Author: Mirai
Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. Wish I did… I could use the money.
Warnings: slash, bad poetry, tutu references
Author's Note: I may continue this, but it seems all right on its own. Tell me what you think!

Harry pursed his lips, tapping his pen against his cheek. He was trying, and simultaneously failing, to write love poetry. Really failing. If love was dead, Cupid was turning in his grave.
Harry sighed, and rested his head on his arm, taking his quill and blotting out the lines that would have made any self-respecting Hallmark employee cry. Liberally spreading ink over his paper, he made a heart. With a smiley-face. And a tutu. Then gave it fangs. Next to it he wrote:


Ashes to ashes,

Dust to dust,

If I were a vampire heart,

You'd give me bloodlust.


Harry practically choked, then quickly drown that verse in black ink like its forgoers. Maybe if he put "tutu-wearing vampire heart"…? Maybe not. There are so many things wrong with that… isn't it "Roses are red" anyway? Harry sighed again, and chewed on his thumb. Finally, beneath the giant black blob that had become the top of his paper, Harry scrawled out three new verses:


Whips are made of leather,

Ropes are made of string,

And handcuffs can be made of

Almost anything.


I'll bring the milk chocolate

If you'll bring the whipped cream

Ten bucks and your dignity

Say I'm gonna make you scream
.

Yeah, the rose petals are really red

And the violets sure are blue

All over the silk sheets

Where I'm gonna screw you.


Harry snickered to himself. Well, that was out of the question, but it was sadly the best thing he'd come up with thus far. Maybe he'd give it to Ron and say it was from Hermione. Yeah… Of course, Ron might kill him.

Suddenly Ron nudged him, hard. Harry blinked and looked up.

"Well?" asked Professor Binns with all the enthusiasm of a bag full of air, which, Harry reflected, was more or less what Professor Binns was. Harry risked a glance over at Hermione, who shook her head vehemently.

"Er… no?" Harry said.

Professor Binns beamed. Well, he didn't exactly beam. Or really even change his expression. "Very good. The time you are spending taking notes is obviously paying off."

"Er, yeah. Notes," Harry said, casually folding his sheet of paper two times and wedging it into the crack between the tabletop and its frame.

He was pretty sure he heard Seamus cough "bullshit," and Ron nudged Harry and grinned. Binns failed to notice, as was typical, and continued with the lecture.

"The year 1684, however, failed to bring the changes the triumvirate requested. This resulted in…"

Harry, feeling a tiny twinge of guilt, took real notes for the rest of class, although he couldn't resist a few doodles, none of which, fortunately, resembled a vampire heart with a tutu.

When class ended, Harry packed up his books and notes, completely forgetting the little scrap of paper wedged into the desk.



Draco Malfoy hated history. But then, Draco Malfoy hated a lot of things. Draco Malfoy hated children, small animals, and bananas. But Draco Malfoy hated history the most. He hated it even more than bananas. So Draco Malfoy was somewhat surprised to find a little white note wedged into his desk when he sat down. History might not be so dull after all.

Malfoy glanced around surreptitiously, then unfolded the note. He wondered who knew where he sat, and why they knew. Maybe it was a death threat. Yeah, that would be cool. Or maybe…

Malfoy looked curiously at the top half of the sheet, which was covered entirely in black ink. He tilted his head. That one part, he swore, looked kind of like a heart. With fangs, or something. And maybe a tutu. He blinked, wondering if it was one of those inkblot Rorschach-things. Seeing a tutu-wearing heart with fangs, he thought, couldn't mean good things for the state of his mental health…

And then Malfoy noticed the bottom half of the paper. Two bleach-blonde eyebrows shot up.



At lunch, when Ron was done helping himself to a generous portion of Percy's dessert while he chatted with the girl next to him, he turned to Harry.

"Mind if I copy your history notes, Harry?" he teased through a mouthful of blueberry strudel.

Harry grinned. "Well, gee, I'd love to but my handwriting's not so good. You should probably borrow Hermiones'…"

Hermione rolled her eyes good-humoredly at both of them. "I know it's not your favorite class, but you two could at least try to pay attention, instead of drawing stick figures, or writing dirty limericks, or whatever it is you do."

Somewhere between "History notes" and "dirty limericks" Harry's mind made a connection. He turned pale.

"Be right back," he managed, hastily dropping his eating utensils and running from the hall.

Harry was immediately relieved upon noticing two things. First, the history room was empty, and second, there was his little white note, peeping out from under his desktop. Sighing with relief, he plopped down in his seat, and pulled out the note, holding it in his hands.

Looking down at it, though, he frowned. It was a little less ink-soaked than he remembered it. And the paper was a little less lined than he remembered. As a matter of fact, this was a little bit less his note than he had thought.

Holding it gingerly, with all the cheerful confidence of a canary about to enter a gas-filled mine, he opened it:


You need help. You're messed up.


Harry shrugged. It was his own fault, he supposed…


And kinky. We should talk.


Harry blinked, doing the ocular equivalent of a double take. What?? He reread that line. He wore glasses for a reason, after all.


But you definitely need to find a better way of communicating with me. I would suggest you leave future notes in the knight's helmet outside the Great Hall…


Harry turned it over, looking for a signature. When he didn't find one, he just shrugged, entirely bewildered. It looked like he might have a date for Valentine's Day after all.