Chapter 2 : The Orange Abomination
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Purebloods, we have a problem.
A rather large, pug faced, ORANGE problem.
Perhaps I should elaborate on this, for those of you who are too stupid to figure it out on your own.
Have you ever woken up, stretching your long, slinky-like body out into the warm April sunshine....
Well of course you haven't. Unlike me you're not a bloody slinky!
And if you are, my condolences. You must have met Granger.
Anyways, just for arguments sake, say you had.
Well picture that type of luxury, and then picture seeing two huge, gleaming eyes, the size of Quidditch stadiums staring in at you, with fangs the size of goal posts.
Then picture this same Ginger abomination licking its lips, inches from your face, and just for good measure make the bars of your prison spaced just widely enough for it to get its claws through, and you are getting close to the level of horror I experienced this morning.
And right when my hair is standing on end, my tail tucked safely between my hind legs (That was involuntary! It's some type of cowardly ferret reflex! I swear!), and my body coweri…I mean sheltering for safety, on the far side of the cage from the beast, Granger happens to walk in!
That’s right. Miss Know-It-All mudblood Granger came back in from her shower, her hair in such a tangled mass that it's a marvel she gets a comb through it, to find me in such a state.
And you know what that wench did?
Not only did she break into raucous peals of mortifying laughter, but she crouched down besides my cage on all fours, like the mudblood she is (AHA! She's finally learning to bow down to her betters!), and started cooing at me!
I swear to Slytherin that when I get out of her I am going to CRUCIO her around the grounds until even the Weasel looks good!
It would serve her right after all. To wind up with some stupid, poor, pathetic excuse of a wizarding family. They do not deserve to call themselves purebloods!
I swear, that fat toad's Hem, Hemming haunts me even to this day, whenever I find my thoughts straying off topic.
May she be poisoned by Furetta's Finest Ferret Feed and rot.
So after the Mudblood was done cooing at me, putting on a spectacle so all her dorm mates would actually think she liked her new pet, she had the audacity to pick up that blasted cat and to shove its smushed face right where I was hiding.
"Aww....Finally learning what it's like to be afraid wittle Malfoy?"
She then turned to rub noses with that hideous thing!
"Wittle Crookshanks won't do anything to Wittle Malfoy though now will he?" The mudblood continued. "He's just going to watch his slimy, smelly self while Mommy's at class isn't he?"
I am NOT smelly!
To add insult to injury, the blasted cat actually nodded.
Since I've been left with nothing to do (save to ward off unwanted advances from the orange abomination now perched atop the nearest bed watching my every move), I actually got to thinking.
And I grudgingly have to admit this. But the whole 'turning me into a ferret' thing was a good move on Granger's part. Or at least from that mudblood's point of view.
Not from mine. Because personally, I do not relish the flavor of this sludge that I am forced to consume, better known as Furreta's Finest.
Just picture liver flavored Kibbles and Bits, with the smell of an over-flowed lavatory toilet, and you're closing in on what eating this shit is like.
So I am now left with only one question.
What were these food manufacturers thinking!?
I would have thought that Dobby (Surely you didn't think Granger was taking care of me?) would have fed me normal, you know, human food, seeing as how the little slack skinned pillow sack knows I'm his rightful master. But unfortunately the elf is too stupid to do so.
No, instead it has taken to feeding me this shit with a gleefully sadistic fashion.
He immobilizes me so I cannot escape, fills my dish, then lies down on his stomach right outside my cage, propping his skinny little chin up with his hands.
Then he watches me eat, with raised eyebrows, while the orange abomination flicks its tail, licking its lips.
I've concluded that that cat either wants to eat me, eat this shitty food, or mount me.
Scratch that last idea. I just scratched a bunch of food out of the dish, and nosed it onto the floor, and the cat is not going for it.
Dobby, however, is smirking like my father did when he escaped from Azkaban.
Salazar that elf must have a lot of latent hostility for me.
Alright, classes should be ending in about 10 minutes, and you can't try to tell me that no one has noticed that I'm missing. Surely there is a massive, school wide search being conducted as we speak, because no one here can survive without my commanding presence for long. Least of all my Quidditch team, which has it's last match coming up this Saturday.
Yes... It's now only a matter of time before the mudblood transforms me back, and meets her rightful end.
In the meantime, I have come to a decision.
Immediately after escaping this cage, killing the mudblood, punishing my minions for taking so long, and winning the Quidditch cup, I plan on buying Furetta's Ferret Food farm, and blowing it up.
This food is pure shit, and anyone dumb enough to think otherwise and then market it, so as to torture ferrets like me, deserves to die.
Now don't look at me like that! I'll be doing a public service!
And if that’s not enough to convince you, just think how happy the ferrets will be!
At this point my eyebrows, which you cannot distinguish from the rest of my face for all the fur, scrunched up, as I paused to think about this.
*Pauses to think about this.*
Slythering Salazar! This mudblood has turned me into an animal-bloody-rights activist!
This will just not do.
So scratch that.
I'm going to buy that ferret farm up in eastern Surry and burn it to the ground.
Then I'll blow up Furetta's Ferret Food farm.
See? That's much better. I'll rid the world of this infestation we call ferrets, thereby starving the Hippogriff population into extinction, so the next time anyone transfigures me into a ferret the Ministry will be on their arse's so fast it'll make heads spin.
Because if there are no ferrets, then no mudblood will be able to pass me off as just her pet.
See? I'm already returning to my cunning, heartless self. Humility lesson or not.
Speaking of Humility, I'm still reeling that the Mudblood had this in her! I actually am beginning to honestly think that if it were not for her cursed blood, that she may have stood a good shot of being sorted into Slytherin.
It's enough to give me nightmares, which I've been told (by that girl named after some Crayola Crayon color), cause me to make odd squeaking sounds.
Lucius thank you!!!!! That arse of a father of mine's is finally doing something good! Surely I could only have his damned soul to thank for this! That Crayola girl has just run in here to change clothing, without the mudblood around to inconspicuously block my view, (DAMN HER!), so I am going to leave you now while I get on with....
Well with entertaining myself.
You do the math.
I'm just glad Granger hasn't yet had me neutered.
That elf is at it again, as is that damned cat, so I am going on a hunger strike, so as not to give either of them the satisfaction of watching me eat this shit.
No, instead I have begun to count the days I have been locked up by scratching marks into my cage.
This way, once my exile is over, I will know exactly how many times to Crucio the mudblood around the school grounds.
Of course, I may just feed her to the giant squid. I haven't quite decided which is more appealing.
One thing I have noticed though, is that my life is worse than that of a Prisoner of War.
Prisoners of War at least have hands with which they can chalk down the days of their imprisonment.
All I have are claws, and a plastic basin, at the bottom of this prison, into which to scratch off the days.
I've been at this task for nearly an hour now, but it turns out that ferrets, unlike that damned cat over there, lack retractable nails.
Who would have thought.
So since I can't retract even one nail...
Wait. Nail? That seems wrong because nails are growing out of these things where my fingers are supposed to be.
So what exactly am I supposed to call these things? Certainly not fingers? Phalanges?
Sodding Hell, I'm debating over the proper name for paws I do not intend to keep.
For purposes of my sanity, since I am still in denial about my current plight, we shall refer to these as fingers, yes?
So since I can't exactly retract any of my fingers, or these insufferably long nails on them, I can't mark individual days accurately. The best I can do is leave four long consecutive scratches. One for each 'finger' on my 'hands.'
So we're counting paws instead of individual marks. And ignoring the fact that I have five nails, because one sticks off to the side in an unnatural manner.
That’s okay though. I can deal with this.
Which brings me to my next complaint.
Prisoners of War at least have the fear of death to keep them sane.
What do I have? Surely Granger will change me back eventually. And she certainly won't kill me. She's far too goody-goody for that. What would the Weasel and Boy Wonder say then?
They'd probably profess their undying love because she is the only one clever enough to transform someone before killing them. It hides the evidence.
Bloody hell, it seems that even my thoughts are against me this morning.
You have to admit that it is a wicked idea.
I'm just glad the orange abomination hasn't gone into hunting mode yet.
A/N: The opening picture is courtesy of our other lovable ferret Lexi. She'll lick your hand clean if you have treats.
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