There's a Thief in My Toilet

By Clorinda

Rated: PG

Category: General/Humour

Summary: "What," he managed to croak hoarsely, in a most un-Malfoy-like manner, "are you DOING IN MY TOILET?"

Author's Note: This is a SERIOUSLY belated birthday (December 30th) present to Rhea Ghosh. If you must know, "There's a Thief in My Toilet" is an unfinished, non-fanfiction, completely unrelated story by her.

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Nineteen-year Draco Malfoy, after a whole year of nauseated trauma, had finally become used to the hotel room he had booked— apparently, permanently.

Of course, the pretty and bland-faced blonde receptionist had been utterly shocked, but once the gold had changed hands, she invited him to stay as long as he liked at their hotel, and also at her flat on Trafalgar Square on lonely weekend nights.

Hotel rooms, on the whole, weren't really as bad as Draco made them out to be in that article he sent to the Daily Prophet. (For some reason, that article was never been published, despite the numerous law suits of Draco vs. Editor.) And slowly, over the years, Draco had come to like hotels in general. Especially his rooms— or rather, its bathroom.

A cabal of giggly witches ran the Blue Moon Hotel in a Muggle neighbourhood, and that was what irked Draco the most. But once some more gold had left his pocket, he was soon the unofficial owner of the double deluxe luxury suite, room 436, fourth floor.

It was eleven at night, when Draco got home— err, to the hotel. Standing in the carpeted hallway, and half-blinded with sleep and a most inappropriate amount of scotch, he fumbled to unlock his door.

The mechanical doors of the elevator opened, and a pair of women in tweed skirts came out. They glanced at 436 just as Draco disappeared into it, and he distinctly heard one of them say,

"You know, Louise, when I first came here, I thought to myself, 'At least this hotel looks decent.' But I was wrong. It's perfectly impossible to book their best suite for even a day— some rich prig gets it before you do."

Draco wondered for a minute if he should feel guilty, or some such thing. But then he realized that he was too tired and too drunk to do so, let alone be insulted at being called priggish. Leaving the keys on a table, he went inside the bathroom for a long-awaited bath.

The one creditable thing about the bathroom was that it was big, spacious and had good flooring. As the fluorescent lamps were switched to life, the marble tiles glistened, giving a faintly watery impression.

It didn't take long to fill the huge pool-like bath in the center of the floor, and with a flourish of his willow wand, the water was steaming hot. Pulling off his clothes, Draco stepped into a cloud of mist and foam, relaxing and easing his cramping muscles, and closing his eyes to savour the effect.

He had no idea of it when he fell asleep.

The night was cold, and punctured by long spells of winter snow, and the temperature began to drop rapidly inside Draco's hotel room.

He bolted awake abruptly. He was drowning in what he considered melted ice.

On numb and frozen coltish legs, he climbed out of the water and slid a midnight-blue bathrobe around himself, still shivering despite the warming spell woven into the soft material. The robe had originally been his mother's, and there were silver roses embroidered neatly on it. But he didn't care, since there was no one there to see him.

Draco was toweling his hair dry, and his satiny locks of angel-blonde hair stood up in small platinum spikes mingled with bubbles and soap. There was a splashing sort of noise, like a child playing in a puddle. He whirled around, trying to locate the source of it, when he saw everything.

There was a head sticking out of the toilet.

His first thought was that it was a burglar of a some sort, and his hand reflexively flew to his wand, which lay by the sink.

But then it struck him that the burglar didn't look as much of a hoodlum ... but more of an idiot.

Great, thought Draco sarcastically even in this moment of crisis. First it was a Minister called Fudge, and now a geeky thug? What was the world coming to?

What he had taken to be a navy-blue ski-cap on the burglar's head, was actually just a wet black mop of hair plastered to the burglar's skull. Round glasses were hanging lopsidedly on the bridge of his nose.

Slowly, the burglar emerged fully from the toilet, and the pre-hangover headache pounding between Draco's eyes instantly dissipated in a mad moment of shocked recognition.

"POTTER?"

The great and famous Boy Who Lived winced visibly, and he flung a leg out of the bowl, barely managing to fully get out. "Err ... hi, Malfoy?"

The whole of Draco's brain had gone blank, and reeling from stupefaction, he grabbed the edge of the sink to keep from falling.

"What," he managed to croak hoarsely, in a most un-Malfoy-like manner, "are you DOING IN MY TOILET?"

Potter was in a distinctly uncomfortable pose with only one leg and a head sticking out of the toilet, as he said, "Would you believe me if I said I have no idea?"

Draco didn't trust himself to speak without spewing oath after oath after profanity. His head was spinning. Considering all that had happened, he decided that he'd had enough. The dull throbbing ache was hitting his skull again, and he wordlessly tossed the towel over Potter's face.

He took leave of the bathrobe and put on some pants. He was aware he should be furious, but he was too tired to even blink.

Marching up to Potter, he grabbed the guy by the scuff of his collar and heaved him out. He proceeded then to propel his impromptu houseguest out of the bathroom, and unceremoniously threw him on the bed.

Surprising his drunken state even more, Draco calmly cleared out the couch and fell asleep eventually.

— End —