come on, Ron, let's get to class."

"Class? Hermione, we've got loads of time before class starts."

"I know that, but I want to ask Professor McGonagall about those mollusk-to-monotreme transformations she mentioned last week—the ones you and Harry were having so much trouble with?"

"What to what what?"

She gave me a Look, which I supposed was meant to substitute for some kind of lecture about how I need to Apply Myself More to My Schoolwork. "I'll see you in class," she said tartly, and went off down the hall in the opposite direction that Harry had gone. And people wonder why we broke up at the end of fifth year.

Wait a minute. I was alone now, wasn't I?

"Great," I muttered. "Just bloody wonderful." The sappiest damn holiday of the year, and here I was, alone, abandoned by my friends and with no one to call my own. Not that I needed anyone to call my own. Or to call anything, for that matter. Or just anyone in general. I was celibate and I was alone and I was happy about it, it was the best decision I'd ever made, la di-dah di-dah di-dah...

Okay, I was bored.

I started to walk around without any real purpose; I'd heard something about Sir Cadogan's portrait getting moved into the trick stairwell by the library, and I had an idea to go bother him. It was something to do, anyway, and I'd likely catch Harry on his way to McGonagall's room. I took the shortcut past the DADA classroom and ended up heading down a corridor of empty classrooms, not really hurrying, even though the break was only a quarter-hour long. And, because Fate is an evil-minded asshole, I came around a corner and plowed directly into Malfoy, headed the other way.

"Watch where you're going," he snapped, but his voice sort of trailed off in the middle. I'd stopped avoiding him; I had no reason to avoid him. After all, it wasn't my fault he was a crazy evil bastard who got off on tying up helpless drunks and fucking them senseless. He'd started avoiding me, though, even to the point of skipping Muggle Studies on a regular basis. We hadn't said two words to one another in the last four weeks, and that had been just fine with me.

I said, "Watch it yourself, prick." He took a few steps backwards, as if he couldn't stand to be within three feet of me. I noticed he was carrying, of all things, a big white chrysanthemum with a silver-and-green ribbon tied around the middle. Goyle could've figured out who it was for. "Trying to bribe Nott with flowers now?"

He folded his arms across his chest, careful to avoid crushing the flower. "It isn't a bribe, you idiot, it's a Valentine's gift. Not that you'd know much about gift-giving, course."

Bastard. Evil bastard. "Good thing it's not a rose, or you might lose an eye when she throws it back in your face."

"I gave her roses earlier," he announced, like I ought to be preparing an article for the Prophet about it. "But one can never have too much romance in a relationship."

I snorted. "Oh, yeah, you're really the king of romance, aren't you?"

"Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Weasley."

"What?" I yelped. Definitely crazy bastard. "You've got to be kidding me, Malfoy. Why would I be jealous of you?"

"Well, let's see—I'm rich, smart, handsome, popular and well-bred, and, oh, yes, I've got a girlfriend."

Merlin's big hairy balls. I ought to have called St. Mungo's on the spot. "Oh, yeah, Malfoy. Real wonderful girlfriend, if she can barely stand to be in the same room as you."

"She's being coy," he said, looking sulky. "Besides, I haven't seen you in the company of either sex recently. Raised your prices, have you?"

I tried to hit him, honestly, but it was a half-assed sort of swing and he dodged it anyway. "You shut your fucking mouth, Malfoy!"

He smirked. "Make me."

"I'm alone by my own choice!" And of course it sounded incredibly stupid when I said it to him.

"A likely story. Has Pomfrey any idea when the rash will clear up?"

I slammed him against the wall. The chrysanthemum hit the floor. I hadn't exactly meant to do it, but, damn it, when he looked at me like that—like he owned me or something...lucky for me he didn't see it coming either. When his back hit the wall, he squeaked. "Take. That. Back."

"Truth hurt, Weasel?"

"You should know."

"What the hell do you mean?"

Good question. Except, somehow, my brain and my mouth had lost touch, and the one was running along just fine without the other. "Bole, broomshead, this time last month? Ring a bell?"

His eyes flashed. Never seen eyes do that before, that's just how to describe them—like lightening. "Shut up."

"Well, wouldn't you find it a bit suspicious if the bloke who'd tied you up and buggered you claimed not to be a faggot? I know I did..."

His face fell, and there was something wild and desperate underneath. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he hissed, clutching at my hands.

"The hell I don't." We hadn't been this close since Hogsmeade. I could feel his heartbeat, smell that nasty cologne, see the sweat beading on his forehead as blood rushed into his face and....other places? Either that's his wand, or he's nearly as big a pervert as I am...

He was practically gasping for breath now. "Get off of me."

"Make me."

"Get off!" He tried to shove me away, but I had a much better position, and this time around I was sober. I threw my weight against him, he started to thrash and struggle, and we both lost our balance and fell to the floor. He tried to slip away, but I seized his robe, flipped him on his back, and sat on him. And proceeded to discover that it was definitely not a wand in his pocket. He looked like he was about to strangle me or cry. "Fuck you," he said softly.

You already did.

He seemed so different from this angle—his hair sort of spread out, wild-like, his face flushed, and for all that he was spitting and glaring at me, his true feelings were poking me in the bum. He snarled at me, and I must've gone mad for a moment, because all I wanted in the world was those curling lips. I bent my head and kissed him. I could taste the sweat on his lips, some kind of mint—maybe mouthwash, maybe just toothpaste. I pressed against him, as close as I could get, holding his head in place with one hand and sliding the other up under him, across his back. Without thinking about it, I rocked my hips against his, and felt little electric shocks shoot through my body. And Mr. I'm-Not-Like-That whimpered and pushed into the kiss and put his tongue in my mouth, like he was trying to get the right angle for sucking out my tonsils. It was fireworks and cinnamon all over again. You couldn't have paid me to stop.

I shifted my position a bit, and he seized hold of me by the hair like I was going to escape. I slid one of my knees between his legs, forcing his thighs apart, until my leg made contact with the bulge in his trousers. He gasped and rolled his hips forward. I pulled away just long enough to get a good look at him underneath me, and it was almost too much at once; his lips were swollen and wet, his eyes were glazed over, his whole body arched up to meet mine. This was my old fantasy, this was revenge, this was wonderful, this was—

"Ahem."

—this was...eh?

"Excuse me."

Malfoy raised his head to look over my shoulder, whimpered, and crawled away crab-wise. I rolled over and found myself looking right at Ophelia Nott. She glanced between the two of us, one eyebrow raised, mouth pursed in a puzzled little frown. Malfoy had gone dead white, and I just couldn't meet her eyes. I wish I knew how these things happen to me sometimes.

 Nott finally look at the chrysanthemum. I think we'd been laying on it.

She cleared her throat and straightened up. "I haven't the slightest idea what's going on here, and I don't think I really want to know. It's not any of my business anyway." She glanced at me oddly before turning towards Malfoy. "But if you ever come near me again, I swear by Merlin that Moon won't kill you." She walked away briskly with her nose in the air. Malfoy stared after her incredulously. I looked down at my dusty, rumpled robes.

I hate silence. It ought to be outlawed.

"Er—" The look he turned on me should've melted the door hinges. It's not like any of this was my fault, though. Mostly. "What's she mean, he won't kill you?"

"He won't, but I'll wish he had." He climbed to his feet, brushing furiously at the streaks of dust on his robes, and kicked the remains of the flower away. Without another word, he stalked off after Nott, leaning forward so that his robes hung just so. Since all the blood in my body had collected in my face, I merely had to snatch up my discarded bag and get the hell out of there as fast as my legs could carry me.

Professor McGonagall gave me a bizarre look when I walked into class early, but she was nothing compared to Hermione. She looked me over from head to toe and her mouth dropped open. "Ron! What in heaven have you been up to?"

She didn't want me to answer that question.

I dropped into a seat and tried to smooth my hair back, or at least make it look sort-of-presentable. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. When she kept on staring at me, I could only shake my head. "I make a lousy hermit."

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Chapter 6.92- Development.

being The True Adventures of Colin Creevey, Esq.

So I was walking through the corridor, minding my own business, right? And all of a sudden these two older blokes built like cement trucks come around a corner and grab me, right out of the blue. I mean, they were enormous—if you've ever seen American football, American Muggle football, well, sign this pair up to be line backers. They had no necks. Now, I am a peace-loving individual, but my dad did train me in the manly art of self-defence, and I felt I had a bit of an obligation to try and fight back. Didn't want to blacken the good name of Creevey or anything. So I kicked the one on my right very hard indeed in the kneecap, jammed my elbow into the ribs of the one on my left, and completely failed to break heroically free and run for my life. Can't say I didn't try, though, which I reckon keeps the good name un-blackened in the balance of things, right?

Okay, so these blokes—the half-troll linebacker blokes—they shove me into this empty classroom and turn me around. And there's this boy sitting at one of the desks with his feet up on it, smirking at me, and...well...it's not exactly hard to mistake Draco Malfoy for anyone else. He's this nasty Slytherin seventh year who like to be horrible to people who can't fight back, like my brother Dennis. Not that Dennis can't fight back, what with the manly art of the self defense and all, but he's even shorter than me, and you can't exactly defend yourself if you're being held off the ground by your collar.

I hate that kid. Malfoy, I mean, not Dennis. He probably amuses himself by killing puppies.

So Malfoy takes his feet off the desk and gives me a nasty look and says, "Hello, Creevey," and then he wrinkles his nose like I smell bad. Although, really, the linebacker twins had pretty bad B.O., so maybe he was making a face at them. I don't know, I'm just the kid the camera. I don't have a lot of experience being dragged into random classrooms by Slytherins; they tend to beat me up in the hallway if at all.

It occured to me then that I might just get beat up now, so I decided to take the whole thing like a man. I cross my arms and turn my chin up and say "What do you want, Malfoy?" the way Harry Potter would. That's what's so great about Harry, you know? He doesn't take shit from anybody, especially not poncy Slytherin puppy-killers like Malfoy. It's absolutely great. If Harry had been there, he'd probably have turned them all into fishsticks and thrown them out the window or something, just because he's Harry and he can do that sort of thing. As it was, I'm Colin, and I can't turn anything into fishsticks except fish, so, oh well.

But, right, Malfoy. So I say that to him and he scowls, and one of his thugs just smacks the back of my head so hard my face slams into the desk. That hurts. I mean, ow. I don't know how many people go around getting their heads smacked into solid objects, but it really, really, does not feel comfortable. And then the bugger holds me down like that, and Malfoy leans in right next to me ear and says, "You'd be smart to show me a little more respect, Mudblood," and then right-hand bastard lets me go. That's when I start to catch on that, uh-oh, these people are psychopaths, I just might not want to piss them off. Unless I can turn myself into Harry Potter and turn them into fishsticks, which isn't looking likely at all. And, you know, if they beat me up I might just lay here in this nasty classroom and bleed on things until Filch or a ghost finds me, if ever, and that would be really increadibly bad. So I stand up and nodded and twitch the end of my nose to make sure it's not broken. Not that I'd know what it feels like to have a broken nose. Can you feel that it's broken, or is it just sort of there? Maybe I should ask Dad...

Oh, yeah, Malfoy. Okay. So I stand up and he leans back in his chair and the sunlight coming through a windowpane sort of catches on him—dramatic-like, you know—and I kind of wish for my camera. Only not really, 'cause a puppy-killing psychopath like him might break the lens. And he steeples his fingers, you know, that thing where people just touch their fingertips together but not their palms? And he says, "Listen carefully, Creevey, because I'm going to make you an offer you cannot refuse."

And I'm thinking, Oh, my God, Malfoy has joined the Mafia.

"I want to...borrow your camera for a while," he says, and he makes that nasty face again. I reckon it's because he thinks he's too high and mighty to borrow anything from me, and, you know, I don't exactly appreciate that from a fellow who kills puppies. "I also want you to develop some photographs for me. You are to have them done by the end of the month, and if you tell anyone about this deal, I will kill you."

Item one: it's twenty-fifth February. I don't exactly relish the idea of staying up all night developing pictures for a psychopath. Item Two: I love my camera. Like, personally. My roommates make fun of me for it, but, well, they don't have cameras like mine. I am not letting it into such dangerous hands. Item Three: People who calmly say that they're going to kill you will not take no for an answer.

This is all pretty distressing.

So I ask him, just to buy time, "Why don't I just take the pictures for you?" 'cause I'd sooner eat dirt than let him have my camera. He might violate it or something.

He makes this face like he's going to get pissed at me, but then he smirks again and says, "Somehow I don't think you'd enjoy this particular subject." So I'm thinking, Oh, Jesus, he's going to take pictures of something gross, or something evil, or something pervy like Harry in the shower. There's some things you just don't photograph, like people in the shower. Especially not Harry Potter in the shower, because, you know, he gets irritable. And that's pervy so you never ever do it. Ever.

And then Malfoy says, "I'm willing to offer you a little monetary compensation for your trouble," and my ears perk up. Not that we're poor or anything, but Dad thinks me and Dennis need to learn the value of money, and apparently that means we don't get any. Which I think is bollocks, but, then again, I'm just the kid with the camera. I made a little on the side this year taking pictures of couples on Valentine's day, but, you know, anything I can do to make more, so long as it isn't gross, evil or pervy.

So I ask him, "How much?"

And he says, "Oh, fifty Galleons or so." And I kind of have to pick my jaw up off the floor because I haven't seen so much gold in one place in my life, except maybe in a jewelry store.

So I say, "Oh."

He nods. "I take it it's arranged, then?" And he goes on all about this elaborate plot he's got on how I'm supposed to give him the camera—obviously he's too high and mighty to run the risk that someone will see me just give it to him—and how I'm supposed to get it back, and how I ought to get him the pictures. And about all I can do is smile and nod, and think: Fifty Galleons. Oh, my god. A day can only get so weird, you know?

Then the linebackers throw me out in the hallway, which wasn't very nice at all.

Later on, you know, after I put my camera where Malfoy can get it without wounding his pride, I figure the whole thing out. I can be the double agent. See, all I have to do is make double prints of whatever pictures he gives me. They must be some kind of Mafia thing, since I can't see Malfoy taking pictures of something gross otherwise, and they won't be pervy pictures of people in showers or anything because you just don't do that. Not even if they leave the locker room door open after practice. So I reckon, they're going to be evil Mafia sort of pictures, and I can make extra prints and owl them to Dumbledore or the Ministry or whoever and expose the whole thing. And then I'll be a hero, and everyone will congratulate me, and maybe Ginny Weasley will kiss me with a heaving bosom like in those books of Aunt Clara's, and Harry Potter will just sort of smile...

Er, right.

We were talking about Malfoy?

Right.

So, you know, I get the camera back. And once I make sure it is my camera and no one's filed off the serial number or anything, I pop the film out and get my things together and run into my darkroom. Okay, so it's a disused lavatory on the seventh floor, but there's no windows and running water and the door locks and it isn't like there's a million dark rooms all over this castle, is there? Or maybe there are and I can't find them. So I process the film, and I wash it off and dry it and cut into lengths I can manage, and then I put the negatives in the enlarger and use light of my wand to focus it before I put down paper.

And I'm thinking, Holy shit.

The Mafia does this?

I make the prints, like he asked me to, and I put them in a nice envelope with all the negatives clipped together. I drop it off where he told me to and the next morning I pick up the money, and it's all there, which means that next Hogsmeade weekend I am set. Big Spender Creevey, that's what they'll call me, you know. I don't think I ever will find out what happened to those pictures, but that's okay, because I don't want to know, because Malfoy is a puppy-killing psyho and I had to sterilize my camera and for a week after I developed those prints, I had very strange dreams.

Well, not so much strange as...

...er...

Never mind.

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