- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -

Authoress Ramble: I'm excited for the upcoming chapters .. they're fun. Well, if not fun, then at least progressive .. entertaining .. more fast-paced than the others before them. I hate proofreading now, as I want to just go on and write the next chapter instead. I do hope you enjoy my (edited) current chapter, however .. thank you very much for liking my story. - If you do, anyway.

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of language and 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 Monday evening in the story.

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Draco untied the rectangle of fine parchment from the leg of his mother's owl, rubbing his fingers against it delicately, enjoying the feel of paper that was smooth as silk. Bast hooted at him in annoyance, and he fed her a morsel of meat before dismissing her with a wave of his pale hand. With quiet eyes, he watched her fly off toward the windows, a frown on his face as he turned back to the letter.

He opened it carefully, glancing around to check for overseers before settling down to read it.

My dearest Son,

I was surprised to see you had owled me only in regards to the breach of your door. In light of recent events, I had been awaiting a letter from you inquiring of our suit with the Daily Prophet and, more specifically, Ms. Skeeter. I assure you, I have hired the finest lawyers available, however, they have warned me that our case may not be taken with the grave seriousness I have attached to it. They seem to think that with the imprisonment of your father, a raunchy, shameless article can hardly tarnish our reputation further.

But do not fret, my boy. They will pay for this attack on our name.

In response to your question, there is only one exception to the rule of the door. The only way a person could enter through it rightfully without possessing pure Malfoy blood is if their blood has been blessed into our name through the ritual of bonding. When I married your father, I gained entrance through the doors, as I'm sure you realize. Thus, the only explanation I can offer you is that this person somehow disabled the nearly ancient magic cast on the door, a feat that I assure you could not have been done without great power. I'm certain that by now you have secured your chamber by casting various alternate wards, however, you must also take additional precaution. Burn any letters that may contain information that is not to be known. Keep no dangerous trinkets.

I wish there were more I could do to assist you in this, truly, I do. Look into who may have entered your room, Draco. Perhaps it will not be safe to continue sending you to this school after all.

With affection, your Mother
Narcissa Malfoy

Draco folded the letter back up with steady hands, feeling deeply numb. The thought of no longer returning to Hogwarts sent an icy chill through his blood, indeed, through his heart, but he could not imagine his mother going through with it. He could not imagine failing to graduate.

His fingers curled into fists as his breathing deepened. He dared not imagine a life lacking Hogwarts, as he could all too easily imagine his future without it. He felt the black robe scratch against his shoulders then, saw its hood drape over his eyes; he felt the searing pain of his forearm, felt death call to him from within.

He shivered. It could not end that way.

He needed a distraction suddenly, and thus immediately looked up, glancing across the Great Hall. Sitting there, glaring furiously at him, was Potter. Simple, predictable Potter, his emerald eyes burning with anger, with hate, but not truly. It was not the kind of hate that consumed you, ate you out from the inside. Hate was present there, yes, and it had possessed him (Potter would never loathe him any less, this was now obvious to him) but it was not a danger to his soul. He would hate him and yet still go on to save the world, to be pure and goodhearted. He was a virgin, he was loyal, and therefore he could hate without consequence.

Draco wondered, vaguely, if Potter was going to show tonight.

But of course he was. That was obvious as well; Potter was proud, and he would not back down from such a challenge. He would not been seen as a coward, not, at least, a coward in connection to himself. He would come.

Draco sighed. He needed to relax. He continued to stare out at Harry, his eyes narrowing with exhaustion as the raven-haired boy continued to glare back at him with fresh passion, most likely thinking the blonde was planning his next attack on him. He needed to relax, he needed to think of simple things.

He had kissed him, once, hadn't he? The thought seemed distant all ready, buried deep in his mind as though it had taken place years ago. He tried his best to recall it, to summon the feeling again of his lips, full and warm, his tan skin smelling of human and cinnamon and almond, his own pale hands in his thick, dark hair. He had been damp and warm, his cheeks flushed, his breathing lush; he had been so very, very real.

And his eyes had been distant, lost, blank. Even now, he did not remember.

Draco sighed a second time, the joy of the memory drained. He wanted his early morning fantasy, wanted Potter's eyes to see him like that, like something worth wanting and, more than that, worth taking. No, no, not taking - keeping. Draco wanted to be worth keeping.

So, what did your mother say? Pansy asked suddenly, leaning toward him. The blonde started, turning to her violently.

What I expected her to say, he sneered. The long-haired girl shrugged, her lips quirking up for a second as she returned to her food, unfazed. He was fond of Pansy, wasn't he? Simple, self-serving Pansy, never troubled, never sorrowful, rarely anything more than confident and devious, always so sure she would have what she pleased.

Draco picked up his fork idly, twisting it in his fingers. Could one say he was fond of Potter? He felt calm, yes, in his presence, more daring somehow, but also entirely more on edge, more vulnerable. He did not know what he felt, only what he wanted.

He wanted, simply, to be wanted in return, and for that to be enough.

Yes, he thought calmly, slicing his fork into a piece of potato, Potter would show. And maybe, perhaps, he would end up showing Potter.

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Hermione looked up from her book suddenly, disturbed by the sound of a cloak ruffling, the springs of a chair creaking slightly. She watched as Harry stood, lifting his bookbag along with him.

Going to bed all ready, mate? Ron said first, having noticed as well. Harry turned his emerald eyes to him briefly, his expression emotionless, and shrugged.

I'm off to the kitchens, actually, he said carelessly, rolling the strap of his bookbag onto his shoulder.

The kitchens? Hermione asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. But Harry, it's nearly nine o'clock, you may not make it back before curfew.

the raven-haired boy hummed dismissively. I'll be fine. I'm just, well. Very hungry for something at the moment.

Bring me back a piece of that dark chocolate cake, huh? Ron asked, clearly not the least bit concerned. He was playing wizard's chess with Neville and was rather delighted, as he was winning.

Sure Ron, Harry said quickly. Well, see you guys later.

He made his way toward the portrait hole, his gait faster than usual and heavier as well, as if he were angry somehow. Hermione watched him go suspiciously, her book momentarily forgotten. Something was not quite right.

She watched intently as he disappeared through the hole, and frowned as she returned, oddly distracted now, to her text.

Otherwise unnoticed, Harry slipped easily out of the common room. He did not need to meet Malfoy until ten, yes, but he had a slight errand he needed to tend to beforehand. He began to quietly make his way down the corridor, heading with a determined mind toward the dungeons.

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Draco arrived at the closet ridiculously early, there both for the sake of being there long before Potter showed and for the cause of escaping his bedchamber, which Pansy had chosen to invade shortly after dinner.

You were in a rush this morning, and you didn't dress as nicely as you could've, she whined from his bed. She sat there cross-legged, an annoying excitement in her eyes as she stared at him where he was seated in front of the fire, catching up on homework to ease the future from his mind.

He had sneered at her, not bothering to respond. As far as he was concerned, the black turtleneck sweater and fine black slacks he'd put on hurriedly after his shower were more than enough for Potter's eyes.

Don't you look at me that way, Pansy said warningly, pointing her finger rudely at him. I'm just trying to help you. Don't you want to look sexy for Potter?

Don't you have some random manwhore to be shagging right now? Draco hissed. I'm trying to fucking study. I don't have time to argue about my choice of clothing with you.

Who said we were going to argue? she smirked suggestively. As Draco turned back to his Potions textbook with a scowl, she reached carefully for the black book that lay, unguarded, on his nightstand.

Forty minutes and much screaming later, Draco walked into the hidden room of the broomcloset wearing a grey v-necked sweater, which Pansy had claimed was soft as bunny-wabbit fur, and a pair of slim-fitting black trousers. She'd shrieked when she'd seen him after begrudgingly changing into the outfit she'd forcefully laid out on the bed for him, declaring that in a different world, she would have jumped him.

Draco, for his part, knew that Potter would be too pissed off at him to so much as notice his clothes, let alone stroke the material of his sweater. He settled into the black leather sofa, stretching his arms over the top of it and resting his head back, letting his silver eyes stare up at the ceiling. He found, predictably, that he was not comfortable in the least.

An unmistakable feeling of dread had settled into his stomach, warning him of what was to come. He knew, somehow, that the arrival of his rival would not bring good things. He was angrier at him now than he had ever been, and that was truly saying something. Potter was not happy with him, not at all.

Draco hoped, vaguely, that he would not need to fight him. He could not bear the thought of touching him now, of ripping away at his clothes and body with malice as his only intention. He did not think it was possible now, not after this morning's .

Potter was not going to make this easy for him.

He closed his eyes at last, sighing deeply. Let this, somehow, he thought, come to an end he could survive through. Just let it finally reach a climax.

He dug his fingernails into the leather, hoping that Harry would be late.

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He arrived at the broomcloset a full seven minutes early, his hand restlessly fingering the vial in his pocket, an intense frown on his face. He knew (though how exactly he knew, he couldn't explain) that Malfoy was there early, lounging beyond the door in front of him, waiting for him to arrive. He slipped his hand out of his pocket, curling it into a fist; even his body was itching for a fight.

He was eager to pull a trick that even he, cunning and devious as he was, wouldn't expect. He was ready for his own sweet taste of revenge, and eager, after all that had taken place, for much more than that. He was ready to see what had been in the blonde's head all along.

He was ready to find out why he'd called the unofficial truce, why he'd bothered to tutor him at all. He was ready to find out why they'd been meeting in this secret room, what he'd been looking for in his dormitory that day, if he had indeed intended to hurt Ron. He was ready to find out, to summarize it all, what the hell had really been going on.

He tapped his wand on the closet door, opening it fluidly.

He had been right. Sitting there, his arms spread lazily across the top of the sofa, was Draco Malfoy. His head was resting against the very top of it, his silky white-blonde hair spilling around his face. His eyes shot open suddenly as Harry let the door drift closed.

he sneered, eying him intently. Harry smirked, slipping his hands back into his pockets.

he greeted confidently, his emerald eyes flashing with malicious intent. I knew you would be here before me.

There was a short pause before the blonde responded.

It was intentional, he said at last, his sneer fading into a deep frown. He lifted his head, sitting up further so that he could view his rival more effectively. A shiver had run down his spine at those words; no, not the words, but the tone in which they were spoken. It had been almost ... seductive.

Draco's frown deepened further. He was planning something. His voice was entirely too calm, too amiable.

Harry answered, his eyes locked with silver. He began walking toward the sofa, dropping his bookbag carelessly on the floor as he went.

What are you doing? Draco asked suspiciously as he neared him, abandoning his lazy position in favor of sitting up rigidly, his eyes alert. Harry, still staring at him, raised an eyebrow, his smirk firmly in place.

Coming to sit next to you, he said at last, easily, casually, much too casually. Draco grimaced, sliding himself a few inches away from the raven-haired boy as he sat down comfortably only a foot or so away from him.

What the fuck, Potter, he hissed, his voice a tight whisper in the dead quiet of the small room. Harry turned to him blankly, innocently, his smirk still locked, his emerald eyes eager.

I came here to talk with you, he spoke serenely, narrowing his eyes.

Draco recoiled slightly, seeing in the emerald depths his deep anger, the same fury he had almost expertly been hiding. The blonde cursed internally, suddenly loathing this new talent of his. He could not let him gain the upperhand. Not tonight.

Then talk, he answered, forcing disgust into his voice when inside, he fighting down a thick swell of fear. Potter wanting to give him a black eye, this was familiar, this was safe, but wanting to chat with him? Even he, wrapped up in his own emotions as he was, couldn't expect him to believe something so outrageous as that.

In a moment, Harry responded quietly, still wearing the same damn smirk.

Draco watched him with wide eyes, waiting for his fist to fly, for his teeth to be bared in anger. He was waiting so intently for a sudden movement that when the raven-haired boy actually did move, he started, jerked as the other boy leaned forward, resting his weight on the palm he laid in the space between them.

Harry bent toward him, his eyes brilliant emerald and viciously alive, swirling with too many thoughts for Draco to separate out tangibly. The lack of space between them (a mere foot now) made him swallow, his throat parched. He remembered the dream Harry bending over his bed, smiling instead of smirking, the emotions in his eyes simple. It was so different, but he could not deny that the action itself reminded him of his fantasy.

Get away from me, Draco managed in a subdued voice, recoiling slightly but not truly moving himself away. Harry merely continued to stare.

Why should I? he said easily, his lips moving, though the blonde seemed to have trouble registering the words in his mind. He heard them a second after they'd been spoken, after he'd taken a moment to listen to the flow of his voice. He swallowed again, leaning back unconsciously.

Harry responded by leaning forward, canceling out the action. He was still smirking. Draco was beginning, ever so slowly, to panic.

Because I don't want you this fucking close to me, he growled back automatically, through he did not move. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that one of Harry's hands was still buried in his pocket, his fingers moving under the fabric of his trousers. It distracted him for a half-second, until he spoke again.

I don't mind, Harry said, his voice oddly soothing. You know what, I think I'm ready to talk with you now. Are you ready as well?

What the hell does that mean? Draco spat, feeling suddenly very confused.

Answer me, Harry commanded quickly, impatience swirling in his eyes.

he answered sharply, and all too quickly. He still had little bearing on what was actually going on, but thought he would pick it up as he went along. I think I am ready to talk' with you, though I don't know what the fuck you think you're going to get to me to say, after all thaaa-

His voice was cut off as Harry suddenly lunged forward, digging his hands into the blonde's soft grey sweater just below his shoulders and pushing him down easily with his own weight. Draco fell back, his head banging roughly against the armrest as he landed on his back.

He stared up in horror, in pure fury at the boy above him. Harry was staring down at him gravely, his eyes dark, his weight pinning him down firmly. He attempted to struggle, letting loose a chain of obscenities as he tried in vain to throw Harry off of him.

the other boy spoke, an undertone of mocking in his voice. Draco seethed, staring up at him angrily, resisting the urge to spit in his face.

Get the fuck off me! he half-shouted, half-cried, kicking his legs wildly. It did little to help him; Harry's knees were snug against his waist, his body out of his legs' reach. What the hell are you trying to do? Get the bleeding fuck away from me, Potter!

Harry did not respond, shifting suddenly so that instead of two hands holding down his captive's wrists, his left forearm dug into his throat. This freed his other arm, and as Draco shrugged for breath, still cursing, he quickly reached into his pocket, pulling out a small vial filled with crystal clear liquid.

Draco caught sight of it, his eyes widening in shock. He threw his arm savagely into the air, trying to snatch the vial from the other boy, but he easily twisted his arm away from his grasp.

Before the blonde could truly comprehend what was happening, Harry had uncorked the vial with his thumb, lowering it rapidly toward the other boy. He shoved it roughly into Draco's mouth, grimacing in pain as he suddenly felt sharp, manicured nails digging into his back, dragging down it without mercy. Still, he refused to pull away, and drop by drop, the clear liquid drained away.

When half of it had disappeared, Harry pulled it from Draco's lips, letting it drop carelessly to the floor. Only then did he, now satisfied, lift his forearm from the blonde's throat, releasing him.

Draco stared up at him, furious, livid, before lunging himself.

I'm going to FUCKING HURT YOU, POTTER! he screamed, wrapping his hands tightly around his tanned neck as he threw himself forward, his sudden throw of weight toppling Harry over. The green-eyed boy gasped with both shock and lack of breath as he fell, tumbling from the sofa and onto the hard floor with a loud smack.

Draco rolled on top of him immediately, the grip around his neck tightening threateningly. Harry, still struggling for breath, reaching up his hands, curling his fingers around the blonde's wrists and pulling his arms back enough for him to speak.

Not .. kill me? he gasped, his voice raspy.

What did you say? Draco growled above him, digging his fingernails into Harry's neck instead. He winced, his face growing rigid with the slight pain.

Why .. not .. say you'll .. kill me? he managed, his lips perking up slightly despite his position, a shadow of his former smirk returning.

I will fucking k .. k ..

Draco frowned suddenly, his mouth dropping open as he realized he could not form the words. He swallowed hard, trying again, though different words tumbled from his mouth instead.

I will fucking hurt you .. I ..

Harry, beneath him, smirked fully.

It worked, he whispered maliciously, his emerald eyes flashing with the dark joy of a victory.

Draco paled, his worst fear suddenly confirmed. This could not, under any circumstances, be happening. He could not have let this happen. His father had trained him in how exactly not to let this happen.

Where the fuck did you get it? Draco seethed, his fingers shaking against Harry's neck. I know you couldn't have made it yourself, you're not smart enough for that. Even I would struggle with a potion like that.

I lifted it from Snape's private stash.

Harry was smirking up weakly at him now, his face flushed with all the blood Draco had forced to remain trapped in it. One word ran through his head repeatedly, one perfect word that seemed to sum it all up: fuck. Fuck, fuck, bleeding fuck.

Defeat overwhelming him suddenly, he loosened his hold on Harry's neck, lifting his hands away in shock. He could not have let this happen. Not .. not with him.

he whispered. He could not have let this happen.

Harry answered smoothly. He propped himself up on his elbows, locking his eyes with Draco's silver ones, eyes that were now filled with both fury and ultimate distress, with resentment, with doubt and shame and regret, with fear and loathing.

Harry's eyes were filled more simply. Triumph, anticipation, curiosity. Hate; a cruel lack of mercy; eyes devoid of sympathy.

Where did you get the shirt? he asked smugly.

It was a Christmas gift from Pansy, Draco answered, his voice monotone, his reply automatic. He swallowed hard, raising a hand to his throat. Awkwardly, he made to stand. Could he run from him without appearing a coward? Could he just go?

He truly did hate him, didn't he? This was humiliating. He was humiliating him.

Draco stood, walking to the chair. He sat down in it stiffly, steeling himself for the questions that would tear his life apart. He did not glance toward him as Harry stood himself, settling into the black leather sofa with the sound of soft crinklings. He stared out blankly into the air, at the wall opposite him. He truly hated him.

Harry stared at him, the corners of his mouth dropping slightly. He still felt arrogant, victorious at having pulled the trick, and was still just as eager to go through with the questioning, but now, in the back of his mind, he felt a shadow of guilt. Draco was staring out toward the wall emotionlessly, his expression wiped blank of all feeling, even fury. He seemed a defeated man trying, with his silence, to maintain his dignity. It nearly made him feel ashamed.

Nearly.

I knew you would never be honest with me, Harry said suddenly, a halfhearted attempt to justify his actions. I really had no choice.

The blonde blinked, still staring out, not answering.

I just need to know what's been in your head, he continued, his voice reassuring, if only to himself. It's not as though it's any secret what a prick you are. Anything terrible you've been thinking won't make you look any worse than what I'm already expecting.

He watched as Draco visibly stiffed at this, his shoulder blades drawing together suddenly. He turned his head then, glancing at him briefly, his silver eyes dark and narrowed. Again, he said nothing.

None of what happened this week made any sense, and I just need to--

Shut your fucking mouth, Potter, Draco sneered, his voice low and filled with darkness, with an anger Harry had never before heard emancipate from the other boy. It caught him off guard, and he listened, eyes widened slightly. Just get the fuck on with it. What do you want to know from me?

The raven-haired boy paused, feeling slightly jarred. He felt suddenly unprepared for the questioning he'd been so eagerly anticipating, and frowned. He waited a moment before at last asking the question that first occurred to him.

Were you trying to hurt Ron with that bottle? he asked, and for a moment the old anger flooded him, overtaking him. Draco scowled, appearing highly offended.

he snapped. I just wanted to scare him the hell away.

A wave of mild surprise rushed through Harry; he had been so sure that the bottle-throwing had been a mistake, that the blonde's aim had just been luckily off. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the surprise left him, his anger flowing back in its place.

Harry asked viciously, sneering back at the blonde. He had just as much right to be there as anyone else. You could have just left.

Draco argued savagely, frowning as the words spilled from his mouth. He was the one that should have left. He should never have come in the first place. I needed him to be gone.

But why? Harry questioned immediately. Why did it matter? And why the hell were you in the shower room in the first place?

Draco opened his mouth, the serum making him eager to respond, but shut it suddenly, struggling to keep it closed as he formulated a different (but just as true) response. Harry raised his eyebrow at him as he spoke.

I was curious, he blurted at last, his cheeks, Harry noticed without allowing any meaning to register in his mind, flooding with slight color.

Curious how? Harry asked suspiciously, a frown on his face.

I just wondered who was in there, he answered, his voice dull, monotone. I thought I would play a trick on them, turn the water cold. It had to have been a Gryffindor, after all.

And it was Ron and I? the raven-haired boy questioned.

Draco replied, his voice quiet now, a strained whisper. He was fighting the serum, struggling for his silence, but it was useless now. I saw clothes there, on the floor. I wanted to steal money from the pockets, but then I found Pansy's letter in one of them, and I knew it was you. I knew it was you in the shower.

Pansy's letter? Harry hissed, shocked. You mean you didn't write it?

No, I did not.

Why would she write me a letter like that, pretending to be you?

She wanted us to meet again, Draco answered softly.

Why would she care so much? Harry asked, puzzled now.

She wants me to be happy, the blonde replied blankly. She didn't think I would do it on my own, that I would pursue my meetings with you.

But she made it sound .. sound, Harry stuttered, gathering himself and blushing slightly before finding the courage to go on, Sound like you wanted to .. I don't know. Seduce me or something like that.

She wants me to do just that, Draco's voice spoke out. He lowered his head, narrowing his eyes more out of exhaustion now than anger.

Harry stared at him, speechless. It seemed insane, the entire idea of it, of he and Draco being any more than rivals on less than civil terms. Had Pansy lost her mind, wanting that, believing she could somehow trick it into happening? She had always seemed a bit odd.

I guess that explains why you wanted the letter back so desperately, he said at last, begrudgingly. You didn't want me to think that you .. fancied me or anything like that. I understand that now, but where the hell did she even get the idea of you and I .. ehrm .. how the hell did she come up with that?

From me, came the monotone response.

Excuse me? Harry asked sharply, feeling thoroughly confused now, and also quite suspicious. Visions of Draco laughing about the idea ravaged his mind, and his hand clenched into a fist at his side.

Pansy knows me better than I know myself, the blonde began slowly. And I didn't need to say much. She figured it out for herself.

Figured out what? Harry asked, leaning forward slightly. He felt agitated, annoyed that he knew so little of any of this, indeed, that he had misinterpreted so much of what had happened.

How attracted I am to you.

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Harry: Oh, hey. What are you writing there?

Draco: A letter. =scribble, scribble=

Harry: With a crayon?

Draco: I COULDN'T FIND ANY FUCKING QUILLS, OKAY? Goddamn authoress .. stupid .. Muggle .. fucking .. house ..

Harry: All right, all right, fiiine. A letter to who?

Draco: The Ministry of Magic. I'm reporting this kidnapping. They fucking love you. THEY WILL COME.

Harry: I see. Brilliant plan.

Draco: =scribble scribble= ... okay, it's done. Now, where the hell does she keep her owl? I haven't seen it .. hmm .. maybe it's away .. or maybe .. maybe she's hiding it from us .. yesss ..

Harry: She's a Muggle, Draco. There is no owl.

Draco: ... no owl?

Harry: No owl.

Draco: ... fuck! How the hell do we mail this, then?

Harry: Well .. you put a stamp on it, and then you put it in the mailbox in her yard .. and then you lift up the little red flag thing .. and then the postman picks it up ..

Draco: They have other Muggles deliver Muggle post?

Harry: Yes. No owls.

Draco: How pathetic. Give me a stamp.

Harry: Ehrm .. I don't have any stamps ..

Draco
: Then where do we get stamps?! I NEED a freakin' stamp!

Harry: ... well. You could ask Rose.

Draco: Excellent plan. ROSE!!! GET OVER HERE!!!

Ms. Rose: You summoned me?

Draco: Why, yes. Give us a stamp.

Ms. Rose: A stamp? What do you need a stamp for?

Draco: Harry wants to mail his underwear to one of the psycho fangirls.

Harry: I ... what?

Draco: YES, you do, HARRY. So yeah, we need a stamp.

Ms. Rose: I don't have any stamps on me .. but I could buy one for you. Give me thirty seven cents.

Draco: .. I don't have Muggle ! You fucking know that! Harry, give her thirty seven cents!

Harry: I'm Muggle broke as well, you know.

Draco: Fuck. Is thirty seven cents a lot in Muggle money?

Harry: It's only--

Ms. Rose: It translates into at LEAST thirty two galleons. And five knuts.

Draco: ... I see. Where we get some fucking cents then?

Ms. Rose: Oh .. I know! You could get a job.

Draco: You're joking.

Ms. Rose
: Not in the least. Here, I'll make this easy for you. You're hired. By me.

Draco: Ehrm .. fine. What do I have to do for thirty seven ?

Ms. Rose: Hmm ... go down on Harry. Thirty seven times.

Draco: WHAT?! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! THIS IS CLEARLY WORKPLACE SEXUAL HARASSMENT! I WOULD RATHER --

Harry: Think about it, Draco. It could mean our freedom. YOUR freedom.

Draco: ... no.

Ms. Rose: =sigh= Fine then. No stamps for you.

Draco: Mark my words, Rose! I'll find another way.

Harry: We'll keep your offer in mind just in case, though.

Ms. Rose: Thanks. I'll keep my video recorder handy.