Draco Malfoy was patrolling. Again. Sometimes it seemed like all he did was patrol. Sure, being a prefect had sounded good, before he became one. But it was mostly being perfect (which being a Malfoy, he already was), and walking. A lot of walking. Currently he was walking the dungeons, which had the twin advantages of being both cold and deserted. Plus, it gave him space to think. And he had a lot to think about, honestly, in his fifth year at Hogwarts. Mostly, what he had to look forward to when he came home again.

As he rounded a corner, he paused, looking at a cat in the corridor, pacing back and forth. He knew that cat - everyone knew that cat. With a careless wave of his hand (he had practiced that wave in the mirror for a solid month), he summoned a net on a stick. Soft as an owl's wing, he crept quietly towards the cat, and from out of the shadow, he pounced, deftly swooping the tabby mog into the net.

The cat looked up at him, baffled, confused, and more than a trifle indignant. He looked back at her, and carefully-quickly raised his finger to his lips, in an obvious shushing motion.

And then he started walking, his long strides carrying him (and the cat) easily towards his destination... deeper in the dungeons. He didn't have time for this, he had wanted to think... think a way to do the impossible.

Coming to Snape's door (the private one that the Slytherins knew about), he rapped sharply.

Moments later, Snape swung the door open, his aquiline features sharp and impatient. "What?"

Mutely, Malfoy held the cat out in his hands, saying, "it was lurking in the corridor, sir."

Taking the cat, Snape nodded, and retreated inside his room. A soft "thank you" was heard as the door was closing.

Malfoy grinned, knowing no one was watching. A genuine good deed? People would laugh, people would talk. So he'd never tell.

[a/n: yes, that's Minerva.]