Humor Slash
Multiple Eras
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire
Published: 07/15/2003
Updated: 07/15/2003
Words: 5,557
Chapters: 1
Hits: 18,065

Ooh Something Shiny


Story Summary:
Stalked through the dungeons by a wild beanbag chair, Draco and Harry have no choice but to come to terms with their differences and work together to survive. Featuring sharp, pointy rocks of doom, rabid furniture, drunken mops, and kisses in broom closets. Harry/Draco.

Author's Note:
This was written for the Armchair furniture challenge, in which I was forced to write a fic centering around a beanbag chair. This was the rather strang result.

Ooh Something Shiny

By Cinnamon

Harry did not like small, dark, enclosed spaces, and it was not a throwback to his childhood of sleeping in a closet. He’d rather liked the closet, because it was his and because he knew what was in every shadow, every corner. He did not like strange, small, dark, enclosed spaces because there was no telling what sort of creatures would be skulking about in the shadows waiting to pounce on him.

It was just his luck then that his detention (earned in Potions when Malfoy knocked Harry’s worktable over and Harry had been blamed for it) was being served with Filch, who had abandoned him in the lower level dungeons with a mop and a bucket and had cheerfully informed him that he’d be back to fetch him in five hour’s time. The lower dungeons were even further down than the Slytherin dungeons, mostly abandoned (save for the rats and shadow monsters, of course, not to mention copious amounts of dust bunnies), and Harry was only given a single lantern to light the large cell he was to start with. Armed with his mop and soapy bucket, he had morosely begun mopping up years worth of filth, mentally listing all the woeful reasons why he did not like small, dark, enclosed spaces (he had just begun moping about the creatures skulking about waiting to pounce on him, ironically enough), when Draco Malfoy had sauntered into the cell. He was carrying a large beanbag chair.

“Hello, Potter!” he said in far too chipper a tone. Dropping the beanbag chair in the center of the cell, he promptly sprawled on it, looking for all the world like a regal Prince of Dust Bunnies lazily watching his peasants and peons work around him.

“What,” Harry snarled, “are you doing here?”

Malfoy smiled in a smug, satisfied sort of way. “I couldn’t very well leave you down here alone now, could I, Potter? After all, the dungeons are Slytherin territory, surely you don’t expect we’d trust you to do a good job cleaning them without proper supervision.”

“You can keep your filthy dungeons,” Harry growled. “I wouldn’t be here had you not knocked my table over in Potions.”

“Yes, well, we are all victims of circumstance, aren’t we, Potter?” Malfoy sang. Hissing, Harry took a threatening step towards him, and Malfoy held up a cautionary hand. “Careful now, you lay one hand on me and I’ll scream so loud that Filch’ll come running. Surely you don’t want another detention down here cleaning the dungeons…”

Harry paused, eyes narrowing. “Fine. Fine. I’ll just pretend you’re not here.” He kept mopping.

“Potter?” Malfoy asked after a moment. Harry didn’t reply. “You missed a spot.”

“Bite me, Malfoy.”

“You wish, Potter.”

Laughing derisively, Harry didn’t bother to reply.

A short while passed, in which Malfoy critically watched him mop and Harry actively went about pretending Malfoy didn’t exist. “Hmm, quite good, Potter. Have you ever considered a career in cleaning up other people’s filth? You’d be quite good at it.”

“Have you ever considered a career of kissing my arse?” Harry spat sarcastically.

“Oh ho ho, going right for the jugular, are we, Potter? And for the record, no, I haven’t.” He smirked. “Why? Do you think I’d be any good at it?”

Harry didn’t reply and Malfoy reclined on his beanbag chair. It was a Slytherin-themed chair, all green and silver and patterned to look like snakeskin, and all in all, quite disgusting, really. Finally, Harry sneered and said, “You really intend to sit on that stupid chair and watch me mop all night? I would have thought you’d have better things to do.”

“You object to the chair? I would have brought an armchair, but that would have been so hard to manage on the stairs…”

“No, Malfoy, I object to your presence,” Harry said tightly.

“Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just here to observe.” He grinned smugly, enjoying Harry’s discomfort. “Do keep mopping, Potter, you’ve got a lot more dungeon to clean.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“It’s a gift.”

“So you’re just going to sit there like the fucking king of the castle while I mop around you?” Harry had to force himself not to throw his mop aside and pummel Malfoy’s snide little ferrety face.

“Quite right, Potter. Or should I say Dirty Rascal?”

“You wish.” Harry snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Aww come on now, Potter, I’m sure you could be dirty if you wanted to. In fact, you’re doing quite a good job of it now.”

Aware that he was covered in dust and cobwebs, Harry didn’t bother answering, and went back to his original tactic of pretending Malfoy wasn’t there.

“I rather like this chair, by the way. It’s from the Slytherin Common Room.”

“I’d guessed as much,” Harry replied, before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to be paying attention.

“You could apply to be Filch’s apprentice!” Malfoy suggested suddenly. “Wouldn’t that make your parents proud? Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived To Be A Janitor.” He laughed.

Harry gritted his teeth and said, “You didn’t know my parents, Malfoy, you’ve got no idea what would make them proud.”

“Aww, a pity really, because neither did you, Potter. I bet you don’t even know what would make them proud. At least I’ve got a mother and father to impress.”

“The things that would impress your mother and father are disgusting, as are you, Malfoy. Get the hell out of here.”

“I don’t think I will.” He was smirking and looking very smug. Shaking and trying desperately not to lunge on Malfoy and smash his face repeatedly into the ground, Harry fought vainly for control over his rage. It did not help that he was here because of Malfoy or that Malfoy could see his fragile control slipping and sought to see how far he could push him.

“The Weasleys are like parents to you, aren’t they, Potter? Why, I’m sure they’d be ever so proud of you should you make a living cleaning up other people’s dirt! Mum might even be convinced to hire you to work at my house! The Weasleys would love that and you’d probably even make more money than they do!”

He took a threatening step towards Malfoy and then remembered the other boy’s threat to scream if Harry so much as touched him; Harry smirked. He wouldn’t, then.

He picked up the dirty mop, turned to face Malfoy, and whispered a charm under his breath.

“What?” Malfoy asked, looking startled. He got to his feet, leaving an indent in the chair.

“Oh, nothing, Malfoy,” Harry said sweetly, even as the mop shook itself a little in his hand. Holding it over his shoulder like a javelin, Harry launched it at Malfoy.

“Oh shit! What are you —” He didn’t get to finish, because the mop, which Harry had brought to life with his charm, had attached itself to his face, leaking filthy mop water all over him and muffling his girlish screams. It was an easy charm they had learned in class a few days before, giving life-like characteristics to inanimate objects.

Harry was doubled over, laughing helplessly, when Malfoy yanked the mop off his face and tossed it aside. The confused mop scurried out of the cell.

“That was disgusting!” Malfoy growled, his hair wild and brown with filth, streaks of muddy water on his face. He spat some of the water that had gotten into his mouth out, and glared.

“Serves you right, you annoying prat,” Harry said smugly, even as he wondered how on earth he’d finish the moping now that he had no mop.

“Yeah?” Malfoy hissed, pulling out his wand. He glanced around the cell and finally pointed the wand at the beanbag chair, casting the same charm Harry had. The beanbag chair shivered a bit, its leathery skin rippling as it came to life. A rumbling growl shook it, and Harry took a step back nervously.

“Malfoy?” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Malfoy only watched smugly as two beady red eyes blinked open on the chair and, right below them in the dent Malfoy’s ass had left, a large slit of a mouth cracked open, revealing rows of shiny teeth.

The chair snarled and Harry’s eyes widened. “End the charm,” he hissed.

Malfoy laughed, but the sound of his laughter drew the monster beanbag chair’s attention, and it hopped around in a swift circle, crouched like a cat about to attack, and lunged at Malfoy. Surprised, Malfoy stumbled back, tripped over a stone in the floor, and landed on his back. The chair took that opportunity to latch onto his ankle and began gnawing furiously.

Screaming in pain and panic, Malfoy thrashed wildly, trying to kick the chair off, blood from the ragged tears in his leg just spurring the chair on.

“Shit,” Harry whispered, even as he hurried to help Malfoy get the chair off. “Calm down,” he said, grabbing the chair from behind and tugging. “You’ll only make it bite harder.”

Malfoy was in no state to listen, tears were running down his face and he was whacking the chair repeatedly with his wand and crying too hard to remember any spells.

“Play dead!” Harry snapped. “Then it’ll start eating and stop holding on and it’ll loosen its grip!”

His tone finally registered with Malfoy, and the other boy flopped weakly to the ground and stopped thrashing, going limp. His wand slipped from his hand and rolled away into the darkness.

The chair made a content noise and relaxed its grip, and Harry used that moment to grab hold of it more firmly and tear it off, flinging it across the cell. It howled, the sound abruptly cut off when it slammed against the far wall and fell to the ground, looking stunned.

“Get up, hurry,” Harry urged, grabbing Malfoy’s arm. “We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“It hurts,” Malfoy whispered, looking very pale. His trouser leg was torn and stained with blood.

“We’ll get away from the chair and I’ll charm it better, okay?”

The chair was waking up and Harry hurriedly tugged Malfoy out of the cell and down the corridor and into a cell further down. Helping Malfoy sit down carefully, he pushed the shredded trouser leg out of the way and studied the cuts.

“It’s your own fault,” he snapped, healing the wounds. “If you hadn’t brought that sodding chair to life, Malfoy…”

“You sucked a mop to my face!”

“You were being a brat!”

There was silence for a moment as Harry kept healing the wounds, and then Malfoy said woefully, “I suppose it’s rather good that I couldn’t get the armchair down here.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin a little. “If you had, I’d bet you wouldn’t have a leg left at all.”

Malfoy looked pale and shaken at that.

“You’re done. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. I’ll end the charm on the chair, now that I know you won’t bleed to death, we can —”

The chair was a shadowy hulk in the doorway, snarling and watching them with glowing eyes.

“Run,” Harry hissed, even as he raised his wand and prepared to end the charm.

The chair lunged and hit him in the chest, the sheer weight and bulkiness of it knocking Harry off his feet. His wand flew from his hand and his head smashed into the floor. Blackness came swiftly, and the last thing Harry was aware of was the damp breath of the chair on his face.


“Potter. Potter, c’mon now, don’t be stupid, wake up. Wake up. Wake up right now, Potter, or I swear —”

Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy was bending over him, looking furious. When he saw Harry was awake, he sighed with relief. “Don’t think it’s any concern for your personal safety, of course,” he said. “I just happen to think that, since you’re so much taller than me and therefore have more meat on your bones because they happen to be bigger than mine, you’ll provide an excellent cover when I make a break for the stairs.”

Harry squinted, feeling dizzy and nauseous. “What happened?” he asked in a wobbly voice.

“Chair knocked you over and you fainted.” He looked very smug. “I didn’t faint when it was chewing my leg up.”

“Shut up. I hit my head. Where is it?” He sat up, wincing at the sharp pain in his head.

“I carried you. Well, dragged you. You owe me your life.” Malfoy grinned. “Up a flight of stairs too, I dragged you.”

“Stairs?” Harry blinked. They were on a small, raised platform in what looked like a torture chamber.

“Well, not a whole flight of stairs, mind you. Just two. Chair was pretty mad. It can’t climb stairs, it hasn’t got legs.”

“Where’s my wand?”

Malfoy looked at him blankly. “In your pocket where you left it?”

“I didn’t leave it in my pocket, Malfoy! I dropped it when your stupid chair attacked me!”

“Oh. Well, that would be a problem then.” Malfoy sat down heavily beside him, glancing about. His face was filthy from dust and mop water, his hair was a wild mess, and his clothing was torn and bloody. All in all, Harry decided a moment later, Malfoy was having a worse time than he was (even if it was his fault!) so perhaps he shouldn’t be so hard on him. After all, Harry would have been eaten by a beanbag chair had Malfoy not dragged him away.

He sighed. “Listen, Malfoy, thanks for saving me from that chair.”

Malfoy glanced at him and scowled. “I couldn’t let it eat you, Potter. Do you know the havoc that would cause the digestive tract of that poor chair? When this is over, I fully expect to have my chair back, I do hope you realize this. I happen to like that chair.”

“You would. You and that blasted chair have a lot in common. You’re both crazy monsters,” Harry said dryly.

“I beg your pardon, I am most definitely not crazy!” Malfoy snapped.

“All I’m saying is that chair is acting in a very Slytherin manner. All the growling and the eating and the attacking of innocent bystanders.”

“It is not! If it were acting in a Slytherin manner it never would have dared attack me.”

“Oh you’re right,” Harry snapped. “If it was acting in a Slytherin manner it would be kissing your arse and licking your feet, like all the other Slytherins.”

Malfoy just glared. Finally, he spat, “Forgive me, Potter, had I known you were going to force me to animate my chair in self-defense, I would have snuck into the Hufflepuff common room and taken one of theirs. Then it probably would have just hopped around in circles going ‘ooh something shiny’.”

Harry tried to retain his dignity and simply glare hatefully, but the image Malfoy had conjured up in his mind made him giggle, just a little. Malfoy looked startled at the sound, and before he could comment, Harry said stiffly, “Well. Next time you’ll know better then, won’t you?”

Malfoy cocked his head a bit and studied Harry in silence, looking bewildered. Then he shook his head and looked away.

The chair came rolling into the room then, moving faster than Harry would have thought possible. Out running it was clearly not an option.

“Too bad we didn’t have a broom, we could just fly right over it,” Harry whispered.

“When’s Filch coming back to get you?”

“About four hours. And we can’t let him walk down here, the chair will eat him. Much as I don’t like him, being eaten by a beanbag chair isn’t a fitting death for anyone.”

Malfoy smirked. “Even Voldemort?”

That inspired images of Harry advancing on Voldemort whilst leading an army of carnivorous beanbag chairs. It was altogether too ludicrous a picture and he shook it out of his mind. “Shut up,” he said.

“I was just saying —”

“I don’t care what you were just saying, Malfoy. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Its got a short attention span, it’ll probably wander away in a second,” Malfoy said. “It comes back to make sure we’re still up here, then leaves again. It’s a fast bugger, too.”

“But it can’t climb stairs, right?”

“It tried, but it couldn’t hop that high.”

“Alright, so if we get up to the level above this one, we’ll be safe. How many staircases are there?”

Malfoy looked grim. “Only one. This is the lowest level, meant for keeping the most devious of students and prisoners. They didn’t want escape to be easy, did they?”


“Only ones that lead to sharp pointy rocks of doom.”

“Damn it.” Harry was thinking fast, watching the chair roll back and forth around the platform, foaming at the mouth. “This is so disturbing.”

“You didn’t see it shit little Styrofoam beans. Don’t tell me about disturbing.”

Eyes wide, Harry glanced at Malfoy, sure that the other boy had to be joking. He wasn’t, or if he was, he was doing it with an extremely straight face.

The chair, with a frustrated growl, rolled away, and Harry grabbed Malfoy’s hand. It was an incredibly instinctual gesture and, had their lives not been in jeopardy, he never would have done it, of course.

“C’mon!” he said, leaping off the platform and pulling Malfoy towards the door.

They spilled out into the corridor and the chair was waiting for them, snarling and advancing quickly, rolling so fast that Styrofoam beans were flying from its orifices.

“Shit, run!” Harry screamed, his hand nervously clenched around Malfoy’s as they fled down the hall away from the chair and the stairs and heading towards a dead end, complete with a window that led to a fall onto sharp pointy rocks of doom.

There was a small door to the right and Harry pulled it open and shoved Malfoy inside, following him in and closing the door behind him. It was a heavy wooden door and it shuttered but did not break when the chair slammed into it.

It was pitch dark inside, and Harry had landed on top of Malfoy. They both held very still while the chair smashed repeatedly into the door, and finally, when it gave up, Harry whispered shakily, “Your elbow’s digging into my back, Malfoy.”

“Th-that’s not my elbow.”

“What is it — Ohmygod, Malfoy, that’s — that’s…” He was at a loss for words, scrambling to get to his feet as quickly as he could.

“What? Oh, Potter, come on!” Malfoy snapped. “I wasn’t… it wasn’t that, either. I think it was a broom or something. We’re in a closet. A broom closet, most likely.”

They were both standing now, and the closet was so small that if they took a deep breath, their chests would touch. As it was, they were so close that they could practically hear each other’s hearts beating.

Harry didn’t like small, dark, enclosed spaces but somehow, this one wasn’t so bad.

There was something under Harry’s feet, thrashing about.

“Oh shit, what is that?” he snapped, jumping back. Unfortunately, there was no where to jump back to, and he hit a shelf, tripped, and fell to the ground, sharp pain lancing up his leg and making him scream.

“Potter? Potter! What the fuck… where…what…” He’d fallen to his knees and was searching the darkness with his hands. They fell on Harry’s face and he sighed with relief. “Oh, there you are. Are you alright?”

“My leg,” Harry whimpered. “And I’m lying on something squirmy.”

Malfoy felt about on the floor and pulled the squirmy something out from under him. “Holy crap, Potter, it’s your mop,” he said, snickering. “It’s alright, little guy, everything’ll be okay.”



“Are you comforting my mop?”

“He’s shaking! He must be — err, no. No, I’m not.” There was a whisper and a soft thump as Malfoy set the mop aside. Harry whimpered a bit, his leg throbbing, and Malfoy quickly and awkwardly patted his head. “Now now, Potter, no more of that girlish fainting of yours…”

“Bite me,” Harry gasped.

A moment later, he felt a small, almost gentle bite on his shoulder.

“What the hell?”

Malfoy snickered. “Couldn’t resist. Distracted you from your leg though, didn’t I?”

“I think it’s broken.”

Broken? You can’t have broken your leg, Potter, we’ve still got to get out of here!” Malfoy sounded panicky now, which was a good deal better than the strange biting and snickering.

“You can go and leave me here. Go get help.” It was hard, suggesting that. Especially since Malfoy was more likely to just leave him down here forever than to get help for him. But Harry didn’t think he could stand on his leg, let alone make a dash for the stairs.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so, Potter. I’m not facing that thing alone!”

“It’s your chair! You like it!”

“I’m not going, and that’s final. I’ll make you a splint with some of these mops and brooms and—”

There was a crash, and Malfoy was quick to say, “Not you, Potter’s Mop. The not living ones. Don’t worry.”



“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Shh. Don’t worry, I’ll fix your leg up. You’re just delirious from the pain is all.” Malfoy patted him on the head and then started looking for his leg in the dark, fumbling about.

“Malfoy… Malfoy… OUCH, fuck, don’t touch it!”

“Sorry. So that’s where it hurts then? Good. Hold still.”

Moaning a bit, Harry closed his eyes and whispered, “Just don’t touch me, Malfoy. It’s fine.” There was a rumbling crash on the other side of the door. The chair was back. “This is a nightmare,” Harry whimpered.

“It’s not so bad,” Malfoy said absently, searching in the dark for something to use for a splint. “Holy moly, Harry!” he cried a moment later. “Look what I found!” He sounded very excited, and Harry sighed.


“Filchy’s been holdin’ out on us! It’s a whiskey bottle. It’s got some in it, too.”

“Lovely. How does that help us now?” Harry tried sitting up but the pain was too intense and he fell back with a moan.

“Well, it helps me because alcohol is good. It helps you because it’ll help you forget that you broke your leg!”

The open bottle was suddenly at Harry’s mouth and, with the promise of blocking out the pain still echoing in his mind, he took three long swallows that went right to his head.

“Good boy,” Malfoy chirped, taking the bottle away and taking a healthy drink himself.

An hour or so later, the bottle was empty, Harry was feeling much better, and Malfoy was lying drunkenly on the floor with his head on Harry’s chest. Potter’s Mop had even indulged a bit, and was lolling happily in the corner.

“We’re gonna be stuck here forever,” Harry said.

“That’s not so bad. At least in the dark I don’t have to see your ugly face.” Malfoy patted him companionably on the stomach. He seemed quite affectionate while drunk, really. It was strange. Harry patted the top of Malfoy’s head experimentally.

“Sucks for me though,” Harry said.

“Why? Because you like looking upon my handsome face?”

He snorted. “No, because you’re no less annoying in the dark as you are in the light.”

Malfoy grunted, surprised. “Ouch, Potter. I believe you’re wittier when you’re drunk.”

“Nah, you’re just more sensitive.” He patted Malfoy’s head comfortingly and the patting evolved to running his fingers through Malfoy’s hair; Malfoy purred like a cat.

There was a thump and a snuffling sort of snort, and the mop was there suddenly, snuggling with them. It was all very weird.

“Malfoy?” Harry said, sounding almost sleepy.


“The mop is snuggling with us.”

There was a startled pause, and then, “Potter?”


“We’re snuggling?”

There was another pause. The mop made a sleepy mewling sound and fell asleep. Then Harry said, “Well, yes. A product of drunkenness and fear for our lives, I suppose.”

“Hmm. Alright. Well, if we can snuggle as a product of being drunk and afraid, can I kiss you?”

It was very abrupt, even when said in Malfoy’s soft, drunken voice, and Harry blinked. He couldn’t really think up a reply for that, so he just stayed quiet, even though he kept stroking Malfoy’s head.

“I shouldn’t have said that. My sober self is gonna hate me.” Malfoy sounded rather dejected and sad. “It was meant to be a secret.”

“Wh-What was?”

“That I wanted to kiss you, of course.”

“Kiss me.” He was simply repeating what Malfoy had said, in a stupid, stunned voice, he certainly wasn’t granting permission or anything.

“If you insist,” Malfoy said happily, rolling over and kissing Harry on the lips. How he managed to find Harry’s mouth in the darkness is anybody’s guess, but he did, and Harry was too shocked to react. It was warm and sweet and only tasted faintly of whiskey and mop water.

Malfoy was breathing heavily, nervously, when he pulled away. Harry licked his lips and said huskily, “Why the hell would you want to kiss me?”

“You always underestimate your own appeal.” Malfoy contentedly rested his head on Harry’s chest again, and sighed. Of its own accord, Harry’s hand kept stroking his head.

“Appeal?” he whispered.

“Mmm. You have very nice lips.”

“I do.” Harry was sounding stupid and stunned again. “You’ve noticed my lips?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“I thought you hadn’t.”

“Couldn’t help it. You’ve also got a fine arse.”

“… What? Ohmygod.”

Malfoy giggled. “My sober self is gonna lynch me.”

“Malfoy?” Harry asked, very softly.


“I… You have a nice arse too.”

“I know.”

“And Malfoy?”


“You taste like mop water.”

There was a pause, and then Malfoy turned his head and licked Harry’s throat. “Yeah?” he said, after a short moment in which he contemplated just what Harry tasted like. “Well you taste like dirt.”

Harry snickered and then said nervously, “Can you… will you… I’d like you to.”

“What? Potter, you’re drunk, that made no sense.”

“Kiss me again.”


This kiss was different, longer and less tentative and more about proving that, despite the moppy taste, Malfoy was still a good kisser. Which he was, Harry decided, moments later as Malfoy’s tongue slipped inside his mouth and his hands stroked Harry’s cheeks. It helped, of course, that Harry had the presence of mind to kiss him back this time, his hands slipping up around Malfoy’s shoulders, his tongue moving against Malfoy’s, his eyes closing… he sighed into the kiss and felt Malfoy smile in return.

When the kiss ended, Malfoy slipped lower, nuzzling Harry’s neck.

“We really need to get out of here,” Harry sighed.

“I wanna stay here forever,” Malfoy said contentedly.

“We can’t.”


“Because we’re drunk and kissing in a broom closet while a living mop snuggles with us. We’ve lost our minds.”

“Shh,” Malfoy whispered. “Everything’s fine.” He was stroking Harry’s arm.


“Don’t you like me?”


“What?” He was pouting now.

“You’re not thinking straight! You know I don’t like you! Just like you don’t like me! We hate each other!”

“But why?” Malfoy wailed.

“I don’t know, we just do! We can’t stop doing that just because we’re drunk and in a closet and there’s a beanbag chair trying to eat us!”

“I don’t know, I can’t think of a better time to stop doing it,” Malfoy sulked. “Besides, if we stop hating each other, that means we can kiss even when we’re not trapped in a closet! We can kiss all the time! At breakfast and dinner and lunch and Potions and in the halls and outside and —”

“You’ve thought about this too much.”

“It’s your fault.”

“How?! You’re crazy! And drunk! And my leg hurts!”

“You’re just scared,” Malfoy snapped.

“Scared? Who wouldn’t be scared? Help!” he screamed. “Someone help me, I’m trapped in a closet with a psychopath!”

“Potter. Is that really necessary?”

“Of course it’s necessary!” Harry was hyperventilating. This could not be happening. He refused to be trapped in a closet with a drunk and apparently horny Draco Malfoy who seemed intent upon driving him mad or kissing him to death.

“Oh, Potter, just stop for one sodding second, you’re giving me a headache.”

“I think that’s the mop fumes,” Harry said desperately. He tried to stand up and howled as his leg sent a shot of pain through his body.

“There you go, look what you’ve done,” Malfoy snapped. “Fine, if you’re so determined to get away from me, fine.” He started rummaging for something to make a splint with, and there was a harsh snapping noise. Potter’s Mop wailed and Harry patted it comfortingly.

“Aww shit, Malfoy,” he moaned. “You’re madness is contagious.”

“Shh.” Malfoy carefully braced pieces of the broom he’d broken on both sides of Harry’s leg, wrapping some rope he’d found around them to hold them in place. “Everything’s fine, Potter…”

“It hurts,” Harry whimpered.

“I know. I’m almost done… Right.” He stood up and then reached down, grabbing Harry’s hand and tugging him to his feet. Steadying him with one hand, Malfoy pulled one of Harry’s arms over his shoulders to help prop him up. “We’ll make a break for it. You obviously can’t stand being here with me.”

Harry flinched but didn’t reply.

“Ready? I’ll open the door, I don’t think the chair is nearby. We’ll move as fast as we can towards the stairs…”

“Go without me and get help,” Harry pleaded.

“Shut up. Ready?”

Harry nodded and Malfoy threw the door open. They hobbled out together, turning and making faltering progress down the corridor. Harry was sweating and had to keep muffling his moans against his hand, growing dizzier and more nauseous by the moment.

“Are you alright, Potter? Almost there, come on…”

The chair rolled out of a cell right behind them and Malfoy swore savagely as its beady eyes narrowed and it prepared to charge. “Hurry,” he snapped, letting go of Harry and turning to the chair.

“Malfoy, what the hell are you doing?” Harry screamed as Malfoy threw himself on top of the carnivorous chair, rolling with it. “Malfoy!”

“Get out of here. Run for the stairs!”

“You’re crazy!”

“You’ve told me that at least six times tonight alone, now get the hell out of here!”

Harry couldn’t move, however, staring in horror at Malfoy struggling with the chair. The chair was stronger, its teeth jagged and sharp. It looked almost like a giant garden gnome, without legs, and it was chewing on Malfoy’s arm…

Eyes stinging with tears, Harry tried hobbling over there to help Malfoy, but every step hurt and he fell to the ground, sobbing dryly and trying to crawl to Malfoy’s aide. It was too far, he’d never…

There was a shuffling noise and then a hiss. Harry looked up; the mop had come out of the closet and was now speeding straight at the chair. “Potter’s Mop!” Harry shouted. “Don’t —”

But it was too late. The mop was whacking the chair repeatedly, until the chair rolled off of Malfoy and started hopping after the mop, gashing its ugly teeth and snarling.

Malfoy was lying very still, bloody and limp. “Malfoy,” Harry sobbed, pulling himself across the floor towards the other boy. The mop and the beanbag chair kept fighting wildly, and Harry didn’t care. “C’mon, wake up, Malfoy. You can’t be dead. Not by a fucking beanbag chair, that’s ridiculous. Wake up. C’mon, Malfoy… don’t be stupid. Wake up…” He was crying now, shaking Malfoy helplessly.

Malfoy moaned. “Holy crap, Potter, honestly,” he said weakly. “I’m awake, I’m awake.”

Potter’s Mop struck a killing blow, and the beanbag chair howled as it tore, Styrofoam beans spilling from a jagged wound in its side. The mop was bedraggled, chewed up and cracked, but alive at least.

Groaning in pain, the chair fell over and died, a huge cloud of Styrofoam beans billowing up and raining down over them.

“I thought you were dead,” Harry whimpered, collapsing on top of Malfoy and kissing him wildly. “And it would be all your stupid fault too! You and that stupid chair!”

“Hey, I liked that chair,” Malfoy said, a bit stunned as Harry kissed him all over.

“I thought you were dead and then we’d never get to kiss all the time. At breakfast and dinner and lunch and Potions and in the halls and outside and —”

“You’ve thought about this too much,” Malfoy snickered.

“It’s your fault,” Harry growled, kissing him again.

And Malfoy was much happier being blamed for that then this whole sodding chair incident… Harry was kissing him, hugging him, seemed intent upon touching him all over. Malfoy smirked. “Careful now, Potter,” he said. “I do believe this constitutes laying one hand on me, at least.”

“Mmm,” Harry mumbled, kissing him furiously. “I wanna hear you scream so loud…”

“So loud that Filch’ll come running?”

“Hmm. Maybe not that loud…”

And they kissed and kissed in a pile of Styrofoam beans, the carcass of the dead beanbag chair a mere shadowy hulk in the distance.