A/N: Remember: he who loveth, chastiseth - I mean, revieweth!
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Part Two - Three to a bed
How they got home, nobody was sure, and I was too lazy to think of anything good. But home they were!
Nobody was in the mood for chicken that night. . . .
Everyone who went on the trip was laid up in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was busier than a train conductor, and the sweat was pouring down her face in buckets. It was three to a bed, on those hard, horrible, single beds they give you in hospitals. And, mysteriously, all of the beds smelled like old people.
"I'm lodging a complaint," Draco announced testily to his bedmates, Snape and Hermione. Snape was in the middle. He was nude except for a pair of tube socks with orange and yellow bands around the top. Fortunately, he was still in a coma. Hermione was deliberately overdressed in a formal winter coat belted at the waist, three sweaters, two pairs of sweatpants, and a wrought iron, hand-tooled chastity belt - but, strangely, no socks. . . .
Draco eyed her suspiciously, his grey eyes as cold as a frozen flagpole when you stick your tongue to it. She eyed him defiantly, without fear or shame. "What the fuck do you think you're about, Mudblood?" he snarled.
She raised an eyebrow. "I have three broken ribs," she said simply. "One of the CS freaks decided to engage me in some Greco-Roman wrestling."
His eyes narrowed, colder, colder, so cold she had to pee, her bladder was going to burst, she rang the nurse's buzzer but nobody came with a bedpan, Madam Pomfrey was across the room going on about her fucking gout, why didn't this place have more than one fucking school nurse? There were hundreds of fucking students here, Hermione thought, why is Hogwarts so fucking cheap?
"Stop it!" she screamed at him. Draco stopped. Snape tossed and moaned. Then Hermione felt something wet and slimy all over her toes. . . .
Ende
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Part Two - Three to a bed
How they got home, nobody was sure, and I was too lazy to think of anything good. But home they were!
Nobody was in the mood for chicken that night. . . .
Everyone who went on the trip was laid up in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was busier than a train conductor, and the sweat was pouring down her face in buckets. It was three to a bed, on those hard, horrible, single beds they give you in hospitals. And, mysteriously, all of the beds smelled like old people.
"I'm lodging a complaint," Draco announced testily to his bedmates, Snape and Hermione. Snape was in the middle. He was nude except for a pair of tube socks with orange and yellow bands around the top. Fortunately, he was still in a coma. Hermione was deliberately overdressed in a formal winter coat belted at the waist, three sweaters, two pairs of sweatpants, and a wrought iron, hand-tooled chastity belt - but, strangely, no socks. . . .
Draco eyed her suspiciously, his grey eyes as cold as a frozen flagpole when you stick your tongue to it. She eyed him defiantly, without fear or shame. "What the fuck do you think you're about, Mudblood?" he snarled.
She raised an eyebrow. "I have three broken ribs," she said simply. "One of the CS freaks decided to engage me in some Greco-Roman wrestling."
His eyes narrowed, colder, colder, so cold she had to pee, her bladder was going to burst, she rang the nurse's buzzer but nobody came with a bedpan, Madam Pomfrey was across the room going on about her fucking gout, why didn't this place have more than one fucking school nurse? There were hundreds of fucking students here, Hermione thought, why is Hogwarts so fucking cheap?
"Stop it!" she screamed at him. Draco stopped. Snape tossed and moaned. Then Hermione felt something wet and slimy all over her toes. . . .
Ende