- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -

Authoress Ramble: This chapter is so fun. I really enjoy it, even if I'm not totally satisfied with some parts of it. Also, a few people (all right, maybe ten or so) reviewed to tell me that Draco's memory of Harry in the Great Hall was .. well, impossible, as he was never there to see it. You're right, and I'm too lazy to go back and change it right now. I hope it didn't confuse you too badly, and I'll try to be more accurate in the future .. I'd had a glass of wine, and it was very late at night, so ... I apologize! I hope you don't find any impossibilities in this one.

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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Draco hadn't yet formulated an actual plan for what he was going to do once he found and entered the sixth year Gryffindor boys' dormitory. As he climbed the stairs quickly, eagerly, with mischief flowing through his veins, his only real motivation was the general goal he had had for years as Potter's rival: ravage the Golden Boy's seemingly blessed life. His vague idea of what he would do when he reached the dormitory was based solely on that mantra. He would play some kind of trick on him, something spontaneous and much like what he had done with Granger and her red-haired future lover - perhaps rummage through his school trunk and steal a few interesting items - nothing far from the ordinary.

How very wrong he was.

He outstretched his clothed hand to the knob of the door he had narrowed down to be the right one, his lips lifted wickedly upward at the corners of his mouth, his victorious smirk practiced and perfect. His mind was alive with brilliant, absurd ideas. He was ready. He twisted the knob, opening the door with little caution.

It swung open in front of him, revealing what he had expected; a dormitory cloaked in bright, gaudy Gryffindor pride. He scowled at the burgundy bedhangings as he walked haughtily in, his nose curling at the sight of moving Quidditch posters pinned to the walls. It was all too predictable, lacking in both taste and originality - he shuddered to think that Potter willfully lived in the red and gold dump.

At this thought, he turned his head from side to side, eying the room a second time. It was empty of everyone, eerily quiet now that he had stopped to notice it. He frowned deeply; then where the hell was Potter?

Ahh, well,
Draco thought, his insides sinking with disappointment. At least I still get to go through all his shit. Payback time, you sneaky little bastard.

He sauntered further into the room, opening the trunk furthest to the left. Its inside was extremely cluttered, littered with beaten textbooks, crumpled wads of old parchment, balls of old tests, and leftover candy wrappers. The blonde sneered at the mess; even Potter wasn't that much of a slob. The clothes didn't match his usual wardrobe, either; Draco moved on.

The next truck was locked. He kicked it sourly, not feeling up to barraging it with unlocking spells. He would come back to it later, if Potter's trunk proved to not be among the others. As such, he continued lazily onto the third trunk, the toes on his right foot aching slightly.

He opened this one with an audible click, peering inside. There were a few current textbooks, some items packaged carefully in brown paper, a lumpy Zonko's bag, and folded clothes heaped into a tilting pile. Draco went through the stack carefully, grinning slowly as he recognized Potter's typical style; drudgy, inexpensive dark clothing, either grey or black, or rarely navy or deep green; sweaters and long-sleeved hooded jackets, simple gloomy t-shirts. Beneath these were a few enormous plaid shirts, several pairs of black slacks, and a single pair of khakis.

The blonde smiled. This was his rival's trunk indeed.

He stood there for a moment, bent over the open chest, pondering. It would take the brunet days, if not longer, to notice that one of the wrapped items was missing. After all, how often could Potter take them out if they were so carefully wrapped and stored? It also didn't seem worth stealing his clothing. It had been done before, for one thing, and Draco loathed unoriginality above many things; and unlike his leather pants and pink shirt, Potter really owned nothing that significantly stood out. Nothing he could embarrass him with.

He sighed, righting himself and letting the trunk slam shut. It just wasn't worth the bloody effort.

He walked over to his rival's bed instead, letting his eyes linger on the disheveled, unmade sheets and burgundy blankets that topped it. His chest felt strangely hollow as he allowed himself to stare at the lull in the mattress that was a shadow of Potter's weight having once been there, the depression in the pillow from his head, his wild black hair.

He wished, for a vague moment, that he could have been around to see the other boy lying there, peaceful and quiet for once, his eyes closed to him. He had grown weary of the eyes that locked on him, became open and irate, flooded with hate and anger, with loathing and a fiery urge to inflict pain. He just wanted to see him calmly resting, to be near him and have the other be left oblivious, not knowing he was there at all.

Or perhaps, he wished that he had been there, beside him, his body making a second lull in the mattress to the left of the first. Lying with him as he slept - slept knowing that he was there next to him, slept trusting him not to stab him to death as he dreamt.

Draco tilted his head gently to the side, his frown deepening suddenly.

It was wrong to wish for impossible things.

He trailed his hands along the mused bedthings, wishing he had never come at all. His desire to trick and torture had stilled, frozen away for a different time and place. The bright, cheery room was nothing but depressing now.

He turned, ready to leave the room. Then, and only then, did he hear it.

The faint, almost inaudible sound of running water. He turned his head back, following the sound to a door in the wall of the dormitory, a door he had overlooked. It was slightly ajar, a stream of unnatural light flowing out from the crack.

Draco pursed his lips, wondering. He didn't want to be in the room any longer; his chest was heavy, his emotions sunk low in his stomach. And yet ... someone was taking a shower. Some innocent, unsuspecting Gryffindor was taking a shower.

He could at least sneak in, close his eyes and twist the knob over to icy cold, couldn't he? He smiled in vain at this, trying to perk himself up. It hardly worked, but he thought to himself: what the fuck? He couldn't be a miserable sap for long with such a useful cloak draped over his thin shoulders.

With a bored expression on his face, Draco made his way toward the bathroom door. He pushed it open carelessly, peering inside and raising an eyebrow at what he saw, though it was only a typical setup. There was a row of four sinks, above which sat a long mirror; a row of urinals and two stalls with toilets. The floor was polished wood, reflecting the floating candles of the ceiling above brightly enough to make the blonde openly sneer at the glare.

And there, beyond everything and at the end of the room, directly across from the door: a very wide entrance with a width of perhaps seven or eight feet. No door blocked the bathroom from the area beyond it, the only thing indicating that it was a different area the tiled floor and walls it contained. Draco frowned, noting the showerheads and knobs protruding from the walls within this area.

A communal shower. How bloody Gryffindor could you get? Be loyal to your comrades - loyal enough to shower with them everyday! He smirked; he and Blaise would have a good laugh over this later.

The shower continued to the right of the doorway, blocking a large section of it away from view. Draco inched into the bathroom, feeling slightly cheered now. He noticed a pile of clothes dumped unceremoniously just in front of the shower entrance; ahh, lovely. Perhaps they had money in their pockets.

Draco neared the clothing, kneeling in front of it eagerly. He reached out for a pair of black slacks, burying his hand into its right front pocket. He rummaged for a second, finally pulling out a crumpled piece of folded parchment. He grinned, opening it quickly.

What he saw made his face fall immediately, his grin shattering into a shaky gasp.

In his hands, crumpled though folded carefully, was Pansy's goddamn letter.

Draco looked at the letter for a long moment, his jaw dropped. It registered to him after a minute that he should read it - after all, he'd nearly gotten his ass whipped over the cursed thing - and yet, he could not seem to bring his mind to digest the words. Only one thought was racing, inescapable, through his mind.

It was Potter in the shower.

He looked up weakly at the entrance to the communal shower, the sound of distant running water now pounding in his ears. His heart seemed to slow with the shock, or rather the possibility, of this realization, his blood flowing hot and alive through his pale body. As if possessed, he found himself standing, his legs moving themselves toward the wide entrance.

He shoved the letter, now mostly forgotten, into his pocket, bracing his hand against the tiled doorframe. Carefully and slowly - very, very slowly - he leaned forward, peering beyond the entrance and into the shower room.

His heart nearly stopped at what he saw.

Standing there, his back to him, was his rival. Streams of warm water ran down his body, giving his tanned, bronze skin a wet, almost glossy appearance. It ran through his black hair in rivulets, soaking it into a thick, wavy raven mass. Draco nearly gasped as he ran his hand back through it carelessly, sending a wave of droplets into the steamy air.

Dear gods, he thought weakly. That is the best fucking ass I have ever seen.

His golden body, complete with toned chest and arm muscles and a taut stomach, had never looked better, glorious now in the moist air and flickering candlelight. Even his firm arse was nothing less than divine. This sight was greater even then the night he had spent taking advantage of the fucked-up adrenaline draught, kissing the delirious boy while he was clothed only in a towel.

The only problem was that he was .. so .. far away.

Moving forward as though lost in a trance, Draco inched his way into the shower room, stepping carefully on the wet tiled floor. He swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat as he went, his eyes locked on the boy he was nearing. He felt his palms begin to sweat, whether a cause of the warm, steamy air or the sight in front of him he did not know. All he knew, all he wanted in that moment was to get closer and closer to the mirage before his eyes.

He stopped only when he was mere feet in front of his rival's bronze, nude body, his heart clenched with nervousness. His senses were frantic, his eyes finding too much to take in all at once: the other boy's toned, tanned body, glowing with health and strength .. the curve of his shoulder, the parted lips on his face, half-hidden by his dripping raven hair. He could only stare at the boy before him, his own lips parted with dull wonder, his mind silenced by awe.

It took immense self-control for Draco to stop himself from reaching out his hands, both of which were longing to place themselves gently on the other boy's hips, eager to draw him closer. It was only when he finally felt his growing arousal begging for attention that he snapped back into reality. Only then did a faint voice in the back of his mind awaken, a familiar voice that chanted without words how wrong this was, how he was not a damned homosexual, how he could not be wanting Potter, how he should just fucking leave, forget the entire event and drown himself in denial.

Of course, by this point, the voice was far too late.

Draco started when Harry suddenly moved, reaching his arm out to the side, his hand groping for a blue glass bottle of cleansing potion, which sat on a tiled shelf several feet away. He wasn't looking at the bottle, reaching for it out of habit more than anything. The blonde noticed, when the other boy briefly turned his head toward him, that he seemed to be lost in thought himself, his emerald green eyes dull and wide, unfocused. He shivered at the look on his face, so distant - it was eerie how he was staring right at him, how he was forced to stare through him, unable to sense him at all. His guard was down completely.

It was a sharp contrast to the Potter that glared icily at him nearly every day, staring him down as if he knew all of his thoughts, his schemes, his emotions. It unnerved him; he almost liked it better when he could be seen. Without it, the other's eyes were dead to him.

Potter had turned away, still groping for the bottle. Draco slid over to the shelf, finally noticing the wetness that had sunk into his black clothing from hovering in the shower. He frowned darkly, annoyed at this, but ignored it as he reached out his own invisible hand. He slid a single finger behind the bottle, waiting as Potter's fingers drew nearer.

Then, with a slight smile, he flicked his finger and knocked the bottle off the shelf.

It landed with a loud clatter on the tiled floor, a noise that echoed harshly in the small room. The blonde bit back a small laugh as Harry jumped, startled, and snapped his head to the bottle on the floor. It was rolling in a crescent rather innocently, still corked.

Draco watched with a lopsided half-smile as the brunet sighed, bending down to pick up the cleansing potion. It gave him an incredible view of his arse, one he did not intend to forget anytime soon.

All too quickly, and quite sadly, Potter righted himself, uncorking the bottle and pouring a small puddle of the thick, silver-blue liquid into his open palm. He smeared it lazily onto his chest, rubbing it into his skin as it mixed with streams of water, changing quickly into a thick, bubbly white foam. The blonde watched, entranced, as he rubbed it down his arms and then thighs. He was disappointed for an idle moment that his tanned hands had not lingered on the area between his taut stomach and legs, as his own silver eyes did.

He was so fucking lucky. No wonder it was said that the gods favored Sunday.

The boy in front of him was beautiful, sublimely oblivious. The things he was doing - washing himself, for one - probably felt boring and ordinary to him, but to Draco, it was a gorgeous performance, better than any strip tease he'd ever had the liberty to see. The aching bulge beneath the crotch of his black pants betrayed him; he wanted Potter.

Screw reality. He wanted to reach out, to grab the other boy without warning, frightening him. He wanted to spin him around and throw him against the tiled wall, to push his own body against his and kiss him roughly, shoving his tongue into his mouth and ravishing him, tearing away at his well-known naivety, sinking his teeth gingerly into his tan throat -



Draco froze, his lovely fantasy crumbling at the intruding voice. It was familiar, one that made his blood boil at the sound of it alone. It was a voice from a nightmare, a voice that should not be anywhere near the two of them now. It was the voice of Satan himself.

Harry, is that you showering in there?

Jesus bleeding Christ, leave us the fuck alone, Draco's mind growled angrily, his hands clenching into tight fists. He backed away from Harry and into the tiled wall, bracing himself against it in an effort to control his fury.

Yeah, Ron, Harry called suddenly, now letting the pouring water wash away the suds littering his body. It's me.

Draco was seething. He let his body slump onto the wall, sliding down it a bit so that he was half standing, half sitting against it. This could not be bloody happening. The Weasel was not ruining this for him.

Oh, ahh, well. I was just looking for you .. wanted to talk .. the weirdest thing happened in the, ahh, corridor .. and now .. Hermione ..

Oh just shut the fuck up and go away, neither of us give a damn about your goddamned problems, Draco's mind heaved, his lips pursed. He was boiling over with anger, and yet, at the same time, he had never felt more regretful for screwing with the Weasel in his life.

Goddamn karma.

I can't hear you over the water, Ron! Harry called back loudly, frowning. He could hear the sulk in his friend's voice, keying that something was wrong, but he couldn't quite make out his words. Still, he sensed no panic, and as such felt it could wait until he stepped out of his shower.

Oh, all right .. is it okay .. I think I'll just shower now too .. before dinner .. I feel kind of ..

Dear gods. NO.

That's fine, Ron, Harry shouted back. I'm almost done, anyway.

Someone on the other side hated him, loathed him, fucking wanted to make him stab himself in the head right now, and Draco knew it. He had always had a leery feeling in his stomach when he thought about all the things he'd done to screw with the Gryffindor Trio's lives, an odd sort of fearful feeling that warned of the consequences. He had been waiting for Harry to cut off his hair, to hex him, murder him perhaps.

But never this. Not this. Not the Weasel - nude - in front of him.

He had to get out of the shower room as soon as bloody possible.

Draco torn his eyes away from the nude god in front of him, standing fully upright and straightening the cloak around him. He made his way then, rushing slightly, back to the entrance to the communal shower. He peered around the doorway, his jaw dropping in horror at what he saw.

The Weasel was already there, in the bathroom, undressing himself. His burgundy sweater lay discarded on the wooden floor, and he was now undoing his thin leather belt, unbuttoning his jeans. Draco's stomach did a sickened sort of flip-flop, and he twisted back into the shower, away from this terrible sight. He sighed at the happy picture of a naked Potter, now calmly washing his hair, oblivious to the panicked boy just feet away from him.

He was so screwed.

He leaned back against the tiled wall, panting from slight fear. He waited, listening as the Weasel finished taking off his clothing, and then, in horror, he heard the soft padding of bare feet approaching. He was coming.

A moment later, Ron entered the communal shower, strutting into it lazily. Draco's eyes bulged when he saw him, but he closed them hurriedly, calming himself. He would not let his eyes wander down below eye level under any circumstance. He thought, vaguely, that the terrible sight of it might turn him to stone, or at the very least screw his mind over in some way.

He swallowed, his anger returning slowly. He could not let Potter shower with this disgusting, dirt-blooded boy. He simply could not allow it - this was not a time for fear. This was a time for action, and action he would indeed take.

As Ron walked into the shower room, Draco quickly stuck out his leg.

As predicted, he stumbled over it horribly, swearing loudly as he tripped and found himself falling headfirst toward the tiled ground. He screamed as he hit it with a loud, wet smack, his forehead and nose cracking loudly against the hard surface.

Harry spun around immediately at the sound, walking quickly over to his friend.

Ron, are you all right? Did you slip?

He outstretched a hand down to the redhead, who sat up slowly and took it, his mind swimming. Harry helped him to stand, frowning at the nasty red, raised bump that was already forming on his forehead.

That looks terrible. Let's get dressed and head up to the hospital wi-

No, no mate, I'm fine, Ron mumbled. He sniffled, grimacing as a stream of blood dribbled from his nose. I'll be fine, just .. ahh .. let me take my shower ..

Well, all right. You should be more careful, though, the floor's slippery in here.

Harry, who had not noticed the stream of blood, walked back to his own showerhead, beginning now to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. Ron walked slowly up to an unused showerhead, turning on the water in a daze, a confused expression on his face.

Draco, who had initially held back laughter at the Weasel's unfortunate tumble, was now back to controlling his rage. While he had found the fall hilarious, seeing Harry - a naked Harry none the less - walk close to him and help him back up had done nothing more than make his blood boil even wilder.

He made his way carefully over to Ron's shower, taking great care to avoid looking at anything but his shoulders and freckled head. He waited there, patiently, and allowed the Weasel a few minutes of peaceful showering.

After this, he slowly reached his hand out, tightening it around the knob. With an irate smirk, he turned it sharply, then pulled his hand away just as quickly as he had reached it out.

A few brief seconds ... and then he heard the scream.

AHHH! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?!

Ron ran out of the shower's stream, swearing loudly under his breath. Harry looked over at him, startled, and frowned severely. Draco took this brief moment of distraction to reach over and turn the knob back to its normal position.

The water! It got bloody hot all of a sudden! Ron shouted, wincing at his bright red skin. Like boiling hot, Harry!

Harry frowned, moving over to Ron's showerhead. He gingerly darted his hand under the water. It rained down over his fingers, now back to a comfortable, slightly warm temperature.

Well, I don't know what happened, Ron, he said, puzzled. But the water's fine now.

Draco snickered quietly beneath the cloak, delighted with the expression of pure horror on Ron's face. He looked around the shower room fearfully, searching for some kind of explanation, but, of course, could find nothing. After a moment, he carefully went back into the shower, frowning worriedly as he did so.

Draco gave him five minutes to recover from the shock of this, five minutes to regain trust in the showerhead and begin to once again shower with relative calm instead of heightened anxiety. His smirk deepened as he stepped closer to the Weasel once again, his arms outstretched.

He pushed him suddenly, grinning as the other boy gasped, slamming against the wall to his left and then sliding dangerously across the wet floor, his legs flailing. He fell at last, hard and with a loud, familiar smack, on the tiled floor, this time directly on his arse.

He had cried out from the shock, and was wincing now with pain. As he began to slowly and carefully stand, Harry eyed him suspiciously, frowning.

Having trouble, Ron? Is something wrong?

Draco bit his lip, suppressing a laugh as the red-haired boy frowned miserably, shaking his head. His eyes were wide, fear clear in their blue depths.

I just don't know, mate, he whispered, a trace of panic in his voice. I mean, it's almost like something ... like something just pushed me, I mean, I felt .. I felt .. hands ..

Harry's frown deepened, his expression incredulous.

There's no one in here with us, Ron. Are you sure you didn't just slip?

Yeah mate, I'm bloody sure I didn't just slip! Ron snapped, his voice growing steadily louder. I swear, somebody - somebody shoved me! And I bet they did the water thing, too, trying to bloody burn me to death!

Harry frowned further, his brows furrowing in doubt.

Are you saying that .. that someone's trying to kill you, Ron?

The red-haired boy paled at this, looking around the shower room with renewed alarm in his eyes. He swallowed hard, this idea taking a firm hold in his mind.

Maybe ... maybe it's a ghost, mate ..

Draco grinned openly, clasping a hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter that threatened to spill through. Only the Weasel would manage to come up with that - no, not just come up with it, believe it wholeheartedly! His reverse bravery was always such a joy. The Weasel was in the palm of his pale hand, now ..

A ghost, Ron?

Y-Yeah .. I mean .. I don't know what else it could be, he stuttered, shuddering. You know, a ghost kind of like Peeves .. just .. screwing around .. trying to h-hurt me ..

We never had any trouble with the showers in here before, Harry said logically, looking around the silent room carefully.

Yeah, well .. maybe it's a .. a new ghost, you know ..

Oh, this was just too rich. Draco chuckled beneath the cloak, delighted that the Weasel was so willing to freak himself out. He hardly had to do any work at all - he filled in the fearful details himself.

I don't know, Ron, Harry repeated doubtfully. I mean, why would a ghost be out to get you all of a sudden? It just doesn't make any sense.

Maybe it's just evil, Ron offered, his voice still a little shaky.

Draco smirked at this, nodding cheerfully behind his invisible barrier.

Harry repeated, his suspicious frown deepening along with his voice, his face darkening. Or maybe it's someone in an invisibility cloak.

Draco froze at this, his smirk slipping away as quickly as it had came. He paled, backing away from Potter a single step and drawing the cloak protectively around his shoulders. He couldn't have figured it out. He didn't even touch him.

And yet ... Potter probably knew a hell of a lot more about sneaking around in the now cursed item more than he did.

The blonde gulped, an urge to run suddenly overtaking him, though his body, still stunned from the shock of Potter's words, refused to move an inch.

I don't know, Harry, Ron replied uneasily. Those things are rare. I rather doubt that anybody else has one here. And even if someone did, why would they stalk me into the shower? I mean .. the shower, mate!

I don't know, Ron, but I'll tell you this. I would love to find out.

Draco's face, if at all possible, paled further. It was time to leave. Now. Yet, his body would not obey, still frozen, his eyes locked on the nude boy in front of him, his green eyes now narrowed dangerously.

I'm out of here. Just call for me if you have anymore trouble, Ron.

Oh, sure, fine, the redhead answered quickly. Both he and an invisible Draco watched with slightly wide eyes as Harry stormed out of the communal shower. The blonde heard shuffling noises after a minute, what he took to be him drying off and putting his clothes back on.

The noises subsided quickly, replaced with the soft padding of his feet as they left the bathroom. Ron, hearing the bathroom door creak open and then shut, warily reentered his shower, much to Draco's disgust. He adverted his eyes, for once ignoring the Weasel as he mulled over what had just happened.

If Potter had figured it out, he was royally fucked. There was simply no other way to put it - he would be completely screwed over. This was becoming a pattern now, wasn't it? Fuck with Potter, get screwed over. Fuck with Potter, get screwed over ...

His mind paused. Poor choice of wording there. He would come up with a different mantra to match his miserable life later, one less suggestive. For now ... an escape was in order. He had to leave the shower, the bathroom, and finally the dormitory - all without keen-eyed Potter noticing him.

What a joyous day. He fucking hated Sundays. No wonder it was such a holy day - it was a day of some kind of divine revenge upon arseholes like himself.

His eyes turned, lazily, back to the Weasel's back. He sighed, feeling now a mix of depression, irritation, self-pity, and finally, recklessness. He sauntered over to the tile shelf, picking up the glass bottle of cleansing potion that Potter had used just moments before.

Without much thinking about his plan, he picked up the bottle, holding it so that it was upside-down, its slender top grasped between his thin fingers. Sighing slightly, he threw it toward the Weasel, aiming so that it missed his head by mere inches. The bottle crashed loudly against the wall, the glass shattering immediately.

Even Ron's girlish scream hardly cheered him up.

BLOODY BLEEDING HELL! he shouted, backing away from the shattered glass and oozing foam with a pale, terrified expression marring his face. Someone really is trying to bloody kill me! HARRY!

How pathetic, Draco thought blankly. What a coward. Some ruddy Gryffindor. Going into panic over a mere brush with death ..

He watched with distaste as Ron backed slowly toward the entrance to the shower room, finally spinning around and bursting into a run. Draco followed him at a quick walk as he sprinted across the bathroom floor, ignoring his clothing completely as he ran.

He opened wildly the door to the dormitory, letting it swing open widely as he began to pant, the exhaustion of having run from the mysterious shower ghost overtaking him. He bent down slightly, letting his breathing slow before he looked up.

Inside the dormitory, two heads jolted upward as the door swung open, hitting the wall loudly as it did so. The raven-haired boy's jaw dropped slightly, his cheeks blushing red for his soon-to-be humiliated friend. The bushy-haired girl's eyes grew wide as saucers, her face too flooding with deep red - whether from embarrassment or anger, no one could tell.



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Draco: Well, it's heartwarming to know that the Mudblood is being tortured as well in this disgusting excuse for . I wouldn't wish that image on anyone.

Harry: No one? Come on.

Draco: Fine, fine. You, perhaps, you insufferable Gryffindor scarhead.

Harry: Oh, that's a new one.

Draco: Shut the fuck up. I'm fucking tired.

Harry: You should be. You were up all last night .. hardly slept at all ..

Draco: Wait, what? I don't remember doing anything last night! I MUST have been sleeping! What else wouldn't you remember doing as you bloody did it?

Harry: Trust me, you didn't sleep. You were drunk. I have two words for you.

Draco: Don't you dare fucking say it.

Harry: .. Arbor Mist.

Draco: Screw you, Potter.

Harry: Great guess ..

Draco: .... I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. The damned piece of shit story is proofread, anyway, so where the fuck is she? She should just post it .. get it the hell out of my sight ..

Harry: That's it? You're not even going to have fun with it? At least answer some reviews or something.

Draco: Yeah, whatever. Too fucking tired. Maybe next time. If they address me as Lord Malfoy instead of fucking Draaaco oh you're so cute and I'm a fucking moronic little fangirl who wants to watch you fuck Potter Draco.

Harry: ... right. I'm sure they'll do that. Let's go up to bed now.

Lord Malfoy: The fuck? With you, Potter? Think again.

Harry: Ehh? What's that? Fuck .. with Potter .. again?

Lord Malfoy: I hate what she's done to you. You're a goddamn whore.

Harry: Well, at least this way we have one more thing in common!

Lord Malfoy: Fuck you, Potter! I did not fucking sleep with you!

Harry: ARBOR MIST! Admit it, you stubborn bastard!

Lord Malfoy: NEVER! I'M GOING TO BED!

Harry: FINE! See you there!

Lord Malfoy: FINE! GOOD NIGHT, GRYFFINDOR SLUT!

Harry: SWEET DREAMS, DEVIRGINIZED BLONDE!

(Ms. Rose: I rather like this chapter, though I'm running out of things for Harry and Draco to ramble about at the end. Answering reviews is such a petty way out, and yet, the prospect of it is so fun. Some of you leave very intriguing reviews, you know. Please keep on inspiring me to continue. Take care, and I hope you enjoyed this round!)