Harry Potter and the Brilliant Plan of Sabotage

On a clear winter night, when the crisp chill of the pending frost crawled up the stone walls surrounding Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, students of Gryffindor tower eagerly congregated in armchairs around the roaring fire, engaged in cheery activities, as Gryffindors do.

All of these congregations were careful to leave an opening in their amiable circle as a sign of inclusiveness - complete closure of the circle would suggest seclusion... exclusion, in some unfortunate cases, and Gryffindors were never exclusive.

Despite the light, buoyant atmosphere, a shadow inhibited a gray corner of the common room. The treacherous shadow in question could be described as inhibiting a dark corner, but something as sinister as - gasp - an evil corner has absolutely no place in the Gryffindor tower.

Nevertheless, the aforementioned shadow was none other than Harry Potter - the "Boy Who Lived," Resident Hero, Universal Symbol for Justice and Peace, and Promoter and Protector of Everything Innocent, Brave, Honest, and Good.

Under the pretense of doing homework (although it was obvious that he was not, if the escaped Care of Magical Creatures book scampering stealthily across the carpeted floor or the backwards-and-sideways Transfiguration sheet held in his hands weren't proof enough), Harry positively simmered in subdued rage.

He looked, all in all, like an ominous fireball of DOOM - without taking in account the brilliantly-colored Gryffindor scarf and matching pajamas he wore or the stack of smoldering Divination charts near his feet. Hermione and Ron were quite concerned about him (some Gryffindors fancy they could even hear faint train horns and Spanish bull-fighting music in the background), but an irritated Harry was none that they wanted to deal with, Gryffindor pride or no.

Drumming his fingers furiously against the wooden table, Harry glared out the window - melting a dozen snowflakes in the process and imagining Malfoy's face contorted in pain and anguish on each and every one of them. He made futile attempts to calm himself enough to create a strategic plan to sort out his predicament. Not that Harry was in any sort of a predicament - he was mad and felt like being dramatic... nevertheless.

He didn't understand. Seventh year had begun wonderfully - he and Malfoy ignored each other, and were there any encounters, both made definite attempts to avoid a confrontation. Potions class was no longer a danger to either of their lives and they had managed to brew excellent examples of potions and passed partnered exams with flying colors.

As much as Harry doesn't want to admit it, a small, masochistic part of him missed the constant banter between classes, the intensely heated glares of hatred, and the thrill of anticipation that came with expecting curses thrown at his back (CONSTANT VIGILANCE).

He will admit, however, that anything was better than the situation now. Yes, Harry has been infected with it. It being the deadly disease-slash-evil that has befallen his good and innocent being: something Harry referred to as MIS: Malfoy Irritation Syndrome.

Around one to two months after the start of the term, Harry had begun to notice the endlessly irritating habits of his Sworn Moral Enemy (SME). He couldn't help himself; his eyes were repeated drawn to Malfoy every single time Malfoy managed to something infuriating.

Just thinking about it was making Harry squirm with suppressed suicidal tendencies. He hated how Malfoy ate his pancakes in the mornings - consuming them one layer at a time instead of cutting through like any normal person would do.

He hated how Malfoy always slung his book bag onto his right shoulder - any reasonable student would argue that said shoulder would get tired every now and then and the task needed to be handed over to the left one.

He hated how a lock of platinum blonde hair fell over Malfoy's left eye. It was neither immensely difficult nor time-consuming to simply flick that piece of hair back to its proper place. What with an aching shoulder and distorted eyesight, it was a wonder how that boy ever got through a day without tripping.

Speaking of which, brought Harry to his next point: he hated how Malfoy was always so very eloquent and immaculate and graceful and... (Ick - he did not just say Malfoy was... Harry ran his hand distractedly through his hair; he dare not repeat the word). It was the MIS getting to his brain. Harry groaned in frustration.

Concentrate on the irritation. Concentrate on the irritation. Concentrate on the irritation. (Not that there was anything other than the irritation, mind you.)

Where was he? Oh, right.

And not only was Malfoy physically pristine, his studies were equally impressively organized - Harry hated how Malfoy had different colored ink for notes in each subject: black for Potions, green for Herbology, red for Astronomy, orange for Transfiguration, blue for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and so on (Harry chose to ignore the fact that it is somewhat creepy, to say the least, that he knew exactly what color Malfoy used for his notes. Fastidious observation must be a side-effect of MIS).

Of all the things that he hated about Malfoy, Harry hated how Malfoy wore his scarf the most. It was always wrapped twice around his pale neck, the ends always in perfect alignment, the green and white stripes of one side alternating exactly opposite of the stripes on the other side, and the sleazy, slimy, snaky, and very Slytherin(y) emblem on the scarf always showing right below the left side of his collar. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Harry to refrain from grabbing the ends of the scarf and choking Malfoy to death.

Since that particular realization, Harry knew that his nature had taken control once again: through years of experience, he found that rare illnesses, misfortunes, and troubles always tended to find him, being the Bearer of Evil and all.

Therefore, what he contracted must have been an extreme case of MIS, for although no one in the whole world liked Malfoy very much (because he was an insufferable git who loved to be sadistic and evil and tortured innocent people and hung their mangled bodies out to dry and... cough), the title of SME belonged to Harry, and Harry only. And no, he was not being possessive or envious in the least.

For the fifty-third time that night, Harry scowled in a very Anti-Gryffindor way. If he weren't supposed to be so gallant and brave, he would've gone whimpering to Madam Pomfrey, begging for a nice, strong memory charm that would perhaps impair his recollection so much that he would not be in his right mind (not that he was now) and therefore made incapable of taking persistent observations.

It was such a welcoming thought: the blissful emptiness that Harry was sure came with wrenching a large, useless, irksome chunk of memory out of one's head.

Whatever the case, Harry knew he needed to do something about this. Unfortunately, he was not very creative, so designing some elaborate plan to embarrass Malfoy, ruin his precious reputation, and inspire everyone to laugh him out of Hogwarts was highly improbable...

While tapping his foot (his fingers had become numb) and subconsciously re-listing the reasons of why he hated Malfoy, a brilliant epiphany dawned on Harry. He gripped the edge of his armchair and lifted his head to the dusty ceiling, eyes glowing an eerie emerald.

No more book-bags on right shoulders, no more floppy blonde hair, no more color-coordinated ink, and most of all, no more perfectly symmetrical scarves!

Harry jumped up, smirking (or rather, performing an unattractive version of Ron's pained constipated expression) as he stomp one foot firmly upon the squishy cushion of his armchair (unbalancing for a moment), and placed his other hand on his hip in a classic hero-slash-famous-statue stance.

A cackle erupted from his throat; it was a very evil cackle, if he did say so himself, even if he choked a little on the pumpkin juice that he used to salute his evil plan.

Ignoring the wary glances directed toward him, Harry skipped up to the seventh-year boys' dormitory, punctuating his dark mutterings with occasional evil chuckles and coughs. He had thought of telling his best friends about his plan, but decided against it at the last minute. Hermione would never let him go through with it, and though Ron would jump for joy at such an opportunity, he had an enigmatic urge to keep this to himself. Yes, sweet victory will be his and only his.

* * * * *

Shrouded in his invisibility cloak, Harry glowered at the cold stone wall next to a giant, silver-and-snake-framed portrait of Salazar Slytherin. He began tapping his foot almost frantically against the cold stone floor before he realized that random Slytherins would become suspicious if they heard disembodied sounds next to their common room entrance.

Harry snorted in distain. For a group of people with such acclaimed intelligence and shrewdness, they weren't very adept at hiding their secret abode: opposite the Potions classroom stretched a dark, nondescript corridor that led to a remote section of the dungeons. If that didn't represent a large, black arrow spelling "Torture Chamber Here: Mudbloods used Daily for Human Experimentation," certainly the menacing throne of Salazar Slytherin looming out of the damp wall simply radiated the Slytherin spirit. Besides, he'd seen Malfoy and his Symmetrical Scarf appear and disappear in that hallway millions of times.

As obvious as their common room entrance was, Harry couldn't seem to get inside. Several Slytherin students had managed to close the portrait before Harry entered even if he had followed about a fraction of a second behind.

Harry had thought that it was humanly impossible to slam a door so quickly, but after the third time through, he decided that there had to be better ways of getting into enemy territory than slamming his face repeatedly into Salazar Slytherin's leg... but to Harry's perception, it seemed that the portrait did not move at all. Perhaps it just sucked the students into the common room once the password had been revealed. Yes, that must be it.

He tried to catch the password, but the Slytherins leaned in so close to the portrait that he couldn't hear anything above the eerie drip-drop of some liquid further down the dark corridor. You'd think that they wouldn't mind saying the password just a little louder since they already had neon signs pointing to their entrance and all.

Apparently not. Harry scowled again and leaned dramatically against the wall, jumped back with a growl when a piece of stone jabbed painfully into his back, then flung said stone furiously into the depth of the dungeons.

Fourteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds later (which seemed like an eternity and a half), someone finally decided to grace Harry with his or her presence. Nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Harry scampered up quickly from his position on the floor. In order to guarantee that he would succeed this time, Harry plastered himself against the portrait; now he could gain entrance as well as acquire the password. Harry smiled smugly and congratulated himself, just as none other than Draco Malfoy rounded the corner.

Harry mouthed an invisible sound of frustration. Not that he dearly despised escaping this damp and eerie hallway, but why, oh why, did it have to be Malfoy, of all people? He couldn't possibly complete his plan of sabotage now that the Devil himself had returned.

Oh, well. Harry shrugged. He would simply have to survey the situation when he entered. He refused to let an hour and a half of his painful waiting and the several bruises on his sore nose go unrewarded.

Unfortunately, his seemingly calm composure and indifference did not last long. Especially in significant points in time, symptoms of MIS whirled into overdrive. As Malfoy glided toward the portrait, Harry glared at the black book-bag that hung precariously off of his right shoulder, the lock of hair that flowed in a perfect "s" shape over his left eye, and the symmetrical Slytherin scarf wrapped snugly around his neck.

Harry suppressed an angry snarl. He concentrated on the task at hand - before the night was over, these offending habits would cease to continue. Closing his eyes and taking deep, calming breaths (but remembering not to be too loud), Harry knew there was no room for error; he had to complete his plan as if his life depended on it (his sanity certainly did).

He lifted his eyelids and had a scant second to notice a flash of platinum blonde hair before Malfoy stopped scarcely an inch away from him and leaned forward.

Harry bit his tongue and swallowed a gasp as Malfoy stretched his head toward the portrait, his chin barely missing the nook of Harry's shoulder, wisps of his hair flittering over Harry's neck.

Blood pumped against his veins as his heart did a complicated form of tap dance against his ribcage. He felt as if he'd devoured a whole box of chocolate frogs that hadn't quite melted in his mouth, and said chocolate frogs were now hopping sporadically in his stomach. It came with being so close to one's SME, Harry assumed later. He couldn't very well assume now, because he was not capable of doing anything but panic and notice how Malfoy was actually not very cold at all, and how his white collar had a fine, silver lining, and how he smelt like something Harry knew but couldn't quite put a finger on and how...

Mentally shaking himself from his current train of thought, Harry held his breath and gripped the edges of the painting; Malfoy's mouth was a mere inch away from his ear as he whispered the password; Harry could feel a wave of soft, warm breath tickling his hair. He shivered involuntarily.

He caught a whiff of cinnamon just as a pale flash of something enveloped the pair. For a split second, streams of light filtered through their robes, mingling and twisting around them, before it sunk back into the painting. That was odd. Harry hoped that it didn't somehow make him a more attractive specimen for torture experimentations.

He also felt rather stupid that he had somehow missed this episode from his position beside the wall all the previous times he had tried to enter with other students. Harry shrugged mentally. He had to stay focus - there was a Malfoy very close to his vicinity.

To his immense relief (and a guilty pang of disappointment - didn't know where that came from), Malfoy retreated gracefully. The sudden cold snapped his head up; instead of a room filled with green and silver armchairs, however, Harry's eyes met the same, gray, boring stone wall he had seen just moments before.

Something was amiss. Harry glanced around and spotted Malfoy sauntering slowly back and around the corner from which he came, away from the portrait of Salazar Slytherin and out the dark corridor. Yes, the same portrait was still behind him and his hands were still gripping the silver frame.

Could the bloody git be as stupid as to mistaken his own common room? Perhaps he had forgotten his homework at the library and was going back to retrieve it? But shouldn't he still be inside since he had said the password? Maybe Malfoy had realized that Harry was there, said the password to let Harry in to sabotage his belongings, and then went back to retrieve his homework to let Harry carry out his plan without interruption.

Even in his state of confusion, Harry sensed that something wasn't consistent about that guess. He ran his hand through his hair distractedly, and after a moment of hesitation, decided to follow Malfoy.

A few steps later, Harry stopped again. He had an uneasy feeling that something was definitely different. He tapped his foot pensively against the floor. Only, the familiar tapping sound never reached his ears!

He tried it again, and yet, no sound. He stomped his foot upon the floor: not even a slight vibration. Panicking, Harry ran out into the hallway, and almost crashed headlong into Malfoy's infuriating book-bag. Apparently, sauntering and gliding took many moments longer than simply walking like normal people did.

Harry reached out and was about to yank the end of Malfoy's scarf and demand to know what had happened to him when Professor Snape's booming drawl echoed through the hallway.

"Such vulgar and filthy displays of affection are not allowed in the public hallways of this school, let alone left plaguing the entrance to my classroom! Detention tomorrow night - done separately - and if I ever have the misfortune of witnessing Prefects like you two jumping on each other like hyperactive rabbits, your badges will suffer nullification and your future as Head Boy or Head Girl is as sure as your failure in my class!"

Harry watched with detached amusement and empathy as the Hufflepuff couple scampered off, heads ducked and faces flushed, toward the Great Hall.

So he's not deaf, that much he has deduced. The question remains, why can't he hear himself?

Before he could ponder that question, the Potions professor walked swiftly in their direction. Great. Now he had to wait for an uncountable amount of time while Snape conversed with his favorite student.

To his great surprise, Snape swept right past them without even a nod of acknowledgement; it was as if he deliberately ignored them, like they were...

Invisible!

Were there anyone following the pair of SMEs, they would've seen the light-bulb flash above Harry's head and heard the heavenly music that echoed through Harry's brain. So the Slytherins were living up to their cleverness quite well, he thought grudgingly.

Harry following in awe as Malfoy weaved skillfully between groups of people, occasionally tripping a Hufflepuff and snorting condescendingly.

They continued this way for a while, and Harry found his mind wavering between glowering at Malfoy and trying to figure out what he smelt like. Not that he was... dare we say, obsessed or anything - Merlin, no! - he just liked to... monitor his enemy so that he could... er, use that information against him. Yes! He just needed to reveal and recognize Malfoy's scent so he could track it like and dog, hunt him down, and defeat him! Harry stifled a cackle.

And so went this train of thought, a-chugging along. He became so distracted (the chocolate frogs refused to melt and his stomach twisted itself in an awkward knot every time he thought about Malfoy's hair on his neck) that he almost ran into the Slytherin again, as Malfoy paused in front of a slab of plain stone wall in a corridor directly adjacent to the Transfiguration classroom.

Harry snapped out of this reverie. How strange. The Transfiguration classroom was located in the north towers, but that couldn't possibly be where the Slytherin common room was. He watched as Malfoy tapped the wall with his wand and mouthed something inaudible. Seizing this opportunity, Harry rushed forward and scuttled in behind the sliding door-slash-wall (tripping on his cloak a little and noticing how his sneakers make a crisp smacking sound against the floor) just as Malfoy flopped gracefully onto a green-cushioned armchair.

* * * * *

The Slytherin common rooms, contrary to popular belief, were quite cheery and light. In fact, other than the closed congregations and the green-and-white decorations, it was almost identical to the Gryffindor one.

A large, ceiling-high window stretched across the wall opposite the entry way, with deep, forest-green curtains tumbling in ruffles around the frame. There were white armchairs and green couches scattered before a warm, blazing fireplace, and wooden tables covered in parchment and textbooks lined the perimeter. A staircase wound from the left corner of the common room, with a small sign emblazoned "Boy's Dormitories," while a similar one on the opposite side declared "Girl's Dormitories."

If anyone had told him that the Slytherin common room looked liked as it did, any sane Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff would've shipped the aforementioned student to St. Mungos or gladly sent him or her down to the enemy headquarters and pray to Merlin that the Slytherins let said student escape with only a relatively painless set of torturing techniques. If a Slytherin had heard this, they would've most likely burned the offending student, scattered his or her ashes over Voldemort's grave, or something equally vulgar as that, for ruining the Slytherin reputation.

That's a whole different story. As of now, Harry needed to concentrate. As much as he wanted to rest his aching feet, or taste one of the cinnamon cookies, or steal a sip of someone's hot coco, or jump Malfoy, or...

Harry froze on his way to the staircase labeled "Boy's Dormitories."

What had he thou - what did he jus - what was tha - what was he thi - wha, wha? He whacked his brain a few times before it had comprehended the full impact of his treacherous thoughts. Poor Harry. This was just not his day.

He chanced a glance at Malfoy, who was lounged comfortably on a nearby green couch, a cinnamon cookie in one hand and a Transfiguration sheet in the other. Yep. Still as jumpable as a moment before.

Harry gave up even trying to reason with his malfunctioning brain. Obviously, MIS had more side-effects than he was aware of. Discovering these side-effects at this particular time was definitely not favorable where Harry's mission was concerned. Harry shook his head miserably. He figured he'd get his evil plan over with, dispose of this irritating disease, which was really much more trouble than it was worth, and then he'd sit down with his brain and have a nice long talk as to why it should never make Harry think that he wanted to jump Malfoy, or anything of the sort.

Picking up the bottom of his cloak, but careful not to reveal his feet (that would be a bit creepy... Harry would've chuckled at his own sense of humor if he were not in such a fix), Harry trudged up the staircase. First year... second year... third year... three more landings and four more sets of stairs later, Harry arrived, huffing and puffing, to the center of a circular enclosure with sets of doors lining the walls. The ceiling was glass, winding straight up until it came to a point at the very top; apparently, the seventh years had the best view in the castle - at the very top the north tower.

Like the Gryffindor students, Slytherin seventh years had separate rooms as well. Harry glanced around slowly until his eyes fell upon a set of oak doors directly to his right, with the name "Draco Malfoy" inscribed in silver. A small jade snake slithered over the expanse of the door.

Harry was about to grasp the silver handle, but with a jolt, remembered that everyone had a password, and Malfoy would never let his door open without such protection. Upon closer inspection of said door, however, Harry realized that it wasn't completely closed. Overjoyed and muttering about how fitting it was that luck had finally decided to pay him back, Harry grabbed the handle, threw opened the door, and marched confidently inside.

Upon the silver-and-green furnished bed sat Draco Malfoy, his gray eyes set in dangerous slits and his wand trained on Harry.

A million questions flashed through Harry's head, such as "how did he get here faster than me?", "what the hell am I supposed to do?", "why did destiny have to betray me now, of all times?", or "could I break that glass and jump out the window if I ran really, really fast?"

Before Harry had time to analyze even the first question, Malfoy had performed the summoning spell, and Harry felt his invisibility cloak begin to tug away from his grasp. Like any normal human being, Harry's survival skills commenced, and after letting out an impressive Indian battle cry, he gripped his cloak with all his strength and held on to it as he began to sail precariously over to Malfoy's position on the bed.

Upon seeing a half-invisible Harry Potter charging in his direction, Malfoy's eyes widened and he tried to break the spell. Harry released his invisibility cloak. Too little, too late.

The cloak floated lazily toward the window, smacked against the wall, and slid quietly down to the white, carpeted floor.

Flailing arms in an otherwise humorous style, Harry swung straight at Malfoy; his legs caught Malfoy's waist and knocking him backwards, sending them both tumbling onto the bed. With a series of indignant yelps and muffled cries, the pair had managed to extract their tangled limbs from the feathers, bed sheets, and emerald hangings. Harry tugged viciously at his head, which had somehow ended up inside a pillow; a fresh puff of feathers spewed out in the process.

Somewhere below him, Malfoy coughed violently as a few stray feathers puffed their way into Harry's face. After much frantic swatting and clawing, the feathers slowly settled and left Malfoy's once spotless room in a thick, broken layer of... fluff.

Harry was straddling Malfoy's waist, his elbows on either side of Malfoy's head, their noises almost skimming. Malfoy was seemingly splattered against the tangled green sheets upon his bed, with his arms lying lifelessly out on both sides, the wand in his right hand dangling precariously over the edge of the bed, huge pieces of feathers covering it.

For one, wide-eyed second, there was complete, utter silence save the heavy breaths that they shared. As if on cue, Harry yelped and flung himself up into a sitting position (can you even do that?) while Malfoy released a colorful string of profanities as he attempted to spit more feathers out of his mouth.

"What, in the love of Merlin, are you trying to do?!"

Harry scowled. His plan of sabotage was sabotaged, he had feathers in his mouth, and he was quite disgusted to find that he didn't mind sitting on Malfoy; he couldn't think. Harry paused to ponder (or try to ponder) the question as he let out random piqued huffs.

"Frankly," Harry scratched his head and flicked off a piece of fluff from his hair. "I'm not quite sure myself."

Malfoy raised his left perfectly-shaped eyebrow (not that his right was any less perfect, Harry added subconsciously) until it disappeared behind the lock of hair.

"You mean to tell me," Malfoy drawled, "that you had wasted all your pains in somehow finding out the Slytherin password and breaking-and-entering into enemy territory with no real purpose in mind?"

Harry was very mesmerized by the Slytherin crest beneath his fingers. He traced the snake that wound itself around the emblem, and was tempted to lean down to inspect the minute "Draco Malfoy" that had been inscribed on the tag. They think anyone would actually try to steal something like that?

You wouldn't mind, Harry's subconsciousness reminded him. It was doing that way too much, this "thinking" thing. And look where it got him.

A disdainful scoff reached his ears and he realized that Malfoy was still talking. He drew his eyes back to Malfoy's gray ones. Malfoy's eyebrow, Harry noticed, had lowered itself a little and he was strangely giddy to see him twitch nervously while he fingered the Slytherin crest. When Harry leaned in slightly closer to the snake that slithered over the name - he thought he heard a hiss that sounded suspiciously like "pink fluffy bunnies," but that could've just been his crazed imagination - he caught a whiff of that something again... pumpkin pie? Chocolate quills? Roasted marshmallows?

Suddenly, an image of Draco Malfoy as a fluffy pink bunny with roasted marshmallows stuck on his protruding front teeth sprang into Harry's head. In typical situations, Harry would've at least chuckled a little, but his mind has been through so much today that random, disturbing images no longer surprised him. He gave himself a sound whack upside the head. Malfoy looked immensely perplexed, glancing warily at his strange, jerky self-abusive movements.

Another moment of silence and a loud cough later, Malfoy continued sneering, undaunted. "Really now, Potter, I'd think you would, after seven years of having the perfect enemy (meaning myself), learn to pick up some of his (meaning my) clever and malicious techniques; you see..."

The Gryffindor sighed and gave up fighting his brain. Malfoy scoffed indignantly at being interrupted and he felt slightly offended that Harry wasn't paying as much attention to him as a SME should. Unnoticing, Harry continued his stream of consciousness.

Since his master plan was ruined anyways, Harry thought that he might as well tell Malfoy his true intention. Perhaps he can get rid of MIS by informing the Cause of it all (meaning Malfoy) of his pain and anguish, and perhaps said Cause would take pity on him and cease all the annoying things he does. It was a long shot, but it was the best that Harry's muddled brain could do (sitting on Malfoy had some effect on the muddling, Harry vaguely believed).

But before that: "how'd you get here before me?"

Malfoy's eyebrow recovered itself and shot back up, "why would I want to tell you?" Malfoy made sure that the "I" and the "you" came out as "I, the Master of the Universe" and "you, the dirty piece of lint unworthy of plaguing my perfect robes."

"Because you're desperately in love with me?"

Malfoy glanced warily at Harry's disarming grin and raised his right perfectly-shaped eyebrow until it joined the first one. Then he sighed and waved his hand dismissively and mumbled something vague about revolving staircases behind a nondescript door in the back of his room.

Harry glowed triumphantly and tired to smirk. It came out again as Ron's pained, constipated expression, but it was a slightly better version.

Malfoy snorted, "I'm almost embarrassed that my Sworn Mortal Enemy,"

"SME," Harry added. Malfoy looked confused. Harry shook his head and waved his hand. "Do continue."

"...would be absolutely so pathetic at smirking. We need to help you work on that." At Harry's bewilderment, Malfoy added quickly, "purely for my benefit and reputation, of course."

There was another moment of awkward silence. Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, Harry scratched his legs that were still situated on either side of Malfoy's waist, and they both gave a small cough. Crickets chirped. Owls hooted. Something howled. Finally, Malfoy recovered his smug composure and changed the subject, "I believe I have the right to the true intention as to why you're in my room?"

Harry sighed.

"My good and innocent being," Harry began, placing one hand over his heart; he tilted his head pensively towards the ceiling while his other hand fingered Malfoy's collar absentmindedly, "is suffering from a deadly disease-slash-evil."

There was a moment of respectable silence, similar to the time of mourning for war heroes and assassinated presidents, then:

"So sorry, Potter." A squirm and then a glare, "I certainly hope for your sake it isn't transmittable, or my father will have you skinned alive."

Harry thought that there were dozens of logic-holes in that statement - such as that he really didn't deserve Malfoy's hope because Malfoy was the one who was going to die were the disease really deadly and transmittable and why would Malfoy Sr. waste his time skinning Harry alive if he was already going to die and there was a chance that he could transmit it to the skinner and there would be so much complication - but Harry didn't bother to point them out, seeing as he might get Malfoy irritated and the latter might try to extract himself, and personally, Harry liked his current position.

"MIS," Harry continued dramatically, "is a rare and severe illness..."

And so preceded the conversation as Harry told Malfoy all about his unfortunate predicament and how his own brilliance and Malfoy's recklessness led him straight to the Slytherin common room (Harry skipped the parts about his temper tantrums, portrait slamming, and malfunctioning mental parts). Surprisingly, Malfoy never interrupted except to punctuate Harry's story with indignant scoffs and sarcastic remarks, and to randomly reach his hand up and pick pieces of feather off of Harry's hair. Harry found it slightly disarming that Malfoy was occasionally brushing his fingers through his hair, but Harry never made any attempts to stop him.

As Harry began to list the annoying aspects of Malfoy quite passionately, he was more and more caught up in his descriptions, and once tugged violently at the fringe on the scarf he was fingering (he had gotten bored of the crest) until Malfoy began coughing and wretched the scarf off of his neck and away from Harry's hands.

Harry sniggered and then continued, using vivid imagery to illustrate the details of his plan of sabotage.

"Wait, wait, wait," Malfoy frowned as his hand paused in between strands of Harry's hair. "You snuck into the Slytherin common room to cut a section off of my scarf so it wouldn't be symmetrical?"

Harry scowled crossly. His intelligence was obviously a level above Malfoy's. He shouldn't have expected a Slytherin, albeit a very jumpable one, to understand his brilliant tactics. Nevertheless, he felt that he should at least try to explain himself.

"Well... yes." Harry remarked, rolling his eyes - his patience was wearing thin - "If I cut off this green stripe, for example..." Harry motioned to the said stripe currently clutched in Malfoy's hand, "then you wouldn't be able to wear it symmetrically."

"And even if the ends were aligned," Harry concluded with a glare, "the colors wouldn't be alternating."

Malfoy extracted his hand (Harry gave a small pout of protest), and sighed exasperatedly.

"And besides," Harry added as an afterthought, "it's shouldn't be humanly possible to do such a thing."

"This is absolutely fu - there is no reason wha - you're just choosing to be difficult!" Malfoy threw his hands up in frustration. "Anybody can do it, Potter!"

"No... I can't do it. So, hah!" Harry folded his arms across his chest with a huff.

"That," Malfoy drawled, shifting his waist a little so that Harry unbalanced slightly, "is because you are impaired."

Harry gave an angry growl. He snatched the offending scarf out of Malfoy's hands, swung it twice around his neck haphazardly as Malfoy watched on in mild amusement. He adjusted the ends and looked up triumphantly to find that the crest was backwards. At Malfoy's smirk, Harry ripped the scarf off of his neck, and swung it again. This time, the crest ended upside-down. Malfoy snorted. After whipping the scarf off - careful to swap Malfoy in the process - Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

He laid the scarf across his neck, wrapped one end gingerly to his left, and the other gingerly to his right. Harry looked down to see the Slytherin crest hiding slightly under the folds around his neck. Triumphantly, Harry reached up to tug the crest out and complete the job - and promptly tangled his hand within the folds.

Malfoy laughed loudly as Harry turned an attractive shade of purple, gurgling angrily and jerking his hand. The effect was an unerring imitation of a species of the rare, magical, Twitching Eggplant with White-Striped Leaves.

Still chuckling sadistically, Malfoy reached up, and with surprising gentleness, grabbed Harry's wrist and eased it out of the folds. Harry took a deep breath as his face slowly returned to a normal color and directed a venomous glare at Malfoy, who gave in to another bout of laughter.

With small tugs and creases here and there, Harry watched in fascination while Malfoy fixed the Slytherin scarf around his neck. As Malfoy finally lowered his hands and folded them smugly behind his head, Harry was amazed to find the scarf perfectly folded over his neck, the fringe stopping lightly below his waist, flittering over Malfoy's robes. The ends aligned perfectly, and the colors alternated green and white, green and white.

Harry looked at Malfoy. Malfoy smirked. Harry tisked slightly. There was a moment of silence - not so awkward this time, but almost teasing. Finally, Harry sighed and slumped his shoulders in admitting defeat.

"So..." Malfoy began with a slight drawl and an infuriating smirk, "what else about me do you have problems with?"

Harry snapped his head up and his eyes immediate met the offending lock of hair that lay innocuously across Malfoy's left eye. How it stayed in the same place while Malfoy was lying down, Harry had yet to discover.

"Well, there is that thing with that annoying piece of hair. I was going to add super glue to your hair products so that -"

Malfoy unfolded his hands frantically from behind his head and threw them over his face. He swore spectacularly. The threatening, malicious effect of the statement was lost as Malfoy's voice was muffled while attempting to hide behind his arms. Harry chuckled and reached down to pry them away from his face.

"Potter, if you ever do anything to my hair, I swear I'll -"

Adeptly covering Malfoy's mouth to prevent him from rambling empty threats until the next century, Harry leaned down until their noses were mere centimeters apart. Malfoy's eyes widened as he made a muffled sound behind Harry's hand. Balancing on his elbows, Harry picked up the end of the offending lock of hair (it was surprisingly soft and not at all covered in gel) and lifted it carefully from Malfoy's face. Malfoy whimpered softly.

With a childlike curiosity, Harry examined the fine blonde strands. So they weren't nailed to his head, after all...

Taking advantage of Harry's distraction, Malfoy's arm shot out with lightening precision, latched onto Harry's wrist, and wretched the hand that was covering his mouth, off. He must have underestimated his own strength, because Harry's elbow lifted slightly from the green bed sheets bundled next to Malfoy's head. Shocked, Harry stopped examining the lock of hair, wobbled precariously, and as he pondered vaguely about the lighter shade of gray Malfoy's left eye reflected, his legs slid down and out to the side, and he came crashing down on top of the Slytherin.

With a short "oomph," Harry's lips landed squarely on Malfoy's as both of their arms dropped limply to their sides. The thought of screaming "Freaking-A, that hurt like a mother!" at the top of his lungs retrieved to the back of Harry's mind as he registered the velvety pair of lips beneath his.

Vanilla and tea... Harry thought vaguely as he tilted his head to the side and his eyelids fluttered closed. Blood was pumping in his ears louder and louder, and the chocolate frogs in his stomach seemed to be engaged in a frantic jumping-jack party.

He felt hands sliding through his hair, and he clutched a handful of the green bed sheets at either side of the blonde's head. If his brain was malfunctioning before, his thoughts were in absolute computer-melt-down-twitching-with-bloody-deadly-virus mode. With more resolve than he knew he had, Harry jerked his head up (wanting to breathe also might've helped boost that will-power a tiny bit).

Malfoy's face was flushed and his eyes reflected mesmerizing shades of gray, and Harry's hair was standing on its end (the lock of hair was neatly covering Malfoy's left eye again, Harry noticed). Malfoy's hands slid slowly out of Harry's hair and over his shoulders. Harry shivered involuntarily. Before he did something drastic, like attacking Malfoy ravenously, he quickly detangled himself before tumbling clumsily onto the floor, legs still bundled in bed sheets and hangings. Harry moaned, rubbed his sore side, and jumped up accompanied by a shower of feathers. As he watched Malfoy push himself up lazily onto his elbows, Harry plastered against the wall opposite of the bed.

Harry looked at Malfoy. Malfoy looked at Harry. A corner of Malfoy's lips was slowly turning up to form a smirk, and Harry was amazed and irritated to see that Malfoy was somehow so much more composed than he was.

It was hot in this room. Harry flushed. He felt like he was forced in one of Uncle Vernon's saunas or mistaken as one of Aunt Petunia's chickens and was now slowly roasting in the oven. It was very hot. Very, very hot. In fact, it couldn't have been hotter if it tried but of course it didn't try because it was already so hot anyways and it would just be wasting its energy like if Malfoy Sr. was trying to skin him and it was so hot and it was beyond hot and did Harry mention that Draco tasted sort of like cinnamon and now he really wanted to eat one of those cookies down in the common room?

It was so quiet that Harry could hear an irritating hum starting at the back of his brain, even if his own heart was not slowing down at all and Draco's and his breathing were syncopated. Draco shifted slightly on his bed.

Harry began inching closer to the door, never breaking eye-contact with the Slytherin boy. When he felt the cold silver doorknob in his palm, he gave Draco one more tentative glance before turning around and pulling the door open a fraction.

"Oi, Harry!" The subject in question froze before the door. Harry didn't trust himself to speak.

"Don't forget your cloak."

Harry turned around slowly, with the classic "I'm a lost puppy dog" look plastered on his face (Draco was very tempted to walk over and pet him a little). He barely had the chance to voice his confusion before the aforementioned cloak smacked him straight in the face; Harry's head knocked back soundly against the door before the fabric slid slowly to his feet.

An angry growl slipped through Harry's teeth as the falling cloak revealed a smirking Draco Malfoy, who was obviously trying desperately to stifle his burst of laughter.

Harry snatched the cloak off of the floor, threw open the door, marched out into the circular landing, and slammed said door shut as hard as he could. He was very hot, his brain was muddled into a big, useless goop, he couldn't begin to think even in a curvy line (that would be because his brain was a big, useless goop, as mentioned above), he had figured out what Draco smelt like, and now he had forgotten, and his feet were very, very tired.

Running his free hand through his hair, Harry sighed and marched back into Draco's room. He lifted his head just in time to see Draco rise gracefully off of the bed with one hand touching his lips in a pensive fashion. Harry coughed. Draco flipped his offending hand away, snapping it firmly at his side.

Around five minutes ticked by in which Draco recovered, raising one eyebrow slightly. Harry examined the intricate patterns in the white carpet. Draco rolled his eyes, tapped his foot, and sighed.

"Well, that is..." Harry stuttered sheepishly and began explaining about his brain being reduced to a puddle of goop before he caught himself at the perplexed expression on Draco's face.

"I'm going to trip," Harry stated firmly. He pointed at his feet as Draco eyed the enormous Invisibility Cloak hung from the crook of Harry's arm. Draco sighed again. He waved his wand, and the little door at the back of his room creaked open.

Harry walked toward the door, and Draco shifted a little towards him until their shoulders brushed lightly against each others. With a minute pause, Harry stepped through the doorway and onto the slowly revolving staircase.

* * * * *

One of the reasons that he had been so hot, Harry realized, was because he still had the Slytherin scarf wrapped around his neck and a crap load of feathers worthy of a pillow piled up on his head.

Hermione and Ron had persisted in asking him about the incident, but he didn't have too much trouble convincing them - well, Ron at least - "You took the bloody scarf so he wouldn't be able to annoy you with it, didn't you? That's bloody brilliant!" They asked about the abnormal amounts of time Harry spent in front of the mirror, too.

Yes, after long hours of practice, Harry had managed to create an acceptable version of Malfoy's Symmetrical Scarf. He never got his hand stuck within the folds again, and though pancakes were still better eaten his way, Draco had managed a few days of carrying his book bag on his left shoulder, and that was enough for Harry.

And if they ever made a scent that slightly resembled "Malfoy in a Bottle," Harry reflected, he would be willing, pathetic as it was, to spend his whole fortune just to acquire it. But then again, he wouldn't have any need for it, for nothing smelt as much like vanilla and tea as the actual Draco did.

MIS, Harry decided, wasn't such a deadly disease-slash-evil after all. Besides, Hermione was very proud of his color-coded notes.