- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -

Authoress Ramble: This is probably going to be one of the last completely insane chapters for a while, less the one immediately following this one. I want to focus more on their relationship, and perhaps add in a bit of the Harry Potter drama reality. I don't want to go too far off the deep end.

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 Sunday afternoon in the story.

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Everything pointed to the letter being fake.

He had said himself that he allowed no one to refer to him as less Pansy. He would never have signed the letter with a name he hated. While the handwriting, elegant and somehow very feminine, meshed with his style, its flippant wording did not. He could never imagine Draco speaking with that level of casualness to him, even in writing. Especially in writing.

It was possible, of course, that'd he written the letter, realized it was a horrible mistake and thus came up with his shoddy excuse of a plan to reclaim it from Hedwig. It made more sense, however (if that were indeed possible), that someone else had written the letter. Someone meddling and extroverted, and more importantly, someone not afraid of being murdered by a certain infuriated blonde.

He had, indeed, someone in mind. But if he were wrong ... if it turned out to be from Draco, whether written in a drunken stupor or not ... well. He didn't want to think on that. He also didn't want to think on the final line of the letter.

That audacious, unforgettable line. He could think of only several things he could with Draco that required him to be without clothes, and none of them, he thought with slightly widened eyes, seemed at all appropriate.

Of course, he didn't want to go there. Not at all.

If Draco wanted him, the world would collapse around him. There was no other way to put it. In his miserable life, where surprise and danger seemingly waited at each turn, where everything he had learned in his childhood was daily discounted and replaced by something a thousand times stranger, in his world of unpredictable tragedies and twists and incredible outcomes - one thing had remained constant.

Draco. His sneer always perfectly in place, his cold grey eyes always eager to eye him with contempt, his mouth always posed to open and slip out a fresh insult, a new witty sentence designed to knash his heart in. He was always there, waiting around to piss him off. He could not imagine a life without constantly running into the devious, bitter blonde.

And now, tumultuously, in one crazy, incredible week, everything had changed. They were meeting secretly in a broomcloset of all places. He had wore his leather pants, broken into his private chamber, accepted him as a tutor, removed his nail polish, lost his House one hundred and twenty-five points for a towel because of him, woken up naked because of him (though he could still not quite remember that one), and now this. This twisted, confused as all bloody hell letter, a piece of parchment that seemed to be the written equivalent of the insanity this entire week had become.

It was something he had never dreamed would happen, and yet it had. And he, Harry, who just days ago would have laughed at the idea of willfully spending time with Draco Malfoy, had just agreed to meet him again.

He had agreed to let it all go on, to perpetuate the week into another week, and then weeks more, and then perhaps months. He wanted it to go on, for this parade of distractions to continue streaking through his life. He did not know why.

If Draco had written the letter himself ... broomclosets and leather pants aside, that would cross the line. That would be, above all else, impossible and unbelievable. He simply couldn't have, as he was a straight git that would never lay a tender hand on him in his life. That was the way it would be.

Harry blinked, still staring up at the ceiling of his canopy-draped bed. He had drawn the curtains, wanting to spend time in the shadows, lost in his own thoughts. He had, for over twenty minutes, though after all that thinking he felt as though he hadn't thought at all. He had arrived at no conclusion, his final thought on the subject this: It's impossible. It will never happen. Don't panic yourself over something that will never become reality.

Still, his hands were sweating terribly, and he could not let the letter go. He let its words circle around in his head for minutes more, straining his mind with wonder. He would have no need for his clothing? If he didn't, then surely, neither would he. An image flooded his mind at this, a picture of the blonde sprawled out on the black leather sofa, his platinum hair spilling across one of its silky ebony pillows, glinting silver eyes half-closed and dark with lust ... staring at him as he stared down in return, hungrily taking in his unclothed body ...

Harry shot his eyes open, his heart pounding. He took in a deep breath, calming himself while simultaneously washing the image from his mind.

No. No. Gods, please ... no!

He sat up, pushing aside his curtains and forcing himself to roll out of bed. He had decided that he needed a nice, relaxing ... and unusually cold shower.

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Draco sighed, hovering in the deserted corridor that he somehow knew led to the Gryffindor Tower. He had seen countless red-and-gold-clad students disappear down this hallway, and yet, in his full five and a half years as Hogwarts' sexiest blonde brat, he had never bothered to follow them. He cursed himself for that now, knowing full well that even if he had followed someone in the past, he didn't know their current password anyway.

Tormenting famous brunettes was fastly becoming rather boring. He thought for a second, though vaguely, of returning to the Slytherin dungeons; he didn't have the energy to wait another minute for some unknowing sap to come wandering back to their common room. Everyone was still eating their goddamned lunches ...

He sighed a second time, tugging impatiently at the silvery cloak he had draped over his thin body. For all his luck, he would fall asleep against the wall before anyone could come along, and then they would trip over him and give him away, and he'd get screwed over with his second interrogation that morning, and then ...

... he heard something.

I honestly don't know, a steady female voice spoke, becoming louder as it neared. Draco smiled slowly; that voice was deliciously familiar. I'm sure the letter had to be something important, or else he wouldn't have been told to intercept it. Surely Harry has read it by now; we'll just ask him about it when we see him.

Oh, they were still going on about the morning's events. How predictably pathetic ... always obsessing over their friend's much more exciting life. But what else could he expect from Potter's two favorite sidekicks?

I don't know if it'll be that easy, a more befuddled voice replied. He never did come down for lunch, or come back to meet us during breakfast. I'll bet you he's upset over something. And other than that, he's been so secretive lately .. he wouldn't admit to it when I asked him, but I swear he's been coming in late at night.

There was that one night you said he never came back at all, the feminine voice huffed. He never said a word about that. He came to breakfast wearing a towel of all things ... how can you lose the clothes off your own back?

A pause. Draco snickered beneath his cloak, remembering that morning well. Seeing him walk into the Great Hall wearing nothing but a plush, white terrycloth rectangle and his own unbuttoned pink silk shirt .. letting his toned abdomen and chest be seen by everyone, including himself .. he'd had a brief but sudden desire for his golden Quidditch binoculars that day .. but the points, the points! All those points from Gryffindor .. those had been the best part of it all .. of course ..

I don't bloody know, the boy said, his voice filled with dull wonder. I tell you, maybe he's been seeing someone behind our backs.

That's silly, the girl replied too quickly. Why would he trust us with everything that happens with You-Know-Who and yet hide a relationship from us? I thought of that as well, though, and I've been watching Cho. She hasn't been acting strangely or anything like that. She's been doing nothing but ignore him as usual.

Maybe it's not Cho? the boy answered hesitantly. It could be someone else. Some other girl, you know.

Dear gods, they were actually going to explore the idea. Draco groaned behind the cloak, watching as Hermione and Ron, walking slowly side-by-side, finally came into clear view. Were they really so dense as to think that?

Honestly, like who? Hermione sighed. He doesn't really socialize with anyone other than us, you know how much he's isolated himself this year. How could he have gotten close enough to someone to date them?

Maybe it's Lavender, Ron pondered, frowning.

Lavender would never keep her mouth shut about it, Hermione replied tartly, discounting the idea immediately.

Or maybe Pavarti? he tried again, doubt screwed completely into his face.

Harry isn't that shallow, the bushy-haired girl answered shrilly, shifting the heavy bookbag hanging from her thin shoulder.

Well I don't know, Hermione! It could be anyone! the redhead exclaimed, exasperated now. Your guess is as good as mine.

Maybe he isn't seeing anyone at all, she replied thoughtfully.

Ron sighed, shaking his head slowly. Hell if I know. I guess we'll find out when Harry's ready to tell us about it.

Yes, you're right. Unless we find some evidence that something is wrong, we should leave Harry his privacy. Come to think on it ... he's seemed happier lately, hasn't he? No, not even that; more alive.

She smiled, turning to her companion warmly. His eyes widened with slight surprise, and he nodded immediately.

he said quickly, stuttering slightly. More alive. Maybe it is a girl.

For Harry's sake, I hope it is. He needs someone to touch him.

T-Touch him, Mione? What exactly do you mean?

Oh honestly, Ronald! Get your mind out of the gutter! I meant reach him in a way we, as his friends, cannot!

Ohh. Right, course ... touch him touch him .. not touch him touch him ..

Morons, Draco thought bitterly, watching as they walked past him in the hallway. He stepped away from the wall as soon as they did so, following them closely. How could they think he was seeing a woman? It was nothing more than an insult to his glorious self.

He was the one responsible for stealing Potter away in the night, not some ruddy piece of female arse. How could they think it was anyone else? Their dearest friend, as far as he was concerned, belonged fully to him.

At least, some deeper part of himself wanted to claim that.

In front of him, Granger and Weasley had returned to their rambling, discussing the Transfiguration essay they'd been assigned over the past week. The first was going on about it incessantly, detailing the sources she had used, while the latter answered dully and with half a heart. It was painfully boring, having to follow Potter's grungy friends out of all the oblivious Gryffindors that could have come along.

Draco sighed as he watched Granger's arse bob along in front of him, pitying himself mentally at his sore plight. After all, what had he done to deserve this? Why couldn't it have been a silent, solitary little third-year? Why the two lesser parts of the Hogwarts dream team? Why, why, why why .. wait.

Just wait. Granger's arse, in front of him. She and the Weasel, alone together with him. Wearing an invisibility cloak that made him oblivious to their pathetic eyes.

He could work with this.

.. the principle of turning a teacup into another inanimate object, a kettle for example, is much more difficult than turning one into something living, take a mouse for instance, which implies that life requires more skill to conjure than nonliving objects. You can imagine that animal rights' activists have .. Hermione went on, chatting comfortably with her friend, who was frowning and appearing to be rather miserable.

Yeah, I can imagine ..

Draco snickered, closing the distance between himself and the pair. He reached his hand out slowly, his smirk deepening with each inch it crept forward. Fucking around with the Weasel and his mudblood would-be girlfriend was always a pleasant kick.

.. maintained that transfiguring objects into animals is immoral as it takes life into one's own yeeeiiick!

Hermione jerked, jumping up and spinning around immediately, her face pale with shock. Draco stood, undetected and smirking delightedly, behind her, all the while wiping his right hand on his trouser leg. He had pinched the arses of several girls before, but this was not one he'd defiled simply for fun.

The bushy-haired girl stood panting for a moment before turning then to Ron, whose eyes were wide with surprise as well, not knowing why his friend had suddenly shrieked and jumped up.

What's wrong? he asked as Hermione stared widely at him, her jaw slackening. Why did you shout like that?

Y-You .. she stuttered, not believing what had just seemingly taken place.

You okay? he asked, frowning at the blank look in her wide chocolate eyes, very reminiscent to a doe stuck in headlights. Did you trip on a loose stone?

R-Ronald Weasley .. she began weakly, finally finding her voice. Y-You're ... you're perverse!

Draco snickered as he watched Ron's face cave in, paling as confusion instantly flooded it.

You mean perverse as in a .. pervert? he asked incredulously, his frown deepening as he failed to realize what at all was happening around him. What? I mean, why? What the bloody hell brought that on?

Don't pretend that you didn't just do that, Ronald! Hermione huffed shrilly, shock fastly being replaced by anger. Did you think I wouldn't feel it? Look around! Do you see anyone else that could have done it?!

Feel .. feel what? Ron whimpered, thoroughly lost.

Feel your .. your .. your perversity!

Feel my perversity? he repeated doubtfully. Where exactly is that?

Oh - oooohhh! Hermione shrieked, too infuriated to find words. Just stay away from me, Ronald! Honestly! I would have expected better from you! I thought you respected me!

I do respect you, Hermione! Ron argued loudly, frowning miserably at the same time. I really respect you! Just tell me what I did, and I'll apologize!

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!

With this, Hermione turned away, her face red from both anger and embarrassment. She began to storm her way down the hallway, bookbag swinging at her side, leaving Ron to wait in her dust.

H-Hermione! Wait up, would you?! Tell me what happened!

Draco clasped his clean left hand over his mouth, stifling his laughter. This was just too rich. He'd expected her to be pissed off, furious even, but this? This was far too amusing. The Weasel's innocent stammerings and utter confusion only added to the show, making the entire scene priceless. He quickened his step, following the pair down the twisting corridors.

Please wait! Ron called weakly, jogging up behind her as she began only to walk faster. Please Hermione, I'm telling the truth, I don't know what you're bloody going on about!

Draco ran up behind the swift brunette, smirking eagerly. As she continued on down the hall with Ron running helplessly behind her, pleading, he reached forward a second time, this time grasping the edge of her knee-length pleated skirt.

He lifted it two feet high, laughing to himself at what he saw. He'd been expecting burgundy and gold stripped panties, but the delicate-looking white lace seemed amusing enough anyway. Women's underwear was all the same to him, really.

He dropped it quickly, knowing that the damage was done. Ron had slowed his run to a stunned stop, his eyes wide and his jaw dropped completely as he continued to stare at Hermione's lower half. She had stopped as well, standing frozen for a moment before spinning around, a deadly expression on her already infuriated face. Her murderous glare snapped the redhead back into reality.

It wasn't .. uhh .. woah ..

I've had enough of this, Ronald! she shouted, loud enough so that the other boy cringed in defeat. You are so perverted it is disgusting! I don't know what's suddenly come over you, but please, grow up and start treating me like the woman deserving of respect that I am! I just ... I can't believe you! I can't believe any of this!

Me .. me either .. Hermione, it wasn't me! It was .. it was ..

It was what, Ronald? Really, do tell me, she snapped bitterly, her eyes narrowing. Draco snickered, clutching his stomach as he held in his laughter.

It was .. ahh .. it was the wind! It had to have been the wind or something, it's uhh .. it's drafty .. and .. but it wasn't me, it was .. it was ..

The wind? Hermione repeated, her voice black. The wind, Ronald?! I can't, I just can't ... I can't believe ... oooohh! Just leave me be! If you follow me anywhere, I swear I'll hex your hands permanently onto your ... oooh! Good-bye, Ronald!

But Hermione, honestly, it wasn't me! I don't know what it was but it wasn't me! I swear to the gods, it wasn't ... hey, come on, listen to me! Please?!

Draco followed the arguing pair calmly, laughing to himself as he went along. This Invisibility cloak was the best goddamned thing that had ever happened to him, and to think that this was only the beginning of it all .. Potter really was a pussy. Who could own one of these and yet resist the temptation to raise complete hell, ruining the lives of anyone that crossed you? This shimmery square of fabric was a kiss from whatever twisted Heaven was currently smiling down on him.

All three took a sudden right turn, and Draco found himself in a corridor that cumulated in a dead end, hanging over which was a massive painting of an equally massive woman.

Quidditch countdown! Hermione shouted shrilly at the Fat Lady, who stared down at her with alarmed eyes, shocked at her rudeness, before allowing the door to swing open. Ron panted after her, disappearing behind her through the hole in the stone wall.

Draco was the last to go through, slinking past the portrait just as it was beginning to swing closed. He found himself in the Gryffindor common room, a spacious, circular expanse littered with comfy, overstuffed burgundy armchairs and warmed by a massive stone fireplace. He looked it over smugly, delighted with how simple it was; the Slytherin common room by far rivaled it.

He looked away from the room just in time to see Hermione storm up the first of two twin burgundy-covered staircases, her bookbag swinging wildly. Ron had given up, as Draco spotted him sinking miserably into an armchair, his face contorted into a terrible sulk.

If Granger had disappeared up the stairs to the left, that meant that the staircase leading to the Gryffindor boys' dormitories had to be the one on the right. Draco easily chose this one, slinking up with a delighted grin on his face.

That had been fun, but it was, of course, just a fortunate bit of pre-show entertainment. If his luck continued, he would see much more - so, so much more. He doubted that he would be granted said luck, due to a thing known as karma, however ... one could hope. And after his two shots of firewhiskey, he was more than hoping. He was waiting.

His fun was just beginning. He would remember, later, to properly thank Harry for him this divine piece of enchanted fabric.

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Draco: And another nine page piece of shit chapter is born. Bleeding crap, why is it me that always has to proofread these pages of disgrace?! GET A FUCKING BETA, YOU LAZY GODDAMNED PSYCHO AUTHORESS!

Harry: Shut up, Draco. You'll wake her up. It's two in the morning.

Draco: Like I give a flying broomstick shoved up her lazy arse.

Harry: ... right. Have you finished reading over the new chapter yet?

Draco: Yes ... I even made the wavy red lines go away ... why?

Harry: Okay then. She instructed me to you when you finished.

Draco: Reward me, huh? I don't bloody think so. This is some kind of sick thing again, and I know it. They're watching us, you know.

Harry: You have no choice. Here. Take it.

Draco: ... a glass of Arbor Mist wine? The hell?! This is pussy wine!

Harry: It's her favorite kind. It's probably the only sort she has around.

Draco: Well fuck this! I WANT FIREWHISKEY, BITCH! FIREWHISKEY!

Harry: It's alcohol, Draco. I'd take it if I were you. She gave us the whole bottle, so ... I'll refill it for you once you down it ...

Draco: The whole goddamned bottle? That must ... it's a trap! WE WON'T FALL FOR IT, YOU SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD HAG! I COULD NEVER GET DRUNK ENOUGH TO SHAG POTTER!

Harry: You're right. You'd like it so much better sober, wouldn't you?

Draco: Just give me the bottle. It's been a long night.

Harry: Or at least, it will be ...

Draco: Just pour it out, Potter.

(Fun fun authoress fact: I downed two glasses of Arbor Mist wine while writing this chapter. Blame the pantyshot on them.)