Disclaimer: I own nothing. As usual.
A/N: Well, this one took a while, and I have no excuse for it--other than to apologize again for the AUness. Hope you can enjoy it anyway!
Oh yeah, and this chapter switch POVs a couple of times, so the breaks indicate when that happens.
"Ron! Come on, have you forgotten that we're prefects?" Hermione grabbed hold of Ron's wrist and pulled him towards the bewildered-looking group of first-years who were standing rather uncertainly near the door. "Would you clean up the tablecloth and things, please, Harry?" she called back over her shoulder.
Shaking his head slightly, Harry knelt on the floor and began picking up the several forks, spoons, plates, and goblets scattered on the floor around the Gryffindor table. Of course, Neville and Dean had offered to help, but Harry had waved them on towards the door, seeing that both were eager to be in the Common Room.
Pausing for a moment to straighten his aching back, he heard a faint pattering noise and turned around, only to be knocked to the floor by a greenish blur which hurled itself at him.
"Harry Potter, sir!" a squeaky voice cried. "Dobby is so glad to see you, sir, looking so noble and kind as always!" The thin arms around his waist tightened, nearly cutting off Harry's breath.
"It's great to see you too, Dobby!" Harry smiled down at the little house-elf who was looking adoringly up at him with eyes filled with joyful tears. He gently detached Dobby and rose to his feet, his every movement watched by the ecstatic elf.
"Ah, Harry Potter, sir, Dobby has heard about your great bravery of last year! You have saved the life of the father of your Wheezy, and once again defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" Dobby illustrated his rapturous speech with sweeping gestures of his hands and head. "Truly, Harry Potter is the greatest of all wizards and will follow in Sir Dumbledore's footsteps!" He bowed so low that his nose collided with the handle of a fork.
Feeling a blush spread over his face, Harry could only shake his head. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would start laughing.
"It is true, Harry Potter! Dobby knows you are the most wonderful of wizards, the—"
"Fraternizing with house elves, Potter? How like you," a voice said coldly from somewhere behind Harry.
Harry did not bother to turn around. "Aren't you supposed to lead the miniature Death Eaters to your Common Room, Malfoy?" He gave Dobby, who was visibly trembling, a reassuring nod and smile.
"I believe that would be my concern, not yours, Potter," snapped Draco.
"Oh, I see. You're scared of what everyone will say about your 'new look,' aren't you?" Harry smirked over his shoulder at the still-hooded figure, noting with satisfaction that a movement much like that of the clenching of a fist was visible in one of the overly long sleeves.
"Look, Potter, I don't care what they say, all right? I can still out-hex and out-wit them any time I want." Draco's tone was growing strained, though he was trying to keep it calm.
"Yeah, but I don't think that they'll worship you like they used to, will they? I didn't notice Pansy Parkinson clinging onto your arm, and I don't see Crabbe and Goyle providing their usual bodyguard service. Malfoy, if you think that nothing's changed, you're fooling nobody but yourself."
"Do you think I give a Blast-Ended Skrewt about whom Pansy clings to? She could be dating the Bloody Baron—or you—and I wouldn't notice. As for Crabbe and Goyle, who needs them?" Draco walked around Harry so that he was facing him and pushed his hood back, staring levelly at the other boy's green eyes.
"Malfoy, you couldn't even hurt Hermione that day back in third year. Without your extra muscle, you're pitiful." Harry was rather enjoying this, and even Dobby was beginning to relax, though the tips of his ears were still quivering.
His grey eyes under his disfigured scalp narrowed. "Say that again, Potter."
Dobby squeaked and attempted to hide himself behind a plate, but Harry merely raised an eyebrow. "Oh, do you need reassurance, Malfoy? All right then. You're pitiful."
Absolutely furious, Draco launched himself at Harry, one hand outstretched to grip his throat—but he was brought up short by a sharp pain just under his chin.
"You cheater, you tainted, disgusting—"
Harry grinned cheerfully at Draco's enraged face, keeping his wand firmly against the Slytherin's neck. "Now, now, Malfoy, there's no need for self-abuse. I'm quite ready to accept that you are a disgrace to humankind without you emphasizing it."
Draco snarled something incoherent and unimaginably foul, then contented himself with glaring poisonously at both Harry and Dobby, muttering a string of curses which, unfortunately, did absolutely no good, since his wand was still tucked into his robes.
Sighing dramatically, Harry shook his head in mock despair. "Well, if I must escort you to the Slytherin Common Room, I will. Come along, Dobby. We have to go show all the nice Slytherins how their former Chief and Lord was captured by the combined efforts of a half-blood and a house-elf." He prodded Draco with his wand. "Turn around, Malfoy, and walk fast. I haven't got all night."
"Fine, Potter, I'm going," Draco growled. "Get your wand away from my face so I can leave."
"Oh, you don't want me to come along? I was just making up such a nice story about how Dobby disarmed you and then sat on you—"
"Shut up, Potter."
Draco was halfway to the stone wall that concealed the door to the Slytherin Common Room when it struck him.
"Dobby? Why, that traitorous little house-elf has allied itself with Potter? Of all the ungrateful creatures—"
"Problems, Master Malfoy?" Peeves' upside-down face leered at Draco from between the poltergeist's transparent legs, clad in shorts of a violent turquoise shade.
"Get out of my way, Peeves." Draco kept walking, ignoring the horrible face Peeves made at him.
"Oh, is ickle Malfoy a bit depressed? Perhaps rejected by a lovely lady?"
The mischievous ghost had pressed the right button. Draco stopped short, the tip of his hood, once again covering his head, quivering with outrage. "I'll have you know that no girl has ever rejected me! And none ever will," he added as an afterthought, with a confident smile.
Peeves flipped right side up and leered at the boy, his face mere inches from the tip of Draco's nose. "Oh, no? But, you know, Peevsy heard some fair damsels talking about you. What was that they said? Oh yes—that pretty Patil dame remarked to her Gryffindor friend that she would prefer Longbottom to you hereafter." Grinning widely, Peeves somersaulted over Draco's head. "They seemed to think something was wrong with your head."
Draco pulled out his wand, eyes icy in his complete fury. "Peeves," he said softly, his voice smooth, "do you know that there are now spells that affect ghosts?"
Blowing a raspberry at him, Peeves shook his head gleefully. "Ain't," he replied laconically.
"Oh, but there are. You see, Lord Voldemort grew tired of listening to a certain poltergeist prattle on and on, and decided to…get rid of him, shall we say? This certain spell would cause your endoplasm or whatever it is that you are made of to ooze beyond your body wall, leaving you little more than a spill of fluid across the floor." Draco smiled wickedly up at the poltergeist, who was beginning to look faintly worried.
"Rubbish," Peeves retorted. "I'd have heard of it, I would. Just because we ghosts are dead, doesn't mean we're deaf and dumb."
Draco shrugged. "I doubt I would have realized that. Anyway, Peeves, have a good night, and try not to torment any Gryffindors, will you?" Giving the rather confused phantom a comradely wink, he walked on cheerfully towards the Slytherin dungeon.
"Please?"
"No."
"But—"
"No." The Fat Lady folded her arms over her ample chest and glared the Boy-Who-Lived into silence.
Harry slid a hand through his hair and sighed. "I told you, I don't know the password because—"
"No password, no entrance," the portrait replied immovably, her double chin set.
"You can't expect me to stand out here all night!" Harry protested, his temper beginning to flare. He could see now why Sirius had ripped the Fat Lady to shreds that night back in third year. She didn't reply. "Look," he snapped, "this is my sixth year in Hogwarts. Nearly every day for the past five years, I've been going in and out of the Common Room, and for almost all of those times, you've been the portrait hanging over the entrance. How can you possibly not realize that I'm a Gryffindor?"
"You could have taken a Polyjuice Potion," she retorted.
"Right, as if I'd be so thick as to brew up a Polyjuice potion, which takes a month to prepare with extremely difficult ingredients, and not find out the password to the Common Room which I wanted to infiltrate!" he said sarcastically.
The Fat Lady swelled to even greater proportions with rage. "Are you using that tone with me, young man?" she demanded furiously.
"Why, no," Harry replied, "I was talking to the little invisible—"
"Sir Cravhelm!" she shrieked. "Cravhelm!"
Immediately, Harry heard a strange clanking sound, and through the neighboring portraits, shoving their inhabitants out of his way, galloped a fully armored knight astride his battle horse. Pulling his mount dramatically to a halt beside the Fat Lady, who was glowering fiercely down at Harry, he dismounted and, kneeling before the Fat Lady, kissed her hand.
"You called, my lovely one?" he asked, looking adoringly up at the furious Fat Lady.
"Indeed, Sir Cravhelm, I did. This imp of a boy has insulted me."
Sir Cravhelm cast a rather anxious look down at Harry, who was watching the scene with great interest. "Did he now? Ah, well, my dearest, he is but a boy, as you said—"
The Fat Lady's eyes narrowed to slits. "My honor is at stake, Sir Cravhelm, and you make excuses? Do you call yourself a knight?"
Sir Cravhelm began to back away, moving behind his horse, which was placidly cropping grass. "My jewel, do consider—"
"What is there to consider?" The Fat Lady screeched at the top of her voice. "Do you dare imply that perhaps my honor is not worth fighting for? That you fear to battle this paltry boy for my sake? You useless, cowardly—"
"Harry?" Hermione pushed the Fat Lady aside, interrupting her tirade, as she climbed out of the portrait hole. "I'm sorry I couldn't wait outside for you, but Lee Jordan was trying to advertise Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes products, and the first years were becoming quite excited. The password's Bubotuber Pus."
"Thanks," Harry said fervently, darting a look at Sir Cravhelm, who had skipped sideways to the next portrait when Hermione had come out. It may have been just his imagination, but Harry thought that the knight looked quite relieved too, and he gave the unfortunately lovelorn portrait a brief, reassuring smile before ducking into the Common Room.
A/N: Soo...let me know what you think? Please? I'd really appreciate constructive criticism!