I'm so sorry guys! It's been a really long time hasn't it? I've got so many stories up my sleevies but reality keeps getting in the way. Anyway, I hope you don't hate me now!

If Harry Potter belonged to me, Fred Weasley wouldn't have died.

Notes Written in Purple Ink

Well, well, well, Malfoy. Aren't we looking spiffing today?

It's written in purple ink, on a scap of parchment tucked into the crack of wood in his potions desk that he thought only he knew about. He thought it would be nothing, least of all a note addressed to him, but he is intrigued. At first he thinks it might be Blaise, playing a joke, as always. But as far as he knows Blaise doesn't own purple ink and this handwriting is much too girly for a sixteen year old boy.

Confused as he is, he is pleased.

He quickly realizes that almost every girl in sixth year owns a bottle of purple ink, even the mudblood Granger. He shudders to think of her writing the note.

He has taken to peering over girls' shoulders, comparing their handwriting to the note. He starts with Slytherins, then grudgingly moves on to Ravenclaws. He stops before he gets to Gryffindor. He has almost given up hope( he doesn't know why he's so interested inthis mystery girl) when he finds another note.

Oh, come on, Malfoy, is that the best you've got?

He starts narrowing it down to girls who refer to him as Malfoy. This rules out 95% of the female Slytherin population, half of Ravenclaw, a fourth of Hufflepuff, and none of Gryffindor.

He doesn't know what to do next. So he leaves a note of his own, tucking it inside the crevace before he changes his mind.

Could I have a clue? His note reads. Its weak and he knows it. He doesn't care.

He receives a reply the next day.

Only if you ask nicely, Holmes.

He looks up Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, a muggle book character. Cross purebloods off list. Pray she's a halfblood.

He replies cleverly, he hopes, with another muggle book reference.

But of course, my dear Watson. Please?

Instead of finding out who the bird is, he somehow ends up having a conversation with her through notes. It is intrigueing but also infuriating.

A fan of Doyle?

Not really, I looked it up for you.

How sweet. I could lend you my copy. That is, if you ever find out who I am.

I will. I swear.

Your promises aren't very sound, though, are they?

Yes, they are. Most of the time.

You're cute.

He wants to find her. And he wants to find her now.

Could you tell me your house, at least?

ROAR.

Oh God. A Gryffindor. He should give up now.

He stares at the Gryffindor table at every meal.

He has a horrifying notion that it might be she-Weasley.

He has an appifany that he is falling in love with purple ink.

What color's your hair?

I'm not a Weasley, if that's what you're scared of. Brown.

He has made a list. He is only somewhat obbsesive.

"Mate, you're obsessing."

Draco looks up at Blaise. "No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are, Drake. She's just playing with you, trying to get you to respond. And it's working."

Are you in my year?

Yes. You're getting close now. You should be down to, what, ten girls? Ive given you enough clues. I've seen your list.

What? When?

Potions class. How do you think I know where you sit? Four girls now.

You're not Lavender Brown, are you?

No, she's with Ronald.

She checks the crevace every day for a reply. She doesn't get one. If he knows its her, he's very good at hiding it.

Finally she gets a reply, two weeks after her last note.

One girl left.

He ambushes her when she leaves the Great Hall that evening. Harry and Ron are still at the Gryffindor table, chattering on about Quidditch. One minute shes walking down the hallway towards the stairs, and the next she's being pulled into a broom closet and pushed against the back wall as the door is closed. She can feel his warm, heavy breath on her face. It smells of spearmint toothpaste, which doesn't make any sense.

"A broom closet, Malfoy? How classy can you-"

She is cut off by a mouth on hers. It is gentle, not at all like she expected, but still rough enough to push her back into the back of the closet. She is out of breath within seconds, which is when he decides to take it up a notch, pressing into her mouth and exploring her teeth and tongue with his own. Heat pools in her belly as he finally pulls away, biting her bottom lip hard. She yelps.

"That was for making me wait so long, Granger."

She is breathless. She realises he is too. "And what do I get for letting you ravish me in a broom closet, Malfoy?"

"Anything," he says. "Anything you want."

She smiles and pulls out a scap of parchment and a quill. She scribbles on it and tucks it in his front pocket, fixes her hair, and pushes out of the closet. He waits until she is gone to pull the scap out of his pocket.

Written, in purple ink, is one word.

You.