Title: While You Were Freaking!
Author: Libertine & TRLDM
Genre: Humor, Drama, Adventure.
Pairing: Dean/Hermione, Pansy/Ron, Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17, although really, it's no worse than R.
Homepage: http://kissaki.freeservers.com/lhps
Mailing list: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/veelainc
Disclaimer: JKR & Warner Bros. own the characters & Places. I'm making no money from this.
Summary: Harry touches Draco's testicles, Draco gets angsty, and there is a resolution of sorts. Oh, hooray, hurrah, not.
* * * *
I
It wasn't often that Hermione Granger was faced with a problem she couldn't solve.
The Ministry's Auror entrance examination comprised a series of rigorous trials which each aspiring Auror could undertake at their leisure. Testing initiative, skill and general knowledge, these compulsorary assessments were graded in terms of pass or fail: if you didn't make it past one hurdle, you had to continue doing it until you succeeded, or alternately, gave up. Thus far, over a testing period of six months, Hermione had been instructed to neutralise the firey breath of a dragon with hiccups, cured various magical and non-magical ailments, showed herself to be well versed in all areas of magical history, and had sat through fourty three exams in politics.
These were difficult tasks, certainly, but completing them successfully was simply an exercise in memory. She had only to recall her lessons and her extracurricular research to negotiate each problem. Her sole threat was posed by her competitors, and Hermione -- who'd been top of her classes since day one at Hogwarts School for Witches and Wizards -- wasn't perturbed by them in the slighest.
The rules of the examination decreed that only one student from each magical school would be accepted directly into the training program each year, and aside from Hermione, three other Hogwarts pupils had their eye on the presitigous graduate course: Parvarti Patil, Mandy Brocklehurst, and the infuriating Draco Malfoy. Parvarti, as far as Hermione knew, was still stuck on the dragon task, while Mandy seemed likely to pull out after being exposed to a witch with a bad case of chicken pox. Malfoy was keeping his progress secret, but Hermione couldn't for the life of her imagine that he could have passed the politics exams -- especially as these were carefully designed to weed out any applicants with an unseemly predisposition toward the Dark Arts.
So, with her various triumphs behind her, Hermione Granger had ventured into the final section of the exams, the initiative quotient, feeling exceedingly confident of victory.
Only to find herself completely stumped.
The final test was a locked case, no larger than a shoe box. Using whatever means she deemed necessary, Hermione's task was discover what was inside it. She was allowed to bring it back to school to work on it, but so far she'd come up with no immediate solution. The case seemed impervious to magic: it didn't respond to opening spells, charms, hexing, cursing or, Hermione discovered, being thrown out of the window of the Gryffindor common room.
"I don't understand," she complained to her boyfriend Dean Thomas and her friend Neville Longbottom, both of whom had been kind enough to rescue the case from the bushes below the tower. "I've tried everything. It's completely impossible." Still clutching the newly reacquired case, Hermione threw up her hands, and the boys darted forwards instinctively -- afraid the case would follow the same plumetting trajectory it had only a few minutes before.
It didn't, and Neville breathed out a sigh of relief.
"They didn't say you had to open it," Dean said slowly. "Why don't you try making it transparent? You could see the contents then."
"I've already tried that," Hermione snapped. "It's completely resistant to magic."
Dean rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I saw this show once," he began hesitantly. "On the telly --- you know? It was about super heros and the sort, my kid brother used to watch it all the time. Cartoons. One of the episodes was about this evil guy could see through walls with x-ray specs... they were like goggles... he used to rob banks, meet women and stuff..." He paused; Hermione was making wind-it-up motions with her wrist. Sighing, Dean sped quickly to the point: "So what I'm thinking is, 'Mione," he said, "why don't you charm something to make it able to see through things? That's not really going to affect the box itself, is it?"
In leiu of everything else Hermione had tried, this seemed like a remarkably intelligent idea. The two boys exchanged nods, then looked patiently towards Hermione as she mentally weighed up the pros and cons of such a venture. "I think..." she began absently, but didn't finish the thought. Rising to her feet, she held the box in the centre of her palm, fingers spread outwards, and studied it from all angles. With her brow furrowed and her lips set in a determined, thin line, she looked quite the picture of scientific curiosity.
"You think...?" Dean prompted, to her left.
"I think I love you, Dean," said Hermione seriously, without looking up. "I really do."
"Wait and see if it works, first," Dean advised her, a wry smile on his face. "Before you start promising me your first born child, that is..." He glanced around the room for something to charm, but Neville (who'd found their little exchange profoundly embarrassing) was already one step ahead of him, scrabbling to divert the conversation from romantic wufflings of any sort. A half hour previously, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had staggered off to the showers following Quidditch practice, and Harry had left his glasses lying on the common room table. Neville snatched up the discarded spectacles and passed them nervously across to Hermione.
"Will they do, 'Mione?" he asked.
"Wait a minute... they're Harry's," Dean protested, spotting the triumphant gleam in Hermione's eyes. "You should ask first. I don't reckon he'd like to come back to find his glasses tampered with."
"It's all in the name of magic," said Hermione firmly. This close to success, she had no wish to have matters slowed down by mere trivialities of conscience --- and she was positive Harry wouldn't begrudge her the use of his National Heath spectacles. For the first time, it seemed that her victory over the damned case was within reach. "Now, what was that spell again?" she mused aloud, turning the glasses over in one hand, reaching for her wand with the other. "Ah, I remember... Translumos Speriphus."
At her words, a jolt of bright light sprung from the tip of her wand and breifly suffused the lenses of the glasses with a myriad of sparkling colours. Neville gasped aloud, clapping both hands over his mouth; Dean simply whistled under his breath, impressed by the display. Hermione grinned, despite herself. Performing a little curtsey for the benefit of the boys, she held the charmed glasses up to the box and stared at it through them.
But instead of seeing straight through to the inside of the box, as she had hoped, all she saw was the familiar solid metal side.
"Damn! Oh, goddamn it!"
She was so frustrated that she only barely managed to stop herself from throwing the glasses across the room.
"No luck, baby?" Dean asked, with a groan. Very gently he pried Harry's glasses from her hands before she could do them any damage, and set them back upon the table. His girlfriend buried her face in her lap and swore.
"It's just not fair!" she hissed.
"Don't worry, Hermione," said Neville kindly, patting her on the back. "I'm sure you'll get it open before Malfoy does."
Hermione only growled in response.
*
Unbeknownst to Hermione and her friends, one other student had already worked out how to open the box. Draco Malfoy sat crosslegged in the Slytherin common room, idly tossing his box from had to hand. Compared to all the other tasks he'd been set in the Auror examinations, this last one had been a walk in the park. When he'd originally opened it, less that fifteen minutes since he'd gotten it, the little box had made a high pitched cheering noise and canned laughter spilled from its interior. Within was a letter of congratulations, bearing the stamp of approval from the Ministry of Magic.
If Draco had actually wanted to join the Auror's training program, he would have sent off this letter as soon as he'd recovered it -- but Draco had no such aspirations. Currently he was using the box as a makeshift pencil stand until he worked out what to do.
One thing was certain, however -- he wasn't going to join the Ministry of Magic. The idea of signing up for this ridiculous course had been his father's: Lucius Malfoy had thought it prudent to have an Auror on the inside. Not only would it increase the man's respectability in wizard society, but it would also make him all the more invaluable to the Dark Lord, and Draco would become no more than another political tool, a petty spy for his slippery-skinned parent.
Lucius, as always, was playing both sides, much to Draco's increasing disgust. Now that he was old enough to gain a mature perspective on the Death Eater situation, Draco found himself more and more disenchanted with the political games of his father. A monetary donation there, a little dark magic there, a bit of back-stabbing to the Ministry and then some snooping for the Death Eaters -- Lucius was constantly caught up in the idiocies of maintaining the balance between his sympathies towards the conservative and the radical magical parties.
And all to what end, precisely? Draco often wondered. On the off chance that one of them might actually win the war? Draco had made a firm decision at the start of this year. When he decided once and for all what he wanted to be, then he'd stick to it -- there'd be no wheedling and boot-licking for him. He'd be respected for his own merits; he wouldn't stoop to paying for favours.
It was most unfortunate, then, that he'd proven to be the first to open the Auror's box. He hadn't even meant to open it -- he'd just been fooling around, wondering if the Ministry were so stupid as to make it that easy...
And, they had.
Draco supposed he'd just have to wait until the Mud-blood Granger worked it out, though she was certainly taking her time about it. Perhaps he'd have to give her a hint.
Just imagine that. A Slytherin helping a Gryffindor -- now there's a turn up for the books...
It was all too painfully obvious to Draco that the Gryffindors at Hogwarts were growing up to be a slovenly lot. A combination of smuggled drugs and a lackdaisical attitude to homework had turned the previously formidable house into the laughing stock of the school. Lately, the only adventures the Gryffindors got involved in were quests to the kitchens for munchies. They'd grown lazy and stupid in the absence of any external challenges. Within the safe enclosure of Hogwart's walls, it was easy to forget the trials of those outside, it was easy to pretend that everything was the same as it always had been.
Although the threat of Voldemort's return was the focus of all the local newspapers, the politics of the wizard world seemed so very far away. In Draco's jaundiced opinion, the Gryffindors were fools; they were so concentrated on the facile aspects of life that they completely failed to register the bigger picture -- a bigger picture which Draco wanted to have a hand in altering.
Aimlessly, he glanced across the common room. Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were sitting by the opposite wall on one of the sturdy old couches, idly chattering about boys-boys-boys, their usual topic of choice. Draco was mildly chagrined to note that his name hadn't surfaced yet in their adolescent babble, but not overly so. He and Pansy had recently had a falling out -- a particularly harsh one. Since then, Draco hadn't spoken more than a word to Pansy, and she in turn had taken great pains to publically snub him every chance she could.
It was all the Weasel's fault. That little Gryffindor bastard had been dating Pansy now for almost a month, and Pansy talked about him endlessly. Reputedly, there were photographs of the Weasel on Pansy's bedstand, and she wore a heart shaped locket with the Weasel's moniker on it.
It was enough to make a Slytherin sick.
"Why the Weasel?" Draco had asked her. "Merlin's beard, it's almost as bad as dating Potter."
"His freckles are so dreamy," was Pansy's airy response.
"Those are pimples, you fool," Draco had been unable to resist replying.
A high pitched squeal, a cold smirk and a hard slap later, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were no longer friends.
Pansy and the Weasel. The whole affair frustrated Draco intensely, mainly because he'd expected to end up with Pansy. Married, rich, with a brood of snotty nosed pug-faced children... that was the future of the Malfoy heir. It wasn't precisely what Draco wanted out of life, but it was what was bound to happen -- or had been, until that acne-riddled little bastard had stepped in on Draco's turf.
"He's such a darling to me," Pansy was whispering to Blaise now, in a voice perfectly pitched to seem secretive and yet remain audible to Draco. "He brought me flowers the other day, did you see them? They were lovely... he's a real romantic, Blaise. I've never met a man like him before..."
Rising abruptly to his feet, Draco snapped the Auror box closed, hard, and stalked out of the room. There was only so much Weasel-warbling he could take at any one time.
The sounds of the girls' laughter rung in his ears as he slammed the door behind him.
*
A well-washed Harry Potter tumbled out of the Gryffindor showers a few minutes before Ron, and stumbled blindly off to find his glasses. He found them exactly where he'd left them, lying on the table in the middle of the common room. The world resolved into a clearer focus, and Harry blinked myopically around him. Neville Longbottom appeared to be the sole other occupant of the room; he was curled up under his blanket on a chair, flipping idly through a comic book. He offered Harry a small smile, wriggling his fingers.
"Hi, Harry. Hermione said she'd see you in the library -- she's still working on the box thing."
"Still hasn't opened it?" Harry grinned, running a hand through his damp hair, separating the strands. "How's Dean coping?"
"Oh, I don't know." Neville never much liked talking about other people's relationships; he flushed deeply, and wriggled further under his blankets. Harry suppressed a laugh as Neville tugged the material over one bare leg. Evidently Neville had just come out of the shower too and had decided to drip-dry -- a rather daring move from a boy who, even at sixteen, still refused to take off his shirt in public. "I was just told to tell you, is all," Neville mumbled nervously, his fingers crinkling the pages of the comic book. "Dean didn't say anything..."
He was cut off when the common room door banged open noisily, behind Harry. Turning, Harry discovered a stark naked Ron smirking at him in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. Harry almost burst out laughing at the sight. Having spent many holidays at the Burrow, Harry considered himself to be practically Ron's brother, and nudity had never been an issue in the Weasley's household -- especially when sharing a bathroom between seven. But if Ron hadn't even donned a towel before leaving the shower rooms, this meant that he'd just walked naked along a corridor with an open entrance to the girl's dormitory. Lavender and Parvati would have had a field day if they'd caught him.
"Something funny, Poh-tah?" Ron asked, raising an eyebrow. His mimick of Professor Snape's voice just made Harry laugh harder.
"You idiot, Ron. What are you thinking?"
Ron shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "You tell me?"
"Just put some clothes on, would you?" Harry said, grinning. Moving forwards, he gave Ron a shove in the chest.
"What?" Ron pushed him away, and made a face. "I am wearing clothes, midget boy," he said, frowning. "Oh wait, don't tell me. You're picturing me naked, right?" He laughed.
"No, I'm telling you to put on some clothes, before bloody Lavender walks in. Geeze, Ron. Have a little common decency, eh? Think of the children."
"Huh?" Ron took a step back, tilting his head to one side. Harry suddenly got the feeling he'd said entirely the wrong thing. Ron's expression was one of confusion and worry; he was watching Harry as if he expected him to keel over on the spot. "Uh, have you been overdoing it, Harry?" Ron asked cautiously. "Didn't get a bump on your head during the practise, did you? I mean... you're not serious, right?"
"Of course I'm serious. The girls will freak if they see you." Harry glanced back at Neville, looking for support. "Isn't that right, Nev?"
But Neville only shrugged his shoulders in an 'I don't know what you're talking about' manner, and went back to his comic book.
"Harry," said Ron, carefully putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Maybe you should sit down for a bit."
"What? Why?"
Ron bit his lip. "I think the sun might have addled your brain..."
"I'm fine!" Harry almost yelled the words, surprised by the strength and suddeness of his anger. "I just think you should get dressed. What's wrong with you? Heck, scare the girls if you want to... I don't care..." He teetered there a moment, swaying between the two of them. Had Ron and Neville plotted to make fun of him? he wondered. The idea of the two of them joining forces to play mind games only compounded Harry's rage. If it wasn't enough to be teased by the Slytherins, now the Gryffindors were ganging up on him...
Harry's good mood was ruined; he pulled away roughly from Ron's touch.
"Harry, for goodness sake," Ron began.
"Oh, shut up," Harry snapped, nudging him out of the way. "I'll be in the library when you both decide to stop being idiots."
He slammed out of the room. Ron and Neville exchanged perplexed looks, and Neville nipped at his lower lip with his teeth. When the silence between them became intolerable, Neville found himself forced to break it. "Harry seems a bit... unhappy?" he tried, hopelessly, returning his gaze to the door, which was still jittering on its hinges and letting out annoyed metal squeakings at being treated in such a forceful manner.
"He's bloody nuts, he is," said Ron, shaking his head incredulously.
"Hermione did say yesterday that he was going insane," said Neville agreeably. "Either that or it's impotence, she said."
Ron spluttered. "Hermione said it's what?"
Neville winced at this outburst, squeezed his knees to his chest protectively. "Perhaps that wasn't the word she used," he admitted in a smaller voice, unsure. "Um, but it was definately imp-. Imp. Imp something, I think. Or maybe..." he was looking thoroughly confused by now, "maybe she didn't say that at all..."
"Neville..."
"I know," said Neville, hanging his head. "I know. Sorry I'm not any help."
"Wasn't going to say that at all, actually," said Ron, quirking a grin. "I was going to ask you if you'd like to head down to the kitchens with me. I've got a hankering for some munchies..."
*
Where did that little huff come from? Harry asked himself, as he sulked his way along the corridors which led from the dormitory. It had been a fleeting rage; two minutes later he felt sheepish and stupid; he would have died for the chance to go back into the room and take it all back. Only his pride prevented him from doing so... well, his pride and the knowledge that if it came to a confrontation, it was likely he'd wig out again and make things even worse.
For the past few weeks Harry had thought of himself in metaphors: a bomb ready to go off, a dam on the verge of bursting; but even the cliches couldn't come close to expressing that trapped, frustrated feeling, all that pent up emotion looking for an outlet. He'd be happy as a sandboy one minute, and the next, he'd be coming close to blows with his best friend in the world.
'It's your scar,' Hermione had told him the day before, ever ready to provide a rational diagnosis for his ailment. 'Is it hurting?'
'No,' Harry snapped. 'Never felt better.'
'There you have it then,' she'd said. 'It's because nothing is happening, Harry. You're used to living an exciting life now, a life when everything happens at once, when there's always something to do. But all there is these days is classwork: no magic conspiracies, no detective work for us to do. Just Snape on Mondays, Trewlaney on Tuesdays, Bims on Wednesday, McGonagall on...'
'I don't need you to recite my timetable for me, thank you,' Harry grunted.
'It's boredom, Harry,' Hermione said, ignoring him. 'That's what's wrong with you. Go out and fly your broom about the grounds a bit and you'll feel much better.'
Harry had taken her advice and immediately tramped off for a quick pre-breakfast flight. To Hermione's credit, it had worked for a while: he'd been quite civil for the rest of the day, at least until that idiot Gregory Goyle had accidentally-on-purpose tripped Neville over on the way into Transfiguration that afternoon. The fight which had ensued after class was over cost Harry a handful of hair and twenty house points, but the adrenaline rush had been worth it.
Now, as he wandered aimlessly through the school, Harry wondered if he shouldn't try and find Goyle again. He was fairly sure he could start another brawl without too much difficulty.
Not that Hermione would be pleased about that, he thought morosely, rounding the corner. House points. As if they were more important than...
But he couldn't think what house points were more important than, so he just kept walking, head down, dragging his heels along the stone floor. His meandering had so far taken him past the Transfiguration classrooms, and now he was heading through to the more dimly lit areas of the school. The architects who had built Hogwarts evidently prided mystery over practicality: the halls were filled with random turns and twists, but judging by the more scholarly looking portraits hanging in this area, Harry knew he was nearing the school library. Perhaps a book would calm him down, he thought dryly. Something about the war and people getting their heads chopped off, that would be just...
There was a naked boy standing in the corridor outside the library.
Spltfhr, went Harry's brain, and his feet stumbled into each other involuntarily, bringing him to an abrupt halt.
He stared.
.Spltfhr? Spltfhr!
Harry continued to stare, while his brain made odd farting noises and threatened to leak out of his nose. The boy, however, was suffering no such embarrassment: he was facing the wrong way, completely unaware that his state of nudity was being observed by a second party. With his back to Harry, he rested one hand against the library wall, his shoulders stooped: a casual pose. Blonde hair, clipped short and neat around his ears, complimented his pale and utterly flawless skin. He was slim, almost too slim -- the line of his spine and the ridges of his shoulderblades pressed sharply against his skin -- but his arms and legs were wirey with muscle. Harry's breath caught suddenly and unexpectedly in his throat.
This wasn't like seeing Ron naked at all.
No, it was embarrassing, incredibly, horribly embarrassing in all the worst possible ways, and Harry didn't dare to let his gaze slip below the boy's waist.
What was this strange boy doing here? Had Hogwarts suddenly become a nudist colony, and no one had bothered to tell him? Harry averted his eyes shamefully, wondering what to do. Should he walk on past as if the boy didn't exist, or find a teacher, or ask the boy to... to put some damned clothes on before someone... did something...
Harry rubbed at the lenses of his glasses. Perhaps he was simply dreaming -- and all this was part of some bizarre fantasy his mind had conjured up. It seemed as rational an explaination as any, and to test it, Harry pinched hard at the skin of his upper arm.
"Ow!" he yelped.
He looked back up. The boy was still there. Definately not a dream, then. Harry was on the verge of bolting to Dumbledore's office when the naked boy turned, ever so slowly, and fixed him with a cool, grey-eyed stare.
"See something you like, Potter?"
Malfoy.
"Oh, god," said Harry.
"Yes, I am rather," Malfoy sneered at him, jauntily pushing out his hip and resting his hand upon it. Certain parts of the Malfoy anatomy swung with the motion. Certain parts of the Potter anatomy shrunk back into his groin, vowing to never see the light of day again. Involuntarily, Harry clenched his buttocks. "Funny that you should be here," Malfoy continued, with another immodest quirk of his pelvis. "I never knew you were the intellectual type. Or are you still trying to get into the flea-ridden pants of the Mud-blood?"
Harry opened his mouth, and shut it again. His eyes were saucer-wide, his mouth parched. Malfoy, taking advantage of Harry's apparent discomfiture, sashayed forwards. "Well, don't let me stop you on your little quest," he drawled. "But don't blame me if you find yourself scratching later." He waved a hand airily.
Bounce.
Harry squeaked.
A confused expression passed over Malfoy's face. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, as if he expected to see some giant, monstorous creature towering over him: a cogent explaination for Harry's horror. The corridor behind him remained empty. His brow creased into a frown as he returned his gaze to Harry. "Oh, don't tell me," he hissed. "The great Harry Potter now has visions, hm? Or, wait. The Boy Who Lived can see evil spirits. Or... no, I have it." He clicked his fingers infront of Harry's glasses. "Voldemort's back, right? Potter's got a wittle hurty wurty in the old scar-y warry?"
Harry squeaked again. Malfoy was so close Harry could smell his breath, could smell Malfoy's bloody aftershave, and even closing his eyes didn't make it any better. Malfoy's pale chest was an arm's length away, but to Harry it felt as if Malfoy was pushed up against him. All the Dark Arts lessons Harry had attended over his years at Hogwarts had failed to prepare him for dealing with the terrible spectre of a naked Malfoy. He felt violated, on some strange and utterly disturbing level. But for all the life in him, he couldn't bring himself to push Malfoy out of his way, because to do so would mean actually *touching* Malfoy.
Tentively, he withdrew a step. Malfoy advanced a step. Harry backed away a second time, and felt the shock of a wall at his back.
Nice going, Potter, he cursed himself.
"My word," Malfoy purred, sliding even closer, until Harry could barely breathe from the tension. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd almost think that you were afraid of me, Potter. Heard on the old mandrakevine that I'm a Death Eater? That I'm a powerful Dark Arts mage? That I'm the son of Voldemort himself? I thought you'd be smarter than to listen to rumours -- then again, Gryffindors have never been the brightest sparks, have they?"
Harry tried to burrow into the wall with his shoulders. Malfoy laughed. He rested one hand against the wall, directly beside Harry's head. "This is really too good," he murmured. "I wonder what I should do. There's you, in your little state, and then there's me, finally at the advantage, and then..."
Afterwards, Harry couldn't really remember what moved him to perform such a desperate act. In retrospect, he could appreciate the fact that it could have easily intensified the situation. But in that moment, all Harry could think of was the thought of Malfoy pressing him, pushing at him, doing unspeakable things to him, and caught in the confliction of fight and flight, Harry hadn't the wit to consider all the available options. He simply wanted Malfoy away, a long way away, and in a fit of panic, he'd followed his impulses and done the first thing which came into his head.
He'd reached down, gripped Malfoy's bouncing anatomy in his hand, and given it a firm, admonitory squeeze.
* * * *
