- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -
Authoress Ramble: The note at the end is better. Why do I have two notes, anyway? I don't need two bloody notes. And yet ... it seemed unbalanced not to have two notes. Maybe I should change this section from Authorness Ramble to Draco's Greeting, huh? You all seem to like him better than me, anyway.
Warnings: This story has been rated 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.
Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: Today is Friday in the story.
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Harry dug his teeth furiously into a soft, blueberry Danish pastry, tearing its flakey crust with a searing passion. He reached for his morning pumpkin juice, swallowing a large gulp before sighing appreciatively. He was trying to keep his eyes steady on the Danish his hands ... trying to avoid the silvery gaze glinting from over one hundred feet away.
He was failing miserably.
Hermione and Ron were watching him rip through his food with slack jaws, chewing their own bites slowly. They had never seen their friend eat so ferociously - usually, Harry ate relatively little, not being very much of a morning person. He had also been known to scoff the Danishes in favor of less sweet foods.
On the opposite end of the Great Hall, Draco was sipping a glass of wine, requested in a strange moment of morning cheer, and watching the raven-haired boy with amusement as he attempt to eat as much food as he could within a twenty-minute period. His burgandy-stained lips were twisted in a half-smirk, half-smile, his eyes glittering.
Drake, dearest, you look cheery this morning, Pansy said from his side, grinning as he tilted his wine glass in slow circles with his wrist. And alcohol that won't get you drunk in one shot, I see. Dare I ask the occasion?
Draco didn't answer for a moment, his eyes raising slightly as Harry stood abruptly, dropping a Danish onto his half-filled plate.
Oh, no occasion, he replied at last, taking a quiet sip. I'm just pleased that it's Friday.
Over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione had paused in putting away her Charms essay, staring up at Harry in slight disbelief. Ron, startled from his meal when the Danish had been dropped with a loud plop, was looking up at him as well.
What do you mean, you're going to the library? the bushy-haired girl scolded, frowning disapprovingly. Class starts in fifteen minutes! You'll never make it back in time, and McGonagall will have your head!
I'm sorry, it's an emergency, Harry said through gritted teeth, flushing with prolonged anxiety.
An emergency? Ron repeated dully, frowning. Is something the matter, mate?
Harry hissed, picking up his bookbag. I just .. need to do this thing!
Why didn't you do it earlier? Hermione asked, her eyes flickering with both worry and fresh anger. You sat around in the common room all of last night!
Harry frowned at this; she was right. In truth, his plan hadn't been finalized until last night, and even if he'd thought of it earlier, last night wouldn't have worked.
Just .. let me go, Harry sighed at last, shaking his head. I can take care of myself, and I'll accept the responsibility for missing class. This is just something I need to do.
Hermione and Ron looked at each other sourly, both frowning, but reluctantly turned back to Harry with submissive glances.
See you later, then, Ron said slowly, a lopsided look on his face.
he answered quickly, shifting the bag on his shoulder. I'll catch up with you later, Ron. Hermione.
With this, he turned and rushed from the Great Hall, his robes shuffling in his wake. A few people had already stood to wander to their first class early, and as such he wasn't alone in leaving, but his speed still turned a few curious heads. He ignored them, pushing past the entrance doors.
He stopped suddenly, skidding to a halt, and then turned not toward the staircase that would lead to the library, but rather toward the door leading to the dungeons.
He began his quick walk again, and after checking to make sure that no one was around to watch him, he slipped his invisibility cloak from his bag and draped it fluidly over his shoulders.
His plan had been set in motion.
Navigating the dungeon corridors without having had much experience was a nightmare, but with the help of the Marauder's Map and his vague memory from second year, he eventually found his target.
The entrance to the Slytherin common room was nothing but a stone wall, blending in perfectly with the other stretches of plain stone woven throughout the dungeons. Harry frowned when he reached it, realizing that he had no idea what the password was. He drifted into the shadows near the wall, deciding to wait for some unknowing Slytherin to come along and gain him entrance.
He didn't end up having to wait long. Ten minutes or so later, a girl looking to be either a third or fourth year student hurried up to the wall, cursing herself loudly for forgetting her Potions textbook on her bedside table.
Harry, hidden beneath the cloak and the shifting darkness, smirked.
she yelped, and the wall cleared away. She stepped through, oblivious to the unseen form that was following behind her.
After this point, he used the Marauder's Map to help him find the dorm rooms, located at various points along a pair of spiraling staircases that twisted through a huge stone tower. He'd seen the girl disappear up one of them, and as such took the other, figuring it to be the one leading to the boys' dormitories.
He stopped at the sixth door along the ascending, twisting staircase, entering it cautiously. Within was a lavishly decorated hallway, massive white candles with dripping wax floating near the walls between the many doors that lined the half-shadowed corridor. Harry frowned, opening the first door.
A row of typical-looking beds filled this room, propped against stone walls with no windows, their dark green curtains drawn. The trunks set at their feet looked all identical. Harry sighed, running a sweaty hand through his hair; how was he supposed to know which bed belonged to Malfoy?
He exited the room, reentering the hallway only to open a new door that lead to the same sort of dormitory. He tried all of the doors this way, grumbling to himself by the time he reached the last door, this one elegantly carved dark mahogany.
He reached out his hand - only to find that the door had no knob.
What the hell? Harry gasped, pressing his hand against the hard wood instead. He patted down the door, looking for a trigger of some sort; he found none. He frowned to himself, disgruntled, and turned to head back to the staircase.
It was then that he noticed it - a small wooden box, set down on the floor very near to the box. It was made of the same dark wood as the door, and when Harry attempted to lift it, he found that it was cemented permanently to the floor.
he mumbled, lifting its lid instead. He was shocked to the find it unlocked, expecting the little square to be some kind of spare-key holding contraption.
Instead, Harry found that the box held only a small card, yellowed and worn, and a thick silver needle.
He picked up the card, his eyes widening as he read.
- Bloodline Door Company, Established 1642 A.C. -
Dearest Sir Malfoy,
As requested, this door and the many others of its kind constructed for your use will open only upon the touch of the genuine blood of your eternal family. Please take care to use additional precaution should a traitor, curse him, be born among your lines.
Many thanks, the Bloodline Door Company
Harry blanched, picking up the needle and understanding its purpose.
he whispered under his breath, watching the needle catch the flickering light of the hallway. There was no way in hell was getting into Malfoy's bedroom now.
And yet ... it could not hurt to try.
Harry frowned, eying the needle warily before clenching it tightly, pressing its tip down into the flesh of the tip of his finger.
You'd better not be diseased or something, Malfoy, he muttered, releasing the air from his lungs in a low hiss as the needle punctured his skin. He removed it quickly, dropping it back in its box.
A moment later, a round drop of blood formed on his finger.
In the very least, I'm defiling his property, Harry said to himself, lifting his hand and pressing his pierced finger firmly to the wood of the door. He held it there for a second, then pulled it away, smearing a small streak of red onto its surface.
He waited, and then ... nothing.
Harry murmured sullenly, shaking his head. He was stupid to even attempt to open it. Did he have a drop of Malfoy blood? Of course he didn't!
He turned back to the stain, ready to wipe it away. His eyes widened slightly.
His blood had disappeared.
That's weird, Harry thought to himself, searching the door with his eyes for the little red stain he'd left. He couldn't find a trace of it, not so much as a dark shadow. Spellbound, he reached out his hand, touching the place where it'd been.
He gasped, paling as his fingertips drifted easily through the door.
He pulled back his hand, then tried it again, watching in shock as his fingers passed through the hard wood as easily as a ghost. His jaw loosened, and he stuttered, blinking several times.
It must be broken, Harry thought distantly, pushing his entire hand through. He blinked a few more times, attempting to clear his mind: he was a man on a mission, after all. Even if it was a lucky break, it would do him no good standing around and gawking over it.
Holding his breath, he closed his eyes and walked straight through the dark mahogany door.
Harry opened his eyes to a well-lit room, though elegant shadows still twisted playfully along the walls. He widened his eyes to take it all in; the dark green wallpaper, a fragile silver pattern tracing through it, the dark mahogany furniture that matched the wood of the door perfectly, the black candles floating inconspicuously in all the right places.
He smiled unconsciously at the massive black bed, covered in thick, silky-looking dark coverings, a few silver pillows piled at its front. It was a high bed, high enough that a small, three-step set of stairs rested near its right side. Its curtains were open, held back by twisted silver cord.
The bedsheets and comforter within were still mused and twisted, one pillow indented slightly in its middle. Harry approached the bed, staring at it with a distant look in his green eyes.
He slept there last night.
There was a fireplace in one corner of the room, up to which a black armchair was pushed. A desk was positioned near the fireplace as well. The fire had long ago burned down into glowing embers.
He reads in that chair, and works at that very bloody desk.
The room held a familiar, yet all the same unsettling aura for Harry. It was a room separated from the rest of the world, a room that he, essentially, did not belong within. He felt out of place, compelled not to touch a thing, only stand unmoving and stare, wondering and trying to imagine the blonde living here like a human being that indeed worked and slept and wrote and wondered.
But it was only natural that he felt out of place, wasn't it? He'd bloody broke in. He was trespassing in this sacred, strange bedroom. Feeling as though he had no right to touch a thing?
He'd come here to touch.
Focus, Harry, focus, he encouraged himself, beginning to hesitantly circle the room. Find the clothes.
He had originally thought that finding Malfoy's clothes would be an easy thing, as he seemed to own such a massive variety. He'd imagined the blonde owning some kind of huge wardrobe, even having some kind of fifty square foot walk-in closet.
There was no such thing. Even Malfoy's truck, open at the foot of the bed, held nothing but piles of books and oddly-shaped bundles. Ten minutes later, Harry hadn't found so much as a black sock.
Where the hell does he keep them? Harry hissed, giving up and walking over to the unmade black bed. He climbed the tiny set of stairs and sat down, his arse sinking down at least eight inches into the luxurious mattress.
Bad idea, Harry thought immediately, jolting and walking quickly back down the little stairs. Touching things, yes, but helping himself to Malfoy's bed? That was taking things just a bit too far.
It was as he stepped off the stairs that Harry noticed the book, sitting openly on Malfoy's bedside table. It was black and leather-bound, inconspicuous in the darkly-decorated room.
Harry's mind had at first screamed and he was hesitant in picking up the book, weighing in his mind just how immoral it was to read someone's private thoughts - especially those of Malfoy. A quick glance at the cover of the book, however, eliminated that possibility.
Impressed in silver on the leather was not the word Diary but rather, strangely enough, the word Dress. Harry frowned at this, puzzled.
Further examination of the book showed that it was not made up of only pages; the gold-tipped papers were split into sections by tabs, all of which were labeled. Curious, Harry lifted the tab named Robes - Educational, opening the book.
On the first page was a picture of a Slytherin school robe, its folds shifting slightly as though it were trapped in a very light wind. The picture took up most of the page, but below it was a single word, glittering in red: Withdraw (7).
Harry grinned, the purpose of the book beginning to dawn on him. He'd found the clothes after all.
He pressed his finger against watching as a Slytherin robe, perfectly pressed and cleaned, appeared on Malfoy's bed.
Harry smirked, looking back down at the book. It now said Withdraw (6) and below that, Store (1).
He pressed the word watching as the robe disappeared just as easily, returning the page to its original context.
Only you would care this much about your clothing, Malfoy, he laughed to himself, eying the other tabs. They included robes - educational, robes - formal, shirts, sweaters, pants, ties, socks, shoes, cloaks and the very end: underclothing.
Oh, yes, Harry muttered gratefully, opening the last tab. He thumbed through the pages: black silk boxers, grey silk, dark green, blood red ... even a solitary pair of white.
The Prophet was right about the silk, then, Harry thought, grinning. He quickly flipped to a new tab, chuckling; he hadn't come here to steal boxers.
He'd come to steal one of the far-beyond-just-metrosexual outfits he knew by instinct that Malfoy was hiding in his private room.
Paging through the book, he saw, in general, clothing that everyone expected Malfoy to wear, clothing that they were used to ... clothing that was questionable in its tightness or elegant taste, but accepted because it was clad on an ice prince that was not to be questioned.
There were, however, odd exceptions.
Twenty minutes and much snickering later, Harry had gone threw the entire book, deciding to withdraw a pink silk shirt and tight, tight black leather pants, paired with black belt that shimmered dark red.
Where the hell did you wear this, Malfoy? Harry wondered aloud, holding up the pants, whose surface gleamed in the light. He had, like most, only seen Malfoy wearing his typical outfit of slim black trousers paired with a black or grey shirt or sweater.
He smiled, laughing internally. Somehow, it made him feel light inside to know that Malfoy had a persona beyond his conservative, yet sleek clothing, a bit of a wild side. It made him feel hopeful to know that more than his wit and his wand were apparently unpredictable.
And just imagining Malfoy wearing these pants, pacing through a shadowed, humid club, holding a cold drink in his slender fingers ...
Right, don't go there, Harry scolded, frowning uncomfortably. He dropped the pants like a burning coal, picking up the pink silk, button-up shirt instead. He smiled, amused again, watching the fabric shimmer.
The leather pants, maybe, but this? This is just so ... flaming.
Harry shrugged to himself; it didn't really matter where Malfoy had gotten it. The important thing was that it was here, waiting to be discovered by a devious, sinful hand like his.
Stretching his back, Harry pulled off his own shirt, throwing it next to the leather pants on Malfoy's bed. He picked the rose shirt back up, slipping it easily over his shoulders.
Fuck, this is nice, Harry thought mildly, smiling as the cool silk slid down his toned upper arms. I can see now why he likes silk boxers so much ...
He grinned, reaching down and beginning to button the shirt. He winced, realizing that, though obviously designed to be flowing and at least somehow loose, it barely closed around his abdomen.
He pulled the silk taut, managing to fasten the first five buttons. He frowned when he got higher, however; the last three buttons were a lost cause. The shirt had been tailored for Draco, whose shoulders were slim. Harry's, though not very wide, could not compare.
He sighed, deciding to leave the shirt open. It opposed a foot-long stretch of his tan chest, leaving his neck deliciously open. Though he felt rather delicate - eating anything more than a cracker, he was sure, would pop the buttons he had managed to fasten off - he was glad that it fit.
And now ... the real challenge.
Harry regretfully unbuttoned his comfortable, worn black trousers, throwing them next to his discarded shirt. He then removed his simple black shoes, setting them aside. Smoothing out his boxers, he picked up the black leather pants, lowering them cautiously to his feet. He stepped into them, grasping the belt and raising his back, pulling them up.
They slid easily up his legs until his thighs, at which point the cool leather began to skid uncomfortably up his skin. Harry winced at the friction, tugging like mad until, finally, he had yanked the belt up to ride indecently on his hipbone.
He zipped the fly, buckled the belt and then stood frozen, afraid to breath, let alone move. He finally relaxed, letting out the air from his lungs in a slow hiss. He was glad that his stomach was little more than tan skin over firm muscle - even half an inch of fat would have oozed over the belt, ruining the effect.
He turned, looking at himself in a full-length mirror Malfoy had propped against the wall. He groaned, running a hand back through his black hair. The leather gloved his ass like wet, black tissue paper.
But it would have to do. Malfoy wouldn't be able to contain himself when he saw Harry wearing this - his most embarrassing outfit. In fact, he would hardly be able to control his temper when he saw him wearing his clothing - and knowing that he'd been rummaging through his room and precious dress book.
It was just too perfect.
Harry glanced at a clock resting on one of Malfoy's bedside tables, realizing that he'd spent far more time than he'd expected playing around in his enemy's bedroom. He had already missed his morning classes, and in fifteen minutes, lunch would begin.
He grinned, throwing on his invisibility cloak, grabbing his clothing and walking toward the door, the pants gripping his every slight movement.
This would be fun.
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Draco was enjoying what he thought was to be a very relaxing lunch. With a mound of fluffy mashed potatoes before him and the prospect of forcing Harry to ingest a fouled potion hovering in the near future, things rarely got better for him.
And then, just a few minutes later, Harry strolled in.
At first, no one noticed the familiar sound of the Great Hall doors opening. A moment later, though, a Ravenclaw girl turned out of habit, gasping and dropping her spoon into her plum pudding. The girls next to her then turned, immediately turning back to gossip, shocked, amongst themselves; and from there it escalated until nearly everyone in the Hall had gawked, and many had begun discussing him in horror.
Harry grinned lamely, tugging pants inconspicuously and continuing his stroll toward the Gryffindor table. Hermione, sitting next to Ron, was staring at him openmouthed, her suspended quill dropping huge blots of ink onto her unfinished Charms essay. Ron was staring as well, his open mouth revealing a small mountain of chewed and salivated food.
Harry said to them easily, avoiding taking his seat in favor of continuing to stand. Hermione simply raised an eyebrow, her face white with shock.
The library, Harry? she whispered instead, her eyes blank with disbelief.
Ron had closed his mouth, chewing his food slowly. Three seats down from him, Seamus turned to Dean, a wicked smile on his face.
I think I'll be hard for a week, he whispered mischievously, sending the other boy into appreciative laughter.
No table was louder in its shocked gossip than that of the Slytherin table, whose inhabitants were all whispering loudly amongst themselves, grinning at the scandal and at the unexpected, and all too easy, chance to ridicule.
Well, Drake, would you look at that, said Pansy smugly, taking a long sip of her pumpkin juice and absently stroking her long, silky hair.
Not now Panse, I'm reading, the blonde murmured, turning a page of his Potions textbook and taking a small bite of his potatoes.
Oh, I think you want to see this, Pansy purred, grinning twistedly. Potter has on the same shirt that I gave you for Christmas last year! You know, the pink silk one!
The one I wore with ... wait, what the fuck?! Draco snapped, his head jerking up. His jaw immediately dropped; there was Potter, in all his silky, tight glory, wearing the exact same shirt. The only difference was that his was all too tight, and he wore the top buttons undone, leaving a tan strip of skin that led down to his unexposed stomach.
Draco continued to gape, feeling a sudden wave of heat rush over him. He had never seen Harry wear anything so .. revealing, let along so achingly touchable.
Touchable?!, Draco's mind gasped, immediately going wild. No! NO!
And look at those pants, Blaise commented, a grin spreading across his face. He might as well wear a bloody wet t-shirt. They look so goddamn tight ..
I wonder how he's managing to walk, Pansy laughed, taking a bite of a biscuit. You know, it's funny, Drake, but I could have sworn you had a pair just like that. Part of your collection that doesn't exist collection, if I recall correctly.
Shut your violated lips, Pansy, Draco hissed, narrowing his eyes.
Blaise, in contrast to Pansy, who seemed only calmly amused, was absolutely eating up the situation, and was thoroughly excited by it. He stood, throwing his arm high into the air.
Yeah, Potter! he screamed, laughing. You work that ass!
BLAISE, SIT THE FUCK DOWN! Draco shouted immediately, yanking his friend back to his seat with a quick jerk on the back of his shirt. A moment later the blonde's hard knuckles connected with the side of his friend's head, who winced painfully.
Bloody hell, that hurt, he mumbled sourly, glaring at Pansy, who was laughing beside him.
This is not fucking funny! Draco snarled, shoving away his beloved potatoes. Those are my clothes! They're tailored to fit me, and that's why it looks like Potter's been poured into them!
Pansy repeated incredulously, frowning. But Drake, that's impossible! You have that Malfoy door on your private room. He could never have gotten in!
Well somehow, he did, Draco snapped, scowling at the thought of Harry invading his quarters, rummaging through his things and defiling his portable closet.
What are you going to do about it? Blaise asked, frowning a bit.
Draco smirked, his silver eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
I'm going to murder his leather-clad arse, he muttered darkly, standing abruptly. He looked across the room to where Harry was still standing, his green eyes focused solely on him, daring him to do something about the theft.
Draco nodded once in Harry's direction, jerking his head quickly toward the doors before storming out of the Great Hall, his robes flaring behind him. Harry watched him go, a smirk slowly forming on his lips.
That's my cue, he whispered to himself, and ignoring the shocked looks on the faces of his friends, he followed Malfoy out into the entrance hall, smoothing the silk against his stomach as he went.
Almost as soon as he entered the shadowy entrance hall, he felt Malfoy's hands snatch the delicate pink fabric of the stolen shirt at both of his shoulders. Before he could blink, he was shoved roughly against a stone wall, pinned by his enemy's arms.
What the bleeding fuck do you think this is? Malfoy growled, his eyes not a half foot away from those of Harry, whose green eyes which were flickering playfully. Do you think this is fucking funny, Potter? Squeezing your ugly arse into my fucking clothes? How the hell did you get into the room!? Tell me now, you fucking piece of--
Harry said suddenly, starling the other boy, who snapped his jaw and choose instead to scowl as he listened impatiently. I'm not stealing them. I'll give them back to you tonight.
This isn't some kind of joke, Malfoy hissed, jerking Harry hard against the wall. I'm going to kill you for this, I fucking swear, Potter. I will.
Murder me over a pink silk shirt? Harry grinned, a smirk that caused Malfoy's blood to boil. Oh, I doubt that. You'll feel better once they're back in your possession. Like I said ... tonight.
You can't just borrow my things, Malfoy ranted, seething. What do you think I am, a goddamn store? I fucking swear, you're going to regret--
Harry repeated calmly. He leaned forward, letting his nose brush slightly against that of Malfoy, who bristled and widened his furious silver eyes. Unless, of course, you want to take them back right now.
Malfoy sneered at the comment, and not sure what to make of it, he released Harry and stepped back uneasily.
he snapped, running a tense hand back through his white-blonde hair. Tonight, then.
Harry smirked, nodding, and quickly brushed off the pink silk, letting his hand linger for an unnecessarily long moment on his tightly covered stomach. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to say his last comment, and wasn't up to contemplating his choice of words. All he knew was that the utter shock and confusion he'd summoned in the blonde's eyes had been worth the risk.
See you later, then, Harry said calmly, strolling his way back into the crowded Great Hall. Draco watched him walk away, his eyes following his indecently clad arse as he went.
Don't let him get to you, he couched himself. This is all some kind of sick joke, meant to trick into looking at him in .. that way. It's wrong and he's just trying to sabotage you .. that and .. well, how could you not stare at it? It's squeezed into your fucking pants!
You're fine. Just don't let yourself be fooled.
And yet, as Draco made his way, too, back into the Great Hall, he found himself thinking just how nice it felt to finally be decently fucked with. He was too used to being left alone, the feared ice prince of the most secretive House of all.
He smirked to himself, settling himself back into his seat. Only Potter could spark that kind of fury in his cold, stagnated soul.
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Well, happy Christmas to the people who thought I ought to write longer chapters, because you just got one! Thirteen long, lucky pages. Let's see, what to say ... oh, well, hmm. To the person (I forgot your name) who noticed that Snape was eating porridge with a fork in the last chapter - yes, he was, and it was an intentional mistake, because SNAPE CAN DO ANYTHING! Yes, and my writing was just reflecting his supreme glory over all utensils!
On a happy note, this next chapter will be filled with slashy goodness. Oh yes, so much slashy goodness. Eating cookie dough ice cream in the rain while your lover strokes your wet hair kind of goodness! It will be so much fun to write. And fun to read as well, I hope.
So everyone, have a lovely day/night and many happy orgasms.
