Voices No One Else Can Hear:
"Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world."
(Ron to Harry, in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chapter 9, 'The Writing on the Wall'.)
DISCLAIMER: I did not invent any of the characters or the setting, they belong to JK Rowling. Nor did I invent the idea of the Potions Accident Fic. I'm grateful to whoever did.
WARNING: Contains crude innuendo, filth, depravity and nob gags but no actual smut.
CHAPTER NINE: The Gryffindor Table
"Thanks a lot mate!" Harry dragged Ron out of the classroom at the end of the lesson.
Ron wasn't looking at him. He was too busy examining their house-mates as they all filed out.
He stared intently at Neville: " ... wonder if I'll ever be able to tell you how I feel ..." came Nev's voice.
Did that sound right? Could Neville think like that? He seemed to be engrossed in studying his creased and stained homework timetable. Ron positioned himself beside the door.
Dean came out next and his voice took over: " ... I can't even look at you, I know I'll give myself away and I could ..."
"I've got bloody counselling with McGonagall 'cos of you!" Harry interrupted.
" ... never handle being rejected by you. I'd rather you never knew, though I do want to ..." Seamus' voice provided.
"Mmmhmm," said Ron, absently, as Parvarti came out of the door.
" ... have the chance to hold you, to push you against a wall and ..."
Ron grunted with frustration as her soft voice was drowned by Harry's whining: "I have NOT got an obsession with Malfoy. Why did you tell McGonagall that? I just know that he's up to no good, but I'm not obsessing about him!"
Ron shushed Harry, desperately afraid that the girls would turn the next corner and be out of sight before he could hear whatever else his admirer was thinking. He stared at Lavender, the last suspect. Her sexy voice floated back to him, saying " ... kiss you hard, grab your arse and grind against you, feel you as hard as me ..." Something not quite right there. Lavender's voice continued " ... rub our erections against each other ..."
Ron turned to Harry. "It's a bloke!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide.
" ... slip my hand into your pants ..." Harry said without moving his lips.
"You sure?" Harry asked with his mouth.
"Girls don't have cocks."
"Well spotted. So, what did Malfoy want?"
"Clearly not obsessed, then. I just said, it's a boy. The person thinking about me."
"The person who's obsessed with you, you mean. That's a proper obsession. Whoever it – he – is, they haven't thought about anything except bonking you all day. But somehow I get to be the one going for counselling for obsessing."
The two boys made their way down towards the Hall.
"So, what did Malfoy want?" Harry asked again.
"He loves me."
"Malfoy?"
"Will you shut up about Malfoy?" Ron realised he was looking at Harry again. He wasn't hearing anything. It made him sad. "The person whose thoughts I've been hearing. He said he loves me. That's when I went to pieces back there and started agreeing with McGonagall about you needing counselling. He loves me."
"Must be nice. But as you're straight it's not really relevant. Now, tell me what Malfoy ..."
"He wants to chain me to a wall and whip me!" Ron snapped back.
"Your admirer?"
"No! Bloody Malfoy!"
They walked on in silence for a while.
"I am straight, aren't I?" Ron said.
"What sort of whip?" Harry asked.
"Gryphon tamer's. He's got a PVC catsuit and long boots, apparently. Sick bastard!"
"Er. Yeah. Sick. Right."
Just before they entered the Great Hall, Hermione caught up with them, looking flushed and dishevelled.
"Did you find it?" Ron asked her.
"Find?"
"In the library?"
"Library? Oh, yes. OK. Library."
They sat down in their usual places at the Gryffindor table.
"Handcuffs?" Harry asked.
"What?" Ron looked between his two friends.
"Malfoy," Harry clarified. "Has he got handcuffs?"
"Probably. I don't know. Hermione, have you found a cure?"
"Cure?" Hermione started shovelling peas onto her plate. "I can't believe how hungry I am! Must be all the exercise. Um, I mean, walking to the library and back. Of course."
"What about your theory?" Ron persisted.
Hermione insisted on finishing her mouthful before asking, "Theory?"
"What about gags? Or is it a full gimp mask?" Harry asked, eating as fast as he possibly could.
Ron decided to ignore him and instead concentrated on Hermione, prompting, "Ovid?"
Hermione concentrated on her fishcakes, but her voice said, "... I could spread mashed potato between your buttocks and lick it off ..." Ron noticed then that their class-mates had all sat down, too. They seemed to be engaged in conversation with each other, though. He admired such multi-tasking ability.
Finally, Hermione gave him her full attention. Ron decided it would be best if he stared at his plate, to avoid getting too distracted.
"Ah, Ovid!" she said. "I think it was Ovid. I was going to check but something came up --"
"Quidditch practice tonight," Harry said through a mouthful of chocolate pudding. Then he stood up and dashed out of the Hall, calling behind him, "Don't forget! See you there!"
"Where are you going?" Ron called after him. But he had gone.
A group of Hufflepuffs drifted into Ron's field of vision instead and he hastily returned his gaze to his plate as Eloise Midgen appeared to start waxing lyrical about the shape of his thighs and the glistening of mayonnaise.
"Ovid," he muttered.
"Might have been Plato, actually," Hermione replied. "I read all the ancient Greeks over the Easter holiday I was eight and I get them confused sometimes. Where's he off to in such a hurry?"
"I don't know! Just hurry up and tell me! Why am I only hearing the thoughts of one person?"
"Keep your hair on! You're spraying parsley over everything. The theory is that before birth we are each encapsulated in one unit, but that as we are born each soul splits into two pieces. We then have to spend our life searching for our 'other half', our 'soul-mate'. I'm proposing that the aberrant potion which you accidently created allows you to pick up the brainwaves of your soul-mate, to tune in to his or her thoughts about --"
"His," Ron said.
"You sure?" Hermione asked.
"Girls don't have penises."
"You don't say! And is that a problem?"
"A problem?"
"I thought you were straight."
Ron assumed a martyred pose and flung out his arms dramatically. "Hermione! We are talking about my soul-mate! I'm hardly in a position to get picky about gender, am I? Sorry, I interrupted. 'thoughts about ...?'."
"Thoughts about you."
"So, he's not obsessed, then? I just don't hear what he's thinking when it's not about me?"
"You've heard nothing but eroticism, have you? Nobody could be that fixated."
"He loves me."
"That's nice. We're no closer to a cure, though."
"Or to finding out who it is," Ron mused, trying to decide whether he should have a third pudding or not. It might be just as well to be looking as fit as possible, just in case somebody was going to be rubbing him with baby oil on a petal-strewn bed later.
"Maybe that is the cure," Hermione suggested. "You have to find your other half. But I suggest you go and get ready for Quidditch practice now, because Dumbledore looks to be heading in this direction."
Ron fled the room like a cat that was just about to be scalded, leaving Hermione to smile to herself and saunter over to the Slytherin table, where Crabbe sat on his own, adjusting his bra strap.