Disclosure Hp belongs to Jkr. The storyline, new character development, new events, and new characters are my intellectual property. Glorioux . This story will contain adult situations later.
◄ ►█▓◄ ►HARMONY◄ ►▓█◄ ►
This is story I wrote long ago. I have written a few dark humor fictions, and this is one of them. A third-less-serious, and surely the characters are OOC. This is a Harmony with Viktor playing the part of the evil-doer, and Draco the Pureblood. Ron has a mature part and so most of the Weasleys. It is meant to make you laugh, mostly. It is intended for mature readers. It is not cannon, not at all. At least not after the battle, Happy Valentines
Warning it is a mature theme. Read the warnings. It is dark humor and a bit wild. Save your flames for yourself. Don't you have enough with all the misery around? I shake my head.
Here it goes.
□▪▫■□▪▫■□ONCE UPON A TIME□▪▫■□▪▫■□
The war was over, and the Golden Trio decided to live together, as roomates, at Grimmauld 12. Life was a harmonious as it could be. All was well, they formed a business together, and fortune smiled upon them. Life was good until the events that started shaking the solid foundation, of their well-earned peaceful lives. The winds of war now reaching tornado proportions blew along the hallways of the old house; yes, all was no well. The now strong winds started the day of the 'Draco's Incident,' or as, commonly, referred 'Fool's Day,' gathering gale force during 'V-day.' Yes, war winds were blowing hard, and were affecting all those around Harry and Hermione, at the center of the brewing storm.
□▪▫■□▪▫■□HARMONY□▪▫■□▪▫■□
Harry's green eyes, a Valentine story in several acts
Act I Part 1
The Jealous Monster
Harry was the boy who lived, the boy who conquered, and the boy who wasn't all he appeared to be. He had an inner demon, with eyes as green as his, his name was Jealousy.
Jealousy had a close friend, her name was Denial, and she shared the closed quarters inside his crowded brain. Once in a while they would visit with a faded entity, a sliver of the ghost who hid in small corners, his name used to be Tom Riddle, albeit all that was left were his eyes and some of his evil. Tom only came out when Harry was angry, and lately, it happened quite often. The three extra dwellers made for tight quarters, there was very little room to expand and accomodate the rising steam of his angers; it was a boiling cauldron, you might say.
Hermione had turned around upon at hearing his voice, "Mimi, any news from Vicky the Bulgarian Oaf?"
Harry asked with cultivated disinterest, one eye on his cereal and one surreptitiously on Hermione, who was reading her owl messages. He had recognized Viktor's impressive snowy owl, which sported a small gold bracelet around his right leg. Hermione was flushed, biting her lip...
Damn the lip biting! It is her fault I am so uncomfortably hard, damn Viktor, with his probably suggestive mail, damn them all. Thought Harry - she melts for that ox, and I have to pay a high price. I have to deal with the suffering she inflicts upon me, with all her suggestive body language, burn the witch, burn her. It is not a wonder she has that bullet head after her bum. Ugh.-His inner voice aided by his inner demons, egged him on.
Harry's jaw now clenched and unclenched; his neck muscles were all knotted; and his eyes shone, suspiciously, red. His hand tightened around the, now, bent spoon handle.
"Mmm, you asked?" Mumbled Hermione, in what Harry deemed as an ultra-sexy-bedroom-voice, and he watched mesmerized as her small finger twirled the tasty little curl, adding lip licking to her already enticing repertoire.
He shook his head to clear the fog between his ears. Yup, there goes the damn tongue, and she just added extra-lip-licking to her repertoire. Bad, horrible flirt. Harry wanted to scream just thinking about her imagined thoughtless actions.
How can she so carelessly play with my wizardly feelings. What a lack of consideration from her; and she has dared to call herself my best friend. Ha, ha, ha, the witch eats wizards for snacks, and spits out their bones in the rubbish pail. Voldie was a pussycat compared to her, and I was afraid of him, ha, ha. He was in a funk driving a lorry on a downhill road without brakes and couldn't stop.
Harry shook his body and ears resembling Padfoot after he took a dip in the pond, and he expelled an extremely loud, angry sigh. He tore his eyes away from her, but still leaned forward as he tried to catch a whiff of her. He wanted to smell Viktor on her. No, no men's cologne, it was safe.
What's up with that sniffing? Could have Harry been bitten by a werewolf? Hermione wondered. He had been behaving very strange since she'd started dating Viktor, weird, could it be that he cared?
Her heart fluttered thinking about it, nah, if he did why would he act this way seemingly forgetting their weekend of wild shagging? Why, because he was a P.I.G., yes, and all wizards were rubbish, that was all there was to it! A fat tear started to fall down her cheek, but she brusquely dried it as quickly as it left her tear duct.
He had nearly shagged her to death, shagged her rotten; and now he was back to the stoic, frozen wizard. What had turned him into this Harry-Popsicle, and she wanted the Harry-Hot-Fudge, where had he gone? He let her have an overdose of the richly, sinful, Hot-Choco-Fudge-Harry. And now all she got, was a tasteless 89 calories Popsicle-Harry. She heard his voice.
"So, dear Miss Granger, what does the Bulgarian wunderkind have to say? And do you ever wonder why one would gold-tag an Owl; isn't that just a tad pretentious?" He asked once again; trying to sound casual but his voice seethed with jealousy and intense anger. And to emphasize his lack of curiosity, he took a savage bite of his toast.
Viktor has a bullet head, and that stupid beard; he is the missing link, covered with hair from head to toe. He is a living troglodyte; the direct descendant from the first Homos Erectus, barely a hop from the primates. Besides he told himself, I wasn't just bad mouthing Vicky, after all I have studied prehistory at my Muggle Primary School, where I memorized all the important names and facts, they come in handy; and, besides, I am no dummy, I have kept up with my reading.
"And what makes you think that I have heard from Vicky?" Hermione looked at him suspiciously and put a nasty accent on the word, Vicky.
She hated that nickname along with the other nasty appellatives, which constituted an entire arsenal at Harry's disposition. If Boy-Sicle's adoring public could hear the way he labeled a perfectly decent wizard, they would change their minds about him.
And what has him going? Aha, has he been reading my mail again, the control freak. Why does he think he is entitled to recriminations, he has no right, dirty rat; Mr. Strike, hit, and run; yeah, that is his real name. Her mind was no longer in rational mode.
"No reason, just making conversation, I thought I'd spotted pumpkin's sloppy penmanship."
Harry was irritated at Hermione's inability to appreciate his fine jabber, and she just didn't get it. In his opinion, it is a refined form of subtle- fun, targeted to her ridiculously terms of endearment; after all, who would refer to the troglodyte as pumpkin, ha-ha. A lorry full of pumpkins is more likely; in yank's terms a truckload of pumpkins, YUP. He complained to his inner mates; whose heads nodded in full agreement, gorging on Harry's delicious nastiness.
"And by the way, I just had breakfast, and be duly informed, that gushiness you write to him, makes my tender stomach churn," and he shivered for added visual effect.
"So you know, the mere thought of it, and I become nauseous and terribly sick, it is enough to render me incapacitated for the rest of the day, and I need to go to work." He shuddered and burped loudly, followed by hitting his chest twice to relieve the pressure. If looks could have killed, he would have died on the spot.
He is nothing but a testosterone ridden P.I.G., I rest my case, Hermione thought with great contempt.
Act 1 Part 2
An Annoyed Witch
"You are a gross, uneducated, nasty, rude swine. Listen once and listen well; open your ears; this is my life, my business, my words, MINE; and if you don't like them, then that is quite unfortunate; is that right, Darling? And do me a favor, quit reading over my shoulder and snooping on what isn't yours." Sarcasm and venom dripped out of her mouth with each spoken word.
Her hair crackled and bounced, it was alive and fully charged with her angry magic, "And let this be the last, the very last warning: Quit spying on me. I don't snoop on you, and don't read your cheaply-perfumed-slag-mail which drips with lust; those delivered by the gazillion boy-wonder–fan-club-owls!" She tapped her foot, loud enough to be heard all over the place.
"No, not the only disgusting thing, mind you, you don't even wash your hands after you handle it. Yuck, have you ever wondered what those fingers were before handling the scroll; never mind, you leave them on the table where we ... oh, gods, I am going to be sick." She ran to the loo, barfed, and came back.
She really was sick to her stomach a lot, what could be happening, too much rich food with Vicky? Harry wondered, a little concerned.
The witch's voice had risen considerably, and it was rather loud, "And, I am the one who gets stuck baking the mouse-flour-cookies for the delivering owls and cleaning their mess. Why should I be the one who has to shovel all that manure? Kreacher deems it beneath him, because regular household spells are not effective enough! AGGGGHHHHH."
Her impetus was gathering speed and viciousness, and her hair, as usual, was crackling and spewing magic sparkles. Nobody, in their right mind would come between their crossfire.
"Furthermore, it takes many time consuming cleaning charms to rid the house from the noxious gases her cheap whorish perfumes leave. Ugh," A very visible body shudder, "I am talking about Ginger-Ginny. She is nothing but a big S.L.A.G." And, defiantly, "There, I said it and got it off my chest."
She concluded by throwing a fine, bone china plate on the floor, followed by stomping on the shattered pieces. Before he could say anything, she twirled her finger and casted, "Reparo," and the plate was put back in one piece.
She turned around and in a very grown gesture, she stuck out her tongue to one Harry Potter, boy-wonder.
Act II Part I
The –V-Day-Incident- Current State of Affairs
Yup, life at Grimmauld 12 had turned into a living a hell, for the ten weeks preceding our war heroes' disastrous breakfast. The state of affairs had taken a definite southward turn after The-Valentine-Incident, as it was commonly labeled by those who still talked about the couple's dirty-dancing affair, if they only knew.
The night of the Valentine's Day ball, once they Apparated back to Grimmauld 12, and in their drunken craziness, not missing a beat, shagged like young bunnies let lose in an Amortensia patch; or in more modern terms, as young bunnies participating in a Viagra study.
It was not the first time, not indeed, it was nothing new. It just gathered momentum after the 'Fool's Day.'
Indeed, their shagging had happened before at a steady monthly rate; but, only, if they drank too much celebrating significant life events; or perhaps, some tragedy had occurred, or they were bummed, or they were upset or whatever, the reasons were plentiful. The next day, they would go into serious denial, reverting to bickering as usual; after mutual claims of suffering an alcohol-induced-amnesia. Shall we say, a morning-after-avoidance tactic, perfected, and finely tuned.
"What a headache," one of the two would invariably claim. A couple seconds later, "I must have drunken too much. I cannot remember going to bed, or half of the night for that matter." The other one would tell Ron, who would drink his tea faster. The years had made him wiser, and mostly, he also lived a comfortable life of denial.
"Yes, it is awful, just a big blank," the other would acknowledge in a grumble. The words said, they both had the needed absolution for their shagging-sin, and life was back to normal.
It was indeed a simple formula which had allowed them to continue their pleasant sibling living arrangement, and nobody was ever the wiser.
Unfortunately, her failed romance with Draco accelerated the rate of occurrence of such 'incidents,' which both participants were unable to recognize, as a glowing marker of a new phase in their relationship.
Because, whether or not they were willing to admit, there was a big difference between The-Valentine's Day-Incident, or as commonly referred to as the V-Incident, and any earlier time. It was the fact that never before, had they attempted to break their personal record on shagging, during a sixty-hour period.
During normal times, they both acted equally grossed out about having sex with their siblings, which created their amnesia, and would increase their daily squabbles. Sibling was the term of endearment they called each other during their non-conflictive times; but the occasional lapses into non-sibling encounters, had never created such conflict before. Indeed, the V- Incident had turned life into a living nightmare, for all those who knew them, and had to be around them. Even their pets were looking for a good home.
Act II – Part II
The-V-Incident- and the Four Letter L-Word.
The Fool and Valentines Day.
The main point of contention wasn't the shagging, it was that the last time, during the midst of drunkenness, they both had uttered the L-word, over and over again, and it was the first time, ever, this had occurred.
As in all major occurrences the things don't start with the culminating event; they are the result of combined events, and have a trigger and somewhere in the past. In their case, it started with Draco Malfoy, more or less. That night, they had gone as each other's date to the Malfoy's Love Ball, in honor of the now trendy, Valentines' day celebration. Over the years, the Malfoy Family had become their favorite victims, and they arrived at the ball in coordinated attires. Hers in heavy fire- engine red silk, his a waistcoat of the same silk, darker dress robes, and a silver tie matching her shawl.
They had, intentionally, dressed as their hosts; Kreacher had mastered the industrial espionage techniques needed to get the valuable information. It started at the moment they arrived, complimenting their hosts' hair, the Manor, the Ball, not sincere, not whatsoever, and the Dark couple had eaten out the wicked couple's hand.
Draco and Astoria were, however, the real butt of their jokes. Draco was dancing with the stuffy and dried up Astoria, who Hermione had caught, more than once, making herself barf in order to keep her slender figure.
Draco was in love with Hermione, and chased her like a dog after a female in heat. Much to the delight of his two main tormentors, whose polls varied, from how many flowers he would send, to how many times during a given day, to how many excuses, he would have to figure out, so he could drop by their office at least once per day—thanks to the fact that he handled their finances. They had an office kitty filled daily with betting Galleons, to be won by the one bettor who came closer to the how and when, Draco would make his daily appearance.
Harry and Hermione, initially, they imitated Lucius and Narcissa, dancing and exchanging air kisses, rather fake. So far, so good.
"Harry's and Hermione's," George had informed the family after attending the Ball, "tame dancing didn't last, and it morphed into, well, an ultra-suggestive dance, a mating ritual of sorts. Hermione promised me that we would watch the Muggle moving picture; the one that planted the seed in their fertile Machiavellical mind." George's eyes glazed for a second, remembering, as if in a trance. His father's cough brought him back.
He cleared his throat and drank a sip of pumpkin juice, "As, I was telling you; the naughty couple spent the rest of their evening dirty-dancing. They told me it was in order to torment the Draco, the blond snake. Their floor show kept all attendees, including Lucius and Narcissa, with their eyes glued to the dance floor, and not in a healthy way. " George waggled his eyebrows, "The stuffy guests, wished to be the one of the couple, either Hermione or Harry, it was clear to me."
To the family's raucous laughter, George told them that Draco had drunk himself under the table and had refused to dance with his wife, whom he had called a broom pole, loudly, and for all the guests to hear, "Not nice of him." George recognized.
"Draco walked towards the dirty dancers and tried to get Hermione to dance with him. Everyone stopped dancing to watch. Hermione let go of Harry and turned towards Draco, whose triumphal smile made me cringe. There were no basis for my concern, since she just rubbed her body all over him, up and down, quite suggestively, may I add; poor witch, she was drunk." Another pause, George's face was flushed. He cleared his throat.
"After her pole dance, Draco being the pole, err, pole-dance is a sort of Muggle dance. Ah, yes, where was I? Yes, after she was done, she walked away and went to Harry, to dance some more. Draco was left standing in the middle of the dance floor, clearly aroused and blinking, all confused. No much different, than 90% of the stiff Slytherins in attendance."
George told the tale to the Weasleys in the midst of boisterous guffaws.
Alas, the guilty couple wasn't all bad; Draco had it coming, for real. George remembered. She had made a pensive's memory that she had shown to her best friends.
Fool's Day Memory
Hermione had a thing for him before he'd married the Pureblood. They had been lovers for a while, over a year, until Draco had advised her that he would be wedded in two months, and not with her. He had dropped by her office with the invitation scroll, rather considerate from his part.
"Darling, I cannot stop the wedding, I have planned it for a year," Draco had told her. Yes, you are right, it was precisely the year he had been with her.
And he added, "My pet, you have nothing to worry, everything is under control. I have taken care off all the details, I have bought a wonderful small cottage to meet and be ourselves; we will love to abando in, shall we say, our little love nest. Darling, you must understand that I am a Pureblood, and you, well, are not the same, ehem. You must have known that my children had to be the purest of all."
He concluded with a radiant smile and handled her the invitation scroll; not only that, he tried to make love to her right there, in the same office. The nerve, he had signed a war declaration, and that he got.
Later, she would often remember and had told the tale to the Weasleys at their office's conference room, blow by blow, in a perfect imitation of a Malfoy.
"Darling, a Malfoy cannot marry someone like you. You didn't expect me to, did you darling?" After his stupid remark, he had treated her to his snobbish and hateful laughter, that Hermione also imitated, "Silly puss, not a good thing to do. Please, darling, you couldn't have hoped," and he had clicked his tongue in admonishment, "Tsk, tsk."
"My darling, don't be sad, because it doesn't matter; I only have to shag her a few times a month, and once she is pregnant only when I want. It is all in the contract. Now come to me, and let me have you, I cannot wait, and I know you are dying for me. Aren't we lucky we are so modern? Here come to your sex-god, come here sweet, delicious Puss. We are really so very lucky! "
Winds of War
Yes, yes, she was lucky, but he wasn't. And from there on, she proceeded to make his life living hell, because he was never again allowed to her garden of daily delights, and even less when she moved back to Grimmauld 12.
As with all complicated stories, Draco was the reason the roommates, Harry and Hermione had started openly shagging, what had started as a game to make him jealous, led to a game of 'pretending,' which would always landed them at the same location, Harry's bed.
All had been well, except for their slip-ups, and the tactical drunken amnesia took care of the rest. It well went without a hitch until that night of the dirty-dancing, and if that wasn't enough; a fact unknown to George, was that they'd shagged at the Malfoy Manor, three times—and were caught by Draco twice of them.
Act II – Part III
George remembered that their eyes were pure lust, making all those around them kind of uncomfortable and wishing. He looked down at his feet, he had also been one the ones, wishing and a bit ashamed. Angelina had been angry with him when she had noticed.
As a side note, the last time he caught them, Draco had asked them, "May I join, please my darling. I cannot take it anymore. My sex life is a sham, and my only thoughts are of you, my Hermione." He cried drunkenly, and addressed Harry, "I cannot divorce Astoria. Harry, please make her understand my Malfoy's position; and I will share my sweet Hermione with you if I must; I would be willing."
Hermione couldn't believe her ears, after all he had said, his crocodile tears. He had the bollocks, the cojones, the balls, to say that he wanted her but wanted to keep his wife, in other words: Hermione the mistress. That was a laugh, thus, after his ill-thought, poorly timed, confession, they laughed on his face, and Apparated back home... still shagging.
What was also different was that shagging, wasn't limited to that single night, or even a single day. No, it never stopped and continued through the entire weekend. Continued was a mild way to describe the extent of their interaction. It was the mother of all Valentine celebrations.
Let's just talk about the facts; the closed-Floo pair was totally incommunicado for over 48 hours. They failed to show up to any dates, appointments, nobody saw them, heard of/from them, or caught a whiff of them the entire weekend.
Ron arrived to a scene that still haunted him. He was the witness to the horrors that had transpired in the modernized and plushy decorated Grimmauld 12. And he still blamed himself for their separation, maybe he was right.
Ron walks Memory Lane-
Both roommates were butt naked, or nearly so. Hermione wore a cowgirl hat, a kerchief around the neck, and had a star drawn with body paint, or with what appeared to be hardened chocolate cake cover, above her left breast. She was 'riding' her horsy armed with a cardboard made whip in her hand, and feeding her horsy a chocolate carrot; Harry, the horsy, lay on his back, wore fake horse ears, and had a head band with a 'tail' made out yarn strands.
That was bad enough; but not nearly as bad as the fact that the 'sheriff,' aka Hermione, hence the painted star, was impaled on her horsy. "Faster, faster, be a good horsy, if you don't try harder, Voldi will escape this intrepid sheriff. Faster, boy horsy, faster I said." And she bent to offer her nipples to the hungry horse while his other hand was in her—. Ron turned around as if he had seen Voldi himself.
The flat reeked of sex and a wild orgy. He made a mistake and screamed like a girl, "Sorry, sorry, sorry." Yes, Ron blamed himself for speaking. Maybe it truly had been his fault; because, he had made them aware of the outside world.
He closed his eyes and ran away to his room, but not before he had seen the horse and the rider, covered with bites, scratches, and traces of body paint. He found discarded knickers on the stairs, bras, men's underpants, it was a mess.
As he walked towards his room he had the nightmarish vision of walls painted with hearts, arrows, lips kissing, and other, not so children friendly graffiti. All art work was enchanted to move, and all properly labeled with arrows pointing to each artistic piece: Harry's- blank; Hermione's-blank; going into the target- blank, etc.
He understood his friends had really gone out the deep end. He ran to the loo; thoroughly washed his eyes with soap; and the sting made him feel a whole lot better.
He woke up the next day, and found the house back to normal; shiny and spanking clean. He also found the couple already engaged in a fighting match. Apparently, Vicky had sent a dozen roses and Belgium bonbons, which Harry had promptly opened, under the influence of the Green Eyed Monster.
That was truly Ron's fault; he had reopened the Owl window and reinstated the Floo.
Oh well, hindsight is twenty-twenty. Ron had opened the door to the enemy before the allegiance was well established. They were talking Las Vegas, Portkey, and the works when he had arrived. Had he come the next day, as in his original plan, things would now be safer for everyone, and Hermione's last name would have been Potter.
In the fancily wrapped gift box, there were no bonbons, but instead a naughty piece of lingerie, and a naked picture of Vicky with a ribbon around his much erected piece while he played with life size pictures of 'The Sheriff.'
The pictures showed the witch dressed in five-inch high heels, riding gloves, and nothing else, 'riding' the team's professional broom, a suggestive picture at the very least. That was the precise second when all went downhill, without any brakes.
And how did Ron know they had said the L word? Because the day he arrived, the equestrian pair had written the word Love, with body paint in her butt cheeks; and there were the banners all over the house, tacky at best, some might say pornographic, all had the L-word below it, "I love you." Or "I love you first" or "My love is greater." Or "I have loved you longer." You get the idea, even on that, they had to outdo each other.
Life at Grimmauld 12 had never been the same since; it had turned into a slow descent into hell.
A/N -I will publish the rest of the chapters, in fairly rapid sucession, it is a shorter fiction. Remember is not meant to be serious.