A/N: A Good Thing is stolen from '1066 and all that', for which I can claim no responsibility (damn, damn, damn)
This stupidity is dedicated to Hannah, who would like more sex (obviously), but is doomed, once more, to disappointment.
__________
Draco's first thoughts on waking were a list of expletives detailing, with great accuracy, St. Valentine's improbable genealogy. Actually, Draco's *first* thoughts were something along the lines of 'hgwfl...wrgl...arrrgh!' due to Goyle's sudden and inexplicable need to test the springs of Draco's bed. Vigorously. It transpired, once Crabbe had extricated the pillow from Goyle's throat, that he had been trying to wake Draco up to show off his cards. Aforementioned expletives can be inserted here, in much the same way the pillow was re-inserted into Goyle's oesophagus.
* * * * *
Harry grimaced as he brushed pink confetti of his toast. Valentines day was fine, but it could get a little...excessive. As if to prove his point, the Great Hall was festooned with heart-shaped balloons and squares of pink tissue rained constantly. What was worse was how everyone else seemed to be revelling in it. Even Hermione, who was usually somewhat...frigid, whispered his inner Malfoy. Restrained, Harry thought firmly. Anyway, even Hermione seemed to have been caught in the Valentines stampede, and looked like she'd need surgical attention to separate her from Ron.
Pausing only to spit out a mouthful of damp confetti, Harry strode purposefully toward the door. This meant he was perfectly placed when the balloons exploded. As he wiped sludge-coloured...sludge from his eyes, Harry reflected on the many interesting interpretations of 'perfectly placed'. From his perspective, he couldn't have been in a worse position is he'd been wearing a large gloop-attracting funnel. Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed of the opinion that Harry's natural state was sludge-covered, if the smirking and hand gestures were anything to go by. His only consolation was that everyone else had suffered much the same fate. Except, of course, Malfoy, the smug bastard, who'd somehow managed to acquire a large umbrella.
* * * * *
Thankfully, the 'singing telegram' service had not been revived this year. However, the sending of scrappy pieces of paper scrawled with illegible missives continued, much to Hermione's chagrin. Hermione, in her position as head of BADGER (Bureaucratic and demanding group of endearing rapscallions) - a misguided attempt to collect widespread support for any and every good cause around - was trying to persuade people to send boxes of overpriced wheatgrass instead of cards, as this would somehow teach one small chipmunk to water-ski. This was, apparently, A Good Thing. Despite Hermione's best attempts (which ranged from showing people pictures of the rodent aquatic-sports academy to locking them in a mall room with Crookshanks and telling them to choose, their money or their shins), boxes of wheatgrass were just not considered romantic/nauseating enough to send to prospective loved ones.
Pushing past his gesticulating, wheatgrass-laden friend, Harry's mind was fixed on the Incident he'd seen whilst taking part in the mass exodus in the direction of the bathroom after the sludgey explosion. The sight of Malfoy tackling a harassed-looking, card-carrying house elf to the ground, strong-arming it into terrified obedience and sending it scurrying towards the Gryffindor common room with a well placed drop-kick, was an image that was likely to stay with him for a long time. And when the cards simultaneously exploded in their owner's faces and the charred remains began dive-bombing Harry's head, he was the only one not surprised.
* * * * *
Actually, that's not quite true. *Almost* everyone was surprised. Harry was resigned. Hermione was smug. Neville was just confused. Hermione took advantage of the shocked pause to begin thrusting wheatgrass into people's faces and lecturing them on one of it's prime qualities: that it did *not* explode. Harry used it to sneak out of the common room, followed only by assorted scraps of burnt stationary.
* * * * *
Draco slunk round the dungeons in a suitably sensational manner. As Harry watched him pace up and down the colourless silent prison, glaring at inoffensive flag stones, things connected with an almost audible 'click' in his head.
"I know why you're doing this. You feel left out, don't you?"
"Of course" said Malfoy, who had materialised in a dramatic way by Harry's ear. "Do you really think I'd be making such a gargantuan effort to attract your attention otherwise?"
Harry stared, opening and closing his mouth like a particularly stupid guppy fish. Then:
"You're a raving lunatic, you know that?"
"I prefer to think of myself as special."
"Just so that's understood."
* * * * *
"Come *on* Hermione" Ron said, dragging his reluctant friend away from her biggest sale of pointless crap ever.
"Quick" Ron broke into a run. "We need to save Harry from the attack of the Killer Kards (tm)"
* * * * *
The room was silent as they entered, the quiet broken only by the buzzing of flaming stationary as it circled the two boys. Then a thump, as Ron's beleaguered brain processed what it's eyes were seeing, tried to cope, and finally gave up the struggle.
"Oh" said Hermione. "Oh, my. Ron, do you have a camera?"
This stupidity is dedicated to Hannah, who would like more sex (obviously), but is doomed, once more, to disappointment.
__________
Draco's first thoughts on waking were a list of expletives detailing, with great accuracy, St. Valentine's improbable genealogy. Actually, Draco's *first* thoughts were something along the lines of 'hgwfl...wrgl...arrrgh!' due to Goyle's sudden and inexplicable need to test the springs of Draco's bed. Vigorously. It transpired, once Crabbe had extricated the pillow from Goyle's throat, that he had been trying to wake Draco up to show off his cards. Aforementioned expletives can be inserted here, in much the same way the pillow was re-inserted into Goyle's oesophagus.
* * * * *
Harry grimaced as he brushed pink confetti of his toast. Valentines day was fine, but it could get a little...excessive. As if to prove his point, the Great Hall was festooned with heart-shaped balloons and squares of pink tissue rained constantly. What was worse was how everyone else seemed to be revelling in it. Even Hermione, who was usually somewhat...frigid, whispered his inner Malfoy. Restrained, Harry thought firmly. Anyway, even Hermione seemed to have been caught in the Valentines stampede, and looked like she'd need surgical attention to separate her from Ron.
Pausing only to spit out a mouthful of damp confetti, Harry strode purposefully toward the door. This meant he was perfectly placed when the balloons exploded. As he wiped sludge-coloured...sludge from his eyes, Harry reflected on the many interesting interpretations of 'perfectly placed'. From his perspective, he couldn't have been in a worse position is he'd been wearing a large gloop-attracting funnel. Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed of the opinion that Harry's natural state was sludge-covered, if the smirking and hand gestures were anything to go by. His only consolation was that everyone else had suffered much the same fate. Except, of course, Malfoy, the smug bastard, who'd somehow managed to acquire a large umbrella.
* * * * *
Thankfully, the 'singing telegram' service had not been revived this year. However, the sending of scrappy pieces of paper scrawled with illegible missives continued, much to Hermione's chagrin. Hermione, in her position as head of BADGER (Bureaucratic and demanding group of endearing rapscallions) - a misguided attempt to collect widespread support for any and every good cause around - was trying to persuade people to send boxes of overpriced wheatgrass instead of cards, as this would somehow teach one small chipmunk to water-ski. This was, apparently, A Good Thing. Despite Hermione's best attempts (which ranged from showing people pictures of the rodent aquatic-sports academy to locking them in a mall room with Crookshanks and telling them to choose, their money or their shins), boxes of wheatgrass were just not considered romantic/nauseating enough to send to prospective loved ones.
Pushing past his gesticulating, wheatgrass-laden friend, Harry's mind was fixed on the Incident he'd seen whilst taking part in the mass exodus in the direction of the bathroom after the sludgey explosion. The sight of Malfoy tackling a harassed-looking, card-carrying house elf to the ground, strong-arming it into terrified obedience and sending it scurrying towards the Gryffindor common room with a well placed drop-kick, was an image that was likely to stay with him for a long time. And when the cards simultaneously exploded in their owner's faces and the charred remains began dive-bombing Harry's head, he was the only one not surprised.
* * * * *
Actually, that's not quite true. *Almost* everyone was surprised. Harry was resigned. Hermione was smug. Neville was just confused. Hermione took advantage of the shocked pause to begin thrusting wheatgrass into people's faces and lecturing them on one of it's prime qualities: that it did *not* explode. Harry used it to sneak out of the common room, followed only by assorted scraps of burnt stationary.
* * * * *
Draco slunk round the dungeons in a suitably sensational manner. As Harry watched him pace up and down the colourless silent prison, glaring at inoffensive flag stones, things connected with an almost audible 'click' in his head.
"I know why you're doing this. You feel left out, don't you?"
"Of course" said Malfoy, who had materialised in a dramatic way by Harry's ear. "Do you really think I'd be making such a gargantuan effort to attract your attention otherwise?"
Harry stared, opening and closing his mouth like a particularly stupid guppy fish. Then:
"You're a raving lunatic, you know that?"
"I prefer to think of myself as special."
"Just so that's understood."
* * * * *
"Come *on* Hermione" Ron said, dragging his reluctant friend away from her biggest sale of pointless crap ever.
"Quick" Ron broke into a run. "We need to save Harry from the attack of the Killer Kards (tm)"
* * * * *
The room was silent as they entered, the quiet broken only by the buzzing of flaming stationary as it circled the two boys. Then a thump, as Ron's beleaguered brain processed what it's eyes were seeing, tried to cope, and finally gave up the struggle.
"Oh" said Hermione. "Oh, my. Ron, do you have a camera?"