Finally updated. Hope you enjoy. Please review! More reviews, faster the updates, longer the chapters. Teehee. xP How shameless I am.

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Choice One:
A - Kiss a rock covered in moss growing to be one meter long
B - Throw away your dignity and run away screaming
C - Escape to the Carribean under a new identity and a Memory Charm

It’s true.

It’s true it’s true it’s true it’s true it’s true it’s true it’s true.

Bloody hell, it’s true.

IT’S TRUE!

IT’S ONE HUNDRED PERCENT TRUE!

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe, maybe this past week is just a figment of my overactive imagination and it’s still summer vacation. I am currently in the Carribean lying on beautiful white sand, some exotic drink in my left hand, and some beautiful girl with billowing blonde hair and large blue eyes on my right. I simply dozed off, that’s all. Just imagined things.

“Congratulations, Draco,” Blaise grins. “Lead role.”

With that, I am cruelly yanked back to reality. Who needs the Dark Lord when there’s this guy here who calls himself “Blaise Zabini?” You know what? I bet he really is the Dark Lord in disguise. He’s cruel enough.

Of course, he had to ruin my beautiful getaway to that Carribean island with a six star hotel that only a Malfoy can possibly afford to bring me back into this nightmare called a “school play.” I don’t even know why I signed up for the stupid bloody thing in the first place. Okay, so I do know, but that’s not the point here. The time I spent in the past week telling myself that it’s only a horrible, horrible dream is wasted, all that effort in vain. In vain!

“Never thought you’d really make that much of an impression during your audition,” Blaise comments lightly as we continue to push our way to that little, mocking piece of parchment inaccurately titled “The Great Hogwarts’ School Play Positions.” Great Hogwarts’ School Play? Things are never accurately named. It should be titled in large, bolded letters, “MEPHISTOPHILIS RETURNS!” “Which reminds me,” Blaise continues, “you never told me how the auditions went.”

…He had to bring it up.

I’ve only been trying to forget the fact that it ever happened.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I grumble.

I’m not trying to forget it because it’s embarrassing or anything of that sort. After all, I’m a Malfoy. Malfoys are never humiliated. We do the humiliating. So maybe there was a whole lot of screaming at the door and kicking the wall… and possibly a temper tantrum. Just one, maybe. …Or two. …Or, well…

Blaise laughs. “I bet you probably went ‘When my father hears about this’ on them,” he says. …Well, there was that, too. “And you pulled your constant ‘holier than thou’ act. No wonder you got chosen to be the most arrogant git for the play, who just happens to be the lead role. Hey look, Saint Potter’s been chosen to be a hairdresser, what were they thinking? He can’t even manage his own hair…”

I didn’t hear him after the term “lead role.” Lead role. Lead role? Isn’t that the main character? Well, of course, I’d get nothing less than the best, but the fact remains that I don’t want to be the lead role. They have the most lines. I think. But that means more work. Bloody brilliant.

Blaise still continues to ramble. “Well, you’ve got Crabbe and Goyle for moral support. They’re acting, too. And – hey, check this out! Granger got the leading female role! Millicent’s going to throw a fit. She wanted that part for the kissing scene, because everyone knows she can’t get one oth – ”

Hah, I bet Granger’s off her high hippogriff – that is, assuming she can afford one, more like her high rodent – when she finds out that I beat her in the cast role. …All right, so she got the lead role too, but I got the male lead role, obviously the better of the two. She’s probably bloody pi –

“KISSING SCENE?”

KISSING SCENE. KISSING SCENE. KISSING SCENE. GRANGER. BUCKTEETH. MUDBLOOD. UGLY. HAIRY. KISSING. MERLIN. LITERATE THOUGHTS. BASLEUJRLKAJBL;ASUIERIJ

I’d rather eat my own skin!

I swung around and grabbed Blaise by the shoulders, shaking him. “Kissing scene? When my father hears about this – ”

“ – he will have a good laugh,” Blaise finishes, a smirk playing at his lips.

That was not what I was going to say.

Blaise ignores me as I open my mouth to correct him and claps me on the back, directing me outside the common room and toward the Great Hall. I would have told him to get his hand off of me if I wasn’t trying to figure out how to stick Pansy into a vat of boiling butter and serving her on a stick to Queen Mab without getting caught. And, as a bonus meal, in the buy-one-get-one-free evolutionary line, I’ll even throw in Crabbe. Hey, you know what? In a sudden moment of brilliance, I think I’ll even serve her sautéed Blaise as dessert, and place a lemon slice or two on the side just for decoration.

“Maybe you can smooth talk your way out of it today during practice,” Blaise suggests lightly, seating himself beside me when we reach the familiar Great Hall. It seems like it was only last week when the old coot stood at the staff’s table in this very same room, announcing the doom that shall befall on all of us who were stupid enough to be persuaded by the temptation of fewer classes.

Oh wait, it was only last week. Damn, that means we still have a whole year of absolute torture ahead of us. You know, maybe I was wrong (for the first time… or second) this morning when I suggested that Blaise was the Dark Lord in disguise. I bet You-Know-Whos really Dumbledore. It would be really brilliant of him – to be the one to control both sides of the upcoming war, so it’s a win-win situation, literally.

Hang on… did Blaise just say…

“Today?” I repeat, my fork falling from my hand to the silver plate with a loud clatter. I thought for one moment that my mouth might have been hanging open with a bit of bacon inside which might have caused an unflattering picture, but I was too horrified to care. I think my heart has stopped pumping.

I think I know where Dumbledore’s getting at. He wants to kill us all himself before his alter ego, the Dark Lord, can by the means of a very, well-thought out, discrete plan that only someone of my caliber could ever realize! He’s playing a very smart game, but pity that he cannot trick me! I have caught him red handed! (Okay, maybe not yet, but I will!) The fact still remains that my beautiful life is dangling on a thread being held up by the old coot, and I will climb up that thread by whatever means to keep myself from utter destruction.

“Is it too late to drop out?” I inquire as… subtly as I could.

Blaise smirks. “Yes,” he responds, pouring maple syrup on his pancakes. He always eats the same breakfast every second of each month, though he never seems to realize it. “Everything is final.” There’s a twinkle in his eyes today, something I should have read into, but I ignore it. There are more pressing matters at hand.

All too soon, my wallowing is forced to a rude and abrupt end as breakfast comes to a close and Dumbledore stands up, holding a hand up for silence. The room hushes almost immediately, attention fixed on the Headmaster. They were eager; I was anxious. What new devilry could this guy conjure just to spite me? First the play, then acting, then lead role, then Granger, then the ki - gahhh, I can’t even think of that scene without feeling disgusted. Just think of her disgusting bushy hair irritating my soft skin, and her putrid breath – MERLIN, I think I just lost a kidney!

Maybe it’s not Dumbledore. Maybe it’s all Granger, because she wants an excuse to snog me. Come to think of it, it is quite believable – I mean, after all, she is (dare I think it?) somewhat above average in intelligence.

Huh, I did dare to think it. I have the bravery of twenty Gryffindors, just not the stupidity of one.

“Now, some of you will recall the school play I had mentioned only a week ago,” he says, beaming jovially to the crowd of students. Some of us will recall? Why, I’d give anything to be that one bloke stupid enough to have forgotten it.

Then again, with a quick glance at Crabbe who looked utterly shocked, maybe not.

“You might have noticed this morning that casting is up, and is available on the notice board in every common room,” Dumbledore continues. “You might also have noticed that we have no script writers because, despite what I had hoped last week, there are time limitations and we will not be creating our own script, but using a previously devised one, chosen in a vote by our directors.” He paused for dramatic effect, which is bloody stupid because there is nothing so dramatic about what he just said. “Now, let the plot be introduced!”

He seats himself, and out steps a painfully familiar bulky block of wood that responds to the name of “Marcus Flint.” I blink; what in Merlin’s name is he doing? It takes a while before I realize that he is the director who is presenting the plot, and I nearly choke on my own saliva. What in the world were they thinking? This guy is the one who failed his end of year exams, and the only reason he’s able to repeat the year is because his Galleons had a persuasive meeting with the school governors. Really, even Weasley would be a better choice for director than Flint.

Perhaps that was a bit low, considering Flint is – was – my Quidditch captain, but bloody hell! Who is stupid enough to respond to the question, “Describe the Tragedy of the 14th Century” with “Professor Snape’s Hair?”

Well, I can see where he’s coming from. You know – maybe, if it was the Tragedy of the 20th Century or something.

Flint clears his throat, and it sounds like a bullfrog just belched out its intestines. He pulls out a piece of parchment from his robes and reads in a low, monotone voice, lulling a sleep not unlike the one that rouses from Binn’s lectures that is impossible to fight. “The play’s theme revolves around hate and love, and of ultimate unity,” he reads. Two mortal enemies, from two different upbringings, clash in contradictory colors, until a spilled potion steals them into a fabricated world, where they are forced to depend on each other for survival – but will it ultimately lead to something even stronger than hate?”

What a cliffhanger ending! I briefly imagine being stuck in an obscure world, with nothing but Granger to depend upon. It is enough to send my mind reeling in horror and disgust – I will always be independent! But maybe I will harbor a special emotion, just for her, that is stronger than hate after the traumatizing experience – extreme hate.

What a bloody brilliant plot. Really. I hope no one detects any line of sarcasm in my words, because there is none. By the way, Pansy, is that nail filer of yours sharp enough to work as a stake I can plunge through my heart? For no related reason whatsoever, of course.

Flint strides back to the Slytherin table, his every footstep falling in heavy steps. When he sits, my fork shivers a little on my plate. Not bad – I’m surprised. With Crabbe and Goyle, they can send it flying. I have learned to conjure eye protection very well, thanks to them. I bet I could even beat that Mudblood when it comes to conjuring safety goggles – not that it would be any surprise, of course. After all, I am brilliant.

“Thank you.” Dumbledore’s standing again, and he’s grinning widely at the whole student body as if we’ve just received a special treat. Why yes, Sir Bat, that was an amazing treat. Can I have a doggy bone too, since I’ve been extra good? With a big green ribbon on it right across the middle, thanks. “For those of you not participating in the play, you have ten minutes to get to class. For everyone else, please stand in the center and remain behind.”

Almost at once, everyone stands and the silence rises into a murmur of chatter before it evolves into those hearty, loud conversations that can deafen a deaf Muggle. A few students sling their bags around their shoulders and leave the Great Hall, but more gather to the center. It’s almost amusing to watch – a bunch of idiots migrating to the middle of the room – if only I’m not a part of them.

With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore moves the House tables to the side, pushed against the wall, clearing the hall. Suddenly, a loud chorus of voices rose above the noise (which I didn’t quite think possible), each proclaiming in some sort of authoritative manner. As if they had the power to boss me around! I am Draco Malfoy, seventh year, pureblooded, prefect –

Blaise kicks me at the ankles, and I am mercilessly yanked out of my thoughts. He’s looking at me with a pointed scowl. “You were daydreaming about yourself again, weren’t you?”

That arse! “I was not!” I reply indignantly.

“You were,” pipes up Pansy from my left. Where did she come from? She wasn’t there a moment ago! “You didn’t respond to anything that anybody was saying, and it’s national fact that you’re always thinking about your grand achievements whenever you’re oblivious. Plus, your Achilles’ ankle woke you, and it only ever bothers you when you reminiscence of your narcissistic adventures.”

I scowl. My ankle is still throbbing; Blaise kicked hard. It takes effort not to limp, because Malfoys simply do not limp. “I do not have an Achilles’ ankle,” I mutter. Contrary to what others might think, I am not sulking. I never sulk. Sulking is below me.

“Of course you don’t,” Blaise says patronizingly, his every word reeking with sarcasm. “What on earth was Pansy thinking?” He seems a little more annoyed than amused, though it stumps me why he should feel either. I see no humor in this situation, and I am not annoying! Annoying is for Potheads and Weasels and Mudbloods. “Regardless, the acting department is that way, and we need to get going if you don’t want to get lost.”

He points to a group of people, only one among masses. I scoff. “I won’t get lost,” I say, irritated by his jejune behavior and his slights against me. It’s always frustrating, being the only mature person in a society. “Besides, even if I do, I only need to follow Granger’s afro, and you can spot that a mile away.”

Pansy laughs beside me and Blaise smirks. “Touché.”

The walk from the Great Hall to the room we’re supposed to be acting in isn’t an absolutely rigorous exercise, but considering that some buggers get to stay in the Great Hall and save the horrid walk one corridor down, that bloody classroom might as well be across the Atlantic.

“I’m playing Allyran,” a familiar voice said, painfully conceited and proud that simply the tone made me roll my eyes in disgust. Someone has a broom shoved up their arse. Probably one of the most irritatingly annoying thing in this world (besides Pansy and Blaise) is the people who think they’re absolutely brilliant and acts it, especially when they’re not. One prime example of this low level form of nonexistent humility is –

Speak of the devil. “Granger,” I sneer in acknowledgement. “Get out of my way.”

You can barely see her face (a good thing, assuredly) because of all that hair. Her head is like a bobbing brown dust bunny. Her personality is far worse, if possible – shoves her nose in a book all day long, hasn’t got any friends, and thinks that her… slightly above average grades prove that she’s above everyone else. And that’s only the beginning. She never knows when to shut up, and she’s got the strangest ideas! There was a rumor a few years back about Granger starting some club called – puke or something? – advertising house elf rights.

Really! House elves!

She looks up from the script in her hands and glares at me through narrowed brown eyes that remind me of feces. “I am not in your way, Malfoy,” she says, her voice somewhere between heated and cold. I’ve often wondered how she can pull it off. “If you’ll take a moment to pull your head out of your arse and take a look around, I’m a good five meters from where you need to be.”

Did she just –

Oh, no, she didn’t!

My hand clasps around the familiar shape of my wand just as Blaise bursts out laughing beside me. Pansy – a much more loyal friend – grabs my arm and glowers at the Mudblood, shooting her an angry look. “You’ll pay for that one, Granger!”

Granger’s eyes narrow even further. “Oh, I’m afraid,” she assures in – is that a sneer I detect? Who knew Granger had it in her?

“Merlin!” Blaise says, his eyes dancing with mirth that’s about to pirouette itself into Cerberus’ mouth, hopefully taking Blaise along with it. “That kissing scene will be great! I – ”

“Kissing scene?!”

MERLIN, MY EARS!

Pansy’s flipping out beside me, and Granger’s hysterical in front of me. “Oh, Draco – that’s absolutely horrible! To kiss an ugly bucktoothed Mudblood – and of all ugly bucktoothed Mudbloods, it’s Granger!” I appreciate Pansy’s sympathy very much. She is the prime example of what Blaise should be. “And you’ll have to practice it, too! How many times? Maybe fifty! Maybe more! Think of all those germs – ”

On second thought, I don’t think I like Pansy much, either.

Granger’s flipping through the script in her hands frantically, her eyes growing wider and wider as her fingers finally still. She clutches the Weaselette next to her, and Weaselette bites her lip, her eyes shining with a mixture of anxiety and sympathy. Granger, on the other hand, is the essence of – well, not really any one thing, actually. More like –

“There’s no way… no possible way…” Ah, trauma. Granger seems ready to burst. “Ki – oh, Merlin, him – ”

“I’d rather bear Aunt Bellatrix’s child,” I loudly declare, though I inwardly wince at the thought. Okay, maybe not. Then again, with a second glance at Granger, I would willingly bear Lord Voldemort’s twins instead of kiss Gra… Grahhh… Grehhgeiru…

You know what? Forget it.

“Pansy, stop staring at me like that. Blaise, you too,” I demand.

“He has a point,” Granger grumbles. Good grief, are we actually agreeing on something? This is downright horrifying. Almost traumatizing enough to the extent that I might even want to ki – kish… Apparently not. It takes me a while to notice that Granger’s still talking, and by the time I do, she’s already being interrupted by Flint.

He shoves a stack of parchment in my direction that I recognize to be the script, with small words printed in fine cursive that will be painful to read. “Read it,” he says, grumbling out his commands. “Go through a read-through all of today.” He promptly stalks out of the room, each footstep probably killing a little fairy somewhere out there, they’re that heavy.

The door closes with a click behind him. Well, I think, turning around to face the crowd of actors. I have a stack of flammable parchment in one hand, a wand in the other…

XXXXXXXXXX

“You saw the parts, didn’t you?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, I’m just saying… you remember what we have to do, don’t you?”

“…Yes.”

“Well, they’ve got the lead roles now. And you saw the script yourself, you heard the plotline, and – ”

“Merlin, no! I know what we’ve got to do, but that – I mean, both of them? There’s probably some other way around it, we can find – ”

“No, this is the easiest, fastest, and Malfoy won’t be able to worm his way out of this one. We haven’t been able to think of anything else for so long, and this might be our chance. He’ll back us up. I know it.”

“I don’t know, it’s still – ”

“Look, you’re in stage crew, aren’t you? You’ll have access to all the props. Just make one of them a Portkey.”

“But it’s – ”

“There’s nothing else.”

“All right. Fine. But I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to.”