- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -
Authoress Ramble: A short chapter, but I like it. Tomorrow the match starts (huzzah!) … you're all probably all thinking, what an amazingly fast update, and you're right … just don't get too spoiled! I mean, I do have a life outside of this. I swear.
Warnings: This story has been rated "R" for repeated use of language and eventual sexual content (just some minor references 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 Friday morning in the story.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The next morning, Harry had anything but food on his mind as he sat down for an early breakfast. Narrowing his green eyes, he wasted no time in scanning the table across the Hall from his own. He could see Pansy, eating a tart with one hand while posing the other in front of her as she stared intently at the glare of her manicure in the soft light; Blaise was chewing his eggs with downcast eyes. And Draco was absolutely nowhere to be seen.
He sat back on the bench, sighing internally and cursing himself. He felt irresistibly guilty, and though the image of the blonde sobbing into his pillow hardly came easily, he was still left with the undeniable truth that had badly, badly fucked up. Whatever he was doing – sobbing, sulking, setting fire to his furniture – it was his own damn fault. And that made him lose his appetite indefinitely.
Had he not been so very absorbed in his own musings, he might have noticed that Hermione, too, couldn't seem to turn away from the Slytherin table. She looked up between every sentence of her book, staring daggers at a certain diner there; and when she would fail to look up from her nails, she would shove a bit of toast into her mouth, chew, read a few words, and glare again.
Ron, however, was feeling rather optimistic. The game was tomorrow, no Potions until next week; that was all good by him. He slathered a bit of jam on his toast and turned eagerly to Harry, hoping to swap Quidditch strategies; but Harry beat him to it.
"Malfoy isn't down for breakfast," he said mildly, unable to resist expressing his contorted emotions.
"Yeah," said Ron, noticing it for the first time. "Hmm – do you think he's out sick?"
"Sick?" Harry asked. He swallowed uncomfortably. "Sick – well – how would I know?"
"You saw him last," his friend responded, now leaning in, suddenly more interested in the topic. "Harry, did you hex him badly enough that he's in the hospital wing?"
"Hex? – what – no!"
"Oh," said Ron. He took a large bite of toast, his eyes disappointed. "Well, maybe he is sick then. I hope so! Not that we need him out of the game to win it, ehh?"
"What game?" Harry asked, distracted again by the empty place where Malfoy's slender form ought to be.
"What game?" Ron sputtered, a bit of toast bursting from the corner of his mouth. "Harry, the match! The match against Slytherin! The most important game of the season, that match!"
"Oh – right," Harry forced himself to say, stirring himself from his reverie. "Yeah – about that, Ron – your broom – did Malfoy return it?"
Ron's face curdled for a moment, and he frowned sourly, nodding.
"Found it just outside the common room door this morning," he spat. "I would've never expected him to do something so considerate – not to say anyone could've stolen it, just lying there – and there was grass stuck in the bristles-"
Harry nodded. At about this moment, unbeknownst to the two boys, Pansy had finally glanced up from analyzing her hand, and had met Hermione's death stare. She first lowered her hand, raising her eyebrow questioningly; Hermione turned a deep shade of red and narrowed her eyes angrily.
This seemed to please Pansy, somehow, and as Hermione watched on she dipped her hand into a large bowl of fruit, emerging with a plump, pale orange fruit. She squeezed it suggestively in her hand, smiling a delicious smirk.
Hermione slammed her book shut, standing suddenly from the table. Both Harry and Ron wheeled around to stare at her in alarm. She rummaged wildly through her bag, finally pulling out a square piece of folded parchment.
"Here," she said in a loud, high-pitched voice, throwing it toward Ron. It landed on his bacon, and he picked it up, dumbfounded. "Here! Take it! I can't stand this anymore, I just can't!"
"Hermione," Ron said, just as she was righting her bag to storm away, "Hermione, who is this from?"
"Oh, you'll know when you read it," she said, her cheeks pink. "But don't read it aloud, it's very personal!"
With this final shout, she turned on her heel and stormed from the hall. Ron stared after her for a moment, but curiosity got the better of him; he slowly unfolded the note and began reading. At first he blinked several times, then blushed; a moment later his jaw hung open, his eyes bulging like a fish struggling for air.
"Ron?" Harry asked, thoroughly confused. "Who's it from?"
"I – I – peaches?"
"Ron?"
"Harry, this is – It's from – Bloody hell, here, read it yourself!"
He handed the note to his friend with shaking hands. Reluctantly, Harry took it, reading it aloud softly to himself in a whisper that steadily made Ron wince and whimper and hold his breath as he went on.
"Dearest Ronald," Harry began in an odd voice. "This may come as a shock to you, because of course you are my most darling friend, and we are ever so close – Ron, this sounds like-"
"Go on," said Ron in an urgent whisper.
"Ever so close," continued Harry, clearing his throat. "You may think that my only passion is for the miserable, boring books I read, but my true lust, Ronald, is for you."
He stopped here, licking his lips and swallowing uncomfortably. Whomever this was from, if he was right or wrong, it seemed too dangerous to go on.
"Keep reading," Ron insisted weakly. After a long, hesitant pause, he did.
"You may imagine that as I climb into my bed, my mind is full of dry knowledge, but no, Ronald – no! All I think of, shivering in my thin nightgown, are your lovely blue eyes, your pretty red hair, the sexy way you seem to drift away in class-"
"She thinks I'm sexy," Ron whispered in a way that made Harry think he might faint.
Unable to go on, Harry skimmed the paragraphs that remained, letting his eyes find the signature. They did; his mouth dropped open in horror.
"No," he said, setting the letter on the breakfast table in a daze.
"It looks like her handwriting, doesn't it?" Ron suggested weakly.
He could only nod, suddenly feeling dizzy himself. It couldn't be – she would never write something so – so – provocative! But, of course, if she'd kept this secret for so long, maybe she'd kept other secrets … she was a woman, after all.
"I … I don't know what to tell you, Ron," he said at last.
"Tell me what to do," he said, almost desperately, his voice shrill with fear. "I don't know what to say to her!"
"Well, it all depends," began Harry in what he hoped was a sensible voice. "I mean – do you think about her in her … nightgown, and all that?"
"Well …" Ron began, trailing off uncomfortably.
"Well?" he asked.
"Do you?" the redhead shot back, averting his eyes.
"No!" cried Harry, before he'd properly had time to think. He stopped himself, steadied himself, and went on. "I mean, no. No, not in that particular … way."
"'Course not," Ron was muttering to himself. "You're her friend. I mean, she's both our friends. She's always been a friend." Here he looked up imploringly at Harry, his lips in a pathetic, downcast frown. "But – I mean – she's really gotten … you know."
Harry really did not want to have this conversation. He swallowed hard, wondering how the hell to get out of it without abandoning his friend in this very, very awkward moment.
"Well," he began dryly. "I guess you should talk to her. You know. See what happens."
Ron nodded. Really, he nodded several times, each time becoming more and more confident, and by the third or fourth nod he was almost smiling.
"You're right," he said firmly. "I'm going after her!"
"Oh," said Harry, watching as his friend got up from the table, and oddly enough, began to smooth his hair and straighten his clothes. "Okay, then."
"Wish me luck, Harry!" Ron declared, smiling shakily down at him.
"Good luck!" he said weakly. He watched as Ron walked brazenly out of the hall, and despite the genuine concern he felt for his friend, he couldn't help but think that Hermione would need it more.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Hermione sat down heavily on the stairs just outside the Great Hall, letting her heavy bag fall off her sagging shoulders with a far-off thud. She wanted to cry, but was prevented from crying by her overwhelming desire to break Pansy's nose, and after that, every one of her perfect nails.
She knew it wasn't really wrong of her, to fancy Ron. After all, she'd had her chance – all these years, she'd had countless chances! And yet, it was their friendship that had ruined every single one. They were a trio, and if she ever … acted … it could destroy that. It could destroy everything she'd built up with both of them, especially Ron. He would never look at her in the same way again.
She took in a deep breath, fighting back her tears. She still had hope. Maybe Ron wouldn't want her! Maybe he'd reject her. But then, knowing Ron … Hermione could imagine him falling prey to Pansy's undeniable charms. Still, though … it might not turn out as badly as she thought.
Suddenly, she heard the heavy door of the Hall open. She looked up; standing there, walking toward her, was Ron.
She looked down, pursing her lips; and when he finally stopped in front of her, it took everything she had to look him in the face.
"Hermione," he said, a little shakily.
"Ron," she said, swallowing.
"I … read the note," he said lamely, trailing off at the sight of her trembling lips.
"Yeah?" she asked, her voice dangerously on the verge of breaking. "What did you think?"
Ron swallowed hard, sweating. He thought for a moment (sure deep down that this was a test, and that she would remember his score forever) and said:
"Well, 'Mione … I think it's … brilliant."
Hermione sniffled loudly, unable to help the single tear that escaped her heart and trickled down her face. She looked away, hiding her face as best she could in her thick, wavy brown hair.
"I see," she whispered. "Well, that's … congratulations, Ron."
He frowned, utterly dismayed by her reaction. Considering the letter, this seemed to be an utterly incorrect display. Still, though, he blamed it on her being a girl, and summing up every ounce of courage he had, he held out his hand.
Hermione could see it out of the corner of her eye, and stared at it for as long as she could without seeming to be rejecting it. She took in another deep breath – after all, she was going to have to learn, now, how to accept these friendly gestures – and placed her hand in his.
He pulled her up, and then they stared at each other awkwardly, Hermione wondering why he was staring at her with such a dumb expression, and Ron wondering what the bloody hell he was going to say next.
But Ron, in a sudden stroke of genius, decided to say nothing.
He reached out, grabbing her waist with his hands, and Hermione, gasping in shock, was forced to stumble forward. As he held her like that, his fingers trembling against the waistband of her skirt, romantic inspiration left him, and he began to ramble uncontrollably.
"'Mione," he said, "It must have been hard for you, I mean, keeping it in all the time, keeping it a secret. It wasn't so hard for me because I never thought you would – I mean, I never considered – well, I considered some things, but not like they would really happen, not like this, and I-"
"Ron," Hermione said finally, still in shock. "What in Merlin's name are you going on about?"
He stopped himself, letting his mouth hang open in surprise as he blushed. Then he steadied himself, took in a deep breath, yanked her forward, and kissed her as hard and as passionately as he could.
Hermione gasped a fraction of a second before he did it, and as such her lips were opened perfectly to meet him. It was really a good kiss when she closed her eyes, sweet and warm and simple, just the way she thought of Ron.
When they pulled apart, Ron, too embarrassed to look her in the eyes, buried his face in her hair, and began whispering in her ear.
"I'm so glad you told me," he said in a desperate, almost fearful voice, as if this were the moment of judgment. He kissed her briefly on the forehead, and she opened her eyes, staring ahead beyond his shoulder like a fawn caught in headlights.
"I'm really glad," he went on. "Though, the part about your breasts being firm as peaches, you didn't really, r-really need to say that … I … I didn't need to be convinced …"
He kissed her again on the high corner of her cheek, and this is when she spotted her – Pansy, leaning haughtily against the doorframe of a Great Hall door pushed open just enough for two pairs of sharp eyes and a long curtain of straight blonde hair to peek in. She was biting into the peach, almost lovingly, her eyes never leaving the scene; and when she licked her lips, she smirked in a way that made Hermione shiver.
She understood now; she understood everything, the note and the kiss and the peaches. There was a voice inside her that whispered something about treachery, something about, why on Earth would Pansy do this for her? – but she forgot it when Ron began calling her name.
"Hermione?" he was asking fearfully. "Did I say too much about … the peaches?"
Suddenly she could smell him, and feel how warm it was, being close to him like this; and the hands on her waist were suddenly too light. She closed her eyes, forgetting Pansy, forgetting everything; she stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him without an ounce of confusion.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Pansy was pleased. She was very, very pleased. By the look of it, in fact, Hermione Granger had completely forgotten about the skinny old mouse that was Potter. She looked over at him, letting the scene sink in – how very alone he was, how vulnerable, eating his simple little meal while, totally unknown to him, his two best friends were snogging in the hall.
She sighed with contentment, knowing how easy, now, it would be to get to him. Still, though, she felt a bit of pity for him; after all, it wasn't her real goal for him to be so alone at all.
"Don't fret, Potter," she thought to herself. "You'll be getting some soon enough."
"So?" Blaise asked suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. She turned to him with a frown, nodding nonchalantly.
"The eagle is feasting," she announced in a bored voice. "She won't have much time for babysitting Potter in the next few days."
"Oh," he replied. He seemed to consider for a moment what exactly the feast incurred, and his face soured. For a Slytherin, it wasn't the sweetest of thoughts.
"Yes, darling," Pansy answered. "Now all we need to do is wait until tomorrow."
"Yeah," said Blaise weakly. "Hey – shouldn't we be checking on Draco? Breakfast is almost over, and he hasn't shown up yet."
"Of course!" Pansy said in a loud choice, seemingly insulted at the thought of having forgotten her dearest friend. "I'm going right now! But surely you can understand, Blaise, how I wouldn't have missed this for the world?"
He nodded, looking a bit sick.
"My god, darling," Pansy exclaimed harshly. "Have some pride in your work!"
And with this she stood, briskly escaping the hall to confront the true object of her every scheme.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ms. Rose: You know what, boys?
Draco: You've decided to set us free at long last?
Harry: You brought donuts?
Ms. Rose: Nooo! I've decided that I won't finish this story until I get 3000 reviews!
Draco: Does that mean at 3000, you'll stop?
Ms. Rose: Well, I don't really –
Draco: ATTENTION, FOOLS! REVIEW WITH HAST! MAKE THIS MADNESS CEASE! FREE ME AND YOUR LIVES WILL BE SPARED!
Ms. Rose: Did I say 3000? I meant 5000!
Draco: Oh, my mistake. You meant one review for every page!
Harry: It's a novel now, it's true.
Ms. Rose: A labor of love spanning two years … you can understand why I wouldn't want it to end, don't you?
Draco: Absolutely. We know how much you love to watch us suffer.
Harry: All good things come to an end. And this one ends with the best thing of all – our consummation.
Draco: Oh, no. No, no, no. I've read the rules of the sick fantasy website you post this mockery of our lives on. Consummation is absolutely forbidden!
Ms. Rose: You underestimate me, love. I'll post a link!
Draco: Ehh?
Ms. Rose: They can leave the sick fantasy website to read it, if they want to.
Harry: And you know they want to.
Draco: … perverted bastards.
