- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -
Authoress Ramble: This is a really strange chapter, but I suppose that's what I get after leaving it rot for so long. I apologize for making you wait, and hope this gives you a good laugh. After all, we all deserve to be happy, especially those of us who appreciate such sexy images as Harry and Draco getting it on.
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 Thursday evening in the story (by the end).
This chapter is dedicated to good boys
It was an absurd notion, really.
Harry threw the sweater aside carelessly, watching as it landed softly on the end of his bed with annoying grace. One bed over, Ron sat up with crossed arms, his legs already hidden underneath the sheets.
I heard you fighting, he said in a tense voice. Prick, that's what he is.Yeah, I realize that, Ron, Harry sighed. He pulled roughly at his black robes, tugging them quickly over his shoulders. He was eager to get into bed himself, eager to end the day.
Calling you gay, Ron continued, narrowing his eyes at the thought. The bloody nerve of him, when he's such an obvious sissy himself. It was in the Daily Prophet .. that prat .. you should've hexed him, Harry!That would've only kept him around longer, the brunette answered distractedly. He was already buttoning down his pajamas, blinking dully at the floor.
It would've been perfect though, mate, no teachers around to stop you, Ron ranted on. You could have gotten him good .. calling you gay and all .. I would have done that slug jinx .. yeah ..There's nothing wrong with being gay, Ron, Harry said tersely. Not bothering to brush his teeth, he stumbled into bed, pulling the sheets quickly up over his thin, yet muscular body.
Well, no, Ron said slowly, turning to Harry with slightly widened eyes. I suppose not. It's him accusing you of being gay, Harry, that's the insult .. he meant it as a .. well, a bad thing, I guess. Bit hypocritical, really, if you think about it. Harry repeated, pressing his lips into a tight line. That sums it up about right.Yeah .. ahh .. you okay, Harry? he asked tentatively.
He turned his emerald eyes on Ron, sighing as he took in his worried look.
I'm fine, he answered quickly. I'm just a little irritated .. the fight .. and all .. with Malfoy ..It's okay, Ron perked up immediately. I understand, mate. He makes my blood boil too.
Harry tensed at that, his fingers curling into his bedsheets. He wasn't entirely sure that the blonde made his blood boil for quite the same reasons, but what did it matter? He had said himself, and quite proudly at that, how he fancied only girls.
We should just get to sleep, he said tiredly, lifting his hand to his face and removing his glasses. Practice is tomorrow.Right! Practice. Well, at least you'll have the chance to show him up in the game, ehh? the redhead smiled.
Harry replied listlessly. Just like always. Ron nodded. 'Night, Harry.Goodnight, Ron.
He waited for several long minutes, staring up into the darkness of his canopy. It was only when he heard the gentle snores of his best friend that he reached for the end of his bed, gripping the sweater in his hand and pulling it toward him. It was a miracle Ron hadn't spied it; he must have thrown it aside before he sat up.
Malfoy, despite slim-fitted, overly soft sweaters like this, was unquestionably straight. Though what difference did it make, anyhow? He was, as far as he was concerned, fairly straight as well - he didn't feel inclined to chase around any blokes.
Or girls, a voice in his mind whispered, but he ignored it fitfully. He'd been busy with schoolwork, with the threat of the Dark Lord - with playing these strange games with Malfoy.
He was, despite their mutual attempts to tear each open, still a mystery to Harry. Under the influence of truth serum, he had said things - about glancing at his body in the shower, and wanting to touch him - but he had been so angry then, he couldn't really remember exactly what he had said. He still wasn't sure that the blonde hadn't managed to thwart the potion.
And tonight, he had said with certainly that he was heterosexual. Harry could not get around that, and yet he had seemed, somehow, to be rather frightened, startled by the question. As if he'd had to take a few seconds to remember how to be a liar again.
Still, one thing was certain. Malfoy, whichever gender he lusted after, did not fancy him. At least, not on any kind of meaningful level - nothing beyond noticing that he had a decent body, or something like that. It was perfectly impossible.
Cautiously, he brought the sweater to his nose. He sniffed for the expensive perfumes Malfoy was known to wear, but he could find nothing more than an earthy, very human scent, like bland cinnamon with vanilla, and maybe something like lavender ...
He blinked sleepily. Malfoy smelled like a boy, a very warm, alluring sort of boy. The scent reminded him of all the times he'd leaned in close to Malfoy, during conversations and brawls and screaming matches, and perhaps unconsciously realized how delicious his skin smelled, circumstances regardless.
He felt sleep drawing on his mind - the sweater - he could not be found with Malfoy's sweater inches from his open mouth. Clumsily, he shoved it beneath his pillow, but as he lay back down, he noticed that a sleeve still stuck out on his sheets.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He could not say that he minded.
/
Oh sunshine! an incredibly loud, high-pitched voice sang out.
He groaned, burying his head deeply in the pillow; some part of his mind reminded him that the dungeons had no sunshine, and that he should tell the unfortunate person waking him what a bloody moron they were.
Wake up, my sexy prince, the voice screeched again. It's another lovely day just bursting with opportunity! Tell me, love, did you dream of boys and broomsticks?
Draco swore under his breathe. He knew this venomous voice, but in his sleepy state it took him a good two seconds to sort out just what she meant by broomsticks and their riders.
Perverted witsh .. bitsh, he mumbled. He heard a far off giggle, and then suddenly he felt a pair of delicate hands ruffling his hair.
It's okay if you want to talk about just which broomstick - I mean, boy - your dreams concerned, because it just so happens that I have him on my mind as well, the voice said happily. She withdrew her hands, which pleased him, until he felt his body jump an inch into the air. She'd thrown herself onto the bed.
Pansy lay on her back, her hair flowing around her face, her breasts heaving with enthusiasm.
It's too bad he's so obviously meant to shag you for the rest of your life, she said breathlessly, grinning up at no one. He is such a cutie, after all - pity we have to make him gay.
The blonde scowled deeply into his pillow. It was far too early in the morning to talk about Potter and his elusive sexuality.
He's straight, he mumbled harshly. He told me himself, and even if he wasn't, you know there would be no bloody way in hell that I would -Oh hush, darling, don't strain yourself trying to think, Pansy said quickly. Now, I've worked it all out. Despite the little tiff you had, about sweaters and homosexuality and whatever, well, that's quite fine. Friends always have little fights sometimes, don't they? I say you make up some load of rubbish about how sorry you are, and then invite yourself back to the Gryffindor fortress, and then - Draco said clearly. I have no desire -Insist on a sleepover party! she declared excitedly.
he growled loudly. A bloody sleepover, with the Weasel and Potter and all his other Slytherin-hating friends two days before we face off at Quidditch? Why, so that they can all gang rape me and cut out my tongue?While sex and tonguing may indeed be involved, Pansy grinned, no, precious, I don't think so. You'll want to keep up the friendly act, it's the only way you can get closer to Potter - And why would I want that? Draco asked stiffly.
Well, precious, she said matter-of-factly, We both know you're not stupid.
/
He'd dreamt about him.
It had been a strange dream, something that had thrown him back into the filthy bedroom of the broomcloset. Malfoy was there, and as if in slow motion he was pulling his dirty sweater again over his head. Slowly, his taut stomach was revealed, his pale chest, the curves of his bare shoulders and elegant neck ...
And then he was walking forward in a blur, reaching out a hand and pressing it hotly against his throat.
You look disgusted, Potter, the dream Malfoy whispered, Prove to me that you are. he had whispered back, realizing suddenly that somewhere along the way, he'd lost his shirt as well. Malfoy leaned in close to him, and he felt a moist heat surround him; his lips were at his ear.
Push me away, the dream Malfoy demanded silkily.
You're a liar, he stuttered instead, swallowing and tasting dust. You're trying to trick me.I told you the truth, the blonde said serenely. He felt his entire body lock as he leaned forward, taking his earlobe into his warm mouth for what seemed like just a fraction of a second. Now show me yours - push me away?
He swallowed again, this time tasting cinnamon and vanilla.
You're a liar, he repeated again, just before crushing his lips against his.
He'd woken up with a start, his mind part horrified and part pleasantly dazed. His body was covered in a thin layer of sweat - what the hell was that? Had he just dreamed about ... he shut his eyes tightly, trying to blur the images that floated to his mind. If he confused them well enough, he looked a little bit like Pansy with hair chopped short. It had to have been .. he couldn't have ..
He opened his eyes, throwing the covers aside. It was then he realized, a deeper level of shock filling him, that Malfoy's sweet-smelling sweater had somehow worked its way out of the pillow, and was laying thrown across his stomach.
He picked it up, about to stuff it again under his pillow when he saw it, just near the bottom - the tiniest of pale white stains.
He dropped the sweater again, shocked. Immediately, his mind began a mantra drilled into him from the start of adolescence concerning this subject - it's perfectly normal, it's perfectly normal, with dreams you can't prevent it - but a more current part of his mind knew that this absolutely was not normal. Sleeping with your enemy's fluffy clothes and waking to find them defiled was most
definitely not normal.
It's all right, he said to himself. I'll just clean off the stain and forget this ever happened.
He rummaged for his wand, grasping it at last - but when he finally pointed it at the sweater, a new thought occurred to him.
If he cleansed the sweater, it would no longer smell like Malfoy.
He hesitated for a long moment, his wand hand trembling slightly, and then, almost in a frenzy, he grabbed the sweater, jumped out of bed, and threw it safely in his trunk.
He would skip the first part about cleaning, embrace the second, forgetting, and not give another thought to his reasons for not properly cleaning the sweater, as any sensible person would surely have done.
He looked around his dormitory; it was empty; it seemed that everyone had either gone to breakfast or was waiting for him in the common room, ready to start the day. He sighed, running a hand back through his unruly black hair. How could he face him now?
He changed quickly, cleansing his pajamas properly before putting them away, throwing them carelessly in the truck so as to avoid looking at the sweater. He tramped down the stairs, and seeing that Ron and Hermione were waiting, put on a brave face.
At least they didn't know. At least no one knew.
Breakfast went better than he had thought it would. Though he couldn't resist darting his eyes toward the House table of the sweater's owner, there were never a pair of narrowed gray eyes to greet him. Each time he looked, luckily, he supposed, Malfoy had his face down toward his food.
Pansy, however, waved at him cheerfully. Wasn't she supposed to be hating him for messing with Draco, he thought, but struggled it off.
Indeed, it was a lucky day for avoiding the stars of one's dirty dreams. Though he had two classes with Slytherin, both times Draco seemed to seat himself far away from him and leave quite early. There were a few moments when he saw the blonde glare at him, though his face seemed less than angry - curious, even. As if he were eying a target and deciding how best to approach it.
But he always turned away before Harry could meet his eyes.
And so it was that around seven thirty that evening, a stretch after dinner, he felt rather safe. He had escaped any form of contact with Malfoy, the dream seemed to have dissolved into slightly distant memory, and with his homework piled in front of him, he felt, in no way, shape or form, aroused whatsoever.
You can imagine, then, the cold shiver that went down his spine as he heard a familiar sort of commotion at the portrait hole.
Why, thank you, said Draco Malfoy grimly, a twisted smile on his face as he dumped the first year unceremoniously on the floor.
Harry felt the quill fall from his suddenly limp hand, making a tiny dabble of ink on his parchment. He watched as the blonde gathered himself, smoothing his black robes in a rather proper way, before walking toward him.
At first he slowly half-circled their table, a fox with its eyes lingering on the target, waiting for the perfect moment to attack. He finally settled in front of him, giving Hermione and Ron returning glares before speaking.
I've thought about our conversation last night, Harry, the blonde began, and Harry noticed that he seemed unable to restrain a look of uncertainty as he struggled to be sarcastic. And I've decided that I respect your heterosexuality, however sadly mundane it may make you.
With that, he pulled out a chair. Ron's face looked like a red balloon ready to implode at any moment.
Fancy the gay crowd, do you? he said nastily to Malfoy, who narrowed his eyes as though considering something philosophical.
In the vast ocean of human sexuality, dear Ron, he said, a note of pity in his voice. You are a fish out of water, thrashing helplessly under the sun of adolescent ignorance. Forgive me if I wondered whether Harry might have something more interesting up his sleeve. Ron sputtered. You're the same bloody age as us, Malfoy! And what are you trying to do, show off how much experience you've got shagging half the school? Proud of being the whore you are, then?I was merely commenting on my impression of you, said Malfoy, now smirking quite pleasantly, not insinuating a direct contrast.I think, perked Hermione, and Ron immediately turned to her, as though her words would be a saving grace, that sexuality is intriguing no matter the genders involved. We're all human, aren't we?Well said, Granger, well said, Malfoy purred. He raised his quill in a kind of toast, and Harry paused long enough to let his reaction to this absurd conversation sink in. He was shocked, first of all, how Malfoy had managed to commandeer his way into their common room and immediately engage his two best friends in a debate over sexuality so easily. He was curious - if Malfoy thought being gay was interesting, did that mean he favored it somehow, or was he merely mocking the idea?
And he was deeply comforted, somehow, by Hermione's words.
Ron was fuming, infuriated that Hermione had not spoken in his defense, but had rather chosen to say something with which Malfoy seemed to agree.
Have you read many books on the subject, Granger? Malfoy asked, and though Harry detected just a hint of amusement in his voice, he sounded more at ease than anything. Any great Wizards been batting for the other team?Well, come to think of it, I've read of rumors concerning Salazaar Slytherin, she began strongly, but faltered when she saw that Malfoy's eyes were bulging. But they were just rumors, of course, there was hardly reliable documentation ... Malfoy mumbled to himself. Harry found himself watching him closely; was he disgusted, horrified? But generally, he seemed to look simply uncomfortable.
Aren't you a descendant, Malfoy? Ron perked up immediately.
Malfoy sent him a dangerous glare, and then dug into his bookbag, seemingly pretending that he had never heard the redhead.
I simply must finish this Transfiguration essay tonight, he announced loudly, as if explaining the mystery of why he had pulled out a roll of parchment and an inkwell. He picked up his quill, and glancing briefly at Harry, began to write.
Hermione seemed quite content with this turn of events, and delved back into her textbook. Ron still looked livid, casting furious glares between Malfoy and Hermione, but had apparently decided that he would rather lose the chance to hex the blonde than be hexed by his friend for .
It was with this that a peaceful quiet fell. Harry could hardly believe it himself; his friends were allowing, however begrudgingly, the blonde's presence at their table. And more surprisingly, he didn't seem to mind much that he was seated next to him either.
Deciding that if it was safe enough for Hermione, it was safe enough for him, he pulled out his Potions notes. He was just beginning to scan the first list of ingredients when there was a sharp hiss next to him.
Sodding hell, Malfoy mumbled, and Harry saw that there was an inch-long cut on his left hand, a steady stream of blood flowing from his first finger. He heard more muffled cursing, and then watched as he raised the finger to his mouth.
Harry watched him suck on the finger for a long second, eyes bulging slightly, before the woman among them finally spoke.
Oh, dear, she said, not sounding the least bit concerned. Nasty cut, but easy enough to mend.
He glanced over to his other best friend; Ron was muttering under his breath, rambling on about sissies.
I think mending would work better than sucking, Malfoy, Harry said softly; it was meant to be a loud and sarcastic comment, but the blonde had looked toward him just he had begun. It was hard to speak with that image in front of him; Malfoy's pale gray eyes staring at him over his elegant finger, his lips pressed against his knuckle.
You'd be surprised how good some things can feel, he said, low enough so that only Harry could hear, that don't require magic at all.
The brunette swallowed hard - this was his dream talking, Malfoy was in no way insinuating anything at all sexual, anything at all concerning ... what he had just been administering to his lashed finger.
was all he could say, a gasp more than a word.
Will you mend it for me? Harry swooned again.
You there, Potter? the blonde in front of him smirked. Harry snapped his eyes open fully - what had he said? Certainly something less vague, a question, but what? His head seemed to be swimming, his stomach a little weak.
Harry blinked. The smirk on Malfoy's face visibly grew, and he licked his lips almost imperceptibly. He wondered if they still tasted a bit like blood.
I asked you if you would mend it for me, he repeated calmly. He brought his hand to his mouth again, sucking on the wound gently for a moment and pulling it away with a light smacking noise. It seemed like a meaningless kiss. It does hurt terribly.Mend it yourself, Malfoy, Ron snapped. Unless you can't remember such a simple spell?
But Harry was already pulling his wand from his pocket, a little afraid not to comply, afraid that he would be forced to watch more of Malfoy's strange pain-relieving techniques.
I can't mend it if you've got it stuck in your mouth, he said, again hoping for sarcasm and getting only a sheepish, almost shy comment.
Malfoy nodded slightly, and stretched out his pale hand toward him. Harry stared at it for a second, realizing that the cut was on the side of the finger farthest from him. Hesitant to give more instruction and be forced again into speech, he delicately took hold of Malfoy's palm, turning it toward him into a more accessible position.
He whispered the spell, watching as the cut healed itself immediately. When he looked up, his eyes unavoidably met those of the blonde; they seemed to be laughing, as though he knew something Harry did not.
Thank you, Potter, Malfoy said firmly.
No problem, Harry breathed. A long moment seemed to pass, and it was only several seconds later that he knew to let go of Malfoy's healed hand.
So, Harry, Ron announced loudly, and he turned to him, startled. Can we, ahh, look over your Potions notes together? I don't think mine were very good. Harry said, realizing suddenly that Hermione and Ron were both staring at him curiously, with looks opposite of what he had seen in Malfoy's eyes; as though he knew something he hadn't bothered to tell them.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, though Harry noticed that his leg seemed to bump against that of Malfoy far more times that it ever had with his other two friends. The same went for elbows and twice, hands - but surely he was just imagining it.
It was around nine-thirty when Hermione yawned and announced her departure to bed; Ron quickly snapped up, eager to escape the study session from hell, hell being Malfoy.
Right then, Harry, the redhead said loudly. You heard the girl! Time for bed, got to be well-rested for classes tomorrow. He was gathering his possessions in a horrible rush, throwing them into his bookbag as though the room were on fire.
Malfoy yawned quietly. In a few minutes, all of them were standing from the table. Hermione bid them goodnight and headed up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, and Ron made the first five steps of their own journey before turning back to glare at Harry, jerking his head toward the stairs.
Malfoy said suddenly, and the brunette froze, pursing his lips and turning toward him as though he were about to ask him to mend another injury.
he asked cautiously.
Might I ask a favor? he said, his lips slowly curving into a nearly convincing smile.
/
Harry: Hasn't it been something like three months since your last update?
Draco: And what merciful months they have been.
Ms. Rose: Well, yes, but ... no one gave up on me! A few people even wrote me e-mails! I could just cry from happiness.
Draco: I'm sure they're crying, too - or at least they will be, when they realize that an incredibly talented pureblood wizard is after their ass!
Ms. Rose: I know it's been way too long, but I've been busy .. finding an apartment for college, taking placement tests, working two jobs .. crying for two months over my goddamn ex-lover ...
Harry: We never really decided what hex we should use, did we?
Draco: Oh shut up, as if you'd know anything good. I say we make him ejaculate blood in place of normal fluids. Boiling blood - filled with acid!
Harry: How about Sectumsempra - for the genitalia?
Ms. Rose: Oh, guys ... I'm touched, I really am.
Draco: We could make him shit his own pygmy puff. Has he got one?
Harry: You mean a hamster? I don't think so - Rose told us he had two dogs.
Draco: Hmm .. we could shrink the dogs ... a little ...
Ms. Rose: I love you both so much, oh! Who wants waffles?
Harry: Mmm, waffles.
Draco: Wow, this sure beats working for Voldie. He never made us any bloody waffles.
Ms. Rose: Ooo! We should get our own special Dark Mark tattoos! We can get dragons that fly all over our sexy bodies --
Draco: Yeah, we could, muggle.
Ms. Rose: Oh, it'll be so much fun. First Ryan Frank Mento - then the world - of cheating low-lifes!
Harry: I can't think of a better way to use the Dark Arts.
Ms. Rose: Indeed!
Draco: Can I have strawberries on my waffles? I can't do instant sexual dysfunction on an empty stomach.
