- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset –

Authoress Ramble: Not much to say, I guess, except sorry for being gone so long.

Warnings: This story has been rated "R" for repeated use of language and eventual sexual content (some now). Also, it is slash, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: Obviously Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: Today is Saturday in the story, the day of the Quidditch match!


He was falling gracefully to the ground, gliding towards the sea of dark grasses that lay spread out beneath him. The midnight wind swept through them like waves on an ocean, and it was beautiful, suddenly. Even the familiar drop of his stomach at the final descent seemed to fit into something greater than himself.

His feet skimmed the ground, then found their footing. He blinked at the moonlight, staring out blindly until he saw him, a glowing figure sitting still as a statue among the dark grasses. He didn't hesitate as he walked forward, the grass crunching beneath his feet, not stopping until he was just a few paces from his back.

He slowly parted his lips, letting the broom fall from his hand.

His white-blonde hair was shimmering, ethereal in the moonlight. His skin was porcelain under the long strands that shifted softly in the wind over his face; his eyes were pale grey, luminescent, lifeless, impossibly calm.

"You came back," he said carefully. It seemed all the emotion had been drained from his voice.

Harry watched him speak, realizing that his lips, at least, were pink. He was alive underneath all that glowing white; their blood was the same.

"I had to do it," he heard himself say firmly, even as his chest tightened with the apprehension of what he was about to admit. "I couldn't leave; not with you staring after me like that."

Draco turned, tilting his head just slightly to look at him. His hair shifted so that it fell over one crystalline grey eye. Slowly, his lips curved into a secretive smile.

"Still think I'm a whore, then?" he asked, almost playfully, though Harry knew they were still treading unsafe ground.

"You're too pretty to be a whore," he said, his chest seizing as he heard himself say it, but unable to take it back. His mouth hung open for a moment, and then he recovered, pursing his lips as he waited for his answer.

But Draco seemed only amused. His little smile grew larger; Harry thought he might laugh.

"I'm glad you finally noticed," he said with the same condescending tone.

"I've been noticing for awhile now," Harry said, still unable to match the unnerving confidence Draco seemed to have mastered. "But the moonlight helps."

"You aren't a bad vision yourself," the blonde answered slyly. "Hair disheveled from the wind. Lips parted in anticipation. Tall, dark and shaking like a virgin."

Harry gasped slightly under his breath. Some part of him wanted to retaliate with some witty, defensive remark – but a greater part of him, the overwhelming part, only allowed him to stare at Draco in barely masked horror.

The blonde took a step forward, still smiling that frightening all-knowing smile. As if to stop him in his tracks, Harry did the only thing he could to distract him – he opened his mouth and spoke.

"So how are we going to do this, then?" he asked, voice trembling slightly. He swallowed to make it solid again.

"Well, I'm really very reasonable," he replied frankly, his smile widening briefly into true amusement. "But for the first time, you get bottom."

"No! No, I mean," Harry staggered, watching as the boy before him took another slow, patient step. "I mean, you're on the other side. What about Lord Voldemort?"

"Is that what you'll be thinking about while I'm fucking you?" Draco asked, staring at him through anything-but-innocent eyes. His smile reached its apex, devious and playful and cruel all at once; and then, he let it fall, leaving his lips parted just slightly. "Lord Voldemort?"

Harry swallowed as he took the final step forward. He was close enough now that he could touch him anywhere easily; he smelled like jasmine and cinnamon, and at once he felt a hand pressing gently against the back of his hip.

He realized he hadn't answered.

He realized he couldn't.

In a moment he had wrapped his arm around Draco's back, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his shirt as their lips finally crashed together. He was warm, incredibly warm; and wet and hot and moving in perfect time with every movement he made. Before he had a chance to think he was jerking his shirt up from under his belt and running his hand freely against the pale skin of his back, opening his mouth to taste his tongue. It was heaven again, and this time, he didn't intend to stop.

In what seemed like an instant, he was suddenly on his back. The grasses waved around them, but he only saw them from the corner of his eye for a brief second, because just as quickly, Draco was undoing the buttons of his shirt. He made purposefully slow progress, greeting each new patch of exposed skin with a tender kiss, and, occasionally, a little bit of suckling.

Harry closed his eyes, listening to the muffled moans that left his mouth in short gasps. Never had he felt so completely exposed, and never had he loved it so much. He was on fire in all the right places, and best of all, he knew it was only the beginning.

Draco yanked the bottom of his shirt from his belt, leaning down to plant an especially slow kiss on the skin just below his navel. He shivered to feel that silky white hair grazing his skin, and then, out of curiosity more than anything, he opened his eyes. Clumsily, he tried to prop himself up on his elbows to look down at him.

The blonde looked up at him briefly, flashing him a look in his fierce grey eyes so wicked and playful that it was all Harry could do not to stare at him in amazement. He wanted to say something about how amazing it was, but he was unbuckling his belt, undoing the button of his pants with delicate fingers. His breath was hot as he laid down a final kiss.

He gave up watching and laid down again, but before he turned his eyes to the stars, he reached out his hand. Blindly, he caught a handful of silky hair. He relaxed his hand, curving it around the back of his neck; pushing him down ever so slightly.

"Still nervous," the blonde whispered. It wasn't a question, merely a statement; his voice was tinged with slight amusement. "No need to worry, Harry. I'll be gentle."

He took in a deep breath, not wanting to pant now, before he'd even started. It seemed to take an incredible amount of oxygen to speak.

"Nmn … call me … that."

"Call you what?"

"H-Heh – Harry."

"Right then, Harry. Are you ready?"

"Yes … yes, I …"



Harry …

"Harry!" a voice said above him, screeching in his ear. A hand was roughly shaking his shoulder, destroying the dream with every beat. He groaned, trying to shrug it off even in his sleep.

"Come on, mate!" the annoying voice was saying. "Harry! Time to wake up – we've got to get ready for the match!"

Slowly, and as painfully and with as much hesitation as possible, he peeled open his eyes. Hovering above him, just inches from his nose, was the huge, freckled face of Ron.

Immediately, he shot up, his heart seizing from the shock.

"Ron!" he said, wanting to scream it, wanting to strangle him for tearing him from his fantasies.

"Yeah, mate," the redhead answered casually, oblivious to the ultimate sin he had just committed. He was dressed already, his hair still damp from his shower. "Get up. They've already started breakfast."

Harry merely stared at him, his mind already at work on a plan to get rid of Ron and go back to sleep.

His best friend returned the stare, eying him oddly. He met his gaze for a few seconds, then broke it, uncomfortable and baffled – and then slowly, his eyes trailed downward. He caught sight of what even the sheets couldn't hide, and politely turned away.

"Best take care of that quick, mate," he said easily. "See you in the Hall."

He smiled a bit too casually, then swiftly took his leave.

Painfully, Harry slowly let his eyes cast down to his lap.

He closed his eyes, letting the remnants of the dream come alive again, flowing swiftly through his veins. He squeezed his hands into the sheets, still too rigid, too mortified, to move.

All he wanted to do was scream.


Earlier …

Blaise moaned in frustration, rolling over onto his side in a vain attempt to defend himself against the being that was systematically prodding him awake. Even without opening his eyes, he could see her shining fingernails digging into his arm, feel her platinum hair dragging against his chest, and smell the heady perfume wafting from her neck. Sullenly, he grunted against his pillowcase – there was no escape.

"Blaise," she was whispering urgently, her breath hot in his ear. "It's time to wake up, my subservient little pet. Don't you know what day it is?"

"The day we all sleep in," he grumbled, still squinting against the bright, flickering dungeon torchlight.

"Oh, but darling," she said, her voice laced with a hint of laughter. She shook her head slowly, tutting her disapproval. "Isn't it you who insists on believing he'll murder us both? Therefore, this is our last day on Earth. You shouldn't waste it dreaming."

"The Quidditch game isn't for... mhm… six hours, Panse."

"Only six hours, you mean. We need to review our plan. One little slip on either of our parts, and it'll be our necks."

He hesitated for a moment, perhaps hoping beyond hope that she might give up and go away. Instead, he felt the sharp pricks of her fingernails in his arm vanish, and watched in horror as she threw off his bedcovers like a woman possessed. Gracefully, she jumped up to kneel next to him on the bare sheet, thrusting a steaming cup of juice into his hand.

He stared at her, disgusted for a moment, and then raised the cup to his lips with a defeated sigh.

"It isn't too late to abort this, you know," he said, trying desperately to make his voice sound cool, confident, when in reality he knew it was laced with fear. "Let nature take its course. If Draco is really meant to end up with … Harry Potter, well, I'm sure he will. Eventually."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong!" Pansy exclaimed, leaning toward him suddenly. Her blue-green eyes were alive in the dancing light of the torches, glowing with an almost supernatural passion. "That's where everyone is wrong! Don't mistake love for fate. Love is a calculated series of indulgences involving an object of desire; love is giving in until you can't give it up."

He stared at her again, both horrified and dazzled, and before he knew it, the question had left his lips.

"Have you ever been in love, Pansy?" he asked, cringing even as he said it.

She blinked, and for a moment, her mask of passionate conviction melted into something soft, something too innocent to be her – her eyes widened in brief confusion.

Then she sneered slightly, turning up her nose in indignation.

"No," she said, spitting out the word like venom. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm only suggesting," he answered meekly, "That we may not be … qualified, exactly, to do this."

"Of course we're qualified!" she snapped, with a little more anger than usual. "Save for our little Gryffindor prodigy, we're the only ones who know and love Draco. We know him well enough to know that if left unchecked, he'll end up marrying some purebred beauty for the sole purpose of producing an heir through which to transfer the same godforsaken brainwashing."

"I have more faith in him than that!" Blaise answered, horrifed again, almost too stunned to remember how to hold his tongue. "Shouldn't we let him make this choice for himself?"

"No," Panse replied quickly, the same exasperated sneer on her face. "The day I see Draco marry a woman is the day I hook up in the library with Granger. I won't take any chances! And besides – do you really think even we could force Draco to love someone?"

"No," Blaise said, baffled. "That's my argument – we can't do it. So then why are we risking our lives to do it?"

Pansy sighed deeply, gesturing fleetingly in the air as if completely mortified that he hadn't managed to understand anything until this point.

"Because, love," she said slowly, drawing out each syllable with her tongue, "Draco wants us to do it. He just doesn't know it yet. We can't force him to love Potter for the rest of his life, but we can force them together for one day. That's all it takes - one taste, and they'll never go back."

Blaise took a long sip of his juice, narrowing his eyes skeptically.

"You see," she continued, a wicked enthusiasm creeping into her voice. "The two of them are like a pair of magnets. Right now, they're turned so that their poles oppose each other, and they can't come together. Our only task is to flip them around and zoom! – instantaneous connection."

"And you know this how?" he asked dryly.

"Oh, enough of your pessimistic rubbish!" Pansy snapped, sighing under her breath as she stared icily at him through her long eyelashes. "We can discuss why they're meant for each other after they become inseparable lovers. For now, we need to review the plan. Especially since you don't seem to demonstrate much dedication."

"I may not like it," Blaise answered ruefully, "But I know it."

"Refresh my memory," Pansy commanded, still eying him with slight contempt.

"First we incapacitate Draco," he began, slowly drawing out each step as if reciting a memorized list, "And then, once we're sure he's out of the picture, we toast to our deaths with the polyjuice potion you acquired by means of which I won't even imagine, and I become you, and you become Draco …"

"Yes," Pansy said, urging him on as her lips curved into a devilish smile.

"… and you dress up in his old Quidditch gear and meet up with the team while I go to the game passing as you. And then you lose the game for all of us with a crushing, humiliating defeat and afterwards lure Potter out alone and do Merlin knows what to warp his mind into thinking our future murderer is boyfriend material."

"Right, only I'll actually win the game for all of us, seeing as Potter being carried off the field in a huge crowd of elated Gryffindors might make the luring a bit difficult. And you forgot one thing."

"Which is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That it'll all need to be done within an hour," she said, her smile widening compulsively. "Even by unspeakable means, that potion was hard to come by."

"Oh, bloody fantastic, then," Blaise said, laughing to himself even as he felt fate seal his impending doom. "You mean to say that this entire scheme not only hinges on your nonexistent Quidditch skills, but there's also a time limit."

"Good things don't come easy," the blonde girl answered with a flirtatious smirk. "Especially not the Boy Who Lived."

He smiled sarcastically back at her, grinning despite himself, because really, if you really, really thought about it, it was delicious in its absurdity. Their tortuous deaths aside, he was fascinated by it. It was all going to go so very, very wrong.

He raised his cup in the air, surrendering his reason once and for all.

"Cheers," he said, cynical laughter still coursing through his voice. "To the mother of all plans! And here I was so concerned."

Pansy smiled, gently biting her lower lip as she nodded.

"Cheers," she whispered deviously, "To the happy couple."


Hours later, an elegant hand slowly, silently, pulled back the velvet bed curtains, letting the morning light pour down on the black sheets. Its owner was smiling serenely, her sharp, beautifully carved face alive with secret ambition. Gently, she tilted her head towards her partner.

"Lovely, isn't he?" she whispered, drawing in her breath as if she might sigh contentedly. "But all alone. All alone in this huge, beautiful bed … well, no more, my darling. We're about to put an end to that."

His face was an almost glowing white against the dark bedcovers, his platinum hair shimmering in the morning light something more beautiful than gold; it took on the appearance of light itself. His parted lips twitched for a moment, and then his eyelids, the voices around him just barely reaching his mind.

"Like an angel," a male voice offered, a bit uncomfortably. It wasn't so much fear that clouded his voice as shame; he hated watching him sleep, hating sneaking up on him like this. It hardly seemed fair. "Only a thousand times more dangerous."

"Yes," the silky voice of the woman said again, "An angel. An angel of death, if you want to assume the worst. But you'll forgive us, darling – you'll forgive us. We're about to make you very, very happy."

Suddenly, as if all the words and voices had compounded at once to wake him, his eyes shot open. They stared, wide and grey and too stunned to be furious yet, at the wand casting its shadow down the front of his face. Its tip nudged gently into his forehead – not a provocation, just a little warning; a reminder not to do anything one might regret.

"Really, love, it's for the best. Now please hold still."


Draco: Oh KAY! Everybody say it with me now!

Harry: No. Put that bottle down!

Ms. Rose: Shut up, you lush. You're drunk.

Draco: YO HO HO an' a butt full o' CUM!

Harry: I knew we shouldn't have taken you to that movie.

Draco: Oh look at me, I'm an American Muggle and I love piiirate mooovies!

Harry: Is that why you punched that guy wearing the pirate hat?

Draco: You are misshin' .. misshin' the point. Which is that we .. we .. brainwashed.

Harry: We're brainwashed?

Draco: That's what I … yesh.

Ms. Rose: I don't know, Draco. I think that Johnny Depp has cast a very real if not actually magical spell over us all with his sexiness. That's hardly my doing.

Draco: Joshnny Depp has nothing on me! You hear me … noshin'.

Harry: There's no need to be jealous, dear. I don't think we could reconcile the age difference.

Draco: Are you saying that I … jealous … NEVER. Cap'n Jack Parrow is such a poof which is whhhy I sing .. I sing the pirate song!

Ms. Rose: Oh no … no no no! Not the pirate song!

Harry: -sigh- Here we go again …

Draco: THREEEEE men on a spent man's chest, YO HO HO and butt full o' …