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By Mad_Chatters_Tea_Party

Chapter 3: Something Vaguely Quidditch-Related
Authors: dracontia, potteresque_ire, severuslovesus, Snapemylove
Beta: Snapemylove
Rating: Hard R
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Rita Skeeter, Ron Weasley, Severus Snape, and a Mystery Guest...
Summary:Detention Madness! (But first, a word from our Sponsor--Fanfiction Makeovers...) NOTE: The sicFic warning is for an 'excerpt' that Hermione reads at one point.

Originally posted to The Petulant Poetess on January 12, 2008.

These characters don’t belong to us; we make no profit and have no qualms about using them for our own slightly warped pleasure.

Authors’ Notes:
Dear Chapter 3,
We were going to say something about ‘scoring’ in your title, but that’s beginning to look a little premature. Rest assured, we’ll think of something vaguely Quidditch-related to call you. Yes… that's it.
The Writers

WARNING: Presumably you've read the first two chapters. You know that it's unwise to attempt to drink and read.

Hermione wanted her book back. Now. It was dreadfully cruel to be made to suffer from fanfic withdrawal. Bath time just wasn’t the same without charming her book to hover above her while she leisurely stroked—soaked.

Hermione knew that someone had to have taken her ‘unofficial edition’ of Hogwarts: A History. As she headed back to Gryffindor Tower, her keen eyes surveyed and assessed the ‘exposed-to-fanfic’ potential of passing students.

If any of them had read fan fiction, there would be at least one bold soul asking her for advice on love and sex and all other important matters upon which she was so well-equipped to elucidate. Or at least a wide-eyed fangirl impressed with her seductive prowess.

Hermione gave the Fat Lady the password and climbed through the portrait hole. Examining the state of the Common Room, she noted that everything and everybody was in order. The students were putting on a show of studious concentration, shooting furtive glances her way to see if their Head Girl was going to pester them with her presence after all. As if she didn't have more important things to do…

Well, no tell-tale signs of the book snatcher amongst them. She'd just have to stave off her search until later, then, because she had a dat—detention tonight with Professor Snape. And she really ought to do a little primping first. Hurrying was a must because, after all, she had only four hours left.

Hermione reached the warded door of her room and whispered, “Mrs. Hermione Snape.”

She hoped the door would respond despite the ambient noise. The fact that she jumped about ten feet upon realizing the noise was a conversation taking place inside her room did not at all contradict her inherent courage as a Gryffindor. She carefully entered her room, wand at the ready.

“What in the name of Merlin is going on in here?” Hermione stared around the apparently empty room.

Her mirror let out a sinister chuckle. "Do you really have to ask that question? We were simply getting to know each other a bit better, is all. I was just inquiring about position preferences when you so rudely interrupted."

"Quidditch positions!" the Narrator clarified a bit stridently.

Hermione snorted. Same thing.

"And just what have YOU been doing?" the Narrator demanded. "You were scheduled to arrive quite some time ago, dear! I even left the bath scene early so that I could make sure I was here, ready to roll on time, and not breathless from trying to keep up with you randomly roving characters.”

“You seem a bit breathless, nevertheless," Hermione remarked. The mirror chuckled knowingly.

"I was bored waiting… The mirror started talking… Never mind. Get on with the primping!”

Hermione stood in front of her bureau, fervently admiring—no—objectively evaluating her appearance. She was already dressed sexily enough for tonight under the robes she would definitely be discarding before she headed to the dungeons.

On impulse, she tore off the tent-sized robes and Vanished them. "There's only one tent I want to see tonight, and it hasn't anything to do with school robes… or camping," she murmured.

Hermione returned to her self-appraisal. Her hair wasn't too frighteningly frizzy these days. She turned her head from side to side. It was passable… Next, Hermione focused on her eyes. Should she try eyeliner? Ginny was always raving about it, but Hermione didn't care for makeup. Would it really help get Snape’s attention? He didn't really seem the sort that was attracted to such superficiality. Better to look natural, she decided.

Wait… That was a decision that Rita Skeeter’s Hermione would make—the one who was only ever able to attract freckled-faced Won-Won and duck-footed Krum.

No matter how often I get to ride Severus like some sort of rodeo bull in fan fiction, I can’t help wanting some sort of divine retribution for the fans who call the bug's books ‘canon.’

No, this was a job for fanon!Hermione. She would be much more likely to appeal to Severus Snape.

Hermione could glean the sage advice she needed for this project from her book… if she had it! Well, there was only one thing for it… She'd have to dig through the collection she'd sworn she'd only ever touch in a time of greatest need.

Hermione repressed the shudder that threatened to rise. She needed to be very brave right now. Desperate times called for desperate measures. She lifted up her mattress and retrieved a manila envelope labeled with large red letters:

WARNING: This fan fiction may contain offensive material. If you are easily squicked, do not proceed. Go elsewhere. Now.

Hermione tentatively pulled out the stack of papers and cringed when all the horribly misspelled words seemed to jump off the page at her. This was the "dirt" she had once dug through in order to find ff.net's rare gems.

Hermione's eyes watered just looking at the offensive abuse of the English language, 'Lucious,' 'the Griffyndor head girl,' 'snoging.' Hermione did a facepalm when next she read, 'She thought he is well indowed and it's head was a was chery red and so she just couldnt wait to suk it like it was a sukker cuz itd be so delishus. Delishius Lucius! (A/N me bf got me chery lipztick today YOWZA LOLZ) .'

Hermione held the corner of the first page between her thumb and index finger and set it aside in what was now the 'to Incendio' pile. Somewhere in this mess were some stories she'd actually printed from a moderated archive… or so she had thought.

She'd been very confused about that at the time because she'd noticed they had spelled her name wrong! And that had been completely unacceptable. So, Hermione had thrown them in with the ff.net rubbish until a time came when she could sort them out.

Any page with the header: 'Welcome, IamADamnHotBabe69' was discarded into the growing rubbish heap. Finally, she found what she was looking for—a collection of stories under the category: 'Ho!Mione Makeover Challenge.'

Hermione shook her head in disappointment. She'd always been able to count on quality from the moderated archives. "Well, I really need the makeover tips, so this will have to do…."

Many surprisingly well-written and self-flattering stories later, Hermione was well over her annoyance at seeing her name misspelled. In fact, she was rather impressed at the ingenuity of the authors. Thanks to them, she finally had a good idea of what look would be sure to get the Slytherin Sex God's attention…

Two hours later, Hermione emerged from the Head Girl's room with every intention of making a Cinderella-worthy grand entrance to the common room. In her eagerness to see how effectively jaw-dropping her primp session had been, she instead tripped over a third year's bag and nearly won herself a trip to the hospital wing for her trouble.

She braced herself and stood bent over at the waist, staring at the floor and blinking furiously. You’re a Gryffindor! Fight back those tears of pain, or your mascara will run!

Hermione made sure her arse jutted out far enough so that the sliver of skin between the tops of her stockings and the edge of her short mini-skirt (and the hint of arse curvature) were just visible. She arched her back and pressed her chest forward. As she rose, she swung her head one direction and then the other, letting her soft, luscious waves flip around seductively.

To her delight, the entire common room was enthralled.

"Appalled!" corrected the Narrator.

Hermione beamed at all the people staring because they adored her.

"Staring at her in horror…" said the Narrator.

Hermione saw Harry sitting in his favorite chair by the fire and sauntered over to him. "Hello, Harry," she said brightly.

“Er, um, hi.” Harry’s eyes travelled upwards from the stiletto shoes, following the thigh-high, black stockings and catching the tiniest glimpse of a suspender belt that disappeared underneath a tight, little skirt. His eyes were then rather unfortunately confronted with blossoming Bludgers that were peeking out of a tight, red tube top. Was that a navel piercing? Harry's eyes snapped back downwards in confusion to check out the strange glimmer, grateful, at least, for the change of scenery.

Hermione tensed under his stare. Harry’s approval wouldn't necessarily constitute a welcome endorsement of her new look—unless, of course, he couldn’t handle her sheer heterosexuality. Otherwise, she'd have to change her wardrobe all over again, and eight o’clock was fast approaching.

Finally, Harry raised his head (strategically ignoring anything below her neck level) to look at the new girl. Hermione was relieved to note he looked away again rather quickly.

“I’m looking for Hermione… Are you her American cousin?”

American cousin? Hermione found his inquiry strange and yet oddly familiar. Like any good student, her brain cells waved their axons frantically and screamed, “Me, me, me!” But… there were more pressing concerns to deal with…

Speaking of pressing… To test her hypothesis that Harry was merely confused by her hyper-femininity, she leaned closer, letting the beautiful swell of her bosom brush against his arm.

“Gah!” Harry looked like he'd just swallowed a Snitch. Though, if he really did get his mouth on a Snitch, he might react a little differently.

I must look fantastic! Hermione decided.

With that burning question out of her mind, the love and concern for her best friend returned. She sat up straight and infused herself with the usual air of confidence and knowledge.

“In other words, became her bossy self again,” the Narrator explained dutifully.

“It’s me, Harry.” She wiped off the drop of sweat rolling down his scar and sighed internally. Thank heavens that Voldemort never found out that the war against the Light could have been won by mastering the fine art of crossdressing, thus hopelessly befuddling our one hope.

“Voldemort could have looked rather convincing as a woman… No large, manly nose, and he had the slithering shimmies down pat,” the Narrator mused idly.

Harry was still clearly troubled by something. His fingers rummaged through his hair, and his face was uncharacteristically red. It was several seconds after he opened his mouth that a barely audible request tumbled out, “Hermione, can you help me with something?”

“Of course, anything,” Hermione replied. Unless you want me to set you up on a date with my professor. Or let you beat me in any class. Or…

“I’d like to… You know… tidy up.”

Hermione gave her friend the most understanding look. She knew Harry and his episodes of self-pity. “Harry, you know it’s a lost cause. You’ll have to accept yourself for who you are.”

“Please, Hermione?”


“For detention tonight. I want Snape to change his opinion of me. I want him to see all of—er—who I really am.”

“But, Harry… the bird’s nest is you, and Professor Snape sees that everyday.” And fortunately doesn’t seem impressed by it. I’d like to keep it that way.

“Please? If you can straighten your hair, then…”

Hermione detected a hint of a backhanded compliment there, but since she could not stand to see her friend in distress, she went along with it for the moment. “What do you want, then?” she asked soothingly.

Harry swallowed and frowned while he searched for the right words. His shyness gave way to courage as his hands felt the back pocket of his jeans. “I want my hair… sexily tousled.”

That description was definitely familiar. After filing it in row 8, block 3, tier 5 of her wondrously organized mind and securing it with the overexcited neurons afterwards, she took Harry’s hand.

“Let’s go to my room and see what we can do.”

“I thought the Head Girl’s room was off limits to boys, just like all the girls' dormitories.” Harry was bewildered.

“Trust me. It will open for you.” Hermione led him up the stairs and opened the door of her room.

For a second, Harry felt a force pushing him away. Then, he felt it narrowing and smoothing into an invisible band that caressed his skin like fine silk. He sighed happily at the touch and watched in awe as a shadow appeared in its place—its reddish tint becoming more visible as the sensation continued its spiral down his body. It ended as a beautiful pink ribbon that feathered against his hips for one brief moment, reminding Harry of Madame Malkin’s measuring tapes. The air around it tapered into a whistle of approval before the length segmented into dozens of rainbow-shaded butterflies, which flapped their wings and disappeared into the air.

“In you go.” Hermione pulled the still-mesmerized Harry into the room.

“I love magic!” Harry exclaimed. “What was that spell?”

Gaydarus,” Hermione replied. “Even the Head Girl needs certain types of advice sometimes.”

“But, I’m the one who needs help today.” The feeling of inadequacy once again surged inside Harry. If only he had not lost so many of his loved ones. His godfather could have definitely answered some of the questions he had at the moment.

“Let’s sit you down here.” Hermione saved him from wallowing further in his sorrow by beckoning him to her dressing table. “Sexily tousled, you said?”

“Uh huh.”

Hermione’s mind turned quickly. She needed to figure out a way to make Harry thoroughly undesirable to her professor and yet beautiful in his own right. Well, Malfoy seems to like Harry just fine as he is. All I need to do is make him… more so.

She realized that her silence didn’t go unnoticed by Harry, who was looking at her wide-eyed—his brilliant, green eyes innocent as those of a doe grazing peacefully in a forest.

“What she means,” the Narrator interrupted, tapping a quill impatiently on the RST scene many pages later in the script, “is that he looks like a deer in headlights.”

Hermione sighed. How could she even think of doing anything remotely terrible to her friend? She returned her focus to the job at hand.

“Is it your 'after-the-shower' look?” she asked. Harry considered for a while.

That could be it, Harry thought at first. There were many tales that involved action in the shower, but his other body parts were usually the focus after the soaping and toweling dry were done. Besides, if it was indeed his shower hair—Harry’s mind brought up the image of his reflection as he shaved after shower every day—then ‘sexily tousled’ would have meant ‘looking like a shitake mushroom.’

Harry had nothing against mushrooms (he could not do that to Neville, who would take his dislike as a personal offense), but he could not fathom how to tousle mushrooms.

Well, morels, maybe, but definitely not shitakes. He shook his head.

“Okay. What about…” Hermione frowned. “… after Quidditch games?”

Oh, that might be it. Quidditch was the theme of many stories he'd read, and Malfoy always noticed his hair when they shook hands after a game.

He nodded happily.

Hermione thought for a while and conjured some canaries. The yellow birds were overjoyed to see the apparent bounty of nesting material below them and were about to fetch some twigs before Hermione spelled them to circle right above Harry. The little wings fluttered, each like a Golden Snitch just beyond Harry’s reach, the soft winds causing his hair to lift.

Ten minutes later, Hermione spelled the birds to stop. Harry looked as though he'd been enjoying an all-Britain tour in the front row of the Knight Bus with windows wide open. “Is that what you had in mind?”

Harry checked the mirror and marveled at the unlimited imagination of fanfic writers. No one could have possibly attempted this hairstyle, he thought, striving to remember the look for later.

”I think that’s it! Now, I need to do something about my glasses.”

Hermione frowned again. “Yes, well… While wizards have potions and spells that grow bones and split souls, I’ve yet to find so much as a mention of any magic that can perform simple vision corrections.”

“Could you Transfigure my glasses into contact lenses?” he asked hopefully.

“I don’t want to wreck the prescription,” she said mostly honestly.

“All the while thinking that if Severus got a load of those gorgeous eyes unobstructed, she wouldn’t stand a chance,” the Narrator whispered to the mirror. The mirror hummed in agreement as they both gazed dreamily at the aforementioned eyes.

“Oh. What about new frames? Maybe something classy and powerful looking.” Harry was secretly relieved that the 'myopic orbs' were his to keep. After all, they seemed to be quite the darling of fan fiction writers.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Several Transfigurations and a near-realization of Hermione’s fears about the prescription later, Hermione finally resorted to changing Harry’s clunky plastic frames into gently geeky wire ones.

“Do you think these are it, then?” he asked anxiously.

“Very classy,” Hermione assured him.

“If by ‘classy’ you mean that Ben Franklin would have considered them a real fashion statement…” the Narrator said with a snort.

“Anything else?” Hermione asked, trying to be subtle about glancing impatiently at the clock.

“Clothes,” Harry said firmly. He actually had a fairly good idea in mind for this one. “I need a tight, black T-shirt.”

“Okay…” There was something really familiar about that, and Hermione would have to sit down and have a nice talk with her buzzing brain once she was done with this little project.

“You know… uh, something to show off my lean muscles—toned and hard from years of Quidditch practices,” he continued earnestly.

“Right… something that would stretch over the rippling of his biceps, triceps and all the other miscellaneous ‘ceps that he has,” the mirror said before breaking off with a nasty snicker.

“Your muscles don’t really… ripple,” Hermione whispered almost apologetically.

Harry pouted—no—frowned virily at this. “Just because they don’t bulge…” Because their contour was smooth and elegant. Right. Fluid as the magic that coursed through his veins and would cause everything around him to crash and fall at the ‘moment of release.’ Harry resolved to keep a few safety helmets handy or at least be quick with a Cushioning Charm at that much-anticipated moment.

Hermione just handed him the black T-shirt he wanted without further comment.

He put it on. “So, what do you think?” Harry felt both weirded out and reassured that his friend seemed to be ogling him. That had to be a good sign.

“The shirt’s rippling all right,” muttered Hermione. “Harry, how much do you eat every day?”

Harry ran his hand down his chest and felt the undulation under his fingertips. It was definitely very hard… True, it was his ribcage… but details, details…

“Enough.” He shrugged. Harry didn’t like people deploring how thin he was. Their worries made him angst over dead parents and dead friends and dead pets and dead many things…

Luckily, Hermione could read his various mournful expressions. She distracted him by swinging him away from the oddly squeaking mirror and smiling. “Now, are we done?”

“I just need jeans—black, very fitting, very low,” Harry chimed in, positively glowing and obsessed at the thought of the article’s effect on Draco—no, Snape—er… and everyone else.

“That’s… not fashionable,” Hermione barely suggested before she was treated to the 'sad orphan look' again.

“All right.” She gave in and Transfigured a pair of her jeans to fit her friend.

“Lower,” Harry suggested as he looked into the mirror, trying to recall how fanfic described this piece of clothing. After getting the waist level to something almost indecent, he then asked Hermione to shrink the fabric around his hips to make it cup his arse perfectly.

“You’ll have to go without pants then,” Hermione said, sounding doubtful.

Harry squirmed just at the thought of the accidents that could happen with the zipper of a pair of very tight trousers, but ever the Gryffindor, he responded with his signature courage and spelled away his pants.

Then again, he had a Slytherin side to appease as well. “On second thought, make them just a little looser.”

"Harry, you look great. Now, do you mind letting me finish getting ready? I still have my nails to do."

“Oh, right, sure. Thanks, Hermione!” He smiled brilliantly at her, ran one hand nervously through his hair (pitching it all back to exactly where it was when they started), and headed out the door—a little awkwardly owing to the unaccustomed tightness of his jeans.

Hermione stared at the closed door of her room for a long moment afterward, entranced by the memory of Harry’s departing backside.

Wait… sexily tousled hair… randomly restyled glasses… tight, black T-shirt… low-rising, arse-hugging jeans… Well, if those weren't the biggest Makeover!Harry clichés in all of slash fandom…

“Harry James Potter! You have my book!”

Snape glanced up at the clock as he paced before his desk. Seven o'clock. He only had one more hour before they would arrive for detention.

He forced himself to stop pacing. He was a former spy. He was a very talented Occlumens. So, why the hell couldn't he get these images out of his head?

Pull it together, man!

An image of Potter's pink tongue flashed through his mind, causing him to groan.

No! Not going to think about that…

Again, his mind provided an image—this time of pert, full, bare breasts. He whimpered.

“Argh,” he cried, resuming his pacing.

Clear your mind… Clear your mind…

“This is going to stop, right now,” he told himself. “You are Severus Snape, Hogwarts Potions master and terror of the dungeons. You are mean. You are cruel. You are feared. When the little swot and those two enter this room, you are going to glare, sneer, and terrify them into submission. This is your domain! Make them regret the hell they've put you through today!”

With a nod of his head, he stopped pacing and seated himself behind his desk. He closed his eyes and forced all thoughts other than his pep talk behind the black door of his mental barriers, then locked and warded the door. Opening his eyes, he felt a surge of the cruel pleasure he usually reserved for publicly ridiculing—that was, evaluating—Longbottom's assignments.

A knock on the door echoed through the empty classroom.

Snape smirked. Yes, they would pay for toying with Severus Snape. He was ready.

"Enter," he intoned in his best horror-film-ready voice.

Unfortunately for Snape, as in a horror film, what emerged from behind that door was a sight so shocking that it threatened to dismantle his entire persona.

"What the…What are you w—What are you playing at, Miss Granger?"

An increasingly familiar (and detestable) disembodied voice stepped in to complete the wrecking job with one seductive word.


“Professor, I must apologize for blowing up my cauldron earlier. It was not representative of my… skills,” Hermione said, sashaying up to the Professor's desk.

This is NOT happening. Just like that voice. One of my only tolerable students did NOT just arrive for detention dressed like an advert for the sort of personal lubricants commonly sold in Knockturn Alley. Tune it out, Severus, until you can get to Poppy and have her check you for inadvertent exposure to hallucinogens.

“I daresay it wasn’t, though it was disappointingly representative of the usual level of student achievement.” An apology wasn’t going to go very far, considering that Snape was still very much put out by the whole affair.

Severus, you will henceforth avoid words like ‘affair’ as part of your program of re-asserting self-discipline.

Hermione failed to notice Snape’s internal conflict, having tuned out after the word ‘wasn’t.’ He recognizes my academic talent even if he can only bring himself to acknowledge it indirectly!

“My skills are actually much more... satisfactory. I hope I can show you just how good they really are,” Hermione added, hoping her innuendo wasn’t too crude. After all, my Sevvie-wevvie possesses such a fine appreciation of subtlety!

"The only skill you will be demonstrating tonight, Miss Granger, is the strength of your right arm.”

Guess I don’t have to worry about being too crude! SQUEE!

“Sir! Are you asking me to—”

“Clean every one of these cauldrons without magic? Yes.”

Well, shite. Hermione flipped her hair back and crossed her arms in sulky frustration. “Wouldn’t you prefer a more… productive use of my abilities?”

“Perhaps you should have thought of using your abilities more productively earlier,” he said dryly.

Believe me, I would have liked to. “Sir, my abilities have always ensured I receive 'Outstandings' on all of my… uh… tests. Dare I endeavor to receive an… 'O' from you, Professor?”

Ah, Miss Granger and her obsession with her marks. I was beginning to wonder if I should look for evidence of Polyjuice, Snape thought with a sigh of relief. “I doubt that YOU are capable of such an achievement, Miss Granger.”

“Oh, I am quite capable of receiving many an 'O,' I assure you. But, I admit I’m rather curious as to how many ‘O’s you've been given?”

“I assure you that my academic record still exceeds yours, Miss Granger,” the professor said sternly. “Now, I believe you have a detention to serve.”

She IS talking about marks, isn't she? he thought after seeing a flash of disappointment cross her previously hopeful face.

“For someone who claims to detest dunderheads so much, I'm really beginning to think that you're their king, Professor. Honestly, you git, she's talking about org—” the Narrator started, only to be interrupted by the room's newest arrivals.

Harry skidded into the room just barely on time with Draco hot on his heels and determined to chaperone the detention. Hermione saw her opportunity slipping through her fingers.

“Sir? Professor? I saw it all happen. Harry didn’t mean to blow up Draco’s cauldron! Punish me…” Please? Pretty please? “but, please, leave them out of it.”

“You impertinent girl! If you think that arriving early to argue that walking irritant’s case will improve my disposition towards either of you, you are sorely mistaken!"

Draco stopped short in the doorway, regarding Granger with an expression usually reserved for stray dung beetles, complete with dung, camping in one's shoes. "Granger… did you run into Peeves on the way here, by any chance?"

"No," she said, sparing him a puzzled glance before refocusing on Severus.

Snape, for his part, was focusing on anything but the three students who looked suspiciously as if they were dressed for some sort of communal debauchery. He was discovering that his intimidation factor seemed to drop significantly without the aid of his piercing stare centered on the victim. "Social hour is over. All three of you, scrub!”

“I didn’t do anything to deserve this,” Draco said with a sniff. Glaciers could have scoured the cauldrons faster than he was walking towards the sponge.

“Well, not today…” Harry trailed off.

“I'm not speaking to you, Potter. You fly into jealous rages over nothing, you flirt with older men, and you generally toy with my affections. On top of that, I must insist that you stop pawning off your capital letters on me. I've made FOUR consecutive statements containing all-caps words today, and it must stop!” With his best pout, Draco added, “This is going to take a HELL of a lot of chocolate to fix!”

Fed up with subtlety, Hermione unleashed an impressive huff. “Honestly, Harry! You are completely in love with Draco, and you know it!”

“He might try telling me sometime.” Draco continued to sulk massively.

Harry glanced plaintively between the palely pretty Slytherin who wasn’t speaking to him and the darkly intriguing one who was valiantly pretending that he didn’t exist. He took a moment to have a quietly angsty crisis.

In a pained voice, Snape said, “Mr. Malfoy! Slytherins do NOT pout!” However, Draco was not to be distracted from his relationship troubles with Harry.

“Swallow your Malfoy pride, and tell him first! That's how it always works.” Hermione advised him sensibly.

Draco turned curious eyes on her. “That reminds me, Granger… I’ve been meaning to ask… Since when do you read slash?”

Hermione blushed fiercely and declined to comment—until she remembered her book. She glanced at Harry and said in a fallaciously friendly tone, “Speaking of slash… So, you finally read Hogwarts, A History? I am so proud of you!”

The Narrator piped in cheerfully to point out, “Considering Dumbledore’s relationship with Grindelwald, Hogwarts: A History probably is slash…”

I refuse to be the only person in this room who is feeling completely off-balance, Snape decided. “Incidentally, Mr. Malfoy, I thought you should know that you are unlikely to find your vitamins in any apothecary. The Deep Sublimation Potion is almost as difficult to brew as it is illegal.”

“Deep Sublimation? Someone’s been giving Malfoy ‘Sex-to-Hex’ Potion?”

“Miss Granger! Five points to—from—Gryffindor, for… being crude!” And for saying ‘sex’ when I really didn’t need to hear it!

“You mean… all these years… we could’ve?” Draco stared at Harry as the pieces fell into place with an audible click.

“It’s actually more of a clack,” one of the Editors said fussily.

“I don’t care if it’s a snap, crackle, or a pop! Let’s move on!” the Narrator complained.

Draco finally succumbed to extreme frustration and began to cry.

Harry melted into an instant wibble. “Draco? Are you… are you all right?” He tentatively put his hand on Draco’s shoulder.

Ohmygosh-he-sounds-so-concerned-and-sensitive-SQUEE! Draco’s inner fangirl made a triumphant return at the gentle touch.

“Fine time to ask, Potter,” he said rather waterily.

“Draco! Don’t get defensive! Harry is a complete sucker for ‘fragile and needy!’” the Narrator hissed—then abruptly frowned (although being invisible, no one could see it). “Is ‘waterily’ a word?”

The Editor-on-duty rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Hell if I know. It’s two A.M., and the kids are coughing. Word didn’t reject it, and that’s good enough for me.”

“I shouldn’t have to swallow my pride all the time,” Draco whispered—a little too tearily to have proper conviction.

“It’s not about pride. It’s about getting into Potter’s pants. Now, show the fanficdom why you can’t spell ‘Draco Malfoy’ without ‘Drama,’ and pour it on!” The Narrator paused and turned to the Editor-on-duty. "Do I get paid double for being a cheerleader as well?"

"Seeing as we're getting paid the square root of sod-all for doing this, sure," the Editor said.

After a moment of further wavering, Draco took a deep breath, steeled himself, and looked Harry straight in the eye.

“Oh Harry!” he whimpered, letting himself be pulled into a comforting embrace. He snuck an arm around Harry’s waist with pretended timidity and shivered vulnerably for good measure.

Hermione covered her face with her hands to hide her triumphant grin. If Harry was back on the right track, all that remained was for her to swoop in and claim her Potions master.

Snape took advantage of her distraction to sneak up silently behind Hermione. He heard her emit the softest sound of glee. “Is there something you wish to share, Miss Granger?”

“Yes! All of—Er, uh… that is—no, sir.”

The Narrator, getting bored, yelled, “At what point does all this UST get RST’d?”

"I'm working on it!" Hermione hissed back.

Picking up a feather duster, she addressed the professor. “Sir? Is it all right if I just dust these bookshelves?” She dropped the duster. “Oops,” she said sweetly, pointedly bending over to reach down for it… slowly.

Harry peered over Draco’s shoulder in confusion. “Wait… I thought Hermione was going to seduce Snape with wit and charm?” Wasn’t that how she did it in all those stories where Snape/Hermione was a secondary pairing?

“Cue an appearance by Crude!Draco,” the Narrator said, looking boredly at the clock on the wall (which read: ‘For fuck’s sake, RST already!’).

“He's being intractable, so she's decided to make a tactical switch to seducing him with tits and arse. It saves time.” Belatedly, Draco remembered that he was supposed to be sweet and vulnerable. He followed it up with a longing look into Harry’s eyes.

Tits and arse appeared to be a rather effective tactic as Snape’s black eyes went comically wide at the sight. Snape shook his head to clear it, oblivious to the byplay between his favorite student and his perpetual thorn-in-the-side. It didn’t help. He remained somewhat overwhelmed by the chit's uncharacteristically provocative behavior. “Miss Granger, I believe I told you to clean those cauldrons. The ones stacked in front of my desk!”

The byplay went unnoticed by Draco as well. He was lost in Harry’s eyes like a bit of fruit entombed in green jell-o. Mmm… So warm… So—well, not soft—his arms are a bit scrawny, but still…

Draco’s eyes acquired a soft, faraway look, reminding Harry of vacuuming the dust bunnies in the Dursley household without the cough. Harry worried his lip with his teeth in confusion. What if Snape was the wrong snarky Slytherin to fixate on after all?

After all, only another Seeker could truly be expected to fully understand and empathize with his intense discomfort around Bludgers.

“One way to find out,” he muttered. "Let's get clear of Snape and the… um… Bludgers." Harry dragged a startled but compliant Draco into a conveniently located broom closet.

"Bludgers?" Draco followed Harry's quick glance towards Hermione. "Oh. Right." They shuddered in unison and yanked the closet door shut.

Hermione continued her seduction efforts with the same dogged persistence she normally reserved for house-elf liberation and for equal rights for cute, sexy werewolves. “Don't you know the effect your ire has on me, sir?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, cursing internally for not having made a closer study of Lavender’s technique.

“Excuse me, Miss Granger?” Snape felt a strong urge… to check if she had something in her eye.

The oddly placed broom closet rattled a little ominously.

“I told you I had many… abilities, sir. They would be quite wasted cleaning those cauldrons. Why don't I do something else? I could help you with anything you need…”

There was a loud gasp from the closet. Whether it was in response to Hermione’s brazenness or to the actual activities therein was unclear.

Snape was reduced to blinking again. “Anything, Miss Granger?”

Soft moaning sounds issued from the closet, which might have included comments like, ‘Mind the clasp,’ and, ‘Is that really in the shape of a snake?’ but they went unnoticed.

“As long as you talk to me while I do it, yes, I will do anything to—for you, professor!”

“Iss ssa Ssssnake… Ssss… Ssss.”

The Narrator paused in the midst of laughing to the point of stomach pain to ask, “Hey! Why doesn't Snape deduct points for all this outrageous behavior? Granted, he doesn't deduct that many in canon, but still—”

The Narrator was interrupted by a shriek from the closet, which rattled alarmingly.

"What is that?" Hermione puzzled, also sparing a modicum of gratitude for the fact that Draco had been keeping Harry out of her way.

The closet resounded with ‘Mmms,’ ‘Ahhs,’ and persistent hissing noises.

“Do you have a Boggart in your closet, sir?” Hermione asked.

Snape stalked over to the closet in a towering bad mood. He was unenthused about dealing with Boggarts. His occasionally took the form of Voldemort in a frilly pink dressing gown, and really, where do you go from there in terms of casting ‘Riddikulus?’ Add bunny slippers?

The closet was rocking slightly now, resonating with soft ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ sounds that were gradually gaining volume.

Snape threw open the door dramatically.

Harry promptly tumbled out—sans shirt.

“Do you mind, sir? We’re Resolving Sexual Tension here!” Draco’s eyes were positively icy to match his tone of voice.

Well, I expect it is rather chilly standing in a broom closet wearing nothing but what appears to be a silk hanky held together with string and... one of Narcissa's blouses? Snape thought in a burst of misplaced logic.

Her eyes riveted on the same place as his, Hermione said, “Professor, that's a good idea. You should try it sometime.”

Well, shite. Maybe I’m wasting my time with Severus, considering what those two look like… Oh. Right. Gay.

Draco closed the closet door angrily without accounting for the fact that Harry hadn't got back in.

“I... I... ” Harry pulled on the Slytherin tie draped over his neck, wondering where all the lovely pale skin had gone to.

Snape contemplated his instantly tented trousers with dismay. Damn. I thought I’d got those thoughts out of my system for good with Lupin at that New Year’s Eve party.

Draco reopened the door briefly to pull Harry and some random articles of clothing back in.

“See, Potter? I told you that you’d enjoy having your back scratched. Now, finish doing mine.”

Hermione once again had eyes only for her professor. She sported a cheeky grin, her brain having once again gone slightly out to lunch. Could that tent be for me?

The Narrator noted, “Despite the use of italics, Miss Granger actually spoke that last bit.”

Snape was normally peevish. Being embarrassed tended to make him livid. He considered the potential effectiveness of excessive point deduction. Well, it works for McGonagall. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for poor tactics!” he barked.

Hermione stifled a yawn. Big deal… I gain an average of a hundred points each day for Gryffindor.

Also displaying poor tactics, Harry reopened the closet door and yelled, “IT WAS FOR ME!” before shutting it again.

“A resounding slap was heard from within the much-abused piece of furniture, which was still a very curious item to keep in a Potions classroom,” said the Narrator.

“Bloody hell, save that energy for ME.”

Snape frowned at the closed door. “Ten points from Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy, for poor choice in partners. And twenty points from Gryffindor for shagging in my closet, Potter.”

The Potter in question yelled, “I disagree!” through the door.

Which was clarified by Draco grumbling, “Yeah, as we’ve yet to get to any actual shagging…”

“Shut up! Slap more!”

“Oh, and five points for the absolutely brilliant slap!” Snape turned to find Miss Granger seated in his chair.

“Sir, this is a remarkable Potions article you're reading!” Hermione said in a desperate attempt to reclaim the attention of her life's love.

For the first time ever, the professor focused on Miss Granger rather urgently. He was rather hoping to drown out the all-too-distinct murmur of, ‘Oooh… time for the rough stuff, is it?’

“Miss Granger, I am never going to get any work done in here with all that racket.” Assorted crashing noises punctuated his statement.

“Well, sir, if we made our own racket, then we could assume that we'd no longer hear theirs, right?” Hermione asked hopefully.

Before Snape could respond, they heard Draco say, “You know, it’s really about time we come out of the closet anyway.”

“May I point out the utter lack of irony in Mr. Malfoy’s tone whilst making that statement?” the Narrator asked the Editorial Staff.

“You really shouldn’t. Then again, you shouldn’t be addressing the characters directly or making snide little comments,” one of the Editors responded.

“Assist me in the Potions storeroom… Immediately!” Snape demanded before he got car—no—before Potter and Draco got carried away.

Upon receiving a look dry enough to spike martinis, Hermione hastened to follow.

Harry destroyed the closet door with uncontrolled magic, rendering the discussion of whether or not to exit the closet entirely irrelevant.

“Another twenty points, Potter, for destroying my property,” Snape said wearily, trudging to the storeroom.

Draco surveyed the wreckage, unsure whether to clutch Harry or the remains of his robe to cover himself. “Well, that’s one way to come out of the closet.”

“Good grief, find another joke, people,” the Narrator said.

Draco shrugged into his robe, grabbed Harry, and headed for the classroom door.

They could hear Snape’s commands clearly from the other room. “Granger, organize that top shelf! The ladder is over there!”

Hermione slammed the door to keep Harry and Draco the hell out of her seduction scenario.

“Well, shit,” the Narrator said, looking back and forth between the closed doors of the classroom and the storeroom in frustration. “Where am I supposed to… narrate… now?”

Author’s Notes:

Hermione primping courtesy of SeverusLovesUs.

Harry in search of advice courtesy of Potteresque_ire.

Snape’s vain yet valiant attempt to get In Character courtesy of snapemylove.

Draco's, the Narrator’s (and Editors’) relative lack of courtesy by dracontia.

No one will admit to having written the so-called 'ff.net excerpt' that Hermione reads.

The “You can’t spell Draco Malfoy without ‘Drama’” line comes from an LJ icon. I have no idea whose LJ icon, so if it’s yours, give us a holler so we can properly credit you!

Everything else resulted from the waves of chaos generated by the four aforementioned miscreants chatting together. Except the icon, which, as we have pointed out, came from nursedarry,

Up next: To heck with the outline—let’s just screw someone already.

Links to the rest of the fic
Chapter 1: Broomsticks… Bludgers… Both?
Chapter 2: Covering All the Hoops
Chapter 3: Something Vaguely Quidditch Related
Chapter 4: On the Scoreboard!
This Epilogue Does Not Suck


( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
Sep. 6th, 2009 04:49 pm (UTC)
'Ho!Mione Makeover Challenge.'

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