All Bets Are Off

All Bets Are Off

Chapter Two

Stuff finally starts happening

Harry awoke on Sunday with a feeling of dread. Or possibly he needed to pee really, really badly.

He groped absently for whomever it was beside him - he wasn't really sure - and then, upon feeling nothing, bolted upright. He looked around madly. There really was no-one with him. He was alone. Mark the day down ladies and gentlemen: Harry Potter had woken up alone.

"They LEFT me?" Harry asked the room at large incredulously, with a fluttering gesture of complete incomprehension. "Someone LEFT me? No-one LEAVES Harry Potter!"

Then he came fully awake. And groaned.

Pillock, he thought at himself. Of course there's no-one in your bed this morning. There was no-one here last night, you great, raving, idiotic-bet-making prat. It took quite some time for Harry to come to terms with this particular situation. It was extremely unusual.

Harry swooned back against the pillows. What a bollocky way to start the day. He arose grumpily and made his way across the room to his mirror, as was his custom.

He stopped still in absolute shock. He looked awful! His green eyes were dull; his hair was tangled and tousled in a way that not even his mother could have called attractive; his cheek was marked with pillow-creases; and it was possible, for the first time in his life, that Harry Potter had a spot coming up on his chin.

"Meep..." Harry whimpered, looking from feature to feature in astonishment and terror. He grabbed his wand from his bedside table. It was going to take a lot of work to pull off a good look today.

* * * *

Ginny looked around nervously before pulling an anonymous vial from her pocket and emptying it into the glass of orange juice before her. Draco had promised that this potion would be tasteless and undetectable, so it was just a matter of getting Harry to drink it without becoming suspicious. Ginny had been elected to administer the potion for the simple reason that she, in the agonising throes of her crush on Harry, was always doing stupid things like organising his breakfast for him. Pathetic though it was, it certainly came in handy for this somewhat bizarre situation.

When Harry wandered into breakfast, he caused quite a stir. Not least because he looked even more amazing than usual in a phenomenally attractive, extremely tight pair of stone-washed, boot cut, hipster jeans that moulded to him like a second skin and could only have come from France. The jeans were topped by a white singlet with the words 'available for sexport' emblazoned on the front in Gryffindor red, under open black robes that showed off every feature of his sensational body.

Harry smirked as he surveyed the room with an imperial mien. His eyes, for some inexplicable reason, immediately sought out and met Draco Malfoy's as the other boy sat, surrounded by simpering morons at the Slytherin table. Harry was gratified to see the heat in Malfoy's gaze.

The jeans were registered as Unforgivables with the Ministry.

Harry took his customary seat at his own table between Ginny and Hermione. 'Mione was very quiet and looked like she was about to explode over some thing or another. Ginny, on the other hand, looked almost nonchalant. Harry was miffed. Shouldn't she be having some kind of aneurism? Harry was wearing The Jeans, after all. Perhaps she's still half-asleep, Harry reassured himself. She'll start passing out soon, surely.

Sniffing haughtily, Harry got seriously stuck into his Vegemite soldiers. Looking around the table between mouthfuls, he found everyone staring at him with identical anticipatory grins.

Harry supposed it was The Jeans, and continued to eat at the same rapid pace. He had to hurry through breakfast today; he needed to get up to the library and find a quiet place to think. The Cunning Plan formation had not gone well yesterday. He had, somewhat unwisely, spent the evening's valuable planning hours imbibing vast quantities of Butterbooze® with Ron and staggering to bed wearing his socks on his hands and pretending he was a hippogriff. Ron had been in an even worse state - he was convinced that a broomstick was not a necessity for the act of flight and when Harry had left him, was standing precariously on the back of an armchair, flapping his arms and making statements such as: "Watch, Harry, and witness human evolution as I conquer the barrier of gravity."

This possibly explained Ron's absence from the breakfast table this morning.

Harry picked up his juice. Everyone held their breath, even the teachers sitting up at the Staff table who had, by now, come to hear of The Bet. Hermione was actually bouncing up and down on her seat trying to hold her tongue, and squeaked with every other bounce. Ginny shot her a warning look and remained silent.

Harry, oblivious, tossed back his laced juice with gusto. Tasting it, he frowned slightly. Okay, who pissed in the OJ? he thought to himself as he started forking up poached egg.

He didn't even remotely notice the storm of whispers that his actions precipitated, and continued to eat, deeply oblivious.

That was easy, thought Ginny in surprise. If only Hermione didn't look like she was about burst and involuntarily spill the whole story to Harry. Hermione had only found out this morning about the betting system, having been snogging Ron in a disused classroom when the whole library had been alerted to The Bet. She had looked Very Disapproving when Ginny told her.

This had not, of course, stopped her from placing a bet on day nine.

Over at the Slytherin table, as Draco watched Potter swallow his juice, a superior smile crept across his face. He stood up abruptly, needing to establish the tracking system activated by Harry's veritactis potion. He stalked out of the room.

He is overcome by desire for me, Harry thought serenely, watching him depart with a hooded gaze. Only natural, I suppose.

Having finished his breakfast, Harry stood abruptly. Smiling at Ginny, he said to a bouncing Hermione, "I'm just headed up to the library, 'Mione. Will I catch you there later?"

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to open her mouth.

Ginny butted in, "Hermione and I will be up as soon as we've seen Ron. He passed out in 'Mione's bed last night after apparently swearing he had flown up the stairs. He was absolutely smashed. You know anything about that?"

"Nope," Harry lied with a suave grin, and waved at the two of them as he headed out of the Great Hall. He didn't hear the laughter that floated from the room as he sauntered up to the library.

"Books on Cunning Plans," Harry murmured to himself as he entered the musty room and looked around distastefully. "Would that be under B for books or P for plans?"

"Under D for Dickhead, I would have thought, Potter," came an amused drawl from behind him.

"Surely that would be where I'd find all of your more favoured books, Malfoy," Harry said snidely, glaring at his nemesis, who was seated at a table near the window, working on something that looked quite sinister. "Dark Magic and How To Avoid Hexing Your Own Cock Off, maybe, or: Death Eaters - Everything You Wished You Didn't Know About the Biggest Bunch of Wankers on Earth. Perhaps: Dark Wizards and Their Misbegotten Spawn of Evil, or what is most likely your personal favourite: Disgusting Rashes and How To Treat Them." Harry smirked.

Malfoy smouldered silently, and then stood up to leave.

Harry wandered over to Madame Pince. Giving her a devastating smile that made her go all aflutter and grin horribly in return, revealing yellowing teeth that would have made Mr Ed die of shame, Harry asked her, "I'm looking for books on the development of Cunning Plans. Perhaps you could be of service?"

At the word 'service', which Harry had thickened with a double helping of sexual innuendo, Madame Pince let out a girlish giggle and pointed to a row of books to her left. The shelf that held them had a sign: Books on Cunning Plans.

How convenient, Harry thought as he reached for the nearest book, which posessed the promising title: The Applied Textbook of Getting Yourself Out of the Shite. After ensuring that Malfoy was nowhere in sight, he began to read.

After only a few minutes a smile started to form on his face. In the chapter entitled 'When That Girl (Or Boy) Has You All In a Tither', he found a couple of rather interesting hexes that were designed to completely destroy all outward signs of arousal. Much better than thinking of dead kittens and potions essays, Harry thought.

The Flaccidus Hex, he read, is very useful in this sort of situation. Simply cast careful wards around the part of your anatomy that is causing you trouble, and then enunciate 'Flaccidium' whilst waving your wand with the aforementioned upright tweak and flick movement. Warning - use this hex with caution: it lasts several hours, so don't accidentally hit a limb!

Well that should take care of all outward signs of any problem, Harry thought smugly. Now, about this Cunning Plan for taking my mind off sex...Harry turned to the chapter entitled 'What To Do When You Don't Have Anything To Do' and started to read.

It looked like this book was going to become his new Bible.

"So," he said to himself. "All I need to do is talk to my teachers about extra credit work, take up a language class - Troll for Newbies should do it - start developing brand new Quidditch strategies and practice Yoga. This is going to be the easiest money I ever made," Harry announced to the empty library. He only just refrained from rubbing his hands together in glee. It was so passé.

* * * *

Three days later, Harry was a shuddering wreck. It was utterly pathetic. He was permanently aroused, even WITH the Flaccidus hex.

Some Cunning Plan that turned out to be, Harry thought bitterly.

Hell, even when he was at the absolute peak of his sex-god activities he managed to go without sex for a few days occasionally. Why was it so damn hard, now?

Because people are leaving porn mags and extremely interestingly-shaped vibrators on my bed, he thought reasonably. Because I can't walk through a hall without at least three people groping me, and I think even Professor Sprout tried to feel me up during Herbology! If you ask me, her story about there being a deadly mosquito-like creature on my crotch was highly suspect.

Harry looked down morosely at his bed, where the latest issue of Wizarding S&M lay, strategically left open at the voluptuous blonde centrefold who was winking at Harry beguilingly. She was absolutely bollock-naked except for a school tie and spike heels, and was doing seriously wicked things to a broomstick.

Harry groaned and looked away. He raised his palms to the sky. "Why?" he asked dramatically. Why are they all against me?

Looking past the magazine, he spied a small piece of paper folded in half that said, 'Read me'.

Warily, Harry picked it up and opened it. It says, 'read me', doesn't it? Harry thought sensibly to himself. What else am I supposed to do with it?

"If you want a solution to all your problems, Harry Potter, meet me on the Quidditch pitch at precisely 5pm tonight," it read. "I really do want to help you."

He was not very bright, our Harry, and even though the innocent message would have screamed "Don't do it, you moron, it's a trap!" to anyone else, he decided, seeing as how it was conveniently 4:45pm, he would head straight there. After all, the note said it wanted to help him, not shag him. What harm could a little note do, huh?

* * * *

Famous last words, Harry thought redundantly, as he observed the knots that now bound his wrists and ankles to the left-most goal post at the changeroom end of the pitch. Completely unexpectedly, as soon as he had set foot on the grass he had found himself hit by a binding hex. He was now tied up, shirtless, and spreadeagled in a most unbecoming fashion.

It was all very unfair. Stupid note, Harry thought furiously, as if it were all the note's fault. If I could catch that little sod, I'd make it pay!

Harry had been hanging here for a good half-hour, judging by the position of the sun, and still his attacker had not revealed him and/or herself - hence why Harry was reduced to blaming everything on the note. Probably Voldie back for another go, he thought miserably. Really, what a persistant sort of git he is. Never gives up. Like that fucking Duracell battery, only slightly less annoying.

Harry looked around him into the growing twilight. Bastard better hurry up, it'll be dark soon. I think I'd rather die against a crimson sunset, really. Very dramatic and symbolic and all that. Also, much better for my complexion than moonlight. White is so draining. He was growing bored, and, surprisingly, dwelling on his complexion was losing its appeal.

He was just bored enough to start chewing on the inside of his mouth for entertainment when he heard a commotion from behind him. He tried to turn around to face his attacker, but he couldn't see past the post he was tied to.

"Are you sure we should do this? I mean it's Harry! Sure he's a ponce and he's shagged every girl and boy we've ever had our eye on, but does he really deserve this?" came a voice.

It sounded suspiciously like Seamus.

"For a combined pool of seven hundred galleons?" came the reply.

That sounded quite a lot like Dean Thomas.

How odd, thought Harry. Perhaps in some nefarious scheme, Voldie has bewitched my friends with the promise of untold riches for doing his evil bidding. Silly prat, he thought with confidence. Should know that none of my friends would ever betray me like that. After all, everybody loves Harry.

"I suppose. Shall we call them then?" said the voice-that-sounded-like-Seamus.

There was no reply but a single, piercing whistle. More rustling, and then something that sounded like a couple of women singing. Then came the sound of two boys running for their lives.

Oh crap, Harry thought. Death Eaters. Girly ones that sing. Could my day get any worse?

The singing was getting closer. It was quite nice, really. Some of these Death Eaters could get a job at the Three Broomsticks on Thursday nights, Harry thought, and giggled idiotically as he imagined Lucius Malfoy draped over a piano, doing a sexy jazz number dressed in stilettos and a red sequinned gown. Well, the big girly ponce did have all that hair, Harry justified, still giggling. Hysteria, he thought to himelf. Shut up, you git.

Whomever was singing was very near indeed. Harry started to feel very odd and tingly. What on Earth...?

Suddenly his vision was filled with flowing blonde hair and bewitching blue eyes, and there were hands sliding over his half-naked body, touching him everywhere. The whole touching bit did not, however, stop them from singing, and the enchanting melody was making his mind go numb and his body ache in all sorts of interesting places.

Veela, he thought in panic, as his body started to react to the mauling. Oh sodding crap!

The tingling numbness intensified, and against his will, Harry's mouth opened and he found himself saying, "Did you hear that I've just been appointed Headmaster at Hogwarts? They told me I'd have to give up professional Quidditch, mind, but how could they not want me really? After all, I have successfully tamed every single type of magical creature on earth, as well as a few from outer space. And I just managed to save every person in the world by inventing a cure for cancer. Of course, that was just in my spare time, by day I'm really an ambassador of peace to Wizarding nations worldwide..."

The two Veela were laughing their arses off at this point, still seducing him with hands and voices. One of them slid her hand down to his trousers and started to undo his fly. Very Slowly. Oh, it was agonising alright. Absolutely sodding awful, Harry thought.

Harry found himself incapable of speech at this point, and stopped ringing his own bell. He drifted off in a peaceful sort of pleasure-filled dream where bets didn't exist and all that he needed to worry about was how to get his hands untied so he could start being of some use to the Veela that were trying to seduce him. After all, the opportunity for a menage a trois with two extremely sexy Veela didn't come along every day, not even for a Sex God like him.

Suddenly, the dream was shattered by the strange sound of loud voices and laughter coming from behind him. The Veela stopped touching him in panic, and Harry didn't know whether to be relieved or extremely Put Out. Sodding prick-teasers...

There came a loud noise that sounded suspiciously like several boys propositioning two very pretty Veela at once, and then there was a loud incantation that severed the bonds at his wrists and ankles, and he was free.

Harry stood shakily, breathing rapidly and looking extremely dishevelled with his shirt off, his pants undone and his hair looking a lot like two Veela had run their fingers through it repeatedly. Oddly enough.

Harry turned quickly away from where the Veela were now standing, grabbed his wand from where it lay on the ground, entangled in the sleeve of his stolen and discarded robes, and cast a hasty Flaccidus hex . Just in time too, for the two Veela suddenly turned away from, and insodoing revealed Harry to the crowd in front of them, who were clad in green and silver and carrying rather too many broomsticks for them to be normal students out for a walk.

Harry groaned. Oh bollocks, he thought miserably. Of course it would be the Slytherin team coming down to practice. Who better to witness my supreme humiliation? They probably set it up! Smarmy green pricks...

Harry raised his eyes and found himself looking at Draco Malfoy, who was smirking at him and holding his wand in his left hand. Obviously it was he who had released Harry from his bonds. But why? Harry thought. Surely he would want me to lose the bet, right?

Draco looked Harry up and down. Harry supposed it was fair enough. After all, you didn't see a view like this every day.

"Whassamatter, Potter?" Draco said, amused and aroused in equal measure. "Can't handle two half-bred Veela? Bit pathetic, that is."

Harry growled. "I was tied up you stupid prat!" he spat at Draco. "Of course I couldn't handle them!"

"You're obviously forgetting that you aren't allowed to handle much of anything for the next month, Potter," Draco said, enjoying himself immensely. He did, however, wish that Harry would put his clothes back on. It was dulling Draco's normally sharp wit quite significantly.

"Why did you set me free?" Harry asked in confusion. "Surely it would have benefitted your ends to have let them just take me?"

This was tricky, Draco thought. Draco didn't want Harry losing the bet today, because Draco had an enormous bet on for day twenty-nine. With the amount of money likely to be in the pool at that stage of the game, Draco stood to lose a whole hell of a lot of extra profit if Harry shot his load too early. But how to explain without arousing Harry's suspicion of the betting system he was NOT supposed to find out about?

Draco thought, and then sneered. "You don't technically lose if you don't cause the act in which you come, Potter. Whomever set this up should have known that. The truth is, Potter, that I don't want you finding any accidental release and getting away with it."

His voice became slower and more vindictive. "I want you to suffer. And to suffer, and suffer, until you can't take it anymore and you run hysterically around the school screaming 'Somebody FUCK me PLEASE!' at the top of your lungs, and insodoing show everyone what a shallow, pathetic little sex-obsessed fuckwit you are."

"I'd say pathetic is a tad extreme," Harry said numbly, watching the sudden vicious triumph suffuse Draco's face. Comprehension was finally dawning as to what he had actually taken on in making this bet. Draco didn't care about Harry having sex or not having sex. It wasn't about that at all. Draco wanted Harry to suffer and possibly to die of mortification. Draco wanted Harry to know what it felt like to be hated and despised and NOT WANTED. This was about humiliation, not about sex. And Harry was suddenly terrified.

Harry wavered. He wanted to leave, and yet he couldn't quite tear himself away from the cruel, crystalline beauty of his nemesis. Draco looked exceedingly hot in his Quidditch robes. It was quite difficult to determine whether this pissed Harry off more than it impressed him.

Draco smiled maliciously. "Alright there, Potter?" he asked. "Looks as though you can't seem to decide whether you're coming or going."

Harry remained sulkily silent.

"So which is it, Potter?" Draco asked. "We're going to practice; if you stick around you might pick up a few tips on how to actually play Quidditch. After all, 'letting Harry catch the Snitch' is getting a little old for a strategic tactic, don't you think?"

Harry glared at him, and stood straighter. "It's proved quite effective thus far though, wouldn't you say? The day the Gryffindor team needs tips from Slytherin is the day that I steal McGonagall's tartan hat and wear it and nothing else whilst running around the Quidditch pitch screaming 'Malfoy is my God'. Which, incidentally, is probably the same day that Satan gives everyone in hell a day off to have a snowball fight. It's been an absolute pleasure as always, Malfoy; I'll hopefully not see you later."

"I'd say the pleasure was all mine, Potter, but that'd be a lie. It looks like quite a lot of it was yours." Draco looked at the front of Harry's trousers and smirked. The flaccidus hex was, unfortunately, not infallible.

Harry drew himself up with dignity. "If you've finished ogling me, Malfoy..."

Draco sputtered. "I- ...was NOT - I would...NEVER...ogling my arse -..."

Harry smirked at his discomfiture and turned away, bending over Very Slowly to retrieve his clothes. He straightened up, and over his shoulder said, "It's probably quite hard to ogle one's own arse, but feel free to use mine as a substitute, Malfoy. It's much prettier anyway."

The smile remained on his face as he walked away.

Draco reluctantly found himself taking Harry up on his offer. It was a very nice arse.

* * * *

When Harry arrived at Gryffindor tower, he paused just inside the portrait door and listened with great interest to snatches of the conversation that was going on between Seamus and Dean in one corner of the common room.

"...D'you suppose they've...yet?"

"Dunno.....surely the bell....gone off if anything...happened..."

Well they didn't sound like recent additions to the Voldemort's Minions Association. But you could never be sure, Harry supposed.

"Yeah, spose you're right. What'll we do if Harry...."

Aha, Harry thought. The other shoe.

"Well, he can't kill us, right?"

Kill them, eh? Harry thought, intrigued. Kill them for what? Perhaps I should ask them, but it'll have to be in a really cunning way so they don't guess that I've been listening to their conversation...

"Kill you for what?" Harry asked, with what he thought was upmost stealth and nonchalance.

"Harry!" Dean exclaimed, eyes widening comically in surprise.

"For...um...borrowing your Firebolt without asking," Seamus squeaked, horrified - Harry had resisted the Veela?! Was he a man or machine?! There goes my three-hundred-and-fifty galleons, he thought, sharing a dejected look with Dean. Looking back at Harry, Seamus suddenly forgot his sulk and became extremely interested, because Harry had neglected both to do up his jeans, and to put his shirt back on, and Seamus was, well, Seamus.

"Did you hurt it in any way?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes at the suddenly drooling Irish boy. Well, at least they weren't Death Eaters. Still, if they had damaged his baby...he might just make them wish for the first part of that title anyway. Hehe, Harry congratulated himself. That was really clever...

"Nope, still in pristine condition Harry. It was urgent, I swear!" Seamus said earnestly, not removing his eyes from Harry's abdomen, and distracting Harry from his inner self-congratulatory monologue. Dean was nodding his head emphatically.

Harry smirked. "God dammit Seamus, will you look at me when I'm talking to you?"

Dean sniggered quietly.

Seamus' eyes didn't move. "I am looking at you Harry," he said, brogue thickening. "And a very nice view it is too."

"Oh, bloody Nora," Harry drawled. "Won't get a straight answer out of the poor boy now. I'm going to have a shower and get changed."

"Need a hand scrubbing your...er, back, Harry?" Seamus asked eagerly.

Harry pretended to deliberate. "No," he said finally, and watched a disappointed look kill and destroy the hopeful expression Seamus' face. "But you can pick out my outfit for dinner, if you like," he added generously, forgetting the previous occasions on which he had bestowed this honour upon Seamus and lived to regret it. Seamus' face lit up.

"Right you are, Harry," he said, giving a snappy salute. "How do you feel about leather?"

"Um...leather?" Harry whimpered. Oh well, for the sake of keeping the peace with Seamus...

"Sure, Neville has a pair of leather trousers you can borrow. They'll look fabulous on that arse of yours," Seamus enthused, already on his way to the dorms. Dean was killing himself laughing in his armchair.

"Crap," Harry said to Dean with Feeling.

Dean nodded sympathetically. "Yep, I'd say so."

"Leather trousers?"

"At least they'll look better on you than on Neville," Dean said with a chuckle.

Harry was forced to agree.

* * * *

Dinner was an absolute debacle.

Harry's appearance in leather trousers caused a similar reaction among the students as the day that Professor Quirrel had run in shouting about a Troll in the dungeons. There was screaming and widespread gawking, girls passing out all over the place, mouths hanging open in shock and awe, and a puddle of drool forming on the floor that was possibly going to become some kind of a worksafe hazard.

Harry surveyed it all with a kingly smirk, and then meandered over to his table with upmost confidence, straining the gasp-tight trousers to breaking point as he sat down.

He started eating his mashies contentedly as Dumbledore's voice rang out: "Silence!"

The room fell reasonably quiet, save for the panting of everyone who had been screaming, and the clicking of mouths being suddenly closed.

"What is the meaning of this?" Dumbledore asked, a twinkle in his eyes. He had missed Harry's entrance, having been engaged in a thumb war with Professor Summs, but was surprised at the pandemonium that had suddenly overtaken the dining room.

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

"It's Harry, Sir. Harry Potter," a little voice piped up from the Ravenclaw table. "He's just walked in wearing...um, l-l-leather t-trousers."

"Ah," Dumbledore said wisely.

There was a pause.

"Carry on then," he said with a slight smile, knowing that when students want to have mass hysteria over Sex Gods, they must be allowed to do so without interruption, or serious injuries can result.

There was mayhem.

In the midst of all the neck craning and eye goggling that was going on, Draco Malfoy smirked. What a view, he thought, mind skimming over the memory of Potter's entire entrance with decided interest. And then shook himself thoroughly and repeatedly. Some joker (one of his less witty personalities, no doubt) started up a taunt in the back of his mind that went something along the very mature and intelligent lines of: Draco and Harry, sitting in a tree, f.u.c.k.i.n.g!

Aaaargh! Draco thought in panic, quickly shutting up that idiot with unveiled and particularly horrifying death threats. Really, schizophrenia certainly does have multiple downsides...

What is wrong with me? he wondered. He couldn't take his eyes off Harry. Or, more specifically, off Harry's arse. It was becoming stressful. He didn't know which he wanted to do more: kill him or shag him absolutely senseless.

Harry finished his dinner in record time. He was unbelievably uncomfortable and hot in these bloody leather pants, despite all the fuss they were causing, and the chafe was becoming completely unbearable. He turned to Ron, who was feeding Hermione bits of sausage off Harry's plate as she sat on his knee.

Ew, Harry thought. So many sexual connotations I find myself unmanned by the very idea of thinking up something clever to say.

"If you've finished stuffing my meat into your girlfriend's mouth," Harry finally said with a smirk, "We've a joint Herbology poster to finish off."

Ron started and blushed scarlet. Hermione stopped chewing the meat in her mouth with a sullen expression. "Meet you in the library in ten?" Ron said, his ears so red he could stand in a street and stop traffic.

"Sure," Harry said, and stood up abruptly. "Don't forget to swallow, Mione," he added with a sweet smile in her direction. He chuckled as she choked on the sausage and spat it all over the table. The Gryffindor table cracked up.

"Or, hell, just spit if it tastes that bad," Harry laughed, and turned to walk away. "I'm sure Ron isn't the type to get offended."

There was more chaos as the trousers were again revealed. Harry started sauntering slowly down the aisle between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables, making sure everyone got a good gawk in, only to have his progress suddenly halted by a bit of a roadblock.

It was Draco Malfoy and the entire Slytherin Quidditch team, obviously spoiling for a fight. Harry noticed with a smirk that Malfoy couldn't help himself from a quick glance at Harry's trousers. When Draco's gaze again met Harry's, the other boy had the grace to colour a little. Harry gave him a barely perceptible wink, and then surveyed the Slytherins with complete non-concern.

"Oh help," he said, affecting a morose tone of voice. "Big, Scary Slytherins wanting my...blood. Hang on a second, I think I might have to sit down, my knees are giving way with fright." Harry's face was deadpan, his voice as flat as a tack and with a sharp, hard drawl that made the Slytherins look at each other with something akin to nervousness.

Harry noted without surprise that his own Quidditch team had come to stand behind him for moral support. How Gryffindors love a good fight.

"Nice trousers, Potter," Blaise Zabini smirked from Draco's left, disdain dripping from his voice.

"Thanks, Zabini," Harry said blithely. "You want to borrow them sometime? With their help, you might actually lose that V of yours someday."

Blaize glowered. "Like I'd really want to get into your trousers, Potter," he spat.

"You'd be the only one that doesn't," Harry smirked, with a sideways glance at Draco.

"Ah yes, our resident Sex God rears his ugly head. Tell me, Potter, how are things in that department? Managing to keep your hands to yourself? Or are you finding yourself a little tied up in...er, knots?" Draco drawled, amused.

Harry flushed, thinking again about the Veela incident. He wondered idly how many people knew about it. "I'm utterly blooming, thanks for asking," Harry said, determinedly ignoring the sexy smirk on Malfoy's face. "Never felt better."

"You're going to lose, Potter," Draco said quietly, suddenly serious. He was having a hard time talking and trying to refrain from looking at Harry's trousers. Multitasking is highly underrated, he thought.

"You've never beaten me in anything, Malfoy," Harry said with supreme confidence. "Can't see you starting now."

"Yeah? Well you won't be saying that when I catch the Snitch before you on Saturday, Potter," Draco said, tilting his chin up and cursing himself for sounding like a twelve year old.

"Don't be stupid, Malfoy. You couldn't beat me to the Snitch if I broke my broomstick and had to run around the pitch after it," Harry said with a scornful laugh.

Draco glared at him. "Don't be so sure, Potter." The tone of his voice was ominous.

Harry turned away. And then stopped. With a mischievous grin, he picked up a handful of mashed potato from a nearby plate and turned suddenly, lobbing it at Blaise Zabini. It hit the astounded Slytherin full in the face.

Harry took advantage of the shock factor to saunter out of the room, completely unconcerned.

"FOOD FIGHT!" someone at the Hufflepuff table shouted, and then there was food flying everywhere. Draco, to his immense annoyance, copped half a shepherd's pie to the shoulder, and turned in fury to find a grinning Ron looking angelic over at the Gryffindor table.

Draco used his wand to surreptitiously flick an arsenal of peas in the smarmy git's direction, and was gratified by the look of outrage on Ron's face as he found himself with peas stuck in all sorts of nasty places.

With a bellow of outrage, Ron started hurling everything within reach at the Slytherin table, not knowing or caring who was responsible for his sudden pea infestation, but rather enjoying the opportunity to throw food around like a ten-year old. One of his poorly aimed carrots hit a baby Ravenclaw, and then there was absolute bedlam as the Ravenclaws all weighed in and started throwing food and hexes around like confetti.

It was getting dangerous in here, Draco decided, and headed out of the great hall. In the ensuing melee, he was only stopped by one person.

It was Seamus Finnegan, with a gleam in his eye. "About that Snitch, Malfoy..." he said with a foxy grin.

"Care to put your money where your mouth is?"

Draco rolled his eyes and stalked away.