Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the best thing since slice bread, but unfortunately I don't own it... OR MAYBE I DO.

All righty then. I decided to edit this little guy... a bit. Hehehe. Wow, I think I just turned the story into a living being.

Also, I suppose I should warn you. This story contains swearing... and erm—mpreg. Hehehehe.

*shrugs*

Enjoy! :D

Untold Stories
Chapter One

With the invisibility cloak on, Marauder's Map in hand, and White Magic in his pocket, Harry Potter was ready. He stood by the one-eyed witch statue, leaning casually against the wall. Harry glanced at his watch, then at the Marauder's Map; his buyer was no where near the meeting place. Now, Harry didn't usually do deals in the middle of the night for fear of getting caught. But the customer had insisted they meet here at midnight.

Finally, footsteps echoed the halls sounding like grenades against the silence of the night. Harry looked down at the map once more. And making quick steps just down the hall from where he was standing, walked the customer; a young, nervous looking first year Hufflepuff. He pulled the cloak off himself, and stuck his hands inside his robes.

The Hufflepuff was shaking tremendously. He was a first-time buyer. He greeted Harry with a small wave. "Do you have the... er—the stuff?"

"Relax," Harry replied kindly. "Do you have the cha-ching?"

He nodded, and took five gold Galleons from his pocket. Harry pocketed the money, and took out a small bag of glowing white powder.

"Thanks," replied the Hufflepuff.

Harry nodded. "You're welcome. Just remember, don't take it all at one time. That could be deadly." Harry didn't need to explain any further, as the entire school had heard about that one Ravenclaw student who had overdosed, and was permanently turned into a duck.

"I'll be careful, I promise," he said like a small child. He quickly turned around, and nearly bolted to his common-room. Harry chuckled, and slipped the cloak over himself.

The Next Morning...

After a long nights sleep, Harry woke up feeling refreshed and energized—that was the way he always felt when he made a deal.

Harry went into his trunk, and put on the usual black school robes. Before closing the lid, he went into the bottom, took out a brown paper bag, and pocketed it. Ron was snoring loudly in a deep sleep in his bed next to Harry's. He always seemed to be sleeping in these days. Frankly, he'd been acting quite strange lately.

Harry walked out of his dormitory, and down into the common-room. It was almost completely empty, with the exception of a couple of his fellow Gryffindors who had been waiting for him to wake. Harry knew what they wanted. They, like many users of the White Magic, had become addicted to the drug. But that wasn't Harry's problem. If anyone were to point fingers, it was their fault for buying it in the first place.

Harry shook his head, looking around conspiratorially. "Not here," he said in a hushed tone. He had always made it clear to his customers that he would not sell them anything without an appointment.

They both groaned, and walked away sulking.

Harry shook his head sadly, and walked out of the portrait hole to proceed to breakfast. He sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Do they want to get caught?" he asked himself aloud. That's what it all boiled down to, anyway—not getting caught. It was a risky business, frankly. But the pay was worth it. And Harry promised himself he would continue to sell until he couldn't anymore.

"Talking to yourself, Potter?" laughed an obnoxious voice.

Harry groaned. That was the voice of one Draco Malfoy; who had crowned 'biggest git in school'. Crabbe and Goyle didn't like him anymore. The teachers—not even Snape for Merlin's sake—could stand his presence. In fact he was such a git, that his parents were considering disowning him.

But Draco seemed oblivious to all of that.

Harry pretended as though he didn't exist, and continued on his journey to the Great Hall. He walked down the winding staircases, past the moving portraits and arrived at the Great Hall without bumping into Peeves, or anyone else for that matter. He walked over to the Gryffindor table, and took a seat beside Fred and George, since Ron and Hermione were no where to be found.

"Do you have it?" Fred whispered into his ear.

Harry grinned from ear to ear, feeling the adrenaline pumping through his veins again. "Of course I do."

He sneakily took the out brown paper bag from his pocket, and passed Fred a small bag of the glowing white powder from the night before. Fred pocketed the White Magic, and murmured a 'thank you.' Harry nodded, and turned to his plate not asking for anything in return from the elder Weasley boy. Fred was a major part of the business, not only helping him deal the White Magic, but also making it.

Now, I know what you're thinking! What for Merlin's sake is this 'glowing white powder' also known as 'White Magic'? Basically, it is the Wizard equivalent to the muggle drug, Marijuana. Harry had found, being muggle born of course, that not had Wizards never heard of it, but that it also had magical properties.

For example: if one were were to put it in a potion one was brewing, it was able to correct any and all mistakes made to the brew. But, most students who bought it used it strictly the same way muggle's did; to get high. With OWLs, and NEWTs, and even just plain old end of term exams, school could get extremely stressful. Sometimes, one need a quick fix to calm oneself down.

Then, of course, there were times when one merely just wanted to get high, for no real reason whatsoever.

There had been a high demand for the White Magic, and Harry (along) with his colleagues were making good profit off of it.

People were paying in many different ways. And while the primary income was of Galleons, students also found other favors (for payment) so give to Harry and his team.

But lately, people had been getting careless. Or perhaps, just extremely addicted to the drug. Certain people, mostly long time customers, would just come out in the open and ask if he had any White Magic on him. Harry, of course, was forced to deny any involvement, "I have no idea what you're talking about," he would say. But he wasn't heartless. Harry would slip the a card with a meeting time on it.

Other than that, however, business was booming. "Meet me in the courtyard at break. Everyone is going to be there," he told Fred. Every few weeks Harry and his colleagues would meet and talk about business, they're supply, that sort of thing. It was almost like a staff meeting.

And with that, he walked off without another word.

Gryffindor Girls Dormitory...

Hermione awoke, alone in the girls dormitory.

She was disoriented, and confused. How did I get back here, she questioned herself. The last thing she remembered was sneaking into the kitchens to steal some Fire-Whiskey. Hermione attempted to sit up, but the splitting headache and aching body prevented her moving even a muscle. She moaned... another "killer" hangover, another day of skipped classes. This was probably the—in fact, she couldn't remember she'd attended a full day of class.

Surprisingly enough, however, no one seemed to notice her "problem", though Hermione never considered it to be one. "I can stop anytime I want to," she assured herself.

The alcoholism had all started back one night, just around a year ago. It had been near the summer months, and Lavender Brown had dared her, Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes to steal some wine from the kitchens. She objected to it, of course. Considering if Filch had caught her out of bed at that hour—she didn't even want to think of what he'd do. But Lavender had taunted and teased her so much, she couldn't refuse.

She crept out of the portrait hole, afraid at each sound she made. She rushed through Hogwarts' winding hallways down to the kitchens. Hermione went inside the liquor cabinet, filled to the brim with a small selection of wines, whiskeys, and beers. Way, way in the back, was the last bottle of Fire-Whiskey, collecting dust up on the shelf. She reached inside, and grabbed it with no trouble at all.

Quietly bringing it back to the common room, Hermione brought it in triumphantly. Lavender looked completely shocked—she hadn't anticipated Hermione actually doing the deed.

Hermione shrugged, and grinned. "Now, why don't you do it?"

Lavender gasped. "No way," she replied with a laugh. "G'night Hermione."

She sighed. Hermione looked at the bottle curiously. A small sip couldn't hurt, she muttered to herself. She picked it up, and brought it out to the girls lavatory. Unscrewing the top, she took a swig. It burned as the liquid climbed down her throat. Hermione grabbed her throat, and chugged down a glass of cold water. But as she returned to her bed, she felt an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Almost—emptiness.

Hermione looked at the bottle, now lying discarded on the top of her bed. She was craving it. She downed another swig, this time, enjoying the burning sensation it left in her throat. And now, here Hermione lay.

Almost an entire year later. Fifty-Gagillion Fire-Whiskey's later. Following that fateful night with Lavender Brown, the need for alcohol only got worse. She would want it every single day.

Boys Lavatory...

Ron, however, was not asleep comfortably in his bed, or not-so comfortably in Hermione's case. Nor was he in the Great Hall, enjoying some breakfast with his twin brothers, and best friend Harry. No—Ronald Weasley was crouched beside the toilet, emptying the non-existent contents on his stomach into the porcelain god. The sickness had been going on for months now.

And he had absolutely no idea what was wrong with himself.

His story began at the Yule Ball.

Ron had been getting some punch for himself and Padma, when Malfoy sauntered over and called him a 'blood traitor', then added that he looked absolutely dreadful. Ron, having spent hours getting ready for the stupid event, was angry to say the least. But then he remembered that no gave a shit of what Draco Malfoy thought about—well, anything. So, he ignored him, and brought her punch back to the table where him and Padma had been sitting.

But, Ron was absolutely horrified to see that some stupid Ravenclaw had taken her spot, and was snogging the shit of Padma. Worst of all, she looked as though she were really enjoyed it, too. He gasped, and ran out of the Ball in tears. Screw being a man, he sobbed to himself. He sat on the marble staircase, and cried his eyes out. How stupid had he been to think that Padma Patil actually liked something like him.

He was just a nobody. And she was a smart young woman who clearly didn't need him. Then, his thoughts were brought back to four weeks ago when Padma had proclaimed her "love" for him in ways that no could imagine.

It was times like these when Ron wished he was closer with his brothers. It wasn't really as if he could talk to many people about these sort of things. Harry was out the question—I mean, what experience did he have. Not even that, both Harry and Hermione had been so distant from him lately. Hermione was either sleeping, doing homework, acting rude or stupid, or off somewhere he didn't know. And Harry. He was always with a bunch of people talking secretly.

Ron had no idea what that was about.

Ron thought about all of his symptoms. Nausea wasn't the only one, after all. Frankly, he knew he'd seen them all—together—somewhere. Ron had been eating everything in sight. (He just couldn't get enough of those little breakfast omelets the house elves made.

In fact, he'd also gained some weight, too.

He had to pee every ten minutes.

Ron was tired all the time.

What the hell is wrong with me? he asked himself.

Gee, Ron. I don't know!

Well... I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter. Please Review! :)