time in the world to chase after Granger either. Slytherin House was in an absolute mess and it was all that he, Blaise and Pansy could do to motivate the younger students to adopt a more responsible approach. The Common Room was filthy, students were blatantly smuggling all sorts of contraband into the castle and to the embarrassment of the entire House, a grand total of seven Slytherins that term had been cited for illegal dueling at school.
Since the weekend, when he wasn't scaring the younger students into wetting themselves, Draco was doing whatever discreet research he could manage on Fida Mia. After Lucius' initial temper tantrum the elder Malfoy has eventually seen the merit of plucking the family's copy of 'Fida Mia: An Enchantment of Honour', from the shelves and handing it to Draco.
All that effort might have been worthwhile if the book wasn't such a stupid waste of time. There was, according to the author, no cure. No remedy. No suggestions as to the existence of a counter-spell either.
Although there were several interesting pictures, in particular on page six hundred and seventeen
What was informative was the chapter on 'effects'. If Draco wasn't certain that his belongings were riffled through at least once a week, he might have kept notes on his own experiences.
For example, Granger' s blasted scent followed him everywhere he went. At first, he had been dull enough to assume it was Pansy or Millicent or one of the other Slytherin girls. Pansy was forever trying out the latest, noxious scents.
He had eventually asked her that morning, after breakfast.
"Rose?" Pansy had responded. "Is that why you've been sniffing the air all morning like someone dropped a Dungbomb?"
"Yes, rose. Tea rose, I think. I'd appreciate it if you didn't shower in the stuff. Too many open flames around the castle, Panse. You'd be sorely missed."
Pansy had given him an irritated look. "Well I can tell you it's not my perfume. Tea Rose is a bit too old fashioned for me," she said, sounding slightly miffed that he would even associate her with it.
"Right," Draco had nodded. "Millicent, probably." "No, Millicent's been using August Winthrops's disgusting cologne. They're going out now. Really Draco, you're so behind on castle gossip."
Of course it had to be Granger. The scent was strongest in the morning, which Draco figured were the times she might have applied whatever product she was using.
And then there were other occasional, unexplained lapses of
God, he couldn't even say the word in his head.
Niceness.
There. It was sickening.
First, it was that incident by the lake, where he had passed up on the perfect opportunity to shake Granger awake until her teeth rattled. And then, early the next morning, a first year Gryffindor had taken a fall at the second floor staircase and was bawling loudly enough to make Peeves wither.
Granted the cut on her knee had been rather nasty, but on any other day, he would have stepped right over the child on his way to decapitate the Hufflepuff fourth year at the top of the stairs, who was doodling on the wall with a Muggle felt-tip marker.
"I don' t suppose you could stop that awful noise?" he had snapped at the girl.
Ten minutes later, he was escorting her to the Infirmary.
He couldn't even manage any abusive alliteration, which was his patented specialty. He called her snot-faced and sniveling, but said insults weren't even in the same sentence and so, did not count.
Granger was like a brain abscess and she wasn' t even decent enough to give him the time of day.
Sooner or later, they would obviously have to confer. He'd be damned if he was going to wait until the end of school to sort the mess out. His father was far too unpredictable and Draco was not going to risk losing everything he had negotiated over with the Ministry, just because his little 'wife' was suffering from a case of denial.
The last straw came when he checked the Prefects' Notice Board the previous evening before bedtime, to find that he, Draco Malfoy, had been assigned the role of overseeing fourth year detentions!
It was unheard of. Seventh year prefects never, ever took fourth year detentions. They might have, of course, if fourth years weren't quite so irritating.
Students in years one to three were generally still in awe of the whole school system and were dully frightened and respectful when made to serve detention. They could be left to their own for an entire hour without the need