A Fête Worse Than Death

A Fête Worse Than Death

By Greg Steele / Draco Petulans

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A drug person can learn to cope with things like seeing their dead grandmother crawling up their leg with a knife in her teeth but, nobody should be asked to handle this trip.
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"Roll up, roll up, see the amazing bearded lady"

"Love potion made from a genuine black-petaled rose. One sip and they'll be gagging for it - wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more, say no more!"

"Kiss the scar, just five sickles. No licking allowed!"

The rowdy calls from tents and stalls blended into one churning, heaving cacophonous mass of noise while Draco Malfoy, shivering as the cold of an English summertime belied the bright sunshine peeking from behind scattered clouds, wandered around the Quidditch pitch wondering how even the Gryffindors had managed to sink so low.

It wasn't that he expected much from the tree-humping bunch of bleeding hearts. Still, holding a school fête to raise money for Dumbledore's upkeep at the nursing home he was holed up in? Well, that really was scraping the barrel.

The barmy old coot deserved whatever he got in Draco's opinion. He still remembered with glee the time when, a few months ago, their erstwhile headmaster had emerged from his office holding an animated discussion with a potted mandrake, his robes - seemingly made of sweat-glistened pink latex - melting and his beard blazing merrily as the burning log from his fireplace he had placed on his shoulder, mistaking it for his pet phoenix, gradually charred through his wrinkled shoulder.

To be honest, the sight of the bearded lady; Hagrid dressed in a flowery pink tutu, contentedly making daisy-chains and shooting come-hither looks at Potter as Professor McGonagall peddled her sorry, oversized arse to the assembled crowds as a woman didn't really make Draco's day. However, it did give rise to some rather interesting ideas. Just how far had Hagrid gone with the act? Were those just bundles of toilet paper under the dress? Where was the normally unmistakable bulge between the half-giant's ample thighs? And perhaps most importantly, where was that strange buzzing noise coming from, and was it related the cord trailing out of the tutu and off towards the horrifically-less-than-androgynous oaf's hut?

Draco moved on swiftly on, lest he draw the dubious affections of the post-op horror that was their keeper of the keys away from Potter, who was busy trying to escape Colin Creevey, himself passionately lip-locked with the boy wonder as Longbottom's grandmother waited impatiently in line for her turn, furiously waxing her upper-lip.

He passed a caged enclosure where Professor Lupin was, in his transformed state, locked in a fight to the death with Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, and a house-elf billed as Winky. Professor Lupin seemed to be doing rather badly, writhing on the ground, Winky hanging onto his back holding his testicles in a death-grip whilst Mrs. Norris used her claws to terrifying effect on the back of his neck.

"Bad craziness," Draco muttered, trying to block out the terrible sights all around him.

Things were hardly better ahead. A throng of adolescent Hufflepuff boys were mobbing Wendelin the Weird and the Fat Lady, who were apparently engaged in a wet t-shirt contest. The Fat Lady cowered in a corner of her portrait, desperately pleading for her dignity as the incensed mob bayed for her to 'go all the way'. However, as a can of turpentine was produced she gave up the fight and bared all, much to the delight of the crowd.

Draco thought that he was in imminent danger of being violently ill. No-one, he thought, should have the choice of gazing upon either a group of adolescent boys dry-humping an ageing, sagging portrait or at the appalling prospect of a bestial, sadomasochistic threesome involving a by now nearly castrated werewolf, a flea-ridden tabby and a greased house elf thrust upon them. At least not before lunch, at any rate.

Perhaps his opinion of the Gryffindors needed to be reappraised. The depths of deviance and depravity on display here were almost worthy of one of his father's famously... diverse soirees.

As if to emphasise that fact, Draco realised with a start that he had reached his own stall, one in which he would have to pull off his father's favourite party-trick; pin the tail on the Slytherin. Of course, in Draco's opinion most of the school's population would happily queue up for a chance to shove a long, pointed object into his rear-end no matter what, but no, Professor McGonagall had in her wisdom decided that if a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing right.

Draco wasn't so sure about this, especially when the thing being done was himself, and the 'right' way of doing him apparently involved his being partially transfigured into a life-sized donkey.

OK, there were certain side-effects he had to admit to being less than spectacularly displeased over. Blaise Zabini had certainly seemed impressed enough with Draco's transformation when he had woken up in the morning in the state that most teenaged boys sometimes do, and Blaise was a notorious size-queen, but Draco wondered if this was all really worth it.

Quite what he was doing at the fête was something that he tried not to dwell on. Admittedly the other houses had been encouraged to take part in the revelries, but few of the Slytherins had been inclined or even prepared to join in with the fun, such as it was.

Still, there was something about the Gryffindors and their blundering bravery that affected Draco, something that dissolved the icy reserve that had been drilled into him from an early age. It wasn't that he was attracted to it per se, it simply affected him. He had learnt long ago, after the terrible incident involving the Persian rug in the manor's entrance hall, a puppy with less-than-perfect toilet-training, his father and the electric-shock therapy equipment lying in their basement, that innocence didn't pay, and that to give one's heart to it left one open to painful exploitation. Still, like a moth attracted to a particularly deicate flame, Draco couldn't seem to ignore the gang of virtue.

For years he had channelled his reaction to the loathsome gold and burgundy-clad rabble into contempt, something he had a natural aptitude for. Still, all of the savoir-faire he had built up so carefully over the years seemed to amount to nothing the second he mounted his broom against Potter or saw that Mudblood Granger preening in the adulation she received from the professors. He simply couldn't help it, especially when it came to Potter.

When it had come down to it, usually only in the dead of night when the rest of his house were sleeping, Draco had had to admit that with Potter it ran deeper than simple antipathy. Hatred, loathing, obsession, passion, none of them seemed fit to describe whatever it was that they had going. He had been sure that whatever it was, it swung both ways. He'd seen the way Potter sized him up before their every encounter, the predatory, feral but always appreciative glint that only flashed in those green eyes for him.

Oh, certainly they had both fought against it for long enough, each goading the other further and further, half hoping that the other would snap, that whatever it was that was growing between them would die on the vine, but if anything the reverse had happened. The more they baited and antagonised one another, the more they had liked it. Twisted, plain and simple.

It hadn't taken long for them to come to a compromise. Well, not considering how long they'd spent trying to break the other down.

Harry kissing him for the first time had been probably the most intense, incredible, simply wonderful experience of his life. Oh, he'd been terrified and so had Harry, but he had wanted it so badly.

It hadn't been easy after that. Weasley and Granger had found out, of course. Well, actually Draco hadn't minded that bit so much. Weasley's nose never had looked quite the same after he'd called Draco a filthy pervert. Still, the wonder of it had been that Draco hadn't lifted a finger against Weasley; Harry had done that for him. Draco had found it hard to believe that Harry had been prepared to defend him against his own best friend - not that Draco couldn't handle himself, but that he meant enough to Harry to do that was... astounding. Things had been patched up between the four of them, but Draco would never forget the way Harry had been prepared to risk everything for him.

Still, Draco wasn't entirely sanguine about his part in the proceedings. It seemed to him that he was the butt of a rather cruel joke, turned into an ass and waiting for the Gryffindors to take turns at sticking pins into his nether regions.

Somewhere in the background Draco heard the unmistakable sounds of a relationship being consummated. An awful combination howls whines and squeaks signalled that Professor Lupin, Mrs. Norris and Winky had managed to find an equable resolution to their problems, as did the enthusiastic yells and catcalls coming from the crowd surrounding their cage.

Draco's own contribution to the morning's entertainment was meeting with considerably less success. To be honest he'd expected more from the Gryffindors, after all, he had handed them the perfect opportunity to exact the revenge they'd been after for all this time. He was only doing it for his boyfriend and hoped that Harry would appreciate him lowering himself to their level.

Speak of the Devil, wasn't that Harry's voice outside the stall right now? Apparently it was, as Harry was led in, blindfolded and ready to take his turn with the ass by none other than Granger. How he'd managed to escape the combined attentions of Colin and Longbottom's grandmother Draco didn't know, nor did he particularly want to. He made a mental note to make sure that Harry brushed his teeth before the next time they kissed - several times!

Harry didn't actually seem too pleased to be there.

"Herm, I don't want to cop a feel! I don't care how great his arse is, or how funny you might find that, I just don't want to."

"Oh, go on Harry, you know you want to. Give it a try. I'm sure that he wants you to."

"It's not him I'm worried about, it's Draco. You remember how jealous he got that time he found Pansy trying to introduce her tongue to the lower part of my tonsils!"

"Well, yes, I know that he got a little angry..."

"Angry? That's an understatement! She was dripping that weird green pus behind her for weeks afterwards - it was horrible, I mean there were things crawling around in it and it was coming from inside her..."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Granger, obviously not as keen as Draco was to relive Pansy's introduction to the delightful combination of a tropical yeast infection and a group of playful seahorses. "Still, I'm sure that Draco will find it in himself to forgive you this once."

"I don't care about that, Hermione, I don't want to do it, and besides, well, umm, I love him."

"Of course you do, you cretin, don't you think that I know that?" Granger said, but Draco wasn't really listening. He'd stopped processing pretty much everything going on around him when he heard what Harry had said.

It wasn't that he didn't know that Harry loved him, it was just that he hadn't actually heard it before. He supposed that there were probably better times and places to hear it, but that didn't really matter, did it?

He quietly wandered up behind Harry. Just because a substantial portion of his innards seemed to have turned to goo didn't mean that he couldn't have some fun with the little twerp.

He gripped Harry's shoulder and pulled the startled boy into a passionate kiss. Draco was just starting to get into the swing of things when he found himself shoved unceremoniously onto his backside and into a pile of hay.

"Hermione, how could you? You know that I'm... What the... Draco?"

"Yes, the Draco indeed. I'm glad to see that you've finally decided to address me with the respect that I'm due, after all..."

"Draco, you do realise that you've got whiskers, right?"

"And very pretty ones, I'm quite sure."

"And, umm... a tail?"

"Long and distinguished, like other parts of me, I might add."

"Yes, and about the same width too."

"Why Mr. Potter, and here I was thinking that we had something beautiful going; well, besides me that is, and now I find out that all you care about is the size of..."

"Oh, shut up, Draco."

"Well, why don't you make me?" Draco replied with mock petulance.

And indeed Harry did, and through the door of the tent the rest of the population of Hogwarts, well, those who could tear their eyes away from the spectacle of Hagrid weeping disconsolately as Professor McGonagall was in turn ravaged by the occupants of the cage and Neville's grandmother, fed up with waiting for her chance at the kissing stall, were treated to a most unusual sight for a Saturday morning; Harry Potter with his tongue buried in a most willing ass.

The End