Harry Potter Live and Uncut

CHAPTER TWO: NEVER HUMP A HUFFLEPUFF

Draco Malfoy was perched upon a desk in the Defence Against Dark Arts classroom, swinging a long leg and reading aloud from the Daily Prophet. A gathering of entranced Slytherins sat at his feet, generally sneering, guffawing, and slobbering in the case of Crabbe, Goyle, and Millicent Bulstrode. Other students stood by closely, intrigued. Draco looked up as Harry and Ron entered, but was obviously too busy enjoying himself to bother with any obscenities at the moment.

"For the newcomers," Draco quipped, "I am currently reading from today's edition of the Daily Prophet, Opinion Section. The title of today's human interest story reads 'Hufflepuffs: Indeed the Rejects of Hogwarts and the Wizarding World: Ministry Official Inquiry Confirms'. "

The Slytherins at Draco's feet ooohhh-ed dramatically, and Harry and Ron took their seats.

"When the Hogwart's Founders formed their houses, it seemed it all began on a first-in, best-dressed basis," states Corni Callos from the Ministry's latest development, The Department of Radical Rejects and Lingering Losers: Squibs Need Not Apply. "Slytherin took the sly, Gryffindor the brave, Ravenclaw the intellectuals. But Helga Hufflepuff is rumoured to have been quite the loser, a maniac pineapple collector and whatnot - I'm sure we've all heard the stories - and designed a house for rejects just like herself."

Crabbe and Goyle snorted with laughter, several lumps of some sort of sticky substance landing on Draco's hippogriff hide loafers.

"Furthermore," he continued, "The outputs of the Hufflepuff house in recent years have done nothing to quell these rumours. Cedric Diggory, due to his clumsiness and distinct lack of wits, got himself frazzled by You-Know-Who himself three years ago. It has been suggested that the late Diggory welcomed the sudden death, due to his acute depression, which transpired after the Swedish Mountain Goat Incident. It has also been suggested that when these beloved goats became brunch for Hogwarts' oldest resident, the Giant Squid, Diggory cried like a girl."

"Malfoy's such a wanker," Ron muttered to Harry. "Bloody egomaniac prat."

"He does have a point, though," Harry replied.

"Right again, skipper," agreed Ron, settling himself further into his seat and sighing with ease.

"Hufflepuff's House Ghost is also a laughing matter. This immensely obese thirteenth century friar was known to consume nuns during lent, and reportedly, the Cardinal's ridiculous hat, which he promptly threw up all over Rasputin, the rakish Russian sorcerer..."

"Bwa ha ha!" roared Ron, slapping his thigh, "That's a good one!"

"...Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has refused to comment. Although derivatives of the Hufflepuff house are no immediate threat to the wizarding community, please be advised to scrap all Hufflepuff connections from your Christmas card circuit, for as the age-old prophecy states, 'It takes a loser to know a loser'."

Draco sniggered, scrunching the newspaper into a tight little ball, took aim, and chucked it at Lavender Brown. She shrieked in protest as it hit her square in the nose, and also batted her eyelashes at the world record rate. Picking up the balled-up paper from where it had rolled under the desk, she let out a wimpy little yelp as she leapt up like a rather queer gazelle and thrust the ball back in Draco's general direction. Of course, Lavender's aim being quite questionable, it landed with a plunk on Millicent Bulstrode's fat neck, who promptly sat on poor Lavender in retaliation.

"Bunch of sodding morons, those Hufflepuffs," Draco snorted. "I always said they were good for nothing. Nothing except for possibly lavatory cleaning..."

"Or for Slytherin's Servants Who Spot Snot-Soiled Snozzes," Pansy Parkinson chirped.

"Or for ballet understudies for Boredway's production of Flight of the Thestrals," added Ron.

"Good one, Weasley," smirked Draco. "Sometimes, just sometimes, you rise above the pathetic standards sired by your pitiful forefathers and spout a rather fine Slytherinesque insult."

"Bugger off, Malfoy," Ron retorted.

"Just stating the facts, Freckled Fart. Consider yourself complimented."

"In that case," Ron grumbled reluctantly, "I extend my thanks."

Draco acknowledged this customary exchange with a slight nod of his head. If the Malfoys stood by one principle alone, that was manners. He ran a hand through his shorn white hair and grinned rather satanically at Ron.

"Well, don't just sit there gawping at me like an extinct spotted codfish. I'm waiting," he sneered.

"Erm...just-look-at-that-tosser-Justin-Finch-Fletchley-getting-himself-all-petrified-by a-teensy-basilisk-only-a-Hufflepuff-could-manage-that-what-a-loser?" Ron spluttered.

"Helga Hufflepuff couldn't even get laid if she were a golden goose egg!" was Draco's comeback insult.

"Ernie Macmillan is a try-hard Ravenclaw who pretends it takes him thirteen hours to memorise a two-step potion, when in reality, it takes him thirty," suggested Ron.

"That was a piss poor effort, Weasley," sniped Draco. "Listen and learn. All Hufflepuffs have inter-house sex due to the vast spread of Duh-I'm-A-Twattish-Twit venereal disease that all Hufflepuffs are born with, its usual symptoms appearing every full moon in the form of green boils surrounding the rectum area."

"Ewwwww!" squealed Parvarti, delighted. "Do they really?" She promptly decided she'd benefit greatly from calling off next week's date with Kevin Whitby. Perhaps Draco Malfoy could be persuaded into accompanying her to Hogsmeade, with a little detour to the Astronomy Tower on the journey back...

"The school board only passed Cho Chang last year out of pity, because she bored them stupid with how many pretty shapes she could cry onto the desktops!" proclaimed Ron triumphantly.

"Excuse me," came a voice from the doorway, "but I was never in Hufflepuff. The correct house would be Ravenclaw."

Everybody stared as Cho Chang slammed the door shut behind her, and stood before the class, hands on her hips. She wore a knee-length brown skirt, a crisp white shirt with large cuffs and collar, and her black hair hung in a slippery sheet down to her waist. She tapped one foot impatiently, strapped into dark leather boots. Draco himself found his breath intake a little heavier than usual. Surely she hadn't been that good looking last year...oh well, he now knew one lucky girl that was about to take a very promising trip to the broom closet with him...

"Get your facts straight, Weasley," said Draco, recovering, "obviously her little waterworks plan got her no where. Back to repeat seventh year, Chang?"

"Oh, shut up, you disgusting little prat," snapped Cho. "Five minutes of seeing your effeminate face is enough to make me vomit up ten days' breakfast."

The Gryffindors burst into laughter as the Slytherins curled their lips at Cho and bared their teeth, much like a host of provoked Kneazles.

"You'd have to be vomiting up breakfasts to keep that figure," retorted Draco, unmoved. "Consider this a contribution to your sex life. And many more coming, I assure you." He sniggered to Crabbe and Goyle, who were poking him in the shoulder encouragingly. "So shut your face before I do it for you, Hufflepuff."

"For the last time, I'm not a Hufflepuff!"

"Yes, you are!" piped up Ron, glowering at Cho. He'd never quite forgiven her for how she strung along poor Harry in fifth year, always moaning and complaining and bawling into her coffee. She was, to him, the prime example of Weak Annoying Female. So that meant Hufflepuff was the home for her.

"I'm not, Ronald Weasley!"

"It's common knowledge that Hufflepuffs usually take about three years to pass their NEWTs," Draco was telling Pansy Parkinson conversationally.

"Obviously in denial, eh Chang?" Ron mocked.

"For the last time, I am not in Hufflepuff!" Cho shouted, her voice beginning to waver.

Ron regarded her with suspicious, narrowed eyes. "And how," he demanded, "would you know?"

"I think I would know what house I am in!"

Cho's screech brought the entire class to a halt. Draco, who was about to lick one side of his thumb (he considered this a sexy pick-up move, particularly when done while the object of your fancy sits opposite you, watching), was caught off guard, and promptly shoved his thumb in his mouth, sucking on it in sulkily.

"It's true," said Harry, looking up at Cho for the first time and pushing the long hair off his forehead, "she's a Ravenclaw."

The room was silent. Cho took this opportunity to collect herself. "Well, then, let's begin. My name is Professor Chang, and I'll be your substitute Defence Against Dark Arts teacher while Remus Lupin is indisposed."

"What the hell are you talking about, woman?" Ron demanded.

"Hufflepuffs are always so delusional," stated Draco, matter-of-factly. "Prone to flights of fancy. Ideas above their station."

"Bring it up with Dumbledore, Carrot Head," growled Professor Chang. "And another word out of you, Master Malfoy, you overgrown Barbie doll, and I'll have you in doily-stitching detention faster than you can kiss your own bum."

Gazing in satisfaction at the gob-smacked expressions of shock registering around the room, Cho preened herself and grinned. "But before we begin, fifty points from Gryffindor, and for Slytherin--"

"How dare you!" screamed Draco. "I'm going to have you out of here faster than your friend, the Fat Friar, could eat his own head!"

"AND," bellowed Cho, drowning out his words, "one hundred and fifty points from Slytherin!"

"You've just given up your chances to score with me, Chang. Although I'll be damned before I catch your genetic venereal disease..."

"AND," sang Professor Chang, suddenly cheery, "one month detention for Master Malfoy. I do hope you're not allergic to bales of pink yak yarn." Cho grinned at Harry, who had been staring at her in some form of absent awe. "And before I forget, one hundred points to Hufflepuff."

Draco Malfoy himself was too clever to say anything smart at that moment.

"See?" Cho said, striding very sleekly to where he sat, his eyes spitting out daggers of hate, "the little waterworks plan worked very well indeed."

+++

"I have just," said Ginny, plonking her books down on the floor of the Great Hall, where they moaned out in stroppy little voices, "had the worst lesson ever."

"Ever?" quipped Ron.

"Ever," confirmed Ginny. Her Ancient Runes textbook creaked disapproval of its misuse so loudly that Ginny felt obligated to step on it. "Defence against Dark Arts."

Harry's eyes seemed to immediately light up. Ginny took special notice of this and scowled. "She's quite a girl," he muttered.

"You weren't saying that last year, Harry, when she was snotting all over your new Christmas jumper," Ron reminded him.

"I know," said Harry.

"What was she wailing about like a banshee for?"

Harry's voice was low-key. "Her goldfish Popsy got eaten by Trevor."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Hardly world-crisis material."

"What I would like to know," interrupted Ginny, quite rudely, "is how an eighteen year old graduate can be placed in a professor's role, particularly for Defence Against Dark Arts? The darkest thing she'd probably ever seen would be a dementor in a thong..."

"Or an enraged pineapple," added Ron. "She's probably just a trainee, Dumbledore would have put her on because she wants to teach something one day, and Defence is the only availability..."

"She's an apprentice Auror for the Ministry of Magic," Harry stated softly. "She had the highest grade score in last year's NEWTs for Defence Against Dark Arts, and one prerequisite for her apprenticeship is that she complete two hundred hours of Defence teaching. She got her taste for it from Dumbledore's Army. Remember?"

"Yes," piped Ginny and Ron in unison.

Ginny was distracted when Draco Malfoy waltzed past the Gryffindor table, sporting a large button that flashed in green writing: Say no to venereal disease. Then, in red, Never snog a Hufflepuff. She blinked twice, perplexed.

"Hi, lads!" Seamus Finnigan chirruped, plonking himself down and shoving his mouth full of roast beef, "sthum teacher ve got fhere. Goof-lookin too, tolf Maffoy to fod off..." Say no to boily bums, declared Seamus' personal button, Never hump a Hufflepuff.

Ginny glared at Cho, whose fork was dangling delicately over her plate as she turned, mid-bite to giggle with Professor Snape. Snape, apparently delighted with himself at some terribly witty repartee, flicked his oily locks in a pure Ginny imitation. "Buggering whore," Ginny grumbled under her breath.

"What?" said Harry.

"Erm...bugger being poor." Harry stared at her, and she started to sweat a little under her collar. "Poor, as in me. Ginny. Ginny Weasley. No money."

"No need to rub it in!" Ron wailed, incensed.

"Right..."said Harry, staring at her.

Neville Longbottom, Suddenly Stickable-less, smiled shyly. "She's fantastic. Really knows her stuff. She told me," he broke off to chuckle to himself, "she told me I looked dashing."

"Well, you do," offered Ron.

"You think so?"

"Without a doubt," said Ron warmly.

After everyone had eaten, Dumbledore shuffled in his seat at the head of the hall and rose. Draco snickered, and began to bang his fists on the table, demanding, "Spee-eech! Spee-eech! Spee-eech!"

The rest of the Slytherins caught on, and soon enough, the entire hall was chanting as Dumbledore took the stage. Holding up his hands for silence, he smiled wryly, and spoke. "Good evening, boys and girls. I trust this excellent meal, was once more, to your satisfaction."

A cheer of appreciation from the Hufflepuff house (half of them, after all, being overweight). "Just a few notices before you run off to your separate dormitories. As some of you may have noticed, third, sixth and seventh years to be precise, we have a new substitute Defence Against Dark Arts teacher, Professor Chang."

Wolf-whistles from the boys, glares from the girls, booing from the Slytherins and intense yaying from the Hufflepuffs erupted.

"We are all very well aware of Professor Lupin's condition, so once a month, Professor Chang will be filling Remus' shoes for one week. Some of you will remember Miss Chang," Cho tossed her head as Dumbledore continued, "from her days here at Hogwarts." At this, Ginny glowered at her new professor like a savage pincushion on heat.

"I encourage all of you to open your minds to her, and there will be no end to what you will learn from her experience."

The occupants of the Great Hall applauded politely, except, of course, for seventh year Slytherins. As Cho kissed her hand to her audience, the kisses sprang from her hand, and gurgled and swirled throughout the air, to be grabbed by second-year boys, and to rest on the cheeks of the Hufflepuff house. As one lonely little kiss cautiously ventured by the Slytherin table, Draco crushed it with its foot. It sighed, a musical heartbreaking sigh, as it exploded into dust.

One particularly large and wet kiss had attached itself to Harry's mouth, and Ginny was certain he was smothering to death. However, she refused to come to his aid, after all, if he was so entranced by the silly bint, then he could have her.

"Which brings me to a matter of a most delicate nature," Dumbledore interrupted her thoughts. "Many of you may have read or heard of a particular article featured in today's Daily Prophet. There are many concerns regarded the - oh! Tee hee hee HAW!" Dumbledore snorted, fanning his hands about and giggling to himself, swanning about like a boggart doing the rhumba. At last, one of Cho's kisses escaped from the long tresses of his beard. Inevitably, it decided its mission in life was to land smack bam somewhere down Harry's trousers. Ginny was not impressed.

"As I was saying," said Dumbledore, "there are concerns regarding the content of the article, which, sadly to say, investigates the students, past and present, of one of our houses. There is a vast miscalculation in the evidence presented in the article, and my personal apologies go out to the students of Hufflepuff."

Ernie Macmillan nodded his head pompously, looking up from his notes on a two-step potion.

"Rita Skeeter has never been a reputable journalist, and I have sent a personal rebuttal to the Daily Prophet, which will be printed in tomorrow's edition. But I reveal this to you now, as I feel, those of Hufflepuff and those of other houses, that you have an undisputed right to the truth. And the truth is..."

Professor Dumbledore paused, as instincts told him, for dramatic effect, and enjoyed the mass of boggled eyes that opened before him.

"The symptoms of the Duh-I'm-A-Twattish-Twit venereal disease are not green boils on the rectum area, no indeed. The boils are in fact yellow. Goodnight students, and please exit the hall in an orderly fashion."

+++

Harry Potter wandered blindly from the Hall, heading for his dormitory. It had been an eventful day, the return of Cho, the confirmation of everyone's suspicions regarding Hufflepuff, Ron's strange new oestrogen burst...yet it all hadn't mattered. The events of the night before, the soul-flooding emptiness of his discovery, that one moment when he saw the world for what it was, and what he saw was Truth. But now, the moment was over, and he could no longer remember. All he knew was that Hermione was gone.

Lost in dark thoughts, Harry hardly noticed Ron trotting faithfully behind him, or Ginny's wide eyes watching him in pure lust. Through his hazy vision, Harry could barely make out red and green blinking lights, before running head-first into Draco Malfoy.

"Watch it, Malfoy," snarled Ron, helping Harry off the floor, who was rubbing his forehead and moaning.

Draco scrambled to his feet, readjusting his long green cloak. ("I just adore the way it swishes!" he had proclaimed to Crabbe just moments before. "The swishier the cloak, the more chicks you pull, I always say.") He eyed Ron scornfully, mentally comparing cloaks, of course.

"Bugger off, Weasley, you sickening load of tadpole tripe." He nimbly swept past Ron, heading for a corridor, when Harry blocked his path.

All went silent as the two exchanged an icy glare. Harry stared at his archenemy, and a wave of something indescribable shot through him like cancerous lightening. His stomach churned, his head throbbed and his eyes pierced not into Draco's gaze, but deep into his mind. In response, Draco turned a sickening shade of blue. His eyes broke their contact, and the moment shattered. Breath tore out of his lungs, searing them like a stabbing weapon. He fumbled with his cloak that seemed to now be hindering his movement, and stumbled away.

"That Malfoy's been looking a bit off lately," observed Ron.

"A bit peaky," piped in Ginny, "obviously not eating his greens."

Harry said nothing, blustering away through the throng of students. Ron and Ginny stared dismally after him.

"That was odd, wasn't it?" stated Ginny. "I thought Harry would have knocked him out."

"I thought Draco would have knocked him out," said Ron, "or at least showered him with lyrical insults. Come to think of it, Draco hasn't seemed to be bothered baiting Harry as of late. Maybe he's found himself a new target to play with."

"Ron, you're such a blockhead!" wailed Ginny. "They're obviously avoiding each other! They haven't said a word to each other since That Day."

Ron's forehead furrowed in concentration. It was true. The pranks, the barbs, the direct insults between Harry and Malfoy had completely vanished since the fall of the Dark Lord. It was if they'd finally come to terms with each other's existences, and learned to accept their differences. Ron could think of no other reasonable explanation, other than...

"They're waiting," said Ginny. "Both of them. They are biding their time, conserving their energy, and waiting."

"For what?" enquired Ron. He looked as if Ginny had just told him that cucumbers often mated with Filch's cat to create a stunning half-breed army that would soon take over the world.

Ginny sighed. "I don't know."

+++

Draco Malfoy hurled himself into his dungeon, slamming the door behind him. "Sod off, Parkinson," he screamed as a polite rapping began, moments later. "Not in the mood for a booty call tonight! And no, I don't give a flying fig about your sherbet edible undies!"

The rapping ceased, and Draco let out a sigh of relief. "Lumos," he whispered, as a dozen candles in the chilly room burst into light.

The soft light blinded him, making his eyes water. He lay spreadeagled on his bed, utterly robbed of all energy, as one hand groped under the mattress for a pack of Camel cigarettes. "The one and only thing Muggles are good for," he muttered to himself, inhaling fresh nicotine into his bloodstream, "the one and only bloody thing."

Draco Malfoy, bred amongst the unbreakable ties of his pureblood family, was the last Malfoy left on earth. His father, the ever enigmatic Lucius, had been sentenced to death by Dementor's Kiss earlier that year. And thus, the last of the Death Eaters died. Draco had two options. One: to get some slurry pregnant quick smart, or two: to kill Harry Potter. Draco spent a blissful minute fantasising about the Lucky Lady, and exactly how he'd get her up the pole (what he'd be wearing, or much preferably, what he wouldn't be wearing). However, Draco soon found the tendrils of his thoughts returning to the latter option. Kill Harry Potter. Consider it done.

Draco stretched out on his bed, his waxy skin a dark gold hue in the dim light. That Ron Weasley, he thought to himself, is a royal pain in the arse. I think I'll enjoy killing him too. And maybe his nosy sister also...

Draco promptly decided then and there that he was going to give Ginny one. One glorious night of exploring his marvellous body, that is. Ever since the Nose-Thumbing Incident, Ginny, who was once a mere freckle of annoying red dust in Draco's horizon, was now this bright, though still incredibly annoying, star. She was looking good these days, what with the piercings and the ultra-mini skirts...much better than the bookish Granger-wannabe look she'd been sporting for years. And rumours around the Quiddich pitch had it that she had an awfully interesting piercing You Know Where...

Not that Draco was particularly fussy about who he humped. Weasley wasn't the most stunning girl, but she had something, even he had to confess. He could, and in fact, had done much worse. But what the hell, he reasoned, sex is sex, and ugly sex is better than no sex. In fact, just as long as they don't have a face like Bulstrode's and an arse like a hippogriff's, they have a pretty good chance with Draco Malfoy's Wonderful Wand.

Oh, Draco interrupted himself, And no more Hufflepuffs. No boily bits on my perfectly sculpted behind, thank you.

And if this Ginny Weasley indeed had a thing going with that moron Potter, the better. How he would love to cause that self-serving prick as much pain as imaginable. A gnawing wave of hunger surged through Draco, almost knocking him breathless.

He was ravenous, his mouth watering as he thought of food. I can't now, he moaned to himself, it's much too late. Fortunately, there was still one thing that overrode food in Draco's equation...

"Pansy," Draco hissed through her shuttered door, "better don the sherbet undies. Willy Wonka is coming to town."

+++

"I thought you knew everything," Ron mocked. "My trust in you is well and truly deflated."

Ginny looked up from her Arithmancy assignment in disgust. "Oh shut up, Ron. Nobody cares what you think," she snapped.

Ron looked resigned. "Well, Neville does. Don't you Nevvy?"

Neville, who had been scribbling feverishly on a new parchment in the common room, rolled his eyes. "Yes, Ron. I care immensely."

"See?" Ron gloated. "Neville cares immensely. As I was saying -"

"For-God's-sake-Ron-can't-you-see-I'm-trying-to-study-bugger-off-and-bake-a-teacake-would-you?"

"I shan't," grumbled Ron testily. "I haven't any cinnamon."

"Meh," said Ginny. "I really don't care."

She really didn't. Once upon a time Ginny would have hung on to every word from her brother's mouth, hovering about like a shadow who hoped to be applauded for its skilled Congo dancing. But now, the tables had turned. Ever since That Day, Ginny had taken pride of place in a tight circle she never thought she'd penetrate.

Somewhere deep inside her, in that cobwebbed cellar of her soul, she was glad that Hermione was dead. She never spoke the words out loud, and the thoughts never scribed their imprints across her brain, but in certain moments, that outcast little idea exploded inside her. Moments when Harry looked to her first to laugh at his dry jokes, when Ron required advice as to wearing either his pink or blue feather boa.

Not that Hermione and Ginny had been mortal enemies. On the contrary. Ginny would go to Hermione for last minute study tips, Hermione would beg cat-sitting duties in exchange for expansive knowledge of cosmetic charmery, the two girls would flash lacy pink thongs to passing hags in Hogsmeade after too many Butterbeers. But then, when Harry, Ron and Hermione would be having one of their intense discussions, Ginny would once more be overlooked, suffered, put up with.

There is nothing greater than the pain of one used to being left out. Of having your suggestions stomped to dust, three pairs of eyes that never met yours, to have your much thought-out sentences overrode with a grunt, a laugh, or worse - a silence. Ginny was used to all three.

But no more. Hermione's death was the doorway to Ginny's rise. And now, she was every bit the person she always dreamed she would be - brash, indolent, respected and a little eccentric.

And above all, Harry knew it too. He never openly acknowledged the change in her. In fact, the morning after her Hasty But Long-time Coming Image Change, she had bounced into the common room, ready to suck up compliments. And compliments came (mostly of the "Urrrmm, very....nice, Ginny" variety, which she told herself was mere jealousy), but not from Harry. He had looked up at her from where he stretched himself out on the floor, Crookshanks curved into the concave of his belly, and said, "Be a love and polish my broomstick for me?"

Ginny was shell-shocked. It was the first comment Harry had directly instigated in her direction. As she ran to fetch her duster, her heart had raced within her. Oh, I'll polish your broomstick, Harry, she had thought naughtily, right after I bugger off that sodding homosexual cat.

"My trust," Ron was whining loudly, breaking off all pleasant thoughts of warm, snugly bellies, "my trust writhes within my soul, this trust I had for my little sister, and after one gigantic last breath, it dies, filling my soul with rot and the stench of Malfoy's morning breath!"

"Shut it, Ron," Neville snapped coldly, gathering his books from the table in one swift movement, before flouncing decidedly from the room.

Ginny shot a look at Neville's retreating back. Wow, he was looking spiffily dashing these days...

"What have I done?" Ron whispered, large doleful eyes on Neville's departure, while clasping a hand to his heart.

Ginny sighed. "What is it you want, Ron?"

"The Quiddich Cup. A ginormous fruit salad. Muggles and Wizards Cooperative Intergovernmental Alliance. Front row tickets to Flight of the Thestrals."

"Witty commentary," stated Ginny blandly, "is not your forte."

"Body piercing is not yours."

"For goodness sake, Ron, spit out what you're so desperate to talk about already!"

+++

"Alohomora," Harry breathed, and the locks of the golden door screeched and groaned. He pushed the door with the tip of his index finger, and it swung open, expecting him. He entered the chamber, waiting to see if his nightmare was true, if his muse had gone and joined the others in their eternal hunt for man flesh.

It was empty. The books and scrolls sat neatly on their shelves, untouched, coated in thick fuzzy dust. One candle lay burning, the little flame half-dead as it gobbled up the last of its wick. The moulding carpet rug stank of neglect and dampness, the corners dried and curled up like overcooked potato crisps. It looked as if no one had entered the chamber in a hundred years. It looked like it had been empty all its life.

But Harry wasn't interested in the room. It was the coffin he cared about. Long, white and sterile, like the death lilies that decorate Muggle graveyards, it lurked inside the chamber, mocking him. There was one steel padlock that prevented access, and it was shut fast with spells of an entirely different nature. Vampire magic. Magic of the living dead could only be performed by those without possession of a soul.

Involuntarily, a tremor snaked its way down Harry's spine. He approached the coffin with caution, and he knocked. Once, twice, three times.

It knocked back.

Suddenly, the lid of the coffin yawned open, the padlock grinding against itself until eventually there was nothing left of it, and there was a gaping, black hole. And the most peculiar smell.

A hand rose from the hole, a familiar, silver taloned hand with tiny half-moon crescents in each nail. Harry took the icy hand between his, and very gently, he kissed it.

He began to plead with it, his voice hoarse. "Where were you? Why did you leave me?"

+++

You have the gift, young Master Malfoy. Use it well.

Who needs a soul when already, they fell?

For you search for a journey that is not yours to take

You toy with decisions that aren't yours to make

My apprentice, my ingénue who sleeps in my bed

You bask in a body when you have not fed

Your night and your day and your soul is the same

When you find your own path, you must call my name.

Draco woke with a start. The dim dawn sunlight had begun to creep through the blinds of Pansy's room. He shielded his eyes, feeling them burning like raw coals in his head Carefully, he entangled his limbs from Pansy's, the thin layer of their combined sweat causing their bodies to slip against each other. She murmured his name.

A shudder passed through Draco as he looked down at the slumbering form of his lover. But he had more important things to think about now. That voice...

Draco whispered one word into the new day.

"Merrick..."