Disclaimer: Me no own Harry Potter.

Author's Notes: Thanks for all your kind reviews. It really encouraged me to get off my butt and write more. Sorry I took so long, but I've just been a little busier for some reason. And you might have noticed the rating change. I did it for two reasons; just to be safe (all puns intended), and to allow myself more freedom.

Malfoy and Me
Writer Recognized

(Ron's POV)

"Harry, you should have started the essay when it was assigned last week," Hermione scolded in her usual motherly way. "This is all your own doing, and I'm not going to bail you out this time."

"Yeah," I agreed half-heartedly.

Harry dipped his quill into the bottle of black ink and glared at me. "And how far are you on your Charms essay?"

"Oh, I'm not doing it," I replied lightly as I gnawed at a leg of lamb.

My two friends stared at me as if I had told them that I toilet-papered the entire school. "You're not writing it?" Hermione repeated in disbelief. "Ron, think about it for a moment. If you don't do this, you'll most likely fail Charms!"

"So?" I shrugged. "So did Fred and George."

"Don't go modelling yourself after them!" Hermione snapped. "That would be the worst thing to do! You have to write your essay Ron! Come on, I'll help you." After a few more words of persuasion, I finally agreed. I went into my bag to fish out my notebook, which had all my class notes. And that dirty little story, but Hermione didn't need to read that.

Sensing it was not there, I began to dig around frantically. "My notebook... it's not here! Where is it?" Panic swept through my body as I realized what had probably happened; I left it at Flitwick's class. No, that couldn't be! Instead of accepting the fact that I had misplaced it, I dumped the contents of my book bag on the table.

"Hey!" Harry wailed, his bottle of ink tipping off its base and staining his papers. It ultimately ruined his essay.

"Ron, stop, stop," commanded Hermione as she sifted through my pile of school items. "What did it look like? What was in it?"

"It was brown, and, uh..." I paused. No, I couldn't tell them. I could never tell them, or anyone. If reincarnation was how our lives worked, I'd be born again as a cockroach or spider for my next life, for all those corrupt thoughts I had about one Draco Malfoy. "It just had the notes I took from my classes."

"Well, it should be empty then," quipped Harry. I didn't find that funny. Neither did Hermione.

Sometimes I wonder whether Harry is really the good person he allows others to believe.

"It's not here," Hermione concluded finally. Seeing me continue to frantically search for it, she suggested, "Come on, you can use my notes instead."

"Yeah, I mean, your notes are just a carbon copy of Hermione's notes," Harry pointed out flatly, dabbing his essay with a tissue. It merely increased the area of destruction. I felt inwardly pleased about that for some reason. "Besides, it was just a notebook."

"Just a notebook!" I screeched. "That notebook had..."

"Had what?" Now Hermione was interested.

A sick, amorous little story about Malfoy and I boinking each other, that's what. What if someone picked it up and read it? I would never live it down.

Luckily, I don't follow my mother's advice and mark all my things with a name (well, who would want everyone to know that second-hand, fading textbook was mine?), otherwise whomever found it could blackmail me. What would they take from me? My handmade R-lettered jumper? The only thing I own that's worth anything was Pig, and he was small. I got him for free anyway, so it wouldn't be such a loss.

"What?" Hermione repeated urgently.

"Uh..." I attempted to hide my reddening face. "Nothing."

I had to find that notebook!

(Draco's POV)

That notebook remained in the pocket under my robes. I dared not to touch it. I had only read about a page of that sick, perverted story before Flitwick came into the room. I probably could have read more if whoever wrote it didn't have dyslexia. Talk about grotesque penmanship, not to mention a pathetic perception of grammar.

I shrugged off my robe when I got into the Slytherin common room and tossed it onto one of the sofas. It missed, and fell into a large heap onto the floor. That notebook in the pocket protruded out.

"Augh!" Feeling a little exposed, I snatched the set and dashed off to my bedroom. It was only about seven o'clock, so I was highly doubtful anyone would be there. Even if there were, they would gladly leave on my very command.

I crawled into my four poster and took the book into my hands. Maybe... maybe there was something more that I was missing. It could have possibly been set up with the sole purpose of me finding it. Maybe... it was fate?

"Oh no, I can't," I told myself. "Well... maybe just a little look. Just to make sure I didn't miss anything that might be important."

With a deep breath, I keeled the notebook open to the first page, and fanned through them with my thumb. There wasn't much on the pages, mostly half-completed fruitless notes, with very rare bouts of pure intelligence. Well, I didn't steal this thing for nothing; perhaps I could copy the good stuff.

Then, the story started. I, Draco Malfoy, did not embarrass easily. But I couldn't seem to stop blushing. Then I became angry again. Whoever wrote this up has a sick and twisted mind, including a disturbing fascination (or even obsession) with me.

Even though the thought of it disgusted me, I decided to read on. I'll certainly admit though, whoever wrote this knew their way around the bases...

Oh my God! What if it was Professor Flitwick?

I laughed to myself. What was I thinking? That would be impossible. I've seen the way he writes on the board, and it was nothing like this. Besides, why would he have to take notes on his own lectures, let alone useless, incomprehensible notes?

The story in its entirety was about four pages in length. Most of it was smutty, useless fluff of many diluted sexual acts that I hope I will never perform in my life. Not because I was a prude or anything, but they were very strange, and even a little sadistic. Like the secret fantasies of some... sadomasochistic weirdo.

After I finished reading the story, I shuddered. Maybe I should take a bath to cleanse myself or something. There was the Prefects Only bathroom that I could use.

Oh crap. I forgot about my Prefect duties. Oh crap! I forgot about my Charms essay!

But I was tired, and didn't feel like worrying over trivial matters such as school. After shoving the notebook under my mattress, I set my head on the pillow, flicked the light off and tried to get some sleep.

My slumber was an unsettled one. I kept recreating those awful scenes in my dreams over and over again. I woke up once in the middle of the night, then fought desperately to fall asleep. Then my subconscious would fill with those same dirty images once again. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. But most of all, I wanted a proper blow job... I mean... whoever wrote that thing is dead.

The next morning, when I awoke, I felt... different. Not only in my head but... was something... wet? Oh no, it couldn't be...

Very reluctantly, I lifted my blanket and peered down.

Oh my God. It was me. I did that. It was clearly of a dark, yellow tinge. Which also meant I needed to drink more water, and eat more fruits. But I digress.

Everyone was still sleeping, so in a whisper, I took out my wand, muttered a command, and the sheets were back to normal. The stigma wounded me still. Damn, I thought I was too old to still be having wet dreams. But that was not what was infuriating me. This person was intruding on my personal space. She was making me think these things. Was it Pansy? Did she do it?

The only way, I realized, to settle this matter once and for all was to find out who wrote this smut. Whoever did would probably want this notebook back. I certainly did not want to leave that sinful thing in my possession any longer.

To do so, I skipped the class immediately preceding Charms, which was Divination (no loss there). That was to ensure I would be the first person in the classroom. Once students began making their way to their final classes, I slipped into the Charms classroom, and placed the book back whence it came from and took my seat at the front. All there was left to do was to await the owner.

"Oh, there it is!" a whiny voice gushed as he swept the book off the table. "It was right here all along."

"I don't know why you were so worried," a shrill voice said. "It's so tattered and old. I'll get you a new one for Christmas."

"Yes, that would make it a Happy Holiday indeed," the first said dryly. "Trust you to buy people school supplies for Christmas."

No way, it couldn't be Weasel and his Mudblood friend. In spite of myself, I turned around to confirm it. It was them all right. He clutched the notebook tightly to his chest, as she wagged her finger in disapproval.

That fag. I always knew there was something very wrong with him.

Weasley was dead.

Author's Note: I know it wasn't such an interesting chapter, but I was pressed for time. Besides, this chapter is kind of necessary. Also, to Linnyloo: I totally understand you about your mum! If mine found out that I was writing this stuff, she'd take away my computer and lock me in my room until Social Services came in to intervene.