Wascally Part Seven

[dysonrules]

And yet more.  Sorry I haven't replied to all the comments.  I am using accursed DIAL UP now that the job has evaporated.  I REALLY REALLY REALLY want this fab job I applied for yesterday, so if everyone on my fabulous f-list could send happy begging mindbeams to those in charge of hiring, I would appreciate it.  It would give me lots of writing time.

The beginning

Part Seven

 

Draco glared at the large woman in the portrait.  “Let me in,” he snarled without preamble.

 

She sniffed, obviously looking down at his Slytherin attire.  “Password,” she said.

 

“I don’t know the bloody password because I am not a bloody Gryffindor,” Draco growled.  “I need to speak to Potter and his bloody minions now!”

 

“No admittance without the password,” she said in a singsong tone with a rather malicious grin.

 

Draco sent a Banging Charm against the portrait.  The Fat Lady shrieked.  “Stop that!  You’ll ruin my paint!”

 

“Then let me in!” Draco bellowed when the thunder had died away.  There was no response, so he leveled his wand and let fly another.  The reverberations gonged through the hallway loudly.  The woman in the portrait fled with a scream.  After two more Charms, the portrait swung open to reveal a hole with a sleepy-looking Gryffindor therein.  The child rubbed at his eyes.  Draco assumed it was a first or second year; he did not care which as he pushed past.

 

“Hey!  What you doin’? You know it’s four in the mornin’?”

 

“I need to see Potter.  Which way to his room?”

 

“You ain’t supposed to be in ‘ere!”

 

Draco reached out and snatched the boy up by his collar until he nearly dangled on tiptoes.  “Listen, you, I’m in no bloody mood for this.  Where.  Is.  Potter?”

 

The boy threw out an arm and pointed.  Draco tossed him against the wall and stalked up the indicated stairs.  He was in a fine snit.  He had searched the Slytherin dungeons in a near-naked state, searching for whomever had stolen his dressing gown and his pet.  None of the Slytherin boys had seemed to be the culprit, which left Weasley and Granger as the people most likely to have concocted the plot.  His skin crawled horribly at the thought of Weasley in his bed.  If it had been, he would simply have to murder the git.  And then take fifty thousand baths.

 

The door to the Gryffindor dorm room slammed open with an impressive bang, startling all the residents from slumber.  Each of the bedcurtains were wide open.  Draco sneered.  Stupid, trusting Gryffindors could not even understand the meaning of privacy.

 

Potter looked somewhat alert with his horrific mass of hair sticking out in all directions; he already had his wand in hand, but Weasley gaped at Draco like a landed trout as he stalked forward to brandish his hawthorn wand beneath the freckled nose.

 

“WHERE IS MY BIRD?” Draco demanded.

 

Weasley’s mouth widened further and his eyes goggled.  “Wha—?” he asked intelligently.

 

“Don’t play stupid with me, Weasley, even though I realize it is your natural condition.  Just tell me where my bird is and you might live another day.”

Potter’s voice cut through Draco’s haze of rage.  “He doesn’t have your bird, Malfoy.”

 

Draco’s eyes flicked to the bloody Chosen One.  He apparently preferred to sleep in the same outfit as Draco—or less.  It was hard to tell with the covers bunched around his midsection, but his torso was bare and corded with a surprising number of muscles.  The scrawny git had been hiding that under his ridiculous oversized clothing?

 

“I’m getting McGonagall,” Weasley muttered and bypassed Draco like a shot.  Longbottom and the other two Gryffindor residents followed, leaving Potter to his fate.  So much for Gryffindor courage.  Idiots.

 

Draco walked to Potter’s bed, steadfastly ignoring the holly wand held with casual menace.  Draco strove for the same attitude and kept his eyes fixed on Potter’s.  He wondered if the prat could even see him without his glasses; his specs were still on the bedside table.

 

Draco rested one knee on the bed and leaned over until Potter’s wand tip rested against his sternum.  “Where is Harry?” he demanded though clenched teeth.

 

Potter’s wand fell away and a hand reached up to twist into the collar of Draco’s shirt.  “I’m right here, Draco,” he murmured and pulled him into a bruising kiss.  Draco’s eyes widened impossibly and he forgot to breathe, which would have been difficult, anyway, with Potter’s lips drinking the air from his lungs.  Potter’s tongue flicked against his lips for a moment.  What the hell was Potter playing at?

 

Draco’s pulse raced as Potter’s soft lips nibbled at his.  It figured the bloody Savior would even kiss fabulously and then it clicked—whoever had been in Draco’s bed had talked.  Potter knew Draco liked boys.   The bastard!

 

He pushed himself away from Potter so violently that he nearly tripped and fell on his arse.  His eyes stared into emerald for a moment and then the door flew open once more.

 

“Mr. Malfoy!” McGongall yelled.  “What is the meaning of this?  Twenty points from Slytherin for forcing your way into the Gryffindor dormitories and threatening the residents!  Leave here at once!”

 

With one baleful glare at Potter, Draco left.

 

 PART EIGHT

Yeah, Draco is kind of clueless in this one, but Harry is awfully sweet.  *squeezes him*  Not over yet...