A/N: Oh my god, it's been forever since i updated. Work and Uni and just life in general has been rather hectic lately. Here's a longer chapter this time, to make up for the lack of updates, for a bit at least. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, never will, stop making me say it.

Chapter 5: Pulling Pigtails

So my ingenious plan to prank you by transfigurating a Self-Propelling Pie into a Self-Propelling treacle tart is officially failing. While it looks just as delicious and mouth-watering as the ones baked by the Hogwarts house-elves, it is missing one quite important detail: the smell. Try as I might, I can't seem to figure out how give these damn things the right scent. It was hard enough to transform the pies into treacle tarts without destroying the intricate spellwork designed to propel it into an unsuspecting victim's face, but giving up on revenge is not in a Malfoy's nature. So, if I can't put the tart in the spellwork, I'll just have to put the spellwork in the tart: I'm going to bake a treacle tart and then charm it myself. (I'm excellent at recreating charms, just ask dear ole' Voldy.)

Well then, off to the kitchens I must go. It's already quite late, so there shouldn't be many students wandering the halls. On a Saturday night, most of Hogwarts' populace stays in their common rooms to avail themselves of their free time in whichever manner they deem best. Mostly they get drunk out of their minds. Some lucky ones get to slobber all over their significant others while making everyone in their vicinity horribly uncomfortable, and the very fortunate among us take advantage of the empty dorm rooms to, well, 'explore the Chamber of Secrets' or 'ride the broomstick' (damn lucky bastards).

Truly, the passageway into the kitchens must be Hogwarts' worst kept secret. Everyone knows where the portrait is, everyone knows exactly where to tickle the pear, and yet none of the professors has ever said anything about it. If I were to make an educated guess about the nature of this mystery, I'd argue that it's the kitchens workers, the house-elves, who permit, maybe even encourage, the clandestine visits to their realm. House-elves tend to attach themselves to families, not places, and it's quite plausible that they regard the professors and students as their family and therefore their masters. And there is no house-elf in the wizarding world that would refuse sustenance to his or her master, school rules be damned.

After tickling the pear in order to reveal the doorknob, I step into the kitchens. Dinner has been over for quite some time now, there isn't a dirty dish in sight. A dozen house-elves are sweeping the floors and scrubbing anything that isn't already spotlessly clean. Upon my entrance, they all look up, and for a second, I doubt the wisdom in me, a Malfoy, seeking their help. They try to hide their expressions valiantly, but I can see the distrust in their eyes, the way they shift their gazes in order to avoid mine and how the tension in the room increases just so.

The tale of Dobby is known to every house-elf in England, not to mention the horror stories told of the fates that befell the house elves working at Malfoy Manor during the stay of the Dark Lord (and how I wish they were nothing but stories). It was then, in their lowest hour, my lowest hour that I finally acknowledged them as more than just servants to do my bidding: it was a bond forged out of pain and terror, the realization that for all our powers and fancy trinkets, we were all under the same yoke. When Voldemort came to the Manor, we counted six house elves among our domestic staff. After he left, we found that only one of them had survived the Dark Lord's 'games'. He might be better off dead.

Trying to avoid dwelling on these thoughts, I wait patiently while they have a hushed conversation amongst themselves, after which one of the stockier house-elves approaches me, though quite warily.

"What can Topsy do for master? Is master wanting a midnight snack? A glass of milk to help master sleep, yes?"

"That won't be necessary Topsy, all I need tonight are the ingredients needed to make a treacle tart, if you please."

I'm not sure if it's the bizarre request, or the fact that a Pureblood, a Malfoy no less, actually deigned to use the word "please" when talking to a house-elf, but Topsy's big murky green eyes seem to want to try and make a bold bid for freedom from their sockets. I'm actually starting to get concerned for the poor confused house-elf. He seems to have gone into a state of shock.

"Topsy? Hello?" Sighing at his lack of response, I turn towards the other house-elves. "My apologies, I did not mean to upset your colleague. Would one of you be as kind as to bring me the ingredients for a treacle tart? And maybe one of you could help Topsy here?"

I shouldn't have bothered, all the rest of them are just standing there, frozen in the middle of their work as if I'd hit them with a Petrificus Totalus. Sighing, I turn around and start making my way back out of the kitchens. There's no need for me to terrorize the house-elves with my continued presence; there's no way they will be able to help me like this. (Ugh, if it were you, Potter, they'd probably just throw themselves at your feet and bring you whatever you wanted in record speed.)

As I reach the portrait, though, I hear the squeaking sound of what is clearly supposed to be the garbled speech of a house-elf. Turning around, I see that one of the eleven previously frozen house-elves has walked up to stand beside Topsy and is wringing his (her?) hands nervously while working up the courage to talk to me. After a couple of deep breaths, the little house-elf finally manages to mumble:

"Master, please wait! We house-elves are not wanting to deny Master! B-but, Master should not insult us so!"

After her (the squeaking is incredibly high, no doubt a female house-elf) little outburst, she immediately slaps a hand over her mouth and looks at me in horror. I've known and been the source of that look for my whole life though, so before she can start with the self-flagellation, I quickly respond:

"Stop, elf. It's not a crime to want to explain your behaviour to me. I would very much like to know in which manner I have insulted you. I merely asked Topsy, quite politely at that, to bring me the ingredients to a dish I wish to make myself, I don't th…"

It's like my words are an invisible slap to the face for the house-elves. It serves both to wake them up from their stupor and to make them gasp in outrage.

"Master! We house-elves of Hogwarts be working here for years! We are loyal to all the castle's residents and we are bound by oath to Headmistress McGonagall to look out for all the students. Master can trust us… even, e-even if we can't trust Master!"

"What? Elf, I've been nothing but respectful towards Topsy and you, uh…"

"Turvy, Master."

"Right, to my best knowledge, I have neither insulted Topsy nor you, Turvy (for Salazar's sake, who names these house-elves?!), so would you please just bring me the ingredients I asked for so we can be done with this inane conversation already?"

The wails the house-elves release are enough to make me wince and fear for the state of my eardrums. I must admit I have no idea what is going wrong here. I'm rather sure I followed the instructions on how to interact with house-elves to the letter (and don't let Blaise or Pansy tell you I read Granger's ridiculous S.P.E.W. pamphlets, I'm obviously just following the Ministry's new policy on Wizard-House-Elf interactions, obviously, dammit.)

Amidst the racket the house-elves are making, I also hear an exasperated chuckle from behind me. Whirling around, I immediately slip a hand into my robes to grab my wand, just in case I need to obliviate whoever just witnessed me making a fool out of myself.

And of course, who else would it be but you, bane of my existence and haunter of my dreams, standing right there next to the kitchens' entrance, smirking like the infuriating little brat that you are.

"Fancy meeting you here, Potter. Shouldn't good little Gryffindors be in bed at this hour?"

"Why, hello there, Malfoy. I'd dare you to stay in the Gryffindor dorms while Hermione and Ron are enjoying their study-free time, if you catch my drift, but that would be cruel and unusual punishment, even for you."

"For Merlin's sake," I retort, grimacing while trying not to let my imagination run wild, "why would you even mention that? Is it not enough that I have to see them slobber all over each other at breakfast, lunch and dinner, must I now live with the images of their more vigorous extracurricular activities as well?"

And you, bloody gorgeous you, you just throw your head back and laugh. (And the way you bare your throat, the way it makes the muscles and tendons in your neck stand out, the way it seems to lift the burden off your shoulders: it does not make my heart flutter, nu-uh. Crap.)

It's at this point, that the house-elves realize exactly who entered the kitchens, and they all rush past me to flock around you. Rolling my eyes, I watch as they all shower you with attention, offering anything you might want, from a pint of Butterbeer to an eight-course meal. And while it's quite adorable to watch you blush in embarrassment and try to convince them that all you want is a cup of tea and maybe some cookies, that still doesn't help me with my problem.

"Say, Potter, once your little fan-club is done drooling all over you, would you mind asking them to maybe help me for a change? I'm not asking for much, just for the ingredients to make a treacle tart."

"Oh, I heard what happened," you say, and you even have the decency to blush as you admit to eavesdropping on me. "I think what you fail to understand, Malfoy, and please correct me if I'm wrong Turvy, that while your manners were impeccable, asking a house-elf for the ingredients for a meal instead of for the meal itself is a grave insult to professional pride."

"Master Potter is being right, sir," Turvy chimes in timidly. "We house-elves have our pride too, Master Malfoy, and we can cook Master whatever he desires. Even though we have heard horrible, horrible things about the house-elves in Master's service, Master can trust that we never be harming a student of Hogwarts with our food, it would bring dishonour to us all!"

"I see." I respond, finally understanding the problem. And as I mull over Turvy's words, I can't help but release a sigh in both annoyance and regret. I close my eyes and steel myself for my next words:

"I can't deny what happened to the Malfoy house-elves, Turvy. The Dark Lord tortured all but one of them until their bodies just couldn't handle the pain anymore. And Pinky, the one survivor, will probably never be the same," I whisper, avoiding Potter's eyes and focusing on the dozen solemn house-elves instead. "I don't know how close you were to them, but I offer my apologies to you for not being able to do my duty as their Master, for having failed to protect them when they needed me. For what it's worth, my mother has taken Pinky with her to France, not as a servant, but as a fellow victim to the insanity that befell us all, one way or another."

For a while, no one says anything. The house-elves just stare at me in silence, their faces an unreadable mask. I throw a quick glance at you, and see you standing there with a sad smile and a faraway look, probably remembering the renegade seventh Malfoy house-elf.

All of a sudden it's just too much. I can't keep looking them in the eyes and I can't stand this heavy silence any longer: I need to leave, right now. But just as I drop my gaze to my feet and start to move towards the portrait, I feel small hands grasping my own. Looking up, I see Turvy holding on to me, with a kind expression on her little face.

"When Dobby was working with us, he told us stories of Malfoy Manor. He said as a little boy, Master was always playing with him, calling Dobby his friend. But then Master's father said not to, and Master obeyed. We house-elves be seeing that many times. Young masters being told by old masters to do wrong things, mean things. Will you still listen to old Master now?"

"No, Turvy," I manage to choke out, "I know better now. I want to be a good Master now."

Turvy beams, and throws her arms around me, or well, my legs, with a high-pitched squeal of joy. It seems to be a kind of signal to the other house-elves, who all relax their postures and gather around me. Topsy, bless him, disentangles Turvy from me, and asks, smiling:

"Can Topsy bake Master Malfoy a treacle tart now?"

"Uhm, while I'd very much appreciate that, I do really need to get just the ingredients, and maybe a recipe. I need them for a spell I'm working on to uh, enhance flavours, Topsy, and I can't just cast it on the finished tart."

"Oh! Turvy is the best baker in Hogwarts, Master, can Turvy help you, please?" Turvy cries out enthusiastically.

"Turvy is the best baker, but the messiest too. Topsy will help too, Master, so we don't have to be cleaning the kitchens all night!" Topsy grumbles, ignoring Turvy's dirty glance.

"Of course," I reply hurriedly, trying to keep the peace. "You can both help. I have actually never baked before, your assistance would be much appreciated."

"Can Harry help too? He's quite curious to see this spell of yours," you butt in, grinning, looking at me with so much warmth in your eyes it's almost overwhelming. "And since it's his favourite pastry, he's quite familiar with the recipe."

"Very funny, Potter," I answer, voice dripping with sarcasm (it's a Malfoy thing). "Fine, you can stay. Let's get this over with."

For the next hour, Topsy, Turvy, you and I bake, while the other house-elves go back to their regular duties. Or rather, you bake, Turvy makes a mess, Topsy cleans it up and I occasionally cast a non-verbal spell (it is supposed to be a surprise for you after all). All in all, it's one of the most bizarre yet at the same time funny moments of my life (there are warm and fuzzy feelings all around, Hufflepuff, here I come).

Once we're finally done, Topsy and Turvy bid us goodnight after making us promise to visit again soon. And now it's just the two of us, again.

"So, shall we try this magical treacle tart of yours, Malfoy?" You ask, already holding a fork in your hand.

And it's ridiculous how much I just want to let you take a bite, right now, what with your silly smile, the streak of flour in your hair and the little bit of batter on your left cheek making you look so, so…yummy. (My ancestors are rolling in their graves, I'm sure, and somewhere out there, Father probably just got the inexplicable urge to throw himself off a cliff.)

But that's not the plan, not yet, at least.

"My apologies, Potter, but I'm going to give this to someone very special. I'm afraid you're going to have to wait until tomorrow's dinner to indulge your sweet tooth."

"Oh," you say, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy crup (your bloody hair looks sad, how is that even possible?). "Well, I hope this person likes it, you put a lot of work in it."

"I'm sure they'll love it. Thank you for your help, Potter, good night."

"You're welcome, Malfoy, good night."

And so I pick up the tart carefully and move to exit the kitchens, throwing a single glance behind me, to see you throw the fork back into its drawer dejectedly. I barely resist the urge to laugh out loud. This is going to be fun.

Time is a bitch. It's like it slowed down to the pace of a geriatric snail. The anticipation to see how my prank plays out at dinner is killing me! I was barely able to sleep last night, after the whole house-elf incident, and now the sun is refusing to set. Pansy and Blaise kept me company all morning, but after snapping at them one too many times, they decided they were better off studying in the library (on a Sunday!).

But now it's finally here: the time for my sweet, sweet revenge (literally). Thanks to my new friends down in the kitchens, the placement was no problem at all. Though I believe Topsy and Turvy think I'm courting you now. (I'm not, that way lies madness.)

So now I'm sitting at the Slytherin table, slowly going mad with excitement. I barely eat, since I'm too busy observing the Gryffindor table for the appearance of their desserts.

Finally, they pop up. Lying innocently in front of you is my lovely, enchanted, mouth-watering treacle tart (slightly modified so you won't immediately recognize it; Turvy helped). And like the predictable brat that you are, you immediately snatch it for yourself.

Smiling wistfully, you grab a fork, and dig in.

Even my imagination couldn't make the following events justice: the moment the fork enters the tart it propels itself off the plate and right onto your face with a satisfying splat. The Gryffindors laugh good-naturedly, Granger offers you a napkin while fighting not to burst into giggles and Weasley is practically rolling on the floor laughing. The younger students get over their initial indignation pretty quickly and soon join the rest of the table in their laughter.

Oh, and your reaction itself is just delicious. At first you just sit there, stunned and disbelieving. After a couple of seconds, you take off your glasses, using the offered napkin to clean them up. Once you put them back on, you immediately look over to the Slytherin table and narrow your eyes at me. And I just can't help myself: grinning, I innocently bat my eyelashes at you. (If I could get away with it, I'd blow you a kiss.)

Slowly, the corners of your lips start to twitch upwards, and soon you're grinning and laughing along with your friends. And then, well, then my plan crumbles in on itself. Because you, the usually oh so innocent Potter, start licking. You lick your lips in the most lewd fashion I've ever seen, all the while looking me in the eyes with an unwavering stare.

I start to squirm on my chair.

Your grin widens, and, Salazar help me, you run your fingers through your face and start sucking. On your fingers. While staring at me.

I run out of the Great Hall.

A/N: Thank you soo much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, I had so much fun writing this part. Still no beta, so any and all mistakes are mine. Special thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, your encouragement means the world to me! In that note: please do press the button below and leave me a review, even if it's just to kick my butt for taking forever with this story :P