- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -

Authoress Ramble: I'll bet a few of you have been wondering where the hell I've been. I have actually been away, on vacation with my lover, for the past two weeks, and as such have not written. I'm back, though, with this. Sorry for the delay, eheh .. I hope that you enjoy this new chapter! I have the next five all planned out. Good things are on the way, I promise.

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 evening in the story.

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I came here hoping you were ready to apologize to me, Hermione's muffled voice spoke hurriedly, heavy now with embarrassment and an underlying of deep irritation. I didn't mean to .. ahh .. but really! Do you always walk around naked in your dormitory, Ronald? I certainly hope you don't!

After screaming his name and shrieking terribly, the bushy-haired girl had, much to Harry's shock, thrown herself into his arms, hiding her face within his damp shoulder.

He doesn't, thank god, Harry mumbled, patting her awkwardly on the back. Ron had, after the initial scream, ran back into the shower room and dressed like a mad man. He now stood, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, in the doorway to the bathroom, his cheeks burning. Though he was now decent, Hermione was still absolutely unwilling to look in his direction, a fact that was sore for Harry, who was left now with a furious and - though she would never admit it - rather confused girl folded into him.

I'm sorry, Ron muttered, his voice a befuddled whisper that the raven-haired boy was sure she could not hear, her face being pressed so securely into him. I, ahh, didn't know you were there, and ..

Harry was here! Hermione snapped indignantly. The aforementioned boy nodded, sending the redhead a stern glare - he had seen things he had never in his life wanted to see as well.

Well, I just, ehrm, he blushed, running a hand back through his damp hair. Forgot my, uhm .. clothes ..

Hermione made a loud at this, and though her face was hidden, Harry could clearly picture the exasperated expression on her strained face.

Ron frowned, part of his humiliation slipping away. Even in situations such as these - ones in which he alone was at fault - a from Hermione never failed to boil his blood.

It wasn't my fault! he blurted out, throwing his arms into the air. I was running away from the ghost! It nearly bloody murdered me!

There was a long, silent pause, one during which Harry's eyes hardened and he sighed softly. In his arms, the body of the girl stiffened, and then, to everyone's astonishment, a giggle escaped her lips.

A ghost was trying to kill you, Ronald?

Ron froze at this, frowning miserably. On the one hand, laughter was entirely more bearable than anger, but on the other hand, it was Hermione laughing at him. He could never stand it when she mocked him.

Yes, there was! he hissed, gesturing wildly with his hands. It threw a glass bottle of something at me! It was a close miss, shattered on the wall, go see for yourself if you don't bloody believe me!

There was another long pause, and then, for the first time since the incident, Hermione lifted her head from Harry's damp shoulder, blinking. Slowly, she turned toward the redhead in front of her.

Let's see it, then, she whispered, untangling herself from her friend's arms. She stood, hands on her slender hips. Harry stood as well, and as he did, Ron awkwardly turned and cautiously began leading them back into the bathroom.

Hermione followed, looking around the harmless room carefully, as if to find some sort of ghostly aftermath marring the walls and floor. She frowned slightly at the urinals - after all, how often had she set foot in a boys-only bathroom? - and paled at the sight of the shower.

Her eyes perked up, however, when she saw the sparkling wet shards of sharp, shattered blue glass that were strewn across the shower room floor.

I don't believe it, she gasped, bending down to look carefully at them. You were right.

Ron huffed at this, looking at the shattered glass rather haughtily. Next to him, Harry's dark green eyes stared down intensely at the broken bottle, his eyebrows furrowed. From time to time he looked up, glancing around the room in vain.

And you were standing right here? Hermione asked, perplexed and fearful but for the moment, mostly fascinated. She positioned herself carefully beneath the showerhead, only a narrow foot away from the glass explosion.

Bit nearer, actually, Ron mumbled loudly, gingerly biting his lower lip. He was feeling in higher spirits now, Hermione having seemed to have temporarily forgiven him in light of his near death experience.

Why do you say it was a ghost? she questioned, frowning down at the glass. Did you actually see a ghost, or did the bottle just throw itself at you from thin air?

Well, uhm, I didn't actually see the bottle get thrown, Ron explained gravely. But, ahh, there was nobody else in the shower room, and no one could've just snuck in because it happened right after Harry left. He would've seen someone come into the bathroom.

Is that true, Harry? Hermione asked, turning to him. He nodded absently, his eyes and expression distant, as though he were lost deeply in his own world of thought.

he answered automatically. But strange things were happening even while I was in the shower with Ron. He said he felt someone shove him, twice I think.

Hermione gasped, turning to the redhead with new eyes. For the first time, she noticed the large lump on his pale forehead, the bruised flesh disappearing under his red hair.

Oh Ron, are you all right? she cried, rushing over to him and frowning worriedly at his injured forehead.

he huffed, adverting his eyes from her as if to look nonchalant. His blue eyes were brighter than usual, however, and he was biting his lip, holding back an impending smile.

This isn't good, Harry, she whispered, staring up at Ron with wide eyes. Someone honestly did try to hurt him. There's no other reason they'd throw a glass bottle at him - oh, Ron, you could've been really hurt! Imagine if that bottle had hit your head! You'd be lying in here right now, unconscious and bleeding to death!

At this, she walked forward, throwing her arms around his middle in a tight, fearful embrace. He had first paled at the thought of his own death, but when he felt her body push into his, his cheeks were instantly flooded with tomato red.

Harry, watching this, allowed himself a small chuckle before his grave expression returned, his eyes darkening as before. A few long and awkward moments later, Hermione pulled away from Ron, staring down at the tiled floor for longer than needed. Her cheeks were tinted pink at her own audacity.

The question is, who was it? Harry asked severely, his voice low and quiet. He spoke it more as a statement than a question, as though he somehow already knew.

Hermione turned to him, her eyes flickering from him to Ron worriedly.

Could it have been someone in an invisibility cloak? she asked weakly, the seriousness of the situation having finally sunk in, all thoughts of Ron naked and humiliated in front of her for now forgotten.

Harry hissed. Ron frowned at this, his shoulders drooping; they had already had this argument.

But who else would have one, mate? he pondered aloud, his voice loud and disputing. I mean, those things are bloody rare, aren't they? You can't just pick one up in Diagon Alley for a few galleons.

Maybe it was someone rich, Harry spoke darkly, his jaw clenched. Or the next best thing: someone that happens to be a thief.

He looked around the room once more, glaring at the empty walls as if expecting something to jump out of thin air and confirm everything. Hermione frowned at this odd behavior, but quickly dismissed it.

Or maybe it was a ghost, Ron repeated stubbornly.

Most ghosts don't hurt mortals unless they're out for revenge from their past life, Ronald, Hermione stated firmly, repeating this information as though reading it straight from a book. Unless you happened to murder someone recently, what ghost would come after you?

The redhead frowned, still annoyed that his theory was being constantly discounted. He jerked his head to the side, a gesture that Hermione took to be a nod of agreement.

Well, we're not going to find out anything standing around in here, Harry snapped, his features strained, his lips pursed. It should be time for dinner soon, shouldn't it? Let's just go down.

Hermione frowned, looking doubtfully at the shattered glass on the shower room floor. She drew her wand from her robe, pointing it at the dangerous mess.

she whispered, and in an instant, the glass slid to a single point of origin and rejoined itself. She walked forward, picking up the unbroken bottle and eying it with wide eyes before setting it carefully back on the tiled shelf.

We'll find out who did this, Ron, she spoke, turning to him slowly. Don't worry for now. Just don't shower alone - or go off alone, for that matter - until we figure this out. You'll stick by him, won't you, Harr-

No sooner had the words escaped her lips, a loud crash echoed through the shower room. She shrieked, startled, and spun back to the shelf. There, lying once again in sharp pieces on the floor, was the same glass bottle.

That's it! Harry shouted suddenly, running over to the shelf. He threw out his arms, groping at thin air with his hands, all the while moving quickly along the wall. He stopped near the shower room entrance, frozen for a moment as Hermione called out to him.

Calm down, Harry! she yelled, her voice frightened. I might've just put it back too close to the edge!

he nearly screamed, spinning around to face her. I'm sure someone is here, I can feel them! They've been here the entire time, listening to every word we've said!

Harry, how can you-

But as he listened to her words, he jolted, feeling for a brief instant something firm and warm slip past him, brushing against him quickly. He spun back around, reaching out toward the entrance, but it was too late.

A moment later, he and the other two occupants hovering in the shower room heard it - the distinct, steady padding sound of two feet running through the bathroom. As the door beyond creaked open, Hermione gasped, rushing, just feet behind Harry, out of the shower in pursuit. Ron followed, his face screwed now in both surprise and anger.

Harry burst from the bathroom just in time to see the dormitory door swing open widely, and then almost as quickly begin to fall closed. He rushed forward, but of course, it was in vain. The intruder had escaped.

He stood there, in the doorway, for a long moment. He had clenched his hands into fists, his mind seething. He could not escape the feeling that he knew exactly who the voyeur had been, who had apparently tried to hurt Ron, or in the very least scare him shitless. He knew, in the back of his mind and the depths of his heart, exactly who it was.

Ignoring the shocked looks of Hermione and Ron, he stormed back into the bathroom, rushing into the shower room with cheeks flushed red with anger, his movements fierce and violent. He pulled his wand from his pocket, pointing it immediately at the shattered glass.

he screamed, his eyes dark with fury. He bent down an instant later, coiling his fingers around the bottle.

He would need to have a little chat with whoever had done this.

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Draco let the door to his private chambers shut loudly behind him as he half ran, half stumbled into the elegant room. He made his way to his floating ebony bed, climbing the small set of stairs in a daze and collapsing onto the plush mattress with a long sigh. The invisibility cloak fell onto his face, draping over his lips, and for a moment he could smell him.

Always furious, fucking sexy Harry Potter.

He could almost not believe what he had done. HIs mind was swimming, drowning in image after image, flash after flash of recorded voyeurism that Draco knew he would have a hell of a time erasing. Shampoo running down his cheek, his hand sliding down his toned arm, foam skimming his navel ... he could not dwell on anything less.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, a voice was screaming at him that something was wrong. It reminded him of the fury he'd heard in his rival's voice, the darkness swirling in his emerald eyes. It spoke in showers of blue glass, reminding him what he had done. He had only turned Harry against him once again now; back to the drawing board now that he'd nearly murdered the redhead.

And yet, gods, that ass.

He could not escape it now, of course. Gay or not - he'd said it in a rush, really, ready to excuse his identity crisis on something seemingly out of his control - he could not deny it now. He wanted Harry. He wanted to take him, to take his body, to take control of everything.

Even, perhaps, the enmity that so conspicuously separated them.

His thoughts ended at this. This new desire - this new need to get Potter instead of get back at him - left him lost. He was brilliant at coming up with schemes to torture the Golden Boy, not plans to tame him. He was a fucking genius at pushing his buttons - but only all the wrong ones.

He had never had to seduce anyone before. Back in his second year, the only person he'd had any interest in was Pansy, feeling that she was an irritating duty he would need to accept. She'd thrown herself at him, of course, but that had all gone wrong. He'd ended up liking her too much.

And if there had ever been anyone but Pansy, he had always assumed that all it would take would be a vague gesture toward his bed, and they would jump right in. Generally, this had always been true, at least within the Slytherin House.

And now, this. The only thing he could think to comfort himself was the fact that he had always been fond of a challenge. He could regain a bit of his trust, perhaps, get him to down some Firewhiskey. He could cast a memory charm on him when he woke up next to him, in this very bed.

Draco frowned suddenly at the idea, blinking at the silvery material that surrounded his face. It would be getting what he wanted, wouldn't it? He loved to get what he wanted. Getting what he wanted did not put a sinking feeling in his stomach, an odd sting in his heart, as this did.

He knew what he was afraid to admit, even to himself. He did not want just that. He wanted more, and no amount of potions and confounding charms, no sum of the strongest Firewhiskey, could make the raven-haired boy, currently furious with him, care.

He wanted him to wake up here, next to him, and then stay.

Slowly, a very dull feeling drifted over Draco, a shallow coldness that numbed him, slowed the beating of his heart and stilled his thoughts. It was a wrenching, miserable feeling, but luckily, he was used to feeling hopelessness.

He sat up slowly, carefully lifting the cloak from his shoulders. He draped it over his arm and jumped from the bed, landing on the floor with a soft thud. As if in a slight trance, he walked over to his black leather armchair, setting the cloak back down with the rest of Potter's clothes. From here, he looked up into his fireplace, lighting it instantly with a flick of his wand.

The sensible thing to do would be to forget that it had ever happened, that any of this had ever happened. After all, he'd made it five full years without love, hadn't he? He had smirked all the while, been comfortable, perhaps some shadow of happy. He could easily go on.

But, of course, like his company and his rival, Draco had never really been fond of sensibility.

Perhaps he could ask Pansy for advice. She was always meddling in his life the way it was, always asking stupid and annoying questions - he could probably make her week with this. Make her feel special. Maybe she could think of some kind of .. plan.

His mind froze for a second, remembering something. He frowned, recalling then the last plan that Pansy had come up with - the one that had humiliated him and nearly gotten him arrested for showing cruelty to a domesticated magical creature.

The letter. He had it, now. Finally, after all that hell, he could read the goddamn thing!

Feeling foolish for having forgotten it in the first place, Draco slipped his hand into his pocket, grasping the crumpled, now slightly damp piece of parchment. He withdrew it, unfolding it with almost violent passion.

His eyes piercing, he read it slowly, his expression darkening as it went on. At last, he read the final line, sneering at it and then at his crumpling the letter into a tight ball in his hand. With a low growl, he tossed it into the fire.

He had expected Pansy to set up a meeting with Potter. That much, at least, had been obvious. But the final line, the one that foretold how the other would not have need of his clothing once he gave them back to him - what the hell was that?! It was a glaring sexual innuendo, making it seem like he ...

Oh, he would kill her. He would murder her in fresh, warm blood - that is, if the insufferable woman even bled like the rest of humanity.

His stomach was churning wildly with nervousness, his palms sweating. Did Potter think that he wanted him, now? Perhaps that was why he'd been so eager to believe it was him in the shower - who would both want to see me naked and kill my best mate? Oh, that's right, it makes perfect sense! Malfoy!

Perhaps that had been the reason why he was so angry. Not so much because he'd nearly killed the Weasel, but because he was disgusted with him for being gay, for wanting to do things with him. Not that he wanted to do things with the raven-haired boy - well, not that he would ever admit that he wanted it! It was supposed to be all one big bloody secret, and now, it was ruined.

Potter knew, and he probably hated him even more for it.

Draco turned his head violently from the crackling fire, his silver-blonde hair shifting around his pale face. He would kill her. He would kill her now.

Storming toward the door, he scowled, ready now for his dinner. Behind him, the letter lay burning, reduced now to an innocent pile of ash.

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Why, Panse. What a delightful ensemble you're wearing this evening.

Pansy paused a moment in chewing her pasta, swallowing it quickly as her pale lips twisted up into a smirk. She recognized that cold, sardonic voice all too well. But what had made him so late for dinner?

You're tardy, darling, she teased, not bothering to turn around and look at him. She could sense his presence, feel him standing behind her, above her, his shadow darkening her meager, half-eaten plate. What kept you?

I was doing a bit of light reading, the voice sneered, cold now as ice. He spoke the last word slowly, dragging it out in sharp syllables. Pansy's smirk fell slightly.

Really? How odd of you, she answered casually. Her heart beat faster than normal, however, her mind racing - it was impossible, really. Potter had the letter, it was safe in his forbidden little pants. There was no way in hell that Draco had managed to get his sneaky fingers on it; not after the fiasco of this morning.

I just love your outfit.

All right, that was it, he was surely up to something! Pansy spun around, facing him at last, her lips slipping into a full pout.

Thank you! she snapped, frowning suspiciously. He only grinned down at her, his eyes trailing over her tight-fitting white silk top, glaringly visible beneath her open Slytherin robe. His gaze lingered also on the white pants that she, being Pansy, had declared the only thing that could possibly match.

Draco hummed, delaying any further conversation as he continued to stare steadily down at her body, his eyes narrow slits now, furious dark grey. He rhythmically swayed his glass of wine (acquired upon a quick visit to the kitchen) as he struggled to control his fury. He pondered how lovely her outfit would be if soaked completely in her devious blood.

I know you want something from me, Pansy spoke warningly, her expression hardening now, her eyes firm.

Draco hissed, letting the word slip fluidly off his tongue. I do want something with you. You see, this afternoon, I stumbled upon something I've been dying to read for, let's see .. a few days now ..

You didn't. Her eyes widened in disbelief, her face incredulous.

Oh, but I did. I absolutely did. Did you honestly think you could win one over on me, Panse?

But Potter, she began, stuttering with shock. The blonde above her easily interrupted her protest, finishing her sentence for her.

Left it lying carelessly around, Draco nearly purred, cocking one eyebrow suggestively, a dare to top this newest feat of luck.

she winced, paling a bit. If he had indeed read the letter, there would be no more benefit of the doubt for her. She could see clearly in his dark, furious eyes that his previous suspicion had long been forged into burning anger.

Do you have anything to say for your sorry arse before I sculpt your face to match it, Pansy? he spat, letting the cold, calm mask of his face shatter, his wrath at last visible in his expression. She stared up at him blankly in response, her eyes wide, her lips still. The blonde twitched with impatience.

he hissed, still swaying his wine glass unknowingly.

A brief pause, and then, suddenly, her lips curved back up into their familiar all-knowing, devious smirk.

Are you going to meet him, then? she whispered, her eyes flashing.

Draco stared down at her for a moment, seething. His grip on the wine glass tightened, his knuckles white, blood flowing instead to his strained face. He felt the cords of restraint snap within his mind, his anger swell up beyond their bounds.

That's it! he raged, lifting his wine glass high into the air. You are .. so .. unbelievably .. infuriating! Damn you, Panse!

In an instant the glass had been overturned, and the red wine spilt over Pansy's snowy white outfit in a small waterfall, soaking into it effortlessly. She shrieked, jumping up from the bench and spinning around to face the friend most dear to her.

Are you are a stubborn pig that doesn't know fate when it shoves itself right beneath your stuck-up nose! she shouted, glaring at him. You'll be kissing my arse for having done it one day!

The day I thank you for one of your pathetic schemes is the day I rot in hell, Parkinson! Draco retaliated. You made it seem like I .. like I ..

Like you what? Panse asked darkly, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Draco swallowed, suddenly aware of his surroundings. Most of the Slytherin table was staring at the two of them, eavesdropping, waiting for the fight to escalate. An argument so violent as this was actually quite rare between the Ice King as his only female friend, and as such it was drawing a large amount of attention. Even students from the other houses had turned to watch, their forks suspended in the air.

Quietly, so as not to have anyone overhear, he leaned toward Pansy and answered.

You made it seem like I wanted to fuck him! he seethed, hissing the words out sharply between his teeth. What the fuck is he going to think of me now, Panse? He's going to think I'm fucking gay! He already loathes me enough without that!

I doubt he is so shallow, she whispered back, her voice calmer now. And besides, darling. Don't you?

Don't I what? Draco repeated, frowning severely.

Want him after all? she smiled, giggling lightly beneath her gentle voice.

Draco's eyes narrowed, his face cracking as rage again flooded it, sharpening his already prominent features, darkening it terribly. His restraint had snapped once again.

Listen to me very carefully, Panse, he growled, his hands curling into fists. I DON'T WANT TO FUCK ANYONE!

He screamed these last words, throwing his hands into the air threateningly. Panse opened her mouth, ready to cleverly retaliate, but then suddenly snapped it shut, paling. She lifted her hand, pointing weakly over his shoulder.

I did not wish to know either way, Mr. Malfoy, a dark, cold voice spoke from behind him. Draco froze, nearly swallowing his tongue as he turned slowly around, his face pale once again.

Evening, Professor, he spoke in his familiar drawl, confident and emotionless. He let his fists uncurl, his palms sticky now with nervous sweat.

This has become the second scene you have created thus far today, Snape spoke calmly, his voice almost bored were it not for the sharp pang of disapproval twisted into it. Perhaps you should stay clear of the Great Hall indefinitely. Despite circumstances I cannot allow even you to embarrass me so shamelessly. Thirty points from Slytherin, and the next time, Mr. Malfoy, there will be a series of detentions in addition.

Yes sir, Draco answered darkly, nodding in icy recognition.

Clean yourself up, Miss Parkinson, Snape sneered, glaring at her wine-stained outfit with distaste before turning on his hell, his robes billowing behind him as he walked grimly back to the staff table. A dull silence had fallen over the Great Hall, all eyes, with perfect certainty, now on him.

For all your charms, darling, you really lack subtlety, Pansy whispered at last, drawing her wand from her pocket. In a flick and a murmur her clothes were as good as new, snowy white once again.

Just shut it, Panse, Draco growled, sullen now more than angered. He took a seat at the Slytherin table, glaring dangerously at the students surrounding him as if daring them to say a single word. No one did, and he grabbed a roll rather miserably. He felt he no longer had the energy to murder his friend, who had returned almost cheerfully to her plate of pasta.

He looked up, locking his eyes with the Gryffindor table. He was staring at him, his dark emerald eyes sending an intense shiver down his spine even from so far away. He had been watching everything, as everyone else had, but when they had all gone back to their dinners his head alone remained erect, staring out over the distance that separated them. His stare was dark, filled with rage and hate.

He knew too much, and there wasn't a damn thing Draco could do to repair it all.

He took a bite of his roll, sighing crossly. He had forgotten now how it had even began; how the hell was he supposed to predict the ending? As far as he could tell he had made everything worse. Potter hated him more personally now, his anger deeper and more strongly fueled. He had made a fool of himself in front of the entire damn school, attacking an owl. His sexuality had gone to hell, certainly.

And yet, he felt indifferent to the idea of change. It would end as it was fated to end, most likely in flames. Like everything else in his life, the things planned by others were the things that lasted. His own defiant efforts at pleasure, at happiness, simply died, snuffed out quickly and shoved into the darkness of the past.

He looked up again, trying to meet his eyes. He had returned to his dinner by now, however, probably coerced by his two friends. He raised the fork to his lips, chewed, swallowed, staring down into his plate with lost eyes.

Draco took a bite of his roll, feeling a certain warmth spark briefly within him. He wondered, suddenly, what the other boy was eating, what he was thinking, what he felt at that instant in time.

How unfair it was that he was destined never to know.

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Super Fun Review-Answering Hour! =D

Ms. Rose: And now it is time to honour our beloved reviewers by answering their reviews! I wish I could do this for everybody, but there are too many for me .. and you two, I guess .. you're always so busy together ..

Draco: Beloved reviewers my fucking arse! I refuse to participate in this charade of faux gratitude. I'll just answer everything with Go to Hell, slave of perversion! That's the most they deserve!

Harry: I don't really think you have much of a choice in this.

Ms. Rose: Answer, or no showers. Forever.

Draco: That's .. that's disgusting! I could never be .. be .. unclean! You repulse me, you sick-minded excuse for a writer, you demented female, spreading the sickness that is this foul genre of atrocious-

Ms. Rose: Annnd our first review is from ... Kuraii Koneko! We love KK, he's reviewed many times in the past. =kiss kiss=

Heh, nice try Draco. I shall not call you 'Lord Malfoy'. And besides, you know you /WOULD/ much rather take Harry when sober. Admit it, you would. We can all tell, this chapter was proof enough of that.

Harry? You aren't a whore, but if Draco refuses to have fun with you tonight? Just make him drunk again, he KNOWS that he wants you. There was MUCH proof of that during this chapter, so you shouldn't feel guilty in any way for making him drunk. He wants you but is just to proud to admit it... -

Ms. Rose? You are the /BEST/ authoress that I have ever encountered. I really enjoy everything about your story, especially this chapter, the kissing chapter, and the little talks at the end. I can't wait for the next chapter!!

Draco: Bastard. First of all, you'll call me whatever the hell I like, you slave of perversion, and secondly YES, he is most definitely a whore. A delusional, sick-minded little love puppy.

Harry: Oh, right then. I'm suddenly the one. You want to see denial of reality? Let's talk about your virginity.

Draco: It is perfectly intact, I'll have you know. I'm not like you when it comes to .. well .. everyone ..

Ms. Rose: Eh heh .. well, moving on. Much love to KK! There will be more physical exploration in future chapters, you can count on it .. =rubs hands together greedily= ... mmm. Thank you for your compliment! Our next review was submitted by Brenna8!

Dear Lord Ferret Draco Malfoy:

This letter is to inform you that your usual wit and sarcasm at the end of the chapter was sub-par. Please consider this notice that further failure to entertain the "fan-girls" will result in the revoking of shagging rights to one Harry Potter and all Arbor Mist confiscated.

The Rabid Association of Worldwide Fangirls, thanks you for you time and attention to being a "bad boy" and your devotion to hair care products. Keep up the good work!

On a further note, while you may be on probation with RAWF, you are not under any warnings with its sister organization HOWL (Horny Organization of Worldwide Fangirls).

Thank you for your time and attention to this matter. We look forward to your improvements, as RAWF only caters to the finest.

Sincerely,

Brenna Starr
Chief Barker for RAWF, Member of the First Order of HOWL, Star Spritzer of Airfresh

Draco: Ehrm .. this organization isn't real, is it? I mean .. horny fangirls .. bleeding fuck, I'm locking the doors tonight.

Harry: They can't be so bad if they appreciate your hair, though.

Draco: Mmm. True.

Harry: I wonder ... do you think I could join HOWL? I mean .. if they genuinely have some sort of control over you, I think I'd like to ..

Draco: WHAT?!

Ms. Rose: I want to join as well. I fit both organizations. =grin= I'm rabid enough, wouldn't you all say? But at last, our final review .. one left by Borne-Shadow-Child!

Lord Malfoy,

It seems that it has escaped your attention that you are a slave. your owner, ms. rose has focused my attention to that.therefore, my company shall be forwarding some items for your restraint and punishable offences.all the finest leather of course..you are a malfoy after all. my sister would also like to thank harry for broadcasting the arbor mist incident over the internet. the puddle of drool was quite impressive for my sister, who usually prides herself in control. however, the dark angel and his demon prince are too big of an allurment for control to remain substantial.

have fun!!

m.reaper
co-executive of funtime's magical kinky objects
42 preston lane
ottery st. catchpole
england
europe
the left hemisphere
the earth
milky way galaxy

Draco: I don't want any of your kinky magical leather shit! Just .. back off! And take your bloody sister with you!

Harry: I like this guy. Or girl, really .. hmm .. I should visit there ..

Draco: Do it and die.

Ms. Rose: I delighted in this review because I'm pretty sure BSC is from England! It makes me feel all floaty to think that English people read my work. I mean, me, in little Wisconsin .. I just ADORE English people. Love the sexy accent.

Draco: Is that a real address? I'd love to hunt him down and shove his kinky magical crap up his unfortunate-

Ms. Rose: Is it?! Oh, oh, write back and tell me! If it is, I'll write you a letter! I have no idea where Ottery St. Catchpole is but - well! And anyway, thanks for your amusing review. Much love! =kiss!= And much love to everyone else who reviews and reads! All three of us love you!

Draco: =gives middle finger=

Harry: =waves goodbye idly while pondering the uses of kinky leather objects=

Ms. Rose: Tah-tah! Please come back for future reading! =muah!=