Healing

Trolls

McGonagall had indeed given a lecture to the whole school that evening about Hogwarts being a safe place for students to finish their studies, no matter what year they were in, no matter what had happened during the war. Draco had only half-heartedly listened, watching the faces around the room instead. The year eights sat protectively around Harry; news had spread fast about the scene outside the Great Hall earlier. They were all there: Harry was sitting between Draco and Terry; Neville and Hannah were on Draco's other side. Opposite were Dean, Seamus, Blaise, and Pansy. Even Ron and Hermione had deigned to eat together though they were sitting at opposite ends of the table; Hermione with the Megan and Mandy from Ravenclaw, Ron with Justin, Susan, and Ernie, though Draco noticed Ron was absolutely blanking Justin who kept glancing down the table towards Hermione and was trying to ask Ron questions about her.

As McGonagall lectured the students about leaving Harry alone and giving him some peace and space, Draco saw Romilda Vane staring lovingly at the raven-haired man from the year-six table. He knew the look of desperation, he understood desperation. And he thought back to his sixth year and shuddered at his own stupidity, his own lack of concern of the impact of his desperate actions when he'd tried to get to Dumbledore indirectly because he knew in his heart-of-hearts he would never have the courage to raise his wand against Dumbledore face-to-face but he was desperate. The near-deaths of Katie Bell and Ron from both the cursed necklace and the poisoned mead still made him feel sick to the core with regret. Yes, he understood desperate measures. And he worried for Harry, he hoped that desperation wouldn't drive anyone to do anything stupid.

McGonagall had concluded with the threat that anyone, anyone at all, caught pestering Harry would be given a week's worth of detentions. If they persisted or became involved in any illegal or dangerous ideas, then the student would be excluded from the school.

The next morning, Harry had risen early and left, leaving Draco alone to prepare to the forthcoming day. He was absentmindedly brushing his hair as he put together his bag for the day's lessons, humming gently to himself and thinking about the next step in his plan with Ron. He needed to goad Weaselbee into a prank.

When he finally looked in the mirror, he screamed. He actually screamed...

His hair was red, a rusty red, apart from the tips which were snowy white. And it was stood up on end. Well, not really on end as such, but rather into a tall pointy quiff. And was it longer? He was sure it was longer. How was that even possible? It looked like it had grown three inches and he'd been given a bloody undercut! He ran his hands through the monstrosity vigorously. It was, he thought ruefully, rather soft. But no matter how much he tried to ruffle it; all it did was just spring straight back into this tall twisting pointed quiff.

'Weaselbee!!' He hollered down the corridor.

He realised, with horror, he looked like one of those bloody muggle troll dolls.

And then he screamed again, like a girl. His hairbrush has transfigured into a spiky mouse-sized rodent with a long tail. Maybe Malfoy's weren't supposed to scream like girls but this one did as his hairbrush scampered off the table and leapt to the floor and scurried under his bed.

Ron was leaning against his doorframe. Behind him: Neville, Blaise, Terry, Ernie, Seamus and Dean. Blaise looked horrified. The others were smirking. Ron deadpanned him, though he could still see the twinkle in his blue eyes.

'Suits you, Ferret. Or maybe I should say, Foxy!' Ron said coolly.

Even Blaise began to smirk.

'What have you done to me, Weaselbee?'

'I never touched your hair,' he paused briefly, 'Foxy.'

Dean snorted.

'What was that ... thing, that hedgehoggy-thing?'