- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -
Authoress Ramble: I've been so tired lately, it's ridiculous. I can't wait until my school lets out ... I need the rest ... sigh. My back hurts too, because I collapsed on the couch ... heh. And, I miss my lover ... so much ... and ... and ... mmm. At least I can still write.
Warnings: This story has been rated 'R' for repeated use of language and eventual sexual content (none now). Also, it is slash, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.
Disclaimer: Obviously Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.
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Draco Malfoy sat calmly at his own table, eating his blueberry Danish with long, elegant fingers. Beams of sunlight were flickering above him, originating from the high shadows of the Great Hall ceiling. He took a tiny bite.
Today, he sensed, was going to be a good day. Such a sinfully good day.
In fifteen hours, after all, he'd be meeting Potter. It was a new experience for the blonde, the anticipation of a confrontation. In the past, they'd always just seemed to find each other unexpectedly, just bump into one another in the halls, or in Hogsmeade, or whatever the case may be ... and from there, their arguments and fiery, hate-filled confrontations had just ... happened.
But now, Draco found himself having the chance to mull over the future in his head. Would this whole deal thing fall through, their meeting reduced to a typical brawl never again to be planned and repeated? Or would Potter actually come through with something he could use to his benefit?
He'd better, Draco thought icily, eying the other boy from across the Hall, watching him move his sunny side eggs around in circular patterns on his plate.
As far as tutoring the Boy Who Lived ... well.
He's hopeless to begin with, Draco thought dully. If I can't help the prat, he's just destined to fail, in which case my instruction would have failed him either way.
Leaning back in his seat, feeling rather confident in the future of his 'good' day, Draco smiled a twisted smile. He took another nibble of his Danish, relishing the tiny burst of sweetness.
And at that moment, a series of short screeches filled the air above him. Draco looked up; flying in were the first few owls of the morning post. He grinned sadistically, watching as one with an especially large load swooped low toward the Gryffindor table.
Oh, yes. Such a good day.
The infamous Gryffindor trio was seated as usual in their places, Hermione on the left, a two-and-a-half foot Transfiguration essay sprawled across her area, its start curled around a large bowl of muffins. Ron was seated next to her, munching contentedly on steaming bacon, and next to him, Harry, who was, instead of eating, focusing on writing his name in the runny bath of eggs he'd ruined on his plate.
He hadn't told either of his friends about his meeting with Malfoy that night. He knew that they would attempt to stop him, and if not that, they would follow him ... and he didn't want them to know, to find out.
He wanted this to be their secret, somehow.
He looked up, searching the Hall with bright green eyes. He found his target easily, his platinum blonde hair glimmering in the shifting rays of morning sun. He was eating a Danish pastry like a king, holding it at his side like a septor, taking tiny bites that barely required chewing.
He met Harry's eyes suddenly, the silver flashing in unison with his hair. Harry's green orbs widened, surprised, and he quickly looked back down at his food.
Would they really be able to get through this without killing one another?
As far as Harry was concerned, he'd gotten the short end of the stick when it came to the deal. Malfoy having to teach him Potions was a relatively simple task- granted, it didn't come to him well, but still, you couldn't really go wrong with teaching a standard subject.
His challenge was much, much more complicated. He needed to show Malfoy why everyone thought he was gay and convince him to change said things without insulting him or pissing him off. It reminded Harry of a Muggle game that he'd played sometimes, lonely at the Dursley house. It involved building a tall tower of blocks, and then, one by one, removing the wooden rectangles. You lost the game when the tower inevitably tumbled over.
He was probably going to be dead before dawn.
"Hey, look at that," Ron said suddenly, between huge munches. He pointed, a slice of bacon in his hand, at a large grey-black owl flying directly for the Gryffindor table. Clenched in its huge claws was an overflowing bouquet of roses; a stream of red petals followed the bird as it flew through the Hall.
Harry raised an eyebrow, watching the huge bird coming toward them.
"It's probably for you, Harry," Hermione commented from behind her quill, her voice blank. It was true- he was the famous Harry Potter. The roses were probably from some kind of secret admirer.
Harry looked over at the Slytherin table just in time to see Malfoy pointing out the flower-bearing owl to Pansy and Blaise, both of which were cracking up over their plates of food.
Today was not a good day, Harry thought miserably, a sinking feeling in his empty stomach.
The bird carrying the roses had reached the table, soaring low over its inhabitants. Harry watched, downhearted, as the bird sped toward his seat.
His eyes widened in shock when the bird hooted, flying straight past him, zooming over Ron's plate to stop abruptly just above Hermione's bent head.
It opened its claws, dropping the huge bouquet of roses directly onto her long Transfiguration essay. Hermione yelped, dropping her quill as a few free rose petals flew around her face.
"They're for you, 'Mione," Ron said, a definite hint of sorrow in his voice. He frowned, turning to Harry sourly, as if it were his fault that the roses were not his own.
Hermione was staring in shock at the red, blooming bundle, her jaw dropped.
"Ron," she said, slowly turning her head, her cheeks pink, "Are these ... from you?"
Her wide chocolate eyes were shining fondly with caramel-colored hope. Ron stared back at her, his own cheeks turning red as he struggled to speak.
"Ehrm," he began meekly. "Well, uhm, 'Mione, I would have because I, that is-"
"There's a card," Harry said, interrupting his friend. He pointed to a sealed white envelope attached to the roses with his fork, dropping his hand when Ron elbowed him rudely in the side.
Hermione didn't notice; she was too wrapped up in opening the envelope labeled 'Granger' in shimmering red ink.
She smiled at Ron warmly as she pulled out the letter, forcing him to look away, an expression torn between misery and anger marring his face.
"It says," Hermione began in a low voice, reading it so that only her two best friends could hear her:
Dear Miss Granger -
My thoughts have been haunted with memories of your pink chapped lips. To express to you the incredible lust I feel for your average, yet filthy mudblood body, I have compiled for you a list of the things I want to do in order to pleasure your FEMALE self using only a broomstick and a lubrication charm (attached).
With sincere disrespect,
Draco Malfoy
P.S. Did you get misinformed lessons from Weasley, or were you just new?
Hermione gasped in horror, letting the letter, and its attached list, flutter lifelessly to the table, where they sat conspicuously atop the red roses.
Her cheeks were burning, her eyes moist when she turned desperately to Harry, whose own jaw was dropped, his food art long forgotten.
"Why can't he just let it go?" she whispered to him, tears falling heavily from her eyes. "Why? Why does he have to torture me like this?"
"He just needs the attention," Harry answered, his heart lurching at the sight of one of his best friends, usually so calm and in control, crying in front of everyone. "Don't let it get to you, Hermione, he's just-"
"Stop justifying him!" Hermione snapped, sniffling loudly. "He's such a sick bastard! I can't believe he ... he ... look at him!"
Harry's head snapped to the Slytherin table, and saw that it was true. Draco Malfoy was laughing with his friends, pointing at Hermione rather openly. He stopped for a moment when he saw Harry's icy stare.
"Accio rose," Malfoy whispered under his breath. Hermione's swollen, wet eyes widened further as she watched one of her roses rise and fly across the Hall, straight into his pale, outstretched hand.
Malfoy took the rose and, without breaking his gaze with Harry, handed it off to Pansy, who giggled and kissed him playfully on the cheek. Something in the green-eyed boy's chest twinged, and he looked away.
"Hermione," Ron said, touching her arm tentatively. "Please, don't cry. Not over .. over him. Harry and I will make sure that he gets his, won't we, Harry?"
"Huh?" Harry said, jolting his mind away from the triumphant blond. "Yeah, that's right, 'Mione. I'll talk to him about this."
"Yes, Harry will ... ehh? "Ron began, gasping at this. "ou'll talk with him about this? What about hexing him to Hell and back? Herm', he won't be able to pee for a week when I'm through with him."
"I know you're trying, Ron, but this isn't making me feel any better," Hermione whispered miserably. She reached out, freeing tears from her eyes as she blinked, and took the roses into her arms. Quickly, she stood.
"Where are you going?" Ron asked, his voice strained with worry.
"The library," she choked, giving painful looks to both boys. "I'll see you two in class."
"Right .." Ron began, but Hermione had already spun around, humiliated by her tears. She took a few steps forward, but had barely gone five feet when she began to run, sprinting toward the Great Hall doors in a tearful fury.
As she was just passing through them, she collided roughly with someone just coming in for breakfast. He grunted in anger, looked down at her sternly.
"I'm sorry," she choked, shoving the roses into his arms. "Please, burn these for me! That prat! That horrible, perverted, twisted prick!"
And at this she burst into tears, continuing her run to the library without having even looked him in the face.
Snape's eyes followed her warily, and when she had disappeared, he looked down at the huge bundle of roses in his arms, turning up his nose slightly.
"Emotional teenagers," he mumbled to himself, shaking his head. He continued on his way to breakfast, roses in arm.
Back at the Gryffindor table, Ron was staring down into his plate of unfinished food, refusing to eat anything as he sulked over Hermione's pain. Harry was patting him awkwardly on the back, not entirely sure what to say. After all, his attempt to comfort Hermione had been a complete and total failure.
Had he really been justifying the prat for doing this?
Harry shook his head sadly, not wanting to explore that thought, not wanting to dwell on anything. He sighed, reaching out to pocket the letters, planning to throw them into the common room fire as soon as he could.
He overturned them, folding them into smaller rectangles, when he noticed something strange. He unfolded the list, his jaw loosening slightly.
There was a note on the back of it.
Potter -
This ink is charmed so that only a male can read it. My father uses it to keep things from my mother - in any case. I figured the Weasel would be too miserable to touch this.
I hope that your ideas for emphasizing my heterosexuality to the public are healthier than the fun I've been having with Granger's mind. Perhaps if yours prevail, I'll be able to leave her be about that fucking kiss.
That in mind, if you still want to meet tonight, kiss your hand.
- Granger's Oral Rapist
Harry stared at the note for several long seconds, incredulous. He wasn't sure what to think about this - how could he feel so neutral about Malfoy hurting one of his best friends? No - both of his best friends?
Still ... he knew, no matter what the reason, his answer.
As Ron mumbled sorrowfully down into his breakfast, Harry raised his hand to his mouth, slackening his wrist and turning his palm away from him. Slowly, he pressed his lips to the back of his hand.
Malfoy, who had been watching Harry since the moment he picked up the parchment, smiled to himself. The future of his day was still bright after all.
In identical fashion, he brought his own hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to its pale back. He met Harry's shining green eyes for a moment, and then, indignantly, pulled his hand from his mouth and gave the other boy the middle finger from across the Great Hall.
Harry, seeing this, sighed.
He was far too fond of games like these.
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Well, I hope that you enjoyed this. The next chapter is their meeting ... that'll be especially fun to write ... hehe. If you liked this and want me to continue before you all die from old age, please review! Reviews make me a happy, punctual authoress.
