Dumbledore, Please Explain Your Twisted Logic!

Disclaimer: Etc., etc., etc.

Warning: Slash alert! I've inflicted upon you innumerable scenes of graphic sexuality, strong language, violence, and aberrant themes. But here is the first overtly strong presence of slash romance. If this somehow upsets you, or if you don't want to read paragraphs of nude description, then... well, I don't really want you to skip this chapter, but... ah, just grit your teeth and slog through it.

Chapter Thirteen

Nude Wrestling

"Well, my dear boys, isn't it about time you head over to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling madly.

Neville and Draco looked at one another. The Gryffindor's gaze nervously shifted its focus once every few seconds. The Slytherin glared steadily at Dumbledore's shoes and refused to say a word. The rest of the cast and crew had just left the Great Hall in their little groups, and the two lead actors were the only ones who remained behind.

"You need copies of the script, I see," Dumbledore said. "It seems like you left them in your dormitories this time, just as I thought you would."

"Yeah," Neville mumbled shamefully as he scuffed slowly at the ground with his toe. Draco just continued glaring.

"Not to worry, my dears, not to worry at all," Dumbledore assured them gaily. "I have two copies of the script with me right now." He pulled out the offending volumes in question and handed one to each boy. They took them reluctantly, eyeing the tattered corners and stained white covers with distaste. "Sorry, they're a bit worn," Dumbledore explained. "They're from an older draft of the play, so expect a few line changes--but only a few! Most everything else should be the same. Now follow me."

He led them from the Great Hall and up the stairs in the Entrance Hall. On their way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the headmaster and director explained just what Draco and Neville's play practice would involve.

"I must be firm with you," Dumbledore said sagely, as if it was a sacrifice on his part. "For the past two weeks you two have refused to allow the spark of any onstage chemistry between your characters. Master Malfoy, you've been delivering your lines in monotone since the moment I cast you. Master Longbottom, I sometimes doubt you even know Master Malfoy exists, because you haven't once made eye contact with him in any of your mutual scenes. It is very harmful to the production, and I find myself in the sad position in which I must put a stop to it--resolutely and without hesitation."

Draco and Neville didn't say anything. They just listened as Dumbledore prattled on, a sluggish dread awakening in their stomachs.

"I will be locking you in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom," Dumbledore said as if he did this to students every day. "I've also sent for two portraits to watch over you, one with whom each of you are familiar."

Draco and Neville didn't bother to ask which portraits were babysitting them. They merely shot Dumbledore a baleful glance and then turned their gazes towards the floor.

Dumbledore chose to interpret this as the question he was expecting. "It will be Phineas Nigellus and the Fat Lady who will oversee your practice. Master Malfoy, I'm sure you know the former--he's your deceased relative. And it is obvious that you, Master Longbottom, already know the latter, as you forget her password every time she changes it."

Still no reaction from the apathetic actors. Dumbledore pressed onward with his summary. "Phineas Nigellus and the Fat Lady will be occupying a portrait of Gilderoy Lockhart that he inadvertently left behind in your Second Year. They will observe your practice and make sure that you perform with the level of enthusiasm appropriate for this play. If you fail to meet their expectations, they will make you repeat your scenes until you get it right. You will not be allowed to leave the room until you have completed every scene that includes the two of you together."

By this time they had reached the Defense Against Dark Arts classroom. Dumbledore pushed them through the door and into the center of the room, where the desks had been cleared away to allow for plenty of practice space. Framed over the teacher's desk was a portrait of Gilderoy Lockhart, who was complaining loudly as Phineas Nigellus usurped his gilded chair and allowed the Fat Lady to take a seat. The chair groaned ominously in protest.

"Hey, that obese lady is going to destroy my majestic throne!" the artistic rendering of Lockhart whined. "I've spent the last ten years on that throne, and I don't want it ruined just yet!"

"That's not a throne," Phineas sneered. "It's a bloody chair that's barely fit for a Slytherin to sit in. Now shut your hole and let us get this over with. Dumbledore, you owe me."

"Of course, Phineas," Dumbledore called from the door. He blew the portrait a kiss and said, "Thank you, and thank you, too, Fat Lady! Be good, Gilderoy. You too, Masters Malfoy and Longbottom. Practice well! Etceteras, etceteras!"

And he twirled elaborately and danced out the door, slamming it behind him. For fifteen seconds or so Draco and Neville heard him cast a series of depressingly complicated spells that locked the door from the outside and kept it locked. When his footsteps finally receded down the hall, neither student even tried to open the door, for there was no point in wasting time on the impossible.

"So..." Neville shrugged his shoulders and held up the copy of his script. "What do you say that we--?"

"Let's get through this as quickly as possible," Draco interrupted caustically. "I fucking hate Dumbledore right now."

The Fat Lady let out a theatrical gasp as she called, "I'm telling Dumbledore what you said, young man!"

"Oh yeah?" Draco whirled around to yell at the portrait, his fists balled by his side. "Then at the same time tell him I said he's a cock-gnawing clithead, and that I'd rather fuck a werewolf in its bony arse than even look at his face! And lose some weight, you fat pig, you make me sick!"

The Fat Lady leaned back regally in Lockhart's chair and eyed Draco with a haughty eye. "I am proud of my fat," she said austerely. "In my day, obesity was a sign of prosperity." As she said this, she fingered a large diamond ring that adorned the meaty ring finger on her left hand.

Draco seethed, knowing he had no comeback. So he jerked his head towards Neville and growled ferociously, "Let's... get this... the fuck... over with!"

He sounded so incensed that Neville was convinced he'd start throwing Death Eater curses at any second. Malfoy had never officially joined sides during the war, but it was no secret that he had learned a lot from his father, and Neville still braced himself every time Draco Malfoy gathered a temper. Calling his own training into play, the pale Gryffindor boy took a few deep breaths and mentally summoned a few defense spells to mind while he pulled out his copy of the script.

"You start out, Act I, Scene i," Neville said. Draco obeyed, though with a hard glare that assured everyone that he was doing it of his own free will and not on Neville's orders.

GRYFF:

Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,

When all the little babies made last fall

Inside the thrusts of love are born with pain!

The cries of--

"Start over," Phineas Nigellus interrupted him. "Really, Draco, your acting is reprehensible. Can't you deliver at least one line with expression?"

Draco snarled mutinously at Phineas, but the deceased man had a far more imposing presence than the Fat Lady, so the young Slytherin kept his silence and started over:

GRYFF:

Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,

When all the little babies--

"Start over," Phineas said again. "Still not good enough."

GRYFF:

Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,

When all the little babies made last fall

Inside the--

"Draco Malfoy, what does it take for you to put some expression into your lines?" Phineas cried in exasperation. "Let your voice boom throughout the entire classroom! Act brave like a Gryffindor, and express yourself as if nobody else's opinion mattered!"

"So now you're the director?" Draco muttered furiously.

"What's that, young Malfoy?" Phineas barked curtly.

"Nothing," Draco sneered. "Now stop interrupting me and let me get this line right..."

GRYFF:

Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,

When all the little babies made last fall

Inside the thrusts of love are born with pain!

The cries of labor reach a fever pitch

As babies squirt out, bloodied, on the earth--

The bunnies, kitties, puppies, and the fawns--

And then their mothers lick them with their tongues

Until the mess is gone. And then they snap

Th' umbilical cord and eat it up, along

With the placenta. And bravo! Brava,

Bravissimo, bravissima, new life!

"Better," Phineas conceded reluctantly.

"It still needs some work," the Fat Lady criticized, "but it's getting there. Now it's your turn, Neville."

"Oh boy, what fun this is!" Lockhart squealed, his earlier indignation forgotten. "I've always wanted to be in a play. If I hadn't spent my life fighting Dark creatures, I would have become an award-winning actor."

"Yeah," Neville said sarcastically. "And I'm sure your acting would have been just as good as your magic."

"But of course!" Lockhart beamed, the jibe flying completely over his head.

The practice continued in this grating manner for quite some time. After half an hour of repeating his lines three or four times, Draco finally seemed to get a hold of his character. For the first time in the past two weeks he was pouring passion into his lines, and Neville was responding. It was as simple as that. Draco wondered why Dumbledore had bothered to lock them in the room in the first place: The headmaster should have taken charge during one of the practices and used his charismatic personality to force them to act. It would have fallen together.

But no, Dumbledore just had to work out an elaborate plan that involved a great deal of theatrics in order to do something as simple as this! What was the old man's problem, anyway? Did he trust Draco and Neville so little that he saw it necessary to lock them in?

At Act III, scene v, however, the entire meaning of Dumbledore's wretched histrionics became clear.

The scene started innocently enough. Gryffindor and Slytherin were in the library alone, having sent away the librarian and his lover to complete an errand in London (at that time, Hogsmeade was merely a quiet hamlet and not enough of a commercial center to warrant any major amount of shopping). The two Founders talked seriously about life and love, and afterwards they briefly reprised one of the earlier musical numbers. Neville was really getting into the spirit of things. When Draco had finally begun acting--truly acting, not just going through the motions like before--the Gryffindor boy had responded with an eagerness amounting to hunger. He latched his gaze to Malfoy's every move, then responded as innately as if he was Slytherin himself. Draco found this heartening in terms of the play's potential success, but at the same time it was slightly unnerving.

In the final draft of The Quadrangle--the draft with which they'd been practicing for the past two weeks--the scene ended with the reprise. However, in this draft, it continued:

SLYTH:

You know, sometimes I feel as if my soul

Apollyon bides his time within its core.

I want to strike at anyone who's near,

And make them feel my wrath in its whole sum.

GRYFF:

Turn not your anger to the undeserving,

But take it out on me instead. I'm game

Unto a fight which you might bring to me.

Divert your anger not through war, but sport!

SLYTH: [sullenly]

What, then, do you suggest?

GRYFF:

A wrestling match.

A man-to-man, a one-on-one, you, me,

And nothing, I mean nothing, in between.

SLYTH: [eyes wide]

You mean...?

GRYFF: [measured and slow]

You can't well do real wrestling in shirts

And cloaks and leather britches, can you now?

[SLYTHERIN and GRYFFINDOR stand up and clear away a space between the shelves. Then they--]

"OH, FUCK, NO!!" This came from Draco Malfoy, who, upon reading the next line, promptly threw his script to the ground in a fury.

Neville gaped at the line as well, his eyes as wide as Dobby's and his face slowly gathering a sheen of sweat. He licked his lips and read the line aloud:

[--they, uh, strip. They wrestle for approximately three minutes.]

"Fucking cockhead!" Draco's tongue rolled bitterly around the thick swearwords. "Cunt-arse idiot fucking Dumbledore!"

"We gotta do it," Neville whispered. His eyes shone with fear, which upset Draco even more, especially since it wasn't all born of repugnance. A little light shone in Neville's face that implied that he might actually--no, it couldn't be!

"Fucking Merlin! Fucking rape! Fucking Mudblood! Fucking, fucking Dumbledore!" Draco pronounced the headmaster's name as if it was the worst word of the lot. "Crazy coozing cunnying coot!"

"Swearing won't help a thing," Neville said softly, his voice trembling. "We have to do this, or we'll never get out of this room."

"THEN LET'S DIE IN HERE!" Draco shrieked. "I'd rather fucking die than wrestle naked with you!" He stormed over to the portrait, where the three occupants grinned smugly at Neville and Draco. Reining in the volume on his voice, he said with a quivering calmness, "Tell Dumbledore he deserves to die, and if he had ever been worthy enough to attract a wife and bear children, I would cast Imperio on him and make him rape and torture them to death.

Neville heard this and immediately recalled to mind every single method Harry had taught him in overcoming the Imperius curse. He was distracted, however, by an undeniable thrill of pleasure at the idea of Malfoy holding him in complete control under the curse and forcing him to do acts that Neville would be way too shy to try otherwise.

"If you say so," Phineas said, grinning wryly. "It still won't change the fact that you have to wrestle naked with Master Longbottom."

"FUCK!" Draco bawled at him. "SHUT THE HELL UP!" And he whirled around to face Neville, who automatically took two or four steps backwards. For a moment they stared at each other in an acutely uncomfortable silence. Then suddenly Draco dived at Neville, who squealed aloud, whipped out his wand, and tripped backwards.

But all Draco did was snatch up his copy of The Quadrangle. He flipped open to the wrestling scene and reread the fateful stage prompt. "It only says we have to strip!" he cried. "We don't actually have to get naked." He whipped off his cloak and threw it towards the corner of the room. It fluttered silently to the ground.

"No," Phineas said slowly, as if he were talking to three-year-olds, "you do have to get naked. Wrestling matches in those times were carried out in the buff."

"I don't believe you," Draco replied, way too quickly to sound convincing. "I don't fucking believe you're telling me the truth. You just want to torture us."

"No, I'm just trying to get you to stop being a whiny child and do your role properly," Phineas corrected him irritably. "I promised Dumbledore I'd make you complete each scene properly, and I always keep my word."

"Go ask Dumbledore, then!" Draco said frantically. "Go ask him if we can just wrestle with our shirts off or something!"

"I shouldn't have to," Phineas sighed, studying his fingernails. "We're in charge of you, and you should obey what we say. Besides, the charms on the door will not unlock until you successfully finish every scene in that script to completion."

"But this scene isn't even in the final play," Draco cried. "Right, Neville?"

"It's not," Neville conceded, his voice trembling nervously, "but it doesn't matter what's in the final play. The spells apply to this draft, and there's nothing we can do about it." Draco found his lack of argument appalling. It was like he actually wanted to do this.

"I'll go ask Dumbledore," the Fat Lady said, "if it'll finish this argument any quicker." And she walked out of the frame.

For a few minutes everyone in the room waited nervously. Draco prayed to every single higher power he could bring to mind, pleading that Dumbledore let them skip the scene, or at least let them wrestle only partially nude. He shot quick glances at Neville, Phineas, and Gilderoy, whose nerves seemed built more on expectancy than dread, and he didn't want to know what any of them were thinking.

Then the Fat Lady returned. "He said wrestle completely naked," she announced without preamble, sounding way too joyful. She sat quickly in the chair and waited for Draco and Neville to resume the scene.

Neville shrugged and returned to the middle of the room, where he let his cloak slip form his shoulders. "Gotta do what we gotta do," he murmured softly, his fingers trembling. His voice might have suggested uncontrollable sorrow, but his eyes expressed a repressed titillation. Draco was beyond disturbed.

Okay, so I see people naked all the time, Draco told himself. Girls and boys. And heaven knows I go after Euan Abercrombie in a way that should be illegal. But this is fucking Chrissakes Neville! A bloody Gryffindor, and a dimwitted one at that. I don't care how well he did in the last battle, he still fails in Transfiguration, and he has the worst tan ever. I don't care if he's burned off his baby fat, he'll still look like a piece of chalk to me.

Neville slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and Draco's determination to hate this wrestling match hit an obstacle. Yes, the Longbottom boy was almost as pale as Voldemort, but all that training for the last battle (something the entire D.A. went through) had given him some impressive muscles--muscle, Draco saw, that he had maintained since Voldemort's defeat last summer.

Draco removed his shirt. His skin was pale like Neville's, but it was lustrous and creamy, smooth to the touch and fortified with plenty of skin-building lotions that gave it a permanent sheen. Each groove caught the light in a way that made Draco distinctly proud of his own body. He could spend hours gazing at himself and never tire of it, so beautiful was he.

Neville removed his shoes and socks. Then he unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and slid them slowly down his legs. He stepped out of them and stood before Draco in his underwear. The blond Slytherin had expected him to be wearing some unimpressive undergarments, maybe baggy white boxers or tighty whities that didn't quite fit, but once again Neville surprised him: He was clad in form-fitting black briefs that were lowcut and flattering to his form.

"Whoo! Take it all off!" This bawdy cheer came from the Fat Lady, whose hands bunched unconsciously at her skirts in anticipation.

"Don't look at us, pedophile!" Draco cried, creeped out.

"You're of age," she replied, too excited to sound condescending. "So there's nothing wrong with it. I feel no guilt."

Draco glared at her and turned to Phineas. "Then don't you look, you gross old man! Or are you gay?"

Phineas raised his eyebrows coolly and sniffed. "In my day, men saw other men naked all the time. It did not mean we were homosexual. We did not automatically equate nudity with sexuality as you youths foolishly do nowadays."

Shot down once again, Draco turned to glare at Lockhart, whose face grinned eagerly at him. The former professor shrugged and replied, "I am gay. Certainly the hair curlers told you that much?"

"Fuck," Draco swore for what seemed like the millionth time in the past hour. He turned back to Neville and stepped out of his trousers as well. Then, exchanging a mutual look filled with both dread and anticipation, they removed their underwear simultaneously.

When Neville straightened his body, Draco fully expected his hands to fly over his penis to protect his modesty. But for the third time in the past five minutes Neville surprised him by standing with his legs slightly open and his hands by his side, allowing Draco a full view.

He was entirely justified in doing so. Draco's eyes traveled involuntarily and indecently towards the organ in question, and even when he fought his utmost he couldn't keep his eyebrows from jutting towards his hairline. "Wow, Longbottom, you're big!" he breathed before he could stop himself.

Neville blushed and said, his voice cracking as it tried to push above a whisper, "You, too."

Once upon a time Draco had overheard a First Year girl from Slytherin telling her little friends that male bodies were gross. "They're so bumpy, and they have hair in all sorts of weird places!" she had complained. Draco had shaken his head and laughed quietly to himself. As it was, he found the male body attractive for the very reason the girl had found it unattractive. As he gazed at Neville's body, he worshipped the square cut of the boy's shaven jaw, which ran into the short neck with its bobbing Adam's apple. From the collarbone Draco gazed lovingly at the chest, pectorals stretched and knotted, the nipples dark and defined. A sculpted line of hair trickled down his abdomen, which was healthily defined in a six-pack that would have qualified Neville to be a model if he ever cared to try. His arms didn't bulge with barely contained brawn, but rather the biceps strung themselves lithely over the bone, where they dipped smoothly into forearms, which in turn connected seamlessly to the wrists and hands. Draco thought he could spend an age just watching Neville pivot the wristbone as he flexed his arms and admired his muscles.

Now for the lower body. Draco determined the sexiness of the foot by the quality of the little toe. He hated the feet that had been squished inside their shoes too long, causing the little toe to grow directly against the others, plastered grossly to the edge of the foot with only a sliver of a toenail. Neville's toe was not like this. It was shaped properly in a dimpled arc with a healthy nail on the end, an entity as separate from the fourth toe as the fourth was from the middle and the middle from the first. The rest of Neville's leg was just as sexy. Draco had often imagined that Neville's legs would possess the quality of pasty dough, not flabby, but merely a sickly smooth line that would dip inward at the knees. He was, once again, wrong. Neville's calves bulged boldly from the back of his leg, and Draco saw every line in his thigh where the muscles parted and converged. This was not a leg of dough, but one that had been exercised and disciplined into the shape of an iron Adonis.

Draco's evaluation of Neville ended at the unavoidable place: In the middle. He allowed his gaze to linger momentarily on the outward protrusion of the hips and the inward dip of the waist, but he inevitably ended up looking directly at Neville's crowning glory, the organ that he had kept privy until now.

There were no words to describe it. It was big. It had hair. It had veins. Two testicles hung beneath it, suspended by the scrotum. How unworthy those descriptions were! How scientific, how woefully lacking in artistry! Draco thought he liked the female form more than the male form, but if there was one thing that would change his mind, it was Neville. It blew him away how such an unassuming person could look so unexciting on the outside but be hiding such a body!

This evaluation, while long in the form of words, took an expert like Draco a mere few seconds to complete by sight. He was sorely tempted to tell Neville to turn around so he could inspect him from behind, but he held his tongue.

By the sight of Neville's bulging eyes and parted lips, it was obvious he felt the same wonder over Draco's body. They both had to bite their tongues to hold back a sigh of utter rapture. The Fat Lady had no such inhibitions, so she sighed for them. Actually, it was more of a squeal. Lockhart squirmed pleasurably, but Phineas, pokerfaced, didn't move a muscle.

Then, in an unspoken agreement, the wrestling began. Neville knelt in the starting position, and Draco put an arm around the tensing muscles of his chest while nestling Neville's back into the curves of his stomach. For a moment they hovered in place, both filmed in sweat and sliding fractionally against one another. Draco was aware, with an intensity bordering on pain, of the way his flaccid penis brushed against the invisible hairs that lined the small of Neville's back.

Neville then sprung into action. He rolled out from under Draco and hurled himself over the Slytherin's back, his abdominals contorting against Draco's shoulder blades. His bare arm hooked around the blond's thin neck, the elbow jutting into his chest with such a perfect symmetry that Draco wasn't sure whether it was the beauty of the arm or the arm itself that knocked the breath out of him. The Slytherin suddenly realized that he really wasn't a match for the Gryffindor in terms of technique--Harry Potter had taught the D.A. physical combat as well as magical, while Draco had always relied on his wand. However, Draco had his own exercising routine, so while he didn't know any real wrestling moves, he did have enough brute strength to delay Neville's victory. He employed this strength by bucking Neville forcefully off his back. The Gryffindor boy landed on the hard floor with a little grunt, but rolled out of the fall and got to his feet, crouching low.

The two boys circled each other briefly before they lunged simultaneously, their chests meeting with a firm smack. Their arms entwined around each other's shoulders, the ridges in their abdomen fitted neatly around each other, and their manhood frotted. It took all of Draco's strength to keep Neville from pushing him to the ground, and it took all of Neville's strength to keep Draco from turning the tide in his favor.

The wrestling continued like this for some time. At first Draco was visually aware of every move they made. When Neville rolled away from him, he saw the young man's flash of pale muscle. He saw the sweat that collected in the triangles of his chest and back. He saw, with a tug to his gut, Neville's penis as it flapped boldly against his thigh, then against his stomach. It still swayed curtly, even after he found a solid footing with his body low to the ground, his legs locked in a crouch and his back frozen in an arc. In his peripheral vision Draco saw his own body, also pale and tense. It coiled and uncoiled with his every move, accompanied by waves of perspiration. He even caught sight of his own penis as it gyrated with his lunges and rolls, and then hung heavily during his crouches.

But as their conflict continued, the close contact sent Draco into such a sensual overload that he couldn't place the images with the movements any longer. He now only knew the action by its touch. He felt the slippery grappling caused by their sweat. He felt the pain in his knees and elbows where they had chafed against the floor, but it didn't bother him. Quite the contrary, his bruises and scrapes spiked his awareness and left him feeling energized. He also knew every dip and hill of Neville's body as his own body connected to it. He knew intimately the beating of Neville's heart against his left breast, coupled with the beating of Neville's fist against the back of his legs near the buttocks. He knew the pocket between his bicep and armpit that deepened when his limbs bent backwards in an effort to push Draco off of him. Most acutely, he felt the movement of his penis against Neville, and of Neville's penis against him. He felt their frenzied dancing during the lunges and rolls, then their fluid sliding during the moments of sweaty grappling. However sexualized this realization was, it made it no less real, and no less worthy of his attention.

Almost as acute was the agonizing stitch in Draco's stomach, compounding by the beating of his overexcited heart. When he had woken up this morning, he had been mentally reviewing for his Potions test. Never would he have dreamed, even idly, that he would wrestle naked with Neville--and enjoy it!--before he went to sleep. But here he was, doing exactly that, and it was by far the most titillating experience Draco had ever had.

While Neville had the upper hand for most of the time, Draco executed one brilliant move that sent Neville to the floor, flat on his stomach. Draco sat firmly on his back, just above the curves of his buttocks, and held the Gryffindor's wrists to the ground. He spread his legs around Neville's waist, unable to properly process the indescribable relish in the muscles of his butt as they gripped tightly to his adversary's bare back. He leaned gracefully down to Neville's ear and whispered heavily, "I win."

Then he rolled off of Neville and onto the floor. Neville rolled beside him, both face up with their arms spread-eagled and their shoulders touching. Draco's penis was at half-mast, and Neville's was at three-quarters. They were out of breath but still full of a boundless energy that couldn't be expended by a mere three minutes of wrestling. Draco felt his blood hot under his skin, begging for another round against the boy that had granted him such untamable stamina.

"Wow," Neville whispered so softly that only Draco heard him. He turned his head towards the blond Slytherin, trying to catch his gaze. Draco turned his own head, and for a moment they stared into each other's eyes, their chests rising and falling rapidly.

Then Phineas had to ruin the moment by saying, "Master Malfoy, your last line--I win--that wasn't in the script. What Gryffindor actually says is: I think an angel gave you unto me/ As a friend that most men only dream to have."

But Draco and Neville weren't listening. They didn't see Phineas's reproving glare, nor the Fat Lady as she fanned herself, nor Gilderoy Lockhart as he kneaded his hands against his clothed crotch. Everything else seemed unimportant compared to what just happened. In fact, they didn't even feel like finishing their play practice. So what if Dumbledore didn't let them out and they had to spend the rest of the night together? For now, together was exactly where they wanted to be.

A/N: When I was a wee tyke in 7^th grade, I had to do wrestling in gym class. Of course I hated it. Thankfully, it was a really small class, and I am a really small person (in terms of weight, that is), and the only other person small enough to wrestle me was my twin brother. So we got to wrestle each other the entire time, and we didn't have to grapple with any of the other sweaty boys in our class. Thank the Lord for small favors.

As I'm sure some of you have already figured out, this chapter owes a great deal to D. H. Lawrence's nude wrestling scene in Women in Love. I have alluded to and disclaimed the thing close to a million times already, but I might as well do it one more time. Ha, I've probably made you run away with the idea that the entire novel is homoeroticism, but it's really not. That's really only a small subplot amidst the rest of a story that's just as engaging.

Thanks again to my beta Lisa725, who's been a great help all along the way. And thank you also to those who have reviewed. And if you're planning to review, I'll thank you in advance.