Warning: The Author's Notes at the end of the chapter contains information on Draco's psychological state of mind. Please ignore this if it is of no interest to you or interferes with your enjoyment of the fic.
Draco looked at the long line of students snaking out from Madam Pomfrey's afternoon clinic at the Hospital Ward. Was there an epidemic of Dragon Pox for Merlin's sake? Cursing, he stepped to the back of the line, conjured up a chair, and drew out his Potion's text to start his homework. Might as well get some bloody homework done while he was held prisoner in this cursed line of Hagrid proportions. Minutes later, he became aware of the coughing, and the sneezing, and the other disgusting explosions of magical viruses dripping all around him. He stood. Hell, there was some kind of epidemic.
All he needed was a Dreamless Sleeping Potion. He did not need to come down with a goddamn magical virus before the Gryffindor match. He immediately stepped out of line, threw a quick 'Scourgify' on all vital exposed body parts before vanishing his chair and stuffing his homework back into his school bag.
He looked up to start his way back to the dungeons, and a most curious and unexpected sight greeted his eyes. Crabbe and Goyle, assisted by Pansy and Nott, were hobbling up to the end of the line, bitching and moaning every step of the way. Each had elephant sized ears and greatly enlarged feet to match. Their ears were flapping and waving, and their feet were dancing, as much as Crabbe and Goyle could be said to be dancing.
"What the hell happened to you two?" Draco queried with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Had the dunces been practicing hexes on one another again?
"The Weasel," Goyle spit out, shaking his head. Draco's eyes widened.
"The Weasel did that? I didn't know that Rodent could hex a gnome at point blank much less two Slytherins at what I assume was more than twenty-five paces?" His fellow Slytherins hung their heads.
"She was fast," said one.
"She was deadly," said the other.
"We didn't even have time to hex her first, much less jump her," they said together, looking at each other with much sympathy, ears waving in unison.
"You tried to jump the Weaselette?" Draco hissed, now understanding which Weasel they were speaking of.
Two fat heads with big ears nodded.
Draco swung around and glared at Nott, who shifted uneasily in his boots.
"We just wanted to shake her up a little. You know, rattle her before the big game. It was nothing." Then Nott looked over at Crabbe and Goyle, "We got the worst of it anyway."
"Yeah, what's the big deal?" Goyle said, staring at Draco, enormous ears twitching.
"You idiots. Keep the dirty antics to the pitch." Draco's deathly quiet voice chilled the air and ceased all further discussion.
With that, he grabbed his bag and stormed off, black robes billowing. Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle all turned to Pansy, who shrugged. Then she let her eyes follow the furious Slytherin until he disappeared down the hallway.
Draco sat flanked by Pansy at supper that evening. Nott was sitting many safe Slytherins away at the other end of the table. When Pansy left Crabbe and Goyle, they were still several students away from Madam Pomfrey's doorstep. Draco said nothing, just dug away at his food, one slow stab at a time.
When they were more than halfway through their dinner, Pansy looked up and noticed Draco staring across The Great Hall. She followed his line of sight until it landed on Ginny Weasley, who had just walked in, accompanied by the trio.
It's about goddamn time she showed up for supper, he thought sullenly. Where the hell had she been? Last time he checked, Gryffindors still ate food like the rest of the wizarding world. They did not sustain themselves on all that bravery and nobility crap alone. He stabbed another piece of chicken and looked over again. That package of red silk and freckles was tucked nicely between the Weasel King and Potty, and she looked remarkably unhexed and uninjured.
"I never thought you'd be one to fancy a Gryffindor," she said softly in his left ear, low enough for him alone to hear.
He flashed her a deadly stare, turned around, and continued to eat. His eyes were no longer fixed across The Great Hall, but were now focused on his plate, as unappetizing as it looked in its current state of mauling.
What the hell was she talking about? He loathed that crass, Muggle-loving piece of Gryffindor trash. She had made his life hell, absolute hell, after that damn pickup game. He got no sleep, no peace during his waking hours for her constant intrusions into his mind, bloody little to eat most meals with her antics ruining his appetite, and now, with the biggest game of the year coming up, he was having to spend his precious time looking after her goddamn welfare. No, he most definitely did not fancy the Weaselette in any sense of the word. He would sooner blow his head off with a hex than touch that piece of pureblooded filth. He pushed his plate across the table, stood up, and strode out of The Great Hall without another word to Pansy.
"Malfoy!"
Draco stopped and felt his already tense body tighten further. Would he ever get a respite from all of this damn Gryffindor nonsense? He was tired and outraged and expected to be completely pissed off in short order if things didn't go in another direction. Draco turned slowly around at the sound of Weasel King's voice grating on his last, very raw nerve.
"Weasel," he drawled before straightening and placing his hand on the wand just up his right sleeve. Potty and Weasel boy were standing there, confronting him in the Main Entrance Hall, for all the school to see. Students were shuffling out of The Great Hall and curiously gathering around the site of the two famed Gryffindors confronting the lone Slytherin.
"Call your goons off, Malfoy," the Weasel demanded, eyes flashing. Draco merely raised an eyebrow and casually crossed his arms, closing his fist around his wand in the process.
"Goons?"
"Yes, goons, otherwise known as Crabbe and Goyle," Potty chimed in. "We know you sent them after Ginny this afternoon. What's wrong, Malfoy? So worried about the game that you have to attack one of our Chasers off the field to win?"
This got Draco's attention and his gut, but he held himself in check. Gone were the days when Potter could provoke him into an undignified display of emotion. Several tense moments ticked by. The entire hall, full of students gathered in a loose circle around the trio, was now deathly silent. Observing eyes darted back and forth between the sworn enemies, watching the intensity of the confrontation ratchet up a notch.
Then Draco let out a roar of laughter, which took the Weasel King and Potty and every observing student by surprise.
"Gentlemen," he said with a sweep of his elegant hand toward the little Weaselette, who was now standing just outside The Great Hall, staring at the three wizards. "I should be asking you to call off the little Weaselette after seeing Crabbe and Goyle outside Madam Pomfrey's door this afternoon." Then the tall, blond Slytherin turned and continued his casual stride down the staircase to the cool of the dungeons.
Author's Notes: Draco's eloquent explanation at dinner about why he does not fancy the Weaselette is not only a concise encapsulation of his PTSD symptoms up to this point in our story but also a fine example of that noble psychological defense mechanism known as DENIAL. Any questions so far?