A/N: I thought of this at 11:00 at night. My muse has no sense of time, honestly. Sorry if you Draco lovers are offended. Flame if you like, it's good for my ego.
"Please wait a moment class, I need to have a word with the Headmaster," Snape said to his Potions class,"I'll leave Mr.Malfoy in charge." He gave Draco a sickening grin, and swept out of the room.
"Well," said Draco airily, standing and looking down on them all,"Obviously I'm the only one responsible enough to control the class while Snape is away."
"I liked you better as a ferret," spat Hermione,"You were at least quieter."
"Not really," noted Ron,"Remember him squeaking? Eeee! Eeeee! Eeeeee!" The Gryffindors laughed heartily, to the annoyance of the Slytherins.
Draco scowled and walked up to the board and wrote in plain, large letters HERMIONE GRANGER and RONALD WEASLEY where Snape usually noted down students for detention.
He turned with a smirk,"Mudblood and the Weasel, such a perfect pair; they each deserve the other."
Harry stood, clenching his fists. He felt like smacking Draco around the head, but for some reason, didn't.
In the space of a few seconds, he remembered, back when he went to a Muggle school with Dudley, the day Dudley dared Harry to stick his tongue on the flagpole on the school grounds. It was one of the coldest winters Surrey had ever had; science had proved that if you put your tongue on anything cold and metal on a day like that, it would stay there.
Harry had, in fear of being forced to by Dudley. His tongue did not stick, however, and when Harry looked back he supposed it was because he was a wizard. Piers Polkiss had tried, only to find himself stuck like glue to the pole.
Surely your tongue would stick to an icy cauldron the same way it stuck to a cold flagpole? Their cauldrons had been in storage in the Potions classroom over Christmas holidays, and in winter the class was never very warm. Why, right now Harry could see his breath coming out in puffs, warm in the chilly air! No fires were lit beneath the cauldrons; Snape had left before giving them an assignment.
"I dare you to put your tongue on that cold cauldron," said Harry simply, pointing to Dean's cauldron nearby.
Draco's face flickered. What on earth was Potter going on about? Why would he do that? What would happen to him? The idea had never occurred before.
Such principals as the rule to never, ever, put your tongue on something very cold and metal were not taught in the wizarding world, for some reason. The Muggle borns, all Gryffindors, no Mudblood would ever be in Slytherin, snickered.
Why? Draco's mind was racing. What was Potter going to do to him? Light a fire under it as he touched it? No. He decided that he would hex Potter right after.
"Alright then," he said confidently,"You're on." Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.
The classroom was filled with tension. Some fought back the giggles to watch; no one wanted to miss this.
Draco leaned over and stuck his tongue out to touch the tip of the cauldron.
Once it was there, he realised exactly how cold the cauldron was. He tried to pull back, but couldn't move.
He let out a muffled cry. His tongue was totally adhered to the cauldron. The room began howling with laughter, even the Slytherins.
He waved his arms and tugged, then stopped. He shouldn't do that. What if it tore his tastebuds off? Or ripped his entire tongue out?
He stopped, breathing heavily," 'elp me!"
"Wha...what?" gasped Hermione through heavy guffaws.
"Bwhakhead!" he cried,"Mudbud!"
"Oh, dear, Hermione," snickered Ron,"He just called you a Mudbud!"
Draco ignored this, and the rising laughter. Warm something warm. Liquid? But what?
He shook himself mentally. No, not that, not here.
"Oooo, Draco, d'you want me to go get a teacher?" Pansy Parkinson was the only one not laughing; she was dancing on one foot, hands over her mouth.
He shook his head as best as he could. The last thing he needed to happen was someone else to see him like this.
Draco fumbled with his hand in his robes. He remembered a spell, furneo something.
He grasped the wooden stick and raised it to his mouth,"Furneo Stram!"
A gush of hot air poured from his wand, heating the cauldron. His tongue finally broke free.
He stood, humiliated, rubbing his tongue, in the centre of the crowd.
Remember to tell you children, he reminded himself, to never put their tongue on a cold cauldron.
A/N: I suck at endings. Oh, well. Anyone have a guess at what he was talking about when he said 'Warm, something warm. Liquid?' Those of who have read 'Home from the Vinyl Cafe' and Dave on the roof may understand.
When I was five, and living in Faro, Yukon, Canada, I stuck my tongue to the metal chains of a swing set. I was alone in the corner of the playground, so I was stuck, alone. It took me five minutes to breathe enough of my warm breath onto my tongue to get free. It's funny now that I look back, but it wasn't then.
"Please wait a moment class, I need to have a word with the Headmaster," Snape said to his Potions class,"I'll leave Mr.Malfoy in charge." He gave Draco a sickening grin, and swept out of the room.
"Well," said Draco airily, standing and looking down on them all,"Obviously I'm the only one responsible enough to control the class while Snape is away."
"I liked you better as a ferret," spat Hermione,"You were at least quieter."
"Not really," noted Ron,"Remember him squeaking? Eeee! Eeeee! Eeeeee!" The Gryffindors laughed heartily, to the annoyance of the Slytherins.
Draco scowled and walked up to the board and wrote in plain, large letters HERMIONE GRANGER and RONALD WEASLEY where Snape usually noted down students for detention.
He turned with a smirk,"Mudblood and the Weasel, such a perfect pair; they each deserve the other."
Harry stood, clenching his fists. He felt like smacking Draco around the head, but for some reason, didn't.
In the space of a few seconds, he remembered, back when he went to a Muggle school with Dudley, the day Dudley dared Harry to stick his tongue on the flagpole on the school grounds. It was one of the coldest winters Surrey had ever had; science had proved that if you put your tongue on anything cold and metal on a day like that, it would stay there.
Harry had, in fear of being forced to by Dudley. His tongue did not stick, however, and when Harry looked back he supposed it was because he was a wizard. Piers Polkiss had tried, only to find himself stuck like glue to the pole.
Surely your tongue would stick to an icy cauldron the same way it stuck to a cold flagpole? Their cauldrons had been in storage in the Potions classroom over Christmas holidays, and in winter the class was never very warm. Why, right now Harry could see his breath coming out in puffs, warm in the chilly air! No fires were lit beneath the cauldrons; Snape had left before giving them an assignment.
"I dare you to put your tongue on that cold cauldron," said Harry simply, pointing to Dean's cauldron nearby.
Draco's face flickered. What on earth was Potter going on about? Why would he do that? What would happen to him? The idea had never occurred before.
Such principals as the rule to never, ever, put your tongue on something very cold and metal were not taught in the wizarding world, for some reason. The Muggle borns, all Gryffindors, no Mudblood would ever be in Slytherin, snickered.
Why? Draco's mind was racing. What was Potter going to do to him? Light a fire under it as he touched it? No. He decided that he would hex Potter right after.
"Alright then," he said confidently,"You're on." Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.
The classroom was filled with tension. Some fought back the giggles to watch; no one wanted to miss this.
Draco leaned over and stuck his tongue out to touch the tip of the cauldron.
Once it was there, he realised exactly how cold the cauldron was. He tried to pull back, but couldn't move.
He let out a muffled cry. His tongue was totally adhered to the cauldron. The room began howling with laughter, even the Slytherins.
He waved his arms and tugged, then stopped. He shouldn't do that. What if it tore his tastebuds off? Or ripped his entire tongue out?
He stopped, breathing heavily," 'elp me!"
"Wha...what?" gasped Hermione through heavy guffaws.
"Bwhakhead!" he cried,"Mudbud!"
"Oh, dear, Hermione," snickered Ron,"He just called you a Mudbud!"
Draco ignored this, and the rising laughter. Warm something warm. Liquid? But what?
He shook himself mentally. No, not that, not here.
"Oooo, Draco, d'you want me to go get a teacher?" Pansy Parkinson was the only one not laughing; she was dancing on one foot, hands over her mouth.
He shook his head as best as he could. The last thing he needed to happen was someone else to see him like this.
Draco fumbled with his hand in his robes. He remembered a spell, furneo something.
He grasped the wooden stick and raised it to his mouth,"Furneo Stram!"
A gush of hot air poured from his wand, heating the cauldron. His tongue finally broke free.
He stood, humiliated, rubbing his tongue, in the centre of the crowd.
Remember to tell you children, he reminded himself, to never put their tongue on a cold cauldron.
A/N: I suck at endings. Oh, well. Anyone have a guess at what he was talking about when he said 'Warm, something warm. Liquid?' Those of who have read 'Home from the Vinyl Cafe' and Dave on the roof may understand.
When I was five, and living in Faro, Yukon, Canada, I stuck my tongue to the metal chains of a swing set. I was alone in the corner of the playground, so I was stuck, alone. It took me five minutes to breathe enough of my warm breath onto my tongue to get free. It's funny now that I look back, but it wasn't then.