Title: Hogwarts' Best Kept Secret: Another One The Sorting Hat Had Trouble Doing Its Job With
Author: Punkheid ;)
Disclaimer: If it was mine, it'd have a large helping of Harry/Draco with some Remus/Sirius on the side and it'd be locked in a room with me, cookies, and copious amounts of drool. But you've all read it. sad sigh
Genre: Crack!fic, Humour
Warnings: Slash, Scariness points below
Pairing: Dumbledore/Crabbe bursts into manical laughter
Rating: I'm not much good at telling ratings but either PG or PG-13 for innuendos
Summary: Inspired by, and so dedicated to, a conversation withLiveJournal user delicatetruthabout her icon, which has a picture of someone in knee-length socks saying "Gryffindors do it better." Teehee.
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Slytherin is a strange and secretive house. Granted, it is known that its members are sly, cunning and ambitious, and clever and devious plans are common, but only in the minds of a few enterprising Ravenclaws and Lavender Brown (she has a few secrets of her own) are the more unusual kinks of these interesting people pondered. For kinks they have. Devious plans come in handy when luring unsuspecting Hufflepuffs to fishnet tight-y doom, or a straggling prefect to a night of handcuffed love, but these are tame in comparison to the secret fantasies that lurk in all their smirking glory within the depths of certain Slytherin imaginations...
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Draco Malfoy was perplexed. He liked routines, and so his days were filled with them. At breakfast he walked between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables to his seat at the centre of the Slytherin crowd, Crabbe and Goyle to one side, Pansy on the other. He spread his napkin on his lap, poured a glass of pumpkin juice, sipped it, and glared at Potter. If Weasley or Granger were looking his way he would shoot them a superior smirk and take a piece of white toast as if it were far more interesting than their petty sneers. While he buttered and spread jam on his slices he would make a few dashingly witty comments, Pansy would giggle and lean far too close, and Crabbe and Goyle would grunt admiringly. But today, something was wrong. The comforting tedium of a typical breakfast was not quite the same as usual. Toast? Check. Glare at Potter? Check. Simpering Pansy? Check. Admiring henchmen? Che—oh. Draco stared. Draco gawked, and then caught himself and quickly put his features into a fitting expression of intelligent puzzlement. He followed the drooling gaze of Vincent Crabbe to the flip-flopped foot of everyone's favourite barmy headmaster and raised one eyebrow as the headmaster chortled at something Hagrid has rumbled. When Dumbledore laughed he wiggled his toes. And he was wearing toe socks.
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The birds trilled, the sun jauntily spread across the room, and the lake, when viewed from Albus Dumbledore's balcony at 7am, sparkled. The old man stretched and grinned as he sat in his wicker rocking chair and slotted his toes into the pink and black stripy socks that he had bought in Hogsmeade the previous Friday. It had been a month since he had discovered the glorious invention of toe-socks, and he praised the heavens for sending such genius to the earth that could create such a thing. He wiggled his toes and hummed Bach's Invention #13.
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Later, at breakfast, Albus laughed at Hagrid's recount of Professor Snape's latest encounter with Fang ("An' then he gor a hol' o' the ars' o' Snape's robes, beggin' yer pardon Professor,") and enjoyed a refreshing cup of tea with his customary buttered scone. As he left the Great Hall he was unsurprised to see, from the corner of his eye, a Slytherin shaped shadow detach itself from the alcove by the entrance, and simply raised his robes a little higher so that Vincent Crabbe could see the royal blue lightning bolts emblazoned on the heels of his socks. The sharp intake of breath proved that Vincent agreed with Dumbledore, the first Gryffindor that the Sorting Hat considered putting in Slytherin, that they were, indeed, rather fetching.
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