Legal Disclaimer: I own my stuff, but not the original source material. That belongs to whoever. Also, the opinions and interpretations I use here may not reflect the same in said whoever that owns the source material. Look, I'm just a poor college librarian. Suing me isn't going to get you anything but tears.

Warning: This work may be offensive to some readers. Feel free to back out if that's you.

Author's Note: Interesting tidbit of information that is apparently less common than I expected: pasties are the little decorative nipple covers that are common among both burlesque dancers and strippers. In possibly related news, I am not responsible for any therapy you may need after reading this fic. I just figured that if I had to have this image in my head, that it was only right that I share.

Submitting Info:
Stacked with: Hogwarts (Term 10); MC4A
Individual Challenges: Click Bait It; Yellow Ribbon; Yellow Ribbon Redux; Advice from the Mug; In a Flash; Gryffindor MC (x2)
House: Hufflepuff
Assignment No.: Term 10 – Assignment 8
Subject (Task No.): Game Development (Task #11: Write about someone who feels like they have no control over something.)
Other Hogwarts Challenges: Auction [21.4] Pumpkin Pasties; Insane Prompt Challenge [915] (Dramatic); Constellation Club [Columba] (Wezn – Wine [drink]); Scavenger Hunt [84] (Write a comedy genre fic.); Gym (Secrets)
Space Address (Prompt): 5A (Rainbow)
Representation(s): Harry Potter; Hermione Granger; Kreacher
Bonus Challenges: Sneeze Weasel; Found Family; Nontraditional; Fizzy Lemonade; Machismo; Second Verse (Ladylike; Not a Lamp; Persistence Still; White Dress); Chorus (Odd Feathers; Pocky Pockets)
Tertiary Bonus Challenges: SN (Rail)
Word Count: 728

(^^)
So Many Pasties
(^^)

Harry stood frozen in the doorway to the kitchen in Grimmauld Place. He wanted to turn away, to flee the scene before him. Yet it was a bit like an auto accident: horrifying but transfixing. He couldn't look away, no matter how much he might wish to do so.

Kreacher kept on dancing around the room, seemingly ignorant of his audience. He had a hand towel embossed with the Black crest wrapped around his bony hips like a loin cloth. That left his gaunt chest bare except for the pumpkin orange pasties over his nipples. They spun in hypnotic circles as the ancient elf moved like a burlesque dancer on the heavy oak table where the Order had once gathered to eat as well as discuss the machinations of the war.

Harry choked on the memory of having eaten there.

How long as Kreacher had this secret habit of occupying his time while the smell of baking pasties filled the air? How many times had he eaten what the elf had cooked without knowing this private moment had happened while innocent baked goods were being made? Did Kreacher wear the pasties all the time or only while baking? Did he only have the orange ones, or did he have other colors that he could swap out as he changed what he was baking? Did Kreacher have an entire rainbow worth of pasties?

After all, there was no mistaking the scent of pumpkin pasties filling the kitchen currently. The scent matched the distinctive shade of orange that the pasties Kreacher was wearing were. The fringe of them continued spinning in time with the elf's movements, just like how Harry's thoughts kept circling the same idea. He just couldn't break the cycle he had been captured by.

How often did this happen? How often? How often?

Harry finally managed to yank himself away from the door. He stumbled back up the stairs like he had the one time that he had drunk an entire bottle of wine by himself. Oh, god, and he had eaten several pumpkin pasties then, too. Had Kreacher danced while they had baked as well?

He tossed far more Floo powder into the fireplace than necessary for a simple call. Thankfully, Hermione was seated before her fireplace when he stuck his head into the emerald flames. She immediately tossed aside her book, not even taking time to mark her place.

"Harry, what's happened?"

"I need you to obliviate me."

"Oh, no," she exclaimed. "Why do you need me to do such a thing?"

"I went downstairs while Kreacher was baking—"

"Oh, not again!"

"What do you mean 'not again'?" he demanded weakly. Hermione rolled her eyes, already reaching for her book. "What do you mean?!"

"I'm not doing it this time, Harry. You keep ignoring your written reminder to stay out of the kitchen while Kreacher is cooking. You can very well keep the memories this time." She stuck her nose back in the book. "And before you ask, there's a reason that Ron and I no longer eat anything he cooks. You have thoroughly scarred the both of us with your tales of Kreacher's, um, private ritual. I certainly do not wish to hear even a syllable more."

"This has happened before," Harry squeaked, his mind breaking a little bit more under the strain. Hermione hummed, ignoring his mental breakdown. "I've caught Kreacher in pasties baking pasties before!"

"Another word about it," Hermione warned absently as she turned a page, "and I will have my canaries chasing you after I transfigure all your nose hairs into flowers. Good luck getting the cadets to take you seriously while attracting butterflies!"

"But Hermione," Harry argued, only to stop when her wand made an appearance in her hand. She tapped it against the hard cover of her book as if she had forgotten about it entirely. He grumbled under his breath about her lack of helpfulness.

"Will that be all, Mr. Potter?" she asked pointedly. Harry sighed, realizing that he had no choice in the matter.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley," he answered dutifully, accepting the dismissal. Harry sat back on his heels only to startle badly as Kreacher (fully covered, thankfully) popped in beside him. The house elf held a tray with a glass of pale wine and still steaming pumpkin pasties. Harry didn't fight the darkness that had him fainting dead away at the very sight.