Sorry for the wait, folks! I hope you all enjoy my unpunctual offering. I really love this chapter! Basically, house elves are terrifying and Professor Sprout continues to be gross.

Things are wrapping up! One more chapter after this.

Shout out to my lovely beta, SaintDionysus!

The walk back was hard.

Every few steps, Draco would see something that he found hilarious—a phallic-looking weathering in the walls, a suit of armor that he swore looked just like Goyle—and laugh for an extended amount of time. Draco's laugh was so easy and infectious, that Neville couldn't resist the call to laugh with him, even if he had no idea what was funny.

"Ohmygod, I'm starving. Are you starving?" Draco asked.

"Kitchens," Neville determinedly declared, pointing them in the right direction.

They arrived in the kitchens with their eyes sparkling maniacally and their enthusiasm for all things edible oozing out of their very natures. Quickly, they became the house elves' favorite people, having graciously consumed every cake and pie set before their faces. The Hogwarts kitchen staff was never so happy as when a student wandered into their midst smelling of some strange herb, demanding sweets.

"Ohmagawd," Draco said, tucking into a lemon tart. "This is genius. You all are geniuses," he said, addressing the house elves. He'd never been much of a fan of lemony things before now. But the tingling zip of the citrus on his tongue combined with the smooth custard and subtle crunch of the crust were coming together in a way that made him wonder why he wasn't always putting this concoction in his mouth.

"Try it with the chocolate mousse," Neville said, his eyes rolling in the back of his head with pleasure. "Bloody mental."

Draco complied and didn't even bother to stifle the luxurious groan that escaped him. "Mfuckinggawd, it's sho good!"

Why wasn't he always eating sweets again?

"You is being Whimsy's master?" one house elf asked Draco.

"Mmhmmm," he said over a mouthful of confections.

"Whimsy is a good elf, we thinks. And we sees that she has a good Master," the house elf declared gleefully. "A hungry master!"

"You bet your arse. Do you all do weddings? My fiancée's been trying to find a caterer and someone to bake our wedding cake and it's been driving her mad."

Twenty pairs of teary eyes widened happily up at Draco, who might have noticed if he hadn't been so intent on the banoffee pie he now declared 'genius.'

"It would be the best honor for us to cook for White-Haired Mister and his bride! Whimsy is surely needing our helps with the wedding!"

"Does we know White-Haired Mister's Miss?"

Draco chuckled. "Probably. I'm marrying Hermione Granger."

The collective gasp was frightful enough for both Draco and Neville to still their spoons and gape at the mob of indignant house elves who, until two seconds ago, were practically crying with happiness at the prospect of helping to bake for a wedding.

"Curly-Haired Miss is the one who hides the nasty hats and tries to frees us," one particularly grouchy house elf said.

"Bossy Miss tells us we is 'brainwashed.' Bossy Miss is being insulting!"

Draco wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin before addressing the house elves. "I apologize on her behalf. To be fair, she does this with every house elf she's ever met."

"And White-Haired Mister is making her Mistress of his House? Does White-Haired Mister trust Nosey Miss with his house elves?"

"Not remotely. But I've already spoken with all of them and told them that any clothes she gives them won't have any effect." Draco could feel himself sobering as he gazed upon the disgruntled house elves, feeling very outnumbered.

"Fair Mister is telling his Meany Miss to stops with the ugly hats. We is not needing them."

Draco nodded rapidly. "Of course, I'll tell her."

"White-Haired Mister smells of The Herb," said a wheezy, crotchety old house elf, narrowing his eyes at Draco. He recalled Smug Mister saying something about people who smelled of The Herb who might come running to the kitchen at odd hours begging for foods, but he'd never known what Smug Mister with the shiny badge spoke of until now.

The other house elves leaned in covertly and sniffed Draco and Neville. Draco leaned back in his chair to escape them.

The house elf who seemed to be the leader's eyes widened in understanding. "This is what Whimsy means when she says she has a special ingredient we is needing to put in the sweets for her Master's business!"

The collective "Ahhhh," that range through the group of house elves was rather unnerving.

Neville leaned in and whispered. "Do you think you could ask them if they have any more of those jam tarts we can take back with us?"

Draco narrowed his eyes and slowly turned his head to face Neville. He curled his fingers, beckoning Neville to lean in so he could better hear what Draco had to say.

His palm made hard contact with the back of Neville's head.

"Ow! What the hell, you fucker? All I wanted was some more jam tarts."

"You don't need the calories anyway, Longbottom," Draco said, getting up from his chair. He smiled charmingly at the house elves. They were still weary of the young man who willingly chose to marry the Curly-Haired Demoness. "Thank you all ever so much for your hospitality." He began walking back towards the entrance.

The house elves remained silent.

"We're going now."

More silence.

Draco's smile widened. "Okay, bye now." His eyes darted over to where Longbottom was shifting through a basket of sweets, pilfering pastries to take with him. He whispered manically, "Longbottom, get your arse over here."

Neville rushed to the door, taking small steps so as not to drop his treats.

Once they were on the other side of the wall, Draco let his head fall back on the wall. "I will never understand why Hermione likes those things so much."

Neville shut his eyes as he bit into a apple-walnut muffin. "Shrsly, Malfoy. You haff to try vis."

Draco grimaced, taking the muffin forcefully from Neville and crumbling it in his hands. "Do you enjoy having abs, Longbottom? I realize it's somewhat new to you, but speaking as someone who's had them for a while, I can say, they're fickle bitches. Nothing will scare them away faster than consuming simple carbohydrates."

Neville gazed longingly at the crumbs in the floor from the genius muffin. He knew what Draco was saying made sense, but it was difficult to care when the marijuana in his system told him that the only thing in the world that really mattered was the muffin his blond friend just demolished.

"Why do I get the feeling we just fucked up somehow?" Draco asked.

"You did. You destroyed my muffin, and I—"

"Not that, you tit. I meant more about the…" he paused, realizing he had not made Neville privy to the information Evan Atkinson shared with him earlier that day. It would probably be wiser to do so when they were both sober. "Nothing, Longbottom. Just…" Should he tell him now? It'd be good for him to know. After all, it was his idea, his strain, his product. Maybe he could handle it. Maybe he could—

"Owmagawd, Malfoy. You've got to try these rumballs."

He sighed. "You're never going to get Lana Mammott to shag you."

Several days had passed and Evan Atkinson had nothing new to report regarding MacMillan's everyday comings and goings. Draco was starting to think maybe the git was giving up. Which was excellent because edibles were a go.

Whimsy provided the kitchen elves with the 'special herb,' the nature of which remained a mystery to the naïve creatures. They assumed it only made people hungry, which was just fine by them.

Draco couldn't quite shake the feeling that he and Neville somehow fucked up the night they went to the kitchen on the brink of weed-induced starvation. But the specifics of that evening were somewhat hazy. In fact, Draco could barely focus on the events that transpired without exploding in laughter at the fact that over the next few days, Neville was a sappy mess, worried to death that his abs would disappear forever because of the sweets he consumed that evening.

Draco did nothing to discourage this paranoia. It was always funny to watch Longbottom have a nervous breakdown.

Draco sauntered through the halls, his mind on his money and his money on his mind, when all of a sudden, he heard a voice.

An omen, really.

"Draco!"

The subject blond groaned as Evan Atkinson bounded towards him, sweat and desperation dripping off of him.

"It's MacMillan, sir. 'e's been talking to 'ouse elves!"

"What?"

"'ouse elves, sir! 'ere's this one by the name of Gimpy 'oo's not too fond of your girl, sir. She's been leavin' them these 'ats, you see, an'—"

"I know that my fiancée is certifiably insane when it comes to house elves, Atkinson. What I don't understand, is what in Merlin's sodding ballsack MacMillan is hoping to accomplish by talking to house elves? Did this Gimpy say anything to Dick-Millan about Hermione?" For one crazy moment, Draco's Black side flared up and he understood why Elladora Black decapitated house elves and used them for furnishing.

"No, sir. But Gimpy told 'im about the deal your 'ouse elf…the shrill one with the pretty pillowcase tried to make with the rest 'o them. 'bout the edibles, sir."

Draco released a silent 'Ohhhhh,' pushing down the panic bubbling in his stomach. It wouldn't do to lose his cool in front of a lackey. "Where is this 'Gimpy'?"

He was certain it would be all too easy to convince the creature to retract this confession. House elf or not, everyone wanted something. Draco had yet to meet any creature, indoctrinated to crave servitude or no, who wouldn't accept a well-placed bribe. Maybe he'd let the little fool darn his socks or something. Surely that would be more than reward enough.

"I don' think tha'll work, sir. Gimpy's right stropped at your girl, ya see, and 'e finks 'at 'e can 'urt 'er by turning you in."

Well, that did put a damper on things. "Where's MacMillan?"

Evan gulped. "'e said somefin' abou' goin' down to a greenhouse, sir."

Draco's eyes widened. "Why the bloody fuck didn't you stop him, Atkinson?"

"I did, sir. I came to get you soon as I 'eard."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'll deal with this myself."

Draco found a red-faced MacMillan and a puce-colored Filch struggling with the greenhouse door. "Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

MacMillan rounded on him. "You! How did I not see it before? It was so obvious. Let us through this door right now, Malfoy."

Draco brought a hand to touch his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I don't believe I will. Very sensitive plant life growing in there, you see. Wouldn't want to disturb them. Circle of life and all."

"You're growing marijuana in there. I know it!"

Draco brought a hand to clutch his imaginary pearls. "That's quite an accusation, MacMillan. Have you any proof?"

"I spoke to a house elf who says that you—"

"Riiiight. Because it's not like I'm engaged to a woman who is the bane of all house elves existence or anything, am I? There would be no reason whatsoever for an old, conservative house elf to lie to you, would there be MacMillan?"

MacMillan's jaw dropped ever so slightly. Filched nudged him. "Don't get tripped up now, boy. We came here for a reason and nobody's leaving until somebody gets punished!"

"Hey! What's going on here?"

It was Neville.

Draco affected a slouched, bored stance. "These two are attempting to barge in on our greenhouse, thus destroying our Herbology project and bashing any hopes and dreams we had at obtaining an N.E.W.T. in the class, and by extension, an honest living." He locked eyes with Neville and communicated with a look that said: "Let me handle this, you bloody, great, Gryffindor sod."

"An honest living is exactly what you are not making." MacMillan's eyes darted back and forth between the two boys. "You're in on this too, aren't you, Longbottom. I knew it. I knew I should have trusted my instincts."

"Hang them both by their ankles and let the crows peck their soft bits," Filch said with ardent blood lust.

MacMillan patted Filch on the back. "Now, Argus, that isn't the way we handle things. Minerva certainly wouldn't approve."

Neville and Draco rolled their eyes at the Head Boy's pretentious use of the staff's given names, as if he was their peer.

Filch looked like he was about to cry. "But you promised—"

"I hate to interrupt this heartwarming exchange of kissy faces you two are making at one another, but if you could take your lover's tiff elsewhere, my Herbology partner and I would very much appreciate it. Otherwise, we'll just have to go get Professor Sprout and tell her you two are sabotaging her students' work. Isn't she your head of house, MacMillan?"

MacMillan opened and closed his mouth several times. "I'm…Head Boy."

"You are? Oh, my gods, I didn't know. I wish you had said something. Can I blow you?" Draco intoned.

MacMillan gaped at the Slytherin's cheek. "Twenty points from Slytherin, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged. "Take forty for all I care."

MacMillan pointed a furious finger at Draco. "Now you listen here, Malfoy. You think you're so—"

"What on Mother Earth is going on here?"

It was Professor Sprout. Never had Draco and Neville been so happy to see her.

MacMillan straightened his posture haughtily. "Pomona, I'm actually quite glad you're here. It appears these two are using one of your greenhouses for nefarious purposes, I'm sorry to say."

Professor Sprout released a Santa Clausesque belly laughs. "Of course, they're not. They're working on an independent study project for my class. It's all quite above the waist," she said, edging between the two boys. "And what have I told you about calling me 'Pomona,' Mr. MacMillan?"

Speaking of above the waist, Draco could have done with her keeping her hand off his. The little circles she was rubbing on his spine nauseated the beJesus out of him.

"But, Professor, I—"

"I'd appreciate it if you did not try to sabotage my students' projects, Mr. MacMillan. Just because you opted against taking Advanced Herbology doesn't mean some people don't find it useful."

Get your hand. Off my arse. You infinity-aged minger, Draco thought. He chanced a sideways glance at Neville who looked as though he was about to cry. Draco would have bet every last Galleon in his Gringotts vaults that he knew where her other hand was.

Filch was bouncing with the urge to maim a student. "Pomona, can I please—"

"And that's enough from you too, Argus. Even if these boys had been naughty, they haven't been bad enough for you to punishthem."

Draco didn't like the way she said the words 'naughty' and 'you'—like she might be able to punish them.

He never thought he'd say this, but if it came to it, he'd take Filch.

Once the two were out of sight, Professor Sprout gave each of their arses a hefty slap. "You boys will break an old woman's heart," she said as she walked away.

Draco and Neville were left wearing identical expressions of 'I want my mummy.' They slowly approached the greenhouse door and opened it, neither trusting themselves to say anything yet.

Once they were both safely inside, Draco bolted the door and turned to face Neville. "Did I mention MacMillan knows?"

Neville, still recovering from the burn of Professor Sprout's hand on his arse, couldn't even muster the energy to be angry at his partner. "You did not."

Draco rubbed his face. "Well, he does. It was that fucking house elf. The old one. He betrayed us."

Neville stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. "Huh."

Draco rounded on Neville. "That's all you've got to say about it? 'Huh'? We are in deep shit, Longbottom. And I'm not going to bloody Azkaban for this."

Neville sobered at the word 'Azkaban'? "They wouldn't send us there, would they? I mean, we're…we're just a couple of kids."

Draco shrugged. "We're both of age. They might. Not for long, mind you, but long enough where we'd both get passed around like a couple of bongs at Glastonbury. You think Professor Pervert is bad? It's not often they get blokes as pretty as us in there, Longbottom! Especially me! Look at me. I'm a fucking vision! I don't stand a chance."

Neville shook himself. "Nobody is going to Azkaban, Malfoy. We just need a plan for how to get rid of this."

"Agreed. But first, that miserable old coot is going to pay."

Neville quirked an eyebrow. "The house elf? Come on, Malfoy. What would Hermione say?"

Draco tapped his foot. Damn Longbottom. He was right. "Fine. But he's going to have to deal with Whimsy. I certainly won't stop her from inciting revenge. Whimsy!"

With a pop, the silken pillow-case-clad house elf appeared. "Master Draco calls for Whimsy?"

Draco bent down to speak to her so they were eye-to-eye. "Whimsy, you know I respect the hell out of you. Which is why I need to tell you that you have been betrayed."

Whimsy's already enormous eyes bugged out of her head. "Betrayed? Who would betray Whimsy?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Gimpy."

Neville snorted. Of course, Malfoy couldn't remember Hannah's name, but a house elf who didn't even work for him, he remembered.

Whimsy's orb eyes seemed to glow with retribution. The gleam in her eyes that usually read as cheerful moxie, darkened.

Neville thought he'd be shitting himself if he was Gimpy right now.

Whimsy snarled. "A betrayal to Whimsy is a betrayal of the House of Malfoy."

Draco nodded. "Whimsy, you have my permission to go crazy."

With a nod and a pop, she disappeared.

Neville sighed. "What in the bleeding dark corners of hell have you done?"

Draco stood up and dusted off his trousers. "I'm not sure. Fancy watching it blow up?"

Neville rolled his eyes. "Yeah, go on then."

When they arrived in the kitchen to witness the carnage Whimsy laid down on Gimpy's arse, they were not disappointed.

Gimpy was squirming and struggling while hanging from the ceiling by his tea cozy. He looked quite frightened of the half-his-age-and-size elf.

"WHIMSY WILL SHOW YOU WHAT IT MEANS TO MESS WITH HOUSE MALFOY!" She menacingly patted her palm with a rolling pin, her intent on its purpose evident from the way she glared at the elderly house elf.

Several house elves immediately approached Draco and Neville and hounded them with apologies for their ill-meaning colleague.

"Gimpy is a bad elf, but the rest of us never had any part in telling Shiny Badge Mister about White-Haired Mister's special herb."

"All we wanted was for White-Haired Mister to tell Meany Miss to stop hiding clothes! We is never wanting to hurt White-Haired Mister."

Another house elf approached Draco with tears in his eyes, his over-sized ears drooping on either side of his head. "Does this mean we is not getting to bake for Pointy-Faced Mister and Bull-Headed Miss's wedding?"

It was all quite overwhelming.

Draco spoke in an authoritative, yet kind voice to reassure them. "We understand you all had nothing to do with it. And we are most grateful for your willingness to help us."

"Oh, yes! We is helping Young Misters with their special project!"

"Excellent." Draco said. "I'm so very glad to hear that." He regarded the eagerness in their eyes; the delight at the prospect of serving. "Just how fast can you all bake?"

"Oh, very fast Pale-Faced Mister!"

"Very fast indeed!"

"We is the fastest!"

"We is making stew for tonight's dinner even as we speaks!"

"Fair Mister will be impressed with our efficiency," said a house elf wearing a fuschia tea towel. Even as she bragged on their efficiency, one of the house elves in the back scrambled furiously around the kitchen, looking for some spare oregano to go in tonight's stew.

Draco shot Neville a look, indicating he had found an answer to their problem. "We have quite a large amount of this special herb, you see," he said, grabbing a handful of the marijuana sitting precariously on the counter from where Whimsy had brought it to them days ago. "And we would be most appreciative if you could get rid of it for us by baking it into your delicious confections. We'd need you to set them aside for us, however. Understood? Be absolutely certain you do not serve it to anyone at Hogwarts. Alright?"

About twenty house elf heads nodded simultaneously, vehemently agreeing to Draco's terms.

"Wonderful. Whimsy, stop playing with Gimpy and go back to the Manor to have some of the others help you transfer the 'special herb' to the kitchens."

Whimsy, who was currently standing atop a ladder, tickling Gimpy's feet with a feather duster while he hung helpless from the ceiling, froze. "Whimsy will not let Master Draco down!" With a salute, she Apparated away.

Gimpy sighed in relief. "Could someone please let Gimpy down?"

Ignoring the old house elf's plea, Draco turned to Neville with a smug expression, feeling quite impressed with his damage control technique. "And that is how it's done."

Nobody noticed when the stew chef victoriously dumped a large amount of marijuana into the cauldron, having finally found what he believed to be oregano.

As they left the kitchen, Neville felt the need to point out that their troubles weren't entirely over, despite Draco's successful charming of the house elves. "You know, we've still got to get rid of all the treats. How do you propose we do that? Your little bunnies aren't that fast."

Draco narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "What we need is a wholesale buyer."

Without missing a beat, Neville said, "George."

Draco groaned. "No. I am not bringing a Weasley into this. They turn everything they touch into poverty."

Neville rolled his eyes. "You do know that Weasley Wizard Wheezes is one of the most successful companies in wizarding Britain?"

Draco huffed, knowing that Neville's idea was actually a pretty good one, but desperate to cling to his denial. "The only Weasley who is even remotely tolerable is the She-Weasel."

"Oh, come on. Molly and Arthur are nice."

Draco had met them at Bill and Fleur's wedding, which he attended as Hermione's date. He refused to amend his previous statement. Sure, they seemed all cuddly and polite at first. But Draco swore he he caught them giving him these looks like, 'This is the punk who came along and dashed to hell all our hopes and dreams of having Hermione Granger as a daughter-in-law.' "There must be someone else."

"There are plenty of people we can sell to, Malfoy. But every single one of them will be seedy as shit and none of them will cut us the deal George will."

Draco ground his teeth, realizing this was the best option. "Fine. But after this I will have reached my Be-Nice-to-a-Weasley-for-Hermione's-sake quota for the rest of the year."

Neville narrowed his eyes at Draco. "No more keeping things from me, got it?"

Draco shrugged. "Yeah, yeah, Longbottom. Come on. Let's go serve my bollocks on a silver platter to that oversized Weasley freckle."

"Just think how happy Hermione will be to hear you two were playing nice together."

Hermione didn't know it yet, but if he could get through this without killing George Weasley, she owed him a bouquet of blow jobs.