A Mandatory Alliance
By: Provocative Envy
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CHAPTER FIVE
To: A Russo-American Witch Who Needs Psychotherapy
Well. I never thought I’d ever so much as think these words, let alone write them down on paper, but here goes: I’m sorry. I honestly had no idea a person’s life could be so…tragic, which is actually very understandable since it would explain your numerous personality disorders/mental deficiencies. (Ha! And you thought I was going to get all sentimental and empathetic, didn’t you?)
But seriously: your tale of misery and woe nearly brought tears to my eyes; nearly. As I’m sure you’ve discovered, I’m a creature of little moral rectitude and even less compassion. Therefore, don’t bother expecting sobs of remorse from me. Frankly, I don’t care if you witnessed your unknown Russian-Minister father person be brutally murdered or not; I’ve seen things that would probably move you to slit your goddamn wrists, rather than plague the good, hard-working people of Russia with your fake cheerfulness and…sickening ping-pong/baking obsessions. I shudder to so much as think what you’d be doing if your father hadn’t kicked the bucket when he did.
Anyhow, I am in a delightfully good mood at the moment, largely due to a “business” dealing I’ve made with a witch who I used to despise with all the hatred that suitor-character harbored for Odysseus in that Odyssey book/novel/spawn-of-bloody-Satan-literary-spectacle. Now that I think about, I actually do still want her to be beaten up by a horde of giant vampires, but she’s far too smart for that to actually occur, much to my dismay. Let me explain further, my sad little pen-pal:
I recently underwent some kind of epiphany, realizing that I was actually quite a bit like my old man back home, which made me both nauseous and suicidal. And so I determined to enlist the help of the aforementioned witch who is the paragon of all things virtuous and good and so very Gryffindor-like. (Ahem. She actually would have refused to assist me had I not caught her in a…compromising situation. Blackmail really is the epitome of brilliance.) She started off her “project” by cutting my precious blonde hair, which I can tell you I was extremely unhappy about. I got my revenge though: I dyed her hair blonde and she looks absolutely dreadful. (Insert evil laugh and pantomime hand washing.)
Nonetheless, I’m still waiting impatiently for her next petty act of improvement and vengeance; I have endless ideas of what I can do to make her life a living hell. (Example: Give her a mustache; make Crabbe and Goyle follow her around spouting articles from Cosmo; etc.) The enforced entourage one has merit, don’t you think?
From: The Boy Who You’ll Probably Slaughter One Particularly Angst-Ridden Insomnia-Plagued Night Of Sleeplessness And Torment
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Hermione Granger had thought the blonde hair would be the worst of Malfoy’s retribution schemes, but this was definitely nine or so levels of hell deeper. In response to her clever idea of making him read Greek philosophy to broaden his intellectual and emotional horizons, he’d instructed Crabbe and Goyle with a mere snap of his fingers to never leave her side, even when she visited the bloody lavatory. There was nothing quite so horrifying as getting out of the shower in the morning to find two, hulking brutes drooling at you as one excitedly highlighted sections of the latest Red Book.
Clenching her teeth in suppressed fury, Hermione stalked into the Great Hall for breakfast, Crabbe and Goyle a few steps behind her. She thought they might have been discussing the merits of eating beef rather than Filet Mignon, but she could have been wrong: after all, the grunting and jabbing finger references to the culinary magazine Crabbe had managed to apprehend could have been an argument over whether there were words or pictures in the publication.
Sitting down with a sigh, she wearily watched the two boys clumsily sit themselves on either side of her, their faces showing confusion a the array of utensils spread before them. From across the Hall, she caught sight of the shorn-haired Malfoy smirking at her, his pale face flushed with glee at her distress. And that’s when it hit her, her thick platinum hair swinging in front of her face as she glanced at Ron.
Fire-crotch, she thought humorously, her mind keying in on the word “fire”. Of course. Fire. Fight fire with fire, was the anecdote, if she remembered correctly. But what if she did the sensible thing and fought fire with water? What would happen then? Would Malfoy just take it, or would he think of even more sensationally nefarious plots to ruin her life?
Never know until you try, she said to herself, taking a deep breath before pasting on a sunny smile and turning towards Crabbe.
“So-Vincent is it?-yes, well, Vincent, I completely agree with you,” she said cheerily, completely unaware of what she was claiming to agree with him on.
“You do?” he asked dumbly.
“Yeah, you do? Draco never agrees with us,” Goyle put in sullenly, his inch-thick eyebrows lowering in indignation.
“Well, that’s because he’s an narcissistic jackass who can’t tell his arse from his elbow,” Hermione replied thoughtlessly, anger flaring up once again as she noted the superior grin Malfoy shot her.
“Huh?” came the dull response from both Crabbe and Goyle.
“Nevermind,” she said quickly. “Hey, what do you say we go spend some quality time in the library? You know, catch up on those Glamour articles that I’ve missed out on?” she coaxed, sheer willpower being the only force keeping her eye from twitching.
“Library?” Goyle questioned, his forehead wrinkling as he thought long and hard about the word he’d probably never heard before.
“Yeah, stupid,” Crabbe said intelligently, smacking Goyle on the back of the head. “You know, that place where Draco used to tell us they kept rabid hamsters? He once told us there was a group of unstable Gryffindors in there that wanted to behead us and steal our eyelashes,” he confided to Hermione.
“Oh…well, you know, that’s not really true, I go there all the time, and look at me!” she said gaily, irritatingly watching the two boys’ eyes fall on her horrid hair. “Oh, don’t bother the hair, you know Draco, always…joking….around…” she trailed off, swallowing nervously at the idea of spending her Saturday willingly with Crabbe and Goyle.
“Ok,” they said simultaneously, standing up and waiting for her with all the patience of the simple-minded.
Shaking her head at her easy manipulation, she threw her head back and laughed at one of Crabbe’s inane comments, throwing her arms around the shoulders of the two boys as she left the Great Hall. To her satisfaction, Malfoy had crossed his arms in front of his chest, a glare of consternation aimed in her direction. This was not going as it was supposed to.
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