Harry glared at him. 'I am not drunk.'
'Yes, you are,' said Ron somberly. 'Drunk on power.' He pointed at the bed. 'Sit down, Harry.'
Rather to Ron's amazement, Harry sat. 'That wasn't very nice of me, was it,' he said, glumly, staring at the floor.
'No,' Ron agreed, walked over to the bed, and sat down next to Harry. 'You owe Ginny an apology. But that's for later. Right now, I think you'd feel better if you didn't think about Malfoy-'
'I'm not all that angry with Malfoy,' said Harry.
Ron, realizing his mouth was open, shut it hastily. 'Well, if you're not angry at Malfoy, who are you so pissed off at?'
'Hermione,' said Harry, through his teeth.
Ron ducked as a glass pitcher with a handle carved in the shape of a snake whipped past his head and shattered against the far wall.
'Bloody hell, Harry,' he said, with reluctant admiration. 'That was cool!'
'Yeah, if only I could do this sort of stuff when I wasn't totally hacked off!' yelled Harry, as the wardrobe door burst open and the clothes inside it exploded outward like a burst of fireworks.
They whipped through the air like manic birds and Ron looked down as something struck him on the shoulder. It was a pile of Draco's socks and underwear. 'Well,' he said. 'I guess this answers the eternal 'boxers or briefs?' question, doesn't it?' He grinned at Harry. 'Lavender and Parvati will be so pleased to know that Malfoy wears-' he peered at the label on the band — 'Calvin Klein Wizardwear boxer shorts. Who knew?'
He glanced over at Harry, who looked both angry and as if he were trying not to laugh. 'Come on, Harry, crack a smile; it won't kill you.' He tossed the boxer shorts aside, and glanced at his friend. 'I know you said you aren't pissed off at Malfoy, but you did choose his bedroom to have your tantrum in, didn't you?'
Now Harry did smile — a bit reluctantly, as if it hurt. 'Yeah, well, I didn't say I exactly had fluffy bunny feelings for the guy, did I?'
Ron didn't reply.
Harry glanced over at him quizzically, and started. Ron was staring, with a look of fixed alarm, at a vague point across the room.
'What..?' Harry started to say, but Ron, with surprisingly fast reflexes, clapped a hand over his mouth.
'Shh,' he whispered, unnecessarily. 'Look at the wardrobe.'
Harry looked. And started. The wardrobe, a large and heavy piece of furniture the size of three Hagrids, was rocking back and forth on its four carved feet. Harry glanced over quickly at Ron.
'There's something in there,' Ron muttered.
Harry nodded. 'Or someone,' he tried to say, around Ron's fingers.
Ron took his hand off Harry's mouth. 'What do you think…?'
The wardrobe gave a another, stronger wobble, almost as if it might tip over.
'Wands out,' hissed Ron, getting to his feet and fumbling in his robes. Harry followed him, taking his own wand out and holding it in front of him.
Moving as silently as they could, they edged across the room, Ron just slightly ahead of Harry, and paused in front of the wardrobe.
Ron, standing in front of it, reached out a hand for one of the doors.
He glanced sideways at Harry, who nodded.
Ron threw the doors open.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then something exploded out of the wardrobe with the force of a cannonball, and careened into Ron, knocking him to the ground. His wand went skittering out of his hand and he yelled out loud in pain, throwing his arms up to protect his face from the intruder — which, Harry saw, had grayish, leathery skin and whirling red eyes, and long, spatulated fingers that it wrapped around Ron's throat.
It was a demon.
Scowling, Ginny stalked down the corridor, found the stairs, and stomped down them, making as much noise as she possible could scuffing her shoes on the stone. Not that there was anyone around to hear her. Useless, she thought. They all think I'm useless. Even Ron, shutting the door in my face; Sirius and Lupin, telling me to get lost…
Then there was the fact that Harry had asked her out. Well, all right, she had to admit, it hadn't been a sincere offer. More like a tragic cry for help. Not that she minded — she was surprised to find that in fact, she didn't care at all, one way or the other.
She crossed the large, empty drawing room, walking (without knowing it) over the trapdoor that led to the dungeons. She had no particular goal in mind, she knew; at least, not a material goal. She was simply hoping to see Draco, hoping that if she turned another corner, he might be standing there, looking tall and pale and irritable but perhaps, open to be apologized to? Because she very much wanted to apologize to him now for having kicked him in the ribs. What if had been me, a year ago, she thought, and it had been Harry who'd taken the love potion and showed up at my door suddenly. Would I have been able to send him away out of friendship for Hermione?
She very much doubted it.
As she left the drawing room, the sound of voices arrested her attention. She was in the corridor outside the dining room, and turning her head, she could see Hermione and Narcissa sitting at the enormous table, underneath the tapestry of the Malfoy family crest.
Hermione was anxiously playing with a cup of tea, and Narcissa was looking at her with detached
