Disclaimer: dude, I'm gonna stop even writing these. Seriously.
A/n: yes, I suck for not writing, but give me a break! Explanations at the end of the chappie, but it involves illicit circumstances and several hot guys. If easily offended, then you shouldn't even be reading this story.
OoOoO
Chapter Nine
"Malfoy?"
"Hm?"
"No, I'm calling Malfoy."
"Oh, sorry. Oi, Malfoy!" Dean landed a sharp poke on his forehead.
"Gah!. . .Hungh?"
"Oh, sodding Merlin," I groaned into my arm. "Malfoy!" I leaned over to shake the poor hungover boy so that we could start cleaning out the Gryffindor tower. And the sooner I cleaned everything up, the sooner I could ask Dumbledore exactly how I propelled a mattress and two people around the common room six times.
How to wake the sleeping beauty, I wondered? "Bleeding Christ! Malfoy, get up, your father's coming!"
Malfoy groaned.
"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," Dean said brightly.
Malfoy shot up at this. His eyes darted around wildly as he sat on the clean bedspring mattress, blond hair everywhere. His robes were disheveled, too. Half- wrinkled down the side, with a huge crease over the silver and green emblem. Then his eyes locked on Dean and narrowed into slits.
"You filthy half-blood, how dare you talk about my father!" he spat. Too bad his voice was too scratchy to speak above a whisper.
"That's rich," Dean grumbled.
"And where–," Malfoy started again.
"Malfoy."
"What?" He jerked his neck to look at me, giving an impression of strength despite the distinct sway of his torso.
"Shut it."
He tilted his head. "Pardon you?" he asked sarcastically.
I give him the Death Stare.
Having never experienced the Stare before, Malfoy crumples like a tin can in under ten seconds. He falls back down onto the bed, almost hitting a blond third-year with his arm.
"Nice," Dean observes thoughtfully.
Malfoy sits up again, a bit slower this time. It's almost as if he's a different person when his father hasn't been mentioned in the past minute. "Alright, Dean, fuck off. Where's the lavatory?"
I giggled. "Up the boys' staircase, second door on the right," I said.
Malfoy gave me a smirk. "Know your way around the boys' dorms, eh Granger?"
I patted his back. "Just go throw up, hm?"
His eyes looked very disdainful, as if saying, 'Malfoys don't throw up, peasant girl,' but his expression was more resigned. Or rather, panicky. He stalked off to the boys' staircase with no small amount of trepidation, as if wondering whether or not they were going to explode if a dreaded Slytherin stepped foot on them.
Actually, that may have been a possibility. That Godric was an amusing bloke. Unfortunately, though, Malfoy made it to to the bathroom free of explosions or singe marks.
"So," Dean said.
"So what?" I asked, leaning back on the partially flattened mattress.
"Is there something you should tell me?" he intoned, casting me a suspicious look. The light coming through a high window went across his eyes, making them too bright to read.
For about a week, Dean and I had been talking. It wasn't nearly long enough for me to tell whether or not he was being serious when hinting at a possible affair. "Not really– but what about?" I asked.
"You and Malfoy were bickering like old pals," he said, more relaxed.
I shrugged. "Bickering. That's what we do best," I smiled. Dean smiled back and leaned out of the sunlight, letting me see a slight bit of relief in his dark face.
"I knew that," he said. He gave me a light peck on the mouth, and I smiled into his lips. How the hell did I get so lucky? A week or so into the first semester of my sixth year, and all of the sudden, one of the nicest, smartest, cutest guys I had ever known asks me out.
"Ungh," a voice observes. I turned to see Malfoy standing there, an unreadable look on his face. "I may need to use the men's room again," he muttered.
"Shut up, Malfoy," Dean said dismissively.
"Now, boys," I say, doing a McGonagall impression. Both of them soften up, Malfoy less noticeably but nonetheless happy that I had mocked a teacher. My own head of house, for that matter. "What say you both to a rousing tour of the kitchens?" I asked.
"Need I remind you that I just threw up?" Malfoy asked sarcastically.
"Ginger ale for the gentleman, then," Dean quipped. "Let's go."
"Ungh," Malfoy said.
OoOoO
"No, you need to aim a bit to the left, that spoon's bent," I coached a while later.
"I know, just watch for flying skins," Dean warned.
The house-elves had been ecstatic when I brought the two boys into the kitchen. They immediately set on preparing and finding food, without even waiting for directions long enough to know that a very pungent pot roast should not be wafted under Malfoy's nose after a night of partying. They were just as quick with the mop and bucket, though.
The time passed, and after a tour, Dean discovered the magical shredder. It was a tiny hoop set onto a bowl, much like a basket, that worked like a very precise wood chipper on whatever was dropped into it. The cutlery was discovered soon after.
A grape soared into the air in a perfect arc and landed right in the middle of the rim. "Nice one!"
Dean took a bow and pulled me into a hug.
"I did wonder how you both got all of that whipped cream," Malfoy said again, looking around the kitchens and sipping his ginger ale. "These house-elves seemed so. . . happy to have you here."
"Well, I try to help them, and I know a few personally," I explained. "I like to think that I somewhat understand them."
"What's to understand?" asked Dean. "They're house-elves!" I punched his arm.
"Dobby, come here, please," I said. Head bobbing, one of the cutest of the horribly ugly elves skipped up to me.
"Yes, Miss Hermy?" he smiled.
"Tell these gentlemen that story you told me," I said. Dean, rubbing his arm, gave me an exasperated look. "No, you need to hear it," I said. "Go ahead, Dobby."
The house-elf sighed. "Alright, Miss Hermy." His brow furrowed for a moment, and taking a deep breath, he began.
"This story starts a long time ago, before Dobby's great-great-great grandparents were alive. Thousands and thousands of years ago, before even the great Merlin-wizard was born, house-elves were just elves. Elves was living all over the place, in tribes and clans near humans. Elf clans had many wars, big wars between many clans over magic and land. When elves fight, elves is having to give up servitude to captors, part of an old tradition. Showy elf leaders thought the best way to declare a victory was to bring home slaves, and have slaves be killed in huge ceremonies, so that the children of the slaves would be raised without parents in the new clan and learn being a servant, a good servant." Dobby stopped, looking thoughtful. "Dobby thinks this part is not very wise, choosing stupid honor and tradition over safety for young elves," he declared.
"I agree, Dobby," I said, trying to impress how important this story was to both Dean and Draco. "Please continue."
"Yes, Miss." Dobby's ears drooped. "This was near the time when wizards and humans started fighting, and elves retreated to the wilderness. Schools and power was all lost, but still they remembered tradition and honor of battle. Wizards knew elves was slaves to honor already. They tricked Dobby's ancestors to fight alongside the wizards, against the humans, the Muggles. At the end of the battle, the wizards switched sides to fight with the Muggles and captured the last of the elves."
Both Draco and Dean had strange expressions on now, as if they were both about to burst. I still couldn't tell their reactions; their eyes were wide, plastered to Dobby's slight form. The house-elf looked at the ground.
"The wizards was smart, spelling the elves using the tradition of loyalty to bind young elves to servitude. Muggles can't own house-elves because they is not having enough magic to keep them."
"But wait," Dean said. "Why can you all go free if you get clothes, then?"
Without the slightest hint of an ancient grudge, Dobby smiled up at him. "The clothes is signs of clans, sir. Clans show elf independence and freedom and power, because only elves with power can form clans. Clothes are power!" he squeaked.
"So all of the socks are really an ego thing, eh?" Draco chuckled, looking at Dobby's feet noticing at least five socks on each. Dobby smiled at him.
"So why don't most elves like getting freed?" Dean asked.
Dobby shrugged. "They is not knowing the true story, sir. The story was lost, except to Dobby's family, the leaders of a strong elf clan. Other house-elves think it is more honorable to stay in servitude, instead. But Dobby likes his freedom, sir," he added with a smile.
"I'm glad," Dean met my eye as he said it. I leaned over and hugged him, looking at Draco, who was still very interested.
"Why are you still a servant still, if you've been freed?" he asked.
"Why sir," Dobby said, "just because Dobby doesn't like slavery doesn't mean Dobby isn't a hard-worker."
"That's true, Dobby," I said. Meanwhile, I was still trying to read Draco's expression. Is that?. . . No, it couldn't be.
Silly peasant girl, I chastised myself sarcastically, Malfoys don't feel sympathy.
OoOoO
a/n: Yes, I suck, I know. Yes, I haven't written in ages, I know. But being almost arrested twice, grounded three times, and fucked up almost every day for a month have taken their toll. Let's put it this way: Hermione's parties are tame, small potatoes compared to this shit.
I basically have had a pretty awesome time. And I swear: imagine Draco, in all of his hot shirtless glory. Times ten. On a tropical beach. With his hair in his eyes. That's about the level I'm talking with one, yes, one of the many guys I was almost arrested with. Seriously . . . and you will get all of that and more if you review!
Wow, I need to bottle these mad hormones and get to some more fic writin'. But it won't happen! No! Not unless you give many reviews to this horribly unworthy rat of a writer who is eagerly anticipating the sixth book (oooh, I can't wait)!
Love and chocolates,
Cami
