Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Crap! #2	By : blastendedskrewt Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 32233 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own anything in Harry Potter's universe and make no money from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Author’s Notes and Warnings:

Thanks for all the rates and reviews! All the same cautions apply.

These two quotes, from much appreciated reviewers, have got to be the best excerpt/descriptions of SQUICK I’ve ever heard: “It's kind of a turn on, yet at the same time, disturbing.... And, maybe more so disturbing because it is a turn on... I don't know.” AND; “I don't know whether to laugh, grimace or be turned on. I think a little of all three.”

Perfect :) That’s just it! Good squick is baffling, appalling, intriguing and compelling to the point it reaches the ‘train-wreck-but-can’t-look-away’ phenomenon. It also has a lot to do with imagination vs. reality. (There is a LOT of fanfic material that I happily read but couldn’t actually deal with in my life!)

I also want to thank Vampirekisses again, who always has such kind, insightful things to say-- ten points to your house of choice for picking up on the relationship dynamics I hoped I could get across but am never sure landed correctly since reviews for this kink genre are scant. I hold a deep gratitude to you and all the other courageous souls that have spoken up.

I want to tell everyone that it makes me ridiculously happy to get any response— whatever is said and in any way, (or even if it’s just rate points, those count just as much too :) And that’s not just empty bullshit-- it really makes me feel great! Seriously. About writing, and life in general… thanks for reading and the inspiration!

Please enjoy this next little romp into weirdness and squick!

)*(

Discovered! (exploratory emissions)

~~ The next four parts are a collection of vignettes concerning some solitary experiments of coming and going (or going then coming ;) interspersed through time. This is a series of short companion pieces to the long, strange trip of Harry and Draco’s experiences with exploring That. ~~

_)*(_

PART ONE: “Theory Testing & Earthy Epiphany”

Draco awoke suddenly from a disturbing dream in which he was reliving the crushing memory (with all the original horror and urgency) of a frantic dash to the loo from a formal dinner with his parents. The pounding of his heart harmonized with a banging on his door; jerking his mind back to the conscious present, the disembodied voice of Blaise yelled from the other side. “I’ve waited forever! You better be awake and ready to go! There’re only fifteen minutes left before the breakfast dishes disappear!”

The Slytherin teen groaned, mentally ticking off what parts of his morning routine could be dismissed and which were essential. Well, there was his hair, of course (but he could just cast the styling glamours he used in between washings). And getting his robes and tie straight. Check. Trousers (which were now necessary that the weather was getting so cold). Check. Socks, shoes. Check. Everything else could be sacrificed; it was hidden beneath the façade and could be dealt with later.

He winced when he realized he’d fallen asleep wearing Potter’s latest gift-- again a G-String, to replace the crimson one that had died a ‘worthy death’. But this time it was a powdery blue; there was no implication of any House colours like the first garish red scrap of material the Gryffindor had insisted looked good against his skin. (But perhaps this revealed a latent artistic eye? The shade of ‘azure-sky’ looked delicious on him.)

He had time to spare for a quick piss. Then a few of those newly learned anti-smell charms he’d been researching, quickly casting the most basic, topical ones he’d managed to get site-specific so far, on his teeth, pits and crotch. He shook his head sadly at the steaming cup of specially-imported tea on his desk that was there every morning due to a standing order with the House Elves; he would have to forgo its rich flavour and high caffeine content and settle for the dishwater brew they served in the Great Hall.

The second he opened the door to his private room, Pansy grabbed his arm and latched on, linking their elbows and not-so-subtly hugging his bicep to her breast. He supposed she thought it alluring to him, but it wasn’t. Not in the least. He found her fawning and touching repulsive, as was her company in general these days. He tuned out her empty, gossipy chatter but allowed himself to be ushered out of the dungeons and to the Slytherin table.

All he really wanted was some peace and quiet while he sipped his weak tea and ate his beans on toast with a poached egg on the side. He dined as hastily as he could-- yet at a pace that could still be deemed respectable and befitting of a Malfoy-- before the plates returned to the Elven help in the kitchens. He had too much on his mind to concentrate on the trite and callow concerns of his fellow housemates and needed some time for introspection in silence.

It all started with the dreaded, degrading potion’s mishap several weeks ago in which he’d lost control of his bowels outside the classroom. It would have been bad enough as it was, but it was made worse that Potter was there to witness it. But that wasn’t even the most terrible part! No, it became infinitely more appalling that somehow, some way, the situation had turned sexual! And every time he thought of it, he could feel himself getting tingly and hard (despite his every intellectual instinct to the contrary).

After all the trauma and training of his childhood regarding his bodily functions, it was truly confusing; he was supposed to be above such debauched and crude behavior. He certainly wasn’t meant to ever entertain such a thought, much less dwell on the subject in such fixated fascination! He wished he could just forget it (or ‘Obliviate’ himself) but his conscious and subconscious mind would not let it go.

Ever since that fateful day, he could think of little else. More than once, he’d awoken from dreams which had started as nightmares but evolved into erotic images that left his sheets sticky with his semen--Obscene mental pictures that had no business being arousing! But he couldn’t deny that when his fantasies drifted towards watching his Gryffindor make-out partner in a similarly compromising position, he’d have to furiously masturbate to get rid of his lust and raging erection.

He hadn’t spoken of the humiliating incident with Potter during the few trysts they’d indulged in since, hoping it could remain secret and private forever; every time Harry looked like he might talk about it he quieted him immediately with a frotting-snog or a blow job. But something was off and distant about their encounters and he became increasingly uncomfortable when Potter would try to play with his rear-end—he could only think about what had happened and what the messy-haired boy must think of him. How could those luscious green eyes look at him with any sort of respect when he could barely manage the sight of his own reflection in the mirror?

Just as he was contemplating the waning of the excitement he felt the last few times him and the Gryffindor had gotten together, Pansy snapped her gaudily painted fingertips in front of his face. “What on Earth is wrong with you lately? You’re a million miles away and you never listen to me anymore,” she managed to screech and pout at the same time. Draco just blinked muzzily, slowly coming back to the here and now. “This had better not be the way it is when we are married...” she grumbled and stomped her foot.

“C’mon now,” the large hand of Goyle clapped him on the back, starting to steer him towards the Entrance Hall, “we’ve only got five minutes t’get t’the greenhouses.” Silver eyes looked up in gratitude to his friend for the interruption; his two “body guards” weren’t the brightest of blokes, but they had a keen intuition of when he needed their help-- and Pansy in nagging mode was one of the main times their intervention was most appreciated.

Draco was more than happy to be flanked by Greg and Vince as they crossed the grounds and past the vegetable patches, leaving Pansy behind to natter and complain to Millicent and their mutual friend Marietta Edgecombe.

The blond would never admit it aloud, but he actually liked Herbology. The Ravenclaws were studious, focused classmates and there was none of the rambunctious, obnoxious behaviour typical of the Gryffindors in his year. There was something rather soothing about tending to the plants in a serene atmosphere-- and with his protective gloves and smock he never even had to get dirty. Sure, he kept up the pretense that mucking about in the soil was beneath him but he loved nurturing the specimens and was intrigued by how they related to his other favourite subject, Potions.

Maybe, he mused, he could convince Father to let him use his interests and talents to become a Healer instead of following in his and Grandfather’s footsteps at the ministry… All that political posturing in those stuffy offices bored him to no end and made for an incredibly unappealing career. (That, coupled with an arranged marriage to an insipid female Pure Blood, made him want to vomit… Perhaps he could withstand one or the other, but not both…)

But he couldn’t seem to relax and enjoy the class today. He felt discomfort in his gut, a vague uneasiness that he couldn’t shake. He had been chalking it up to waking from a sound sleep while reliving a mortifying memory (and missing his morning tea ritual), although when he felt the first ripple below his navel he realized what his body was trying to tell him; he grimaced a bit as the urge to break wind increased.

Mistaking his pained expression, Crabbe commiserated, “Yeah, why do we have to use dragon dung on this lot, it’s nasty.” Draco just shrugged and wrinkled his nose as he scooped his trowel around the base of the Snargaluff they were working on, using distaste as a cover to his internal upheaval.

The humidity in the enclosure and the sensation of percolating, impending flatulence about to burst made him break out in a slick sheen of perspiration under a rush of goose-bumps. The need fluctuated-- overbearing at times only to recede slightly behind his clenched asshole-- and kept his mind preoccupied from his task. (Luckily, the dangerous plants were not mature enough yet to need their pods harvested and the days’ lesson was to simply take notes, draw sketches, and trim any dead leaves off the tentacle-like branches while aerating the Earth nourishing their roots).

And Fuck! Now it wasn’t just flatus that was threatening him-- he felt a load of semi-solid crap inching steadily down his tract seeking freedom.

He hadn’t realized how important his daily morning dump was to his body’s schedule! He should have taken the time earlier before he left his room, (pretending he had showered) and just skipped breakfast. Now his churning, digesting belly and packed poop-chute were plaguing him; the first bubble that slipped out was completely an accident and caught him by surprise.

Draco felt his pale cheeks burn and was no doubt blushing bright red. It smelled bad-- really and truly vile! At least it had been silent… “Yuck!” Gregory suddenly exclaimed loudly, pulling the collar of his robes over his nose, “This fert’lizer stinks sumthin’ fierce!”

Draco masked his embarrassment with a disdainful rolling of his eyes. “Well spotted, Goyle. This IS shit after all,” he sneered, poking and prodding with his spade, stirring up the dirt in his pot to make more of the acrid aroma dissipate and mix with his own odiferous indiscretion.

“You feeling all right, Malfoy? You look flushed,” Nott commented (in one of his rare but astute vocal contributions).

Draco scoffed and put on his best haughty tone despite his anxiety, “This foul filth is making me nauseous. I’ll be fine once we’re out of here and in the fresh air.” In the remaining half hour of the lesson, Draco took the opportunity to sneak out a few more scorching-hot farts to lessen his urgency while still surrounded by the strong scent of the dragon-dung potting mixture. Once they left the greenhouse garden, there would be no relief.

Fortuitously-- or as the Fates might have it-- it seemed his bout of gas was over, because all throughout the trek back to the castle for Charms and sitting through the class, he didn’t feel the need at all. He was actually able to concentrate on the lesson regardless of the stuffed-full feeling in his lower innards. For the time being, the virulent volume of his feces seemed content on just taking up residence in his large intestines and rectum.

Fine. Perfect. He smiled; he could hold it until later and not make a spectacle of himself for abruptly needing to be excused from class (again)…

And this is where it got weird… Draco was, in one moment, relieved he didn’t seem to have an emergency on his hands (or, more accurately, in the seat of his pants as the case may be) but he wasn’t ready to have that primal, physical feeling cause a public boner!

The more he thought about holding in his crap the more he became excited; he was accosted by hyper-sensitive nerve-endings being stimulated from the sensations of feeling his excrement sit there and keeping it in. He was assaulted with the thrill of his hole flexing and tightening around the log that was threatening to breach if he relaxed too much (and he had an inkling that the string nestled in his crack was helping restrain the load).

He was too enthralled to simply dismiss it or force himself to stop. Too soon, his erection filled its final fraction and the need to defecate and toss-off—or, toss-off and then shit—overwhelmed him. The order didn’t much matter at this point. Only that both happen SOON!

The moment he realized his body wanted a double satisfaction, he nearly doubled over the surface of his desk. When he admitted to himself that THAT was what he craved, he was both thrown in shock and instantly thrumming with a strange, new desire. He stealthily bunched his robes over his lap and tried to plaster a look of indifference on his aristocratic features, but he must have been failing because Pansy looked over in what could be construed as concern. “You look peaky, Love. You must be faint since you didn’t get much breakfast. I’ll make sure you get a decent luncheon…”

The thing that made him blush even more, besides the fact he just had a rather major epiphany regarding his sexuality (or his exploration thereof), was the fact that Pansy, rubbing her shoulder up against him surreptitiously made her think that his discomfited squirming and short-breaths of arousal had anything to do with her. Her cooing and preening of the short wisps of hair sticking to his glistening brow were making him turn away, replacing his revulsion with trying to master his physical reactions and play them as a proper Pure Blood façade—that of regaining cool control over profound urges.

It seemed to placate her enough, but didn’t save him from being dragged to lunch-- with his own personal Harpy attached to his side-- insistent on fixing him a plate. Was she somehow his appointed keeper now? She wasn’t his fiancée yet (of course, it was painfully obvious that she hoped for that outcome), but it was only a matter of time before Father would broker some sort of deal of betrothal with someone.

He knew the marriage contract “wars” were heating up amongst his peers, but according to all the Slytherin teens, no one knew for sure where their parents’ negotiations would end up. With all the current instability of rank and status going on throughout the old Families during the Dark Lord’s second rise, the most beneficial pairings for each Blood-Line (and how much gold changed hands) had the potential to vacillate wildly from day to day.

So, no one could be certain-- or even predict with any precision-- who would be doomed to be spouses with whom eventually. It was unsettling, to say the least…

The future seemed bleak and wasn’t a pleasant topic to dwell on, especially if one was just discovering his sexuality and couldn’t see it unfolding in any other way except for being with his-- What? Lover? Boyfriend? His arch-rival that he found more sexy than anyone else in the world? The young man he had to pretend to be disgusted by around his parents and friends? The soul he felt drawn to that would most likely the best chance the whole Wizarding world had at surviving?

The few bites of the roast, potatoes and mixed vegetables he managed to eat sat stagnant and sour in his stomach, as did the thought of his life after Hogwarts which weighed heavy in his heart. The pug-nosed girl’s tutting and tittering over him quashed his appetite further-- and when she tried to slip over and climb into his lap in a lame attempt to raise his spirits, he had to be quite forceful with her, hissing about the inappropriate display in public.

On the up-side, her behaviour had the effect of stamping down his libido (for the time being), but his chest squeezed sorrowfully when he stole a glance at Potter and locked stares with him for a split-second; he didn’t miss the scowl on Harry’s face from the Gryffindor side of the Hall as the raven-haired boy turned away, yet kept flicking accusing and hurt looks out of the corner of his eye. They’d spoken of Parkinson’s increased affections as of late-- even laughed about how she didn’t stand a chance in Hell of him being attracted to her-- but even without an explicit admonishment, he knew his rival Seeker didn’t like seeing it.

He understood implicitly. He would not be amused to see some stupid chit hanging all over his man (no matter how secret they had to keep things)! Sneaking an apologetic shrug towards Harry (and getting a covert, curt nod in response) he left for the next class a little heartened about the small forgiveness he found there-- and more than glad they had Potions together next.

Pondering his recurring wonderment at the wisdom of having such a volatile and potentially hazardous subject be taught with the two houses that had the most bellicose relationship (the incident with the Puking Pastille flicked into his Reversal Potion a prime example) he was immeasurably relieved when his assigned lab partner for the day was Blaise and NOT the stalking shrew.

Draco got another happy surprise that their station was two rows behind Harry and Weasley. He could properly ogle the sexy outline of the Golden Boy’s ass as they chopped and stirred. He felt better about the day already.

He was also pleased that his digestive dilemma had reached a low, simmering point and was not bothering him quite as much—it was still there, but just buzzing in the background. It was a pleasant, slightly subdued sizzle while the lust portion of his body’s reactions increased and took precedence from just being near Harry.

Draco’s heart swelled with some unnamed emotion as he caught the emerald shine (that dazzled him every time) directed at him over his ex-nemesis’ shoulder through the ebony fringe that flopped over that dark brow. The glances they shared could still be interpreted by others as their on-going animosity, but they both knew better. They couldn’t be in the same room without keeping tabs on each other, but the whole school was aware of that after watching their interactions for the past five and a half years—their classmates just didn’t know how much the dynamic and motivations behind those smoldering gazes had changed.

Aaaaaaaand then his rabid libido returned in full force when Harry bent low over his work-surface and his pelvis swayed with each precise slice to his Shrivelfig. It was a stroke of genius that the furniture maker (and a Karmic blessing to him or her) that the table-top reached just below the blond’s waist, effectively concealing his rapidly-growing prick; he pressed his hip-bones against the edge and tried to regulate his uneven breaths.

The rest of the class passed without much event, except for Draco’s arousal making it difficult to concentrate; despite his distracted mind, his potion was a success. Even better was the fact that he had a free period for the rest of the afternoon to spend any way he chose.

One last peek at Potter had him solidified in his resolve of what those activities would consist of. Sweeping out of the laboratory with his nose in the air, he made a bee-line to his room, brushing off any and all offers for study partners in the library or common room. Pansy was obstinate, but he was resolute in wanting time alone to “rest and freshen-up before dinner”— somehow she realized it was prudent to back off, whether it be by his cold countenance, terse tone or demanding demeanor (most likely it was all three).

_)*(_

Draco flopped down on his bed, his basest physical needs battling against each other; he had to poo (he was sure all it would take was a push or two and he’d be spilling his guts)-- and he also felt the feral instinct to get his rocks off. But the impetus of needing to use the toilet was diminished to the point he could still wait for later. He felt the turd trapped within, pressing against his sphincter and sweet spot, and it felt good to just leave it there.

Although his private washroom was three meters away—and he could easily be done with his refuse, he didn’t. He was waiting with an unknown anticipation. Draco made a pretense of opening his books and spreading out his notes. Toeing off his shoes and lying on his side upon the mattress, he attempted to make a go of studying.

But the material he was concentrating on wasn’t his course-work-- it was the fecal matter in his bowels. He flexed his butt-hole, relaxing the wrinkled whorl of muscles to allow a few millimeters of firm waste to slide forward. Then he clamped it tightly, retracting the squidgy lump inward before anything disgusting could let slip. Clenching his buttocks together caused his hips to thrust forward. The gentle rub of his clothes on his heated hard-on from his subtle squirming was Heavenly!

The silver-eyed Slytherin did these manipulations many times-- opening and closing, teasing release then pinching shut—exploring and testing the pressure of his poop to the point he was steadily trickling pre-cum from his swollen slit into the skimpy undies he wore. The clear fluid soaked through the silky fabric.

But what to do? Shit first then wank? Or wank then shit?

He was saved the trouble when a pronounced cramp decided it for him. The crap’s movement outward became insistent, the smooth muscles of his intestines undulating in radiating waves, and he couldn’t call it back—he would need to go unleash his effluvium soon (if he didn’t want to mess himself, and he didn’t!). He’d been playing with fire, goading his digestive system into thinking he would relieve it and then denying it; he could tell the flirtation with his bodily responses was at an end…

He casually cupped a hand over his groin and was shocked and stunned by an extremely powerful ejaculation being wrenched from his aching erection! Goodness gracious! A gratified groan exploded from him lips before he could censor himself (and sounded foreign to his ears, having been such a silent spoojer up until now!). He just fired off a massive dose of spunk in his pants with one mere touch! How was that possible?!

After several minutes of undignified whimpering and wheezing through contortions and convulsions (and riding out some amazing aftershocks while crumpling several of his rolls of parchment that got crushed under his chest), he rose on quaking knees, taking in great, ungraceful gulping gasps of air. Doffing his clothes and robes, he entered his bathroom.

When his lily-white cheeks finally hit the seat of the commode-- fully intent on emptying his bowels— nothing happened.

What? Had he waited too long? Had the “swallowing” contractions of his inner-walls during climax sucked it too far up? After an agonizing morning of feeling like he was about to crap himself again, it didn’t want to come out?! He had to bear down and wriggle his hips, unintentionally letting a few guttural grunts escape him in his effort.

He thanked any and all Gods once more that his parents had enough pull and influence with the Board of Governors (and galleons) that he had his own private suite (usually reserved for upper-classmen exclusively). He’d always roomed alone in one of the bigger renovated dungeon cells, ever since he was eleven, and never had to stoop to the level of the crass masses that had to use public bathrooms—which was a huge blessing and relief when it came to hiding what nastiness happened in this room!

His straining earned him friction and weight pressing onto his prostate. Again, he couldn’t help but think of Potter-- what his face must look like, screwed up in concentration when he was expelling his excrement… Even better would be the green-eyed Gryffindor grimacing as he tried in vain to hold in loose stool then have his control crumble, just like his own had in the corridor!

Imagining that got him incredibly hard again in an instant.

The sputtering fart that reverberated in the bowl startled him, reminding him to try the most advanced “no-smell” spell he’d looked up—casting a “Rhinal Anasensthia” and finding it successful when the sickening scent swirling in his nostrils suddenly abated made him smile. So did the sensual slide of his feces that caressed and stretched his anus around a delightful sized girth, causing more twitches of his tumescence.

It was so wrong to be getting off in this way, but it felt too brilliant to ignore any longer.

He sighed when the first plop splashed in the toilet water. His hand snaked to his lap as he envisioned Harry’s ass pooping uncontrollably and allowing Draco to be the only one to see him so vulnerable and needy. His hand sped up, as did the descent of his feces. He positively reveled in the small pops and crackling noises that escaped his behind while he stroked his throbbing member.

He no longer wanted to deny or shy away from exploring this strange fetish further with Harry; he wanted more than anything to have the brunet get all bothered and messy, to suffer the same exquisitely wonderful loss of control that he did in the hall. He wanted to experience it from the other perspective—all the sexy sights and raunchy sounds…

Restoring the inequity of their relationship at present was only a small part of his desire—he simply needed, with all his soul, to push the boundaries of their interactions in a way that would excite them both. Profoundly. To new and untold heights. And to cement a bond between them, that they alone shared.

The climax that ripped through him at that thought had his hips bucking with wanton abandon (so violently that he broke the left hinge on the toilet seat!). His bowel movement and sexual release complete, he shuddered for several minutes, falling back to rest awkwardly against the tank as his muscles jerked and spasmed. His explosive neuron-firings eventually realigned themselves to some sort of normalcy as his breathing slowed and calmed, (although his mind was still reeling from this latest revelation and discovery of pleasure).

The consequent shower he took, once he could stand, cleansed away all traces of his debauched dirtiness (including washing by hand his jizz stained undies that had a brown smudge along the string—it would not do for another living being to see that and connect it to him, even if was just the House Elves that handled the laundry!)

All the physical and psychological tension of the day had drained itself from his body and all he was left with was a replete and utter satiation…

_)*(_

It wasn’t until later at dinner, a plan seemed to unfold with ridiculous ease, right before his very eyes. Still riding his high from being physically satisfied and having reconciled and come to terms with some rather disturbing issues about himself, the perfect solution to his psyche’s desire appeared from the most unlikely source and dropped into his lap, literally. The evening edition of the Daily Prophet landed face down on his napkin, and over dessert (which he may have been eating with unbecoming gusto) he found his elusive, quintessential quarry quelled.

His first impulse upon seeing an advertisement for ‘Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes’ covering half the back page was to scoff, but on closer inspection, one product in particular caught his attention: a prank laxative potion! It was perfect!

He’d been wondering what, if anything, he should get for his secret lover for Christmas, but this seemed to be Fate… (in fact, Draco concluded, if he hadn’t been in the Great Hall with the audience of the whole school possibly watching, he would have indulged in a little ‘conspiratorial-rubbing-of-his-hands-together’, the universal gesture of a plotting evil genius). Unable to help the wide grin that graced his face, he rose with the order form in hand, intent on filling it out in the secluded setting of the Owlery.

He couldn’t help his customary quick glance to the Gryffindor table, quickly realizing his mistake as he saw Harry eagerly start to rise to follow him, obviously thinking it was an invitation for a rendezvous. He shook his head in a subtle ‘no’, a little remorseful at the disappointed expression the green-eyed Seeker wore as he sat back down—but he had some rather important business to conduct (under an assumed name, of course).

‘Malcolm DeFaux’ inked in his request, as well as adding some other products to pad the invoice—it would be too embarrassing to request the lone gag gift involving defecation… the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, for example, actually seemed promising and intriguing—and possibly useful (he could begrudgingly admit).

He tallied his math, counted his coins and affixed the small satchel to his owl. As he watched Hermes winging away towards 93 Diagon Alley, he couldn’t help but be pleased with himself— this would definitely signal his willingness to continue this strange kink.

Whether or not his beau chose to take the bait remained to be seen, but Draco chose to be optimistic (and if Potter was reluctant? Well, he’d just go to ‘Plan B’). Though judging by the Harry’s strong reaction to their previous encounter, the seeming eagerness to build upon it during the weeks since and that blasted Gryffindor bravery and courage that would stand up and face challenges with absolute bravado… he was fairly certain they would both be getting what they wanted soon.

He could only wait, bide his time (like a properly scheming Slytherin snake) and hope that his gift was received in the spirit in which it was given…

The blond only wished he could see Harry’s face when he opened the box, read the label and what he would write on the card; Draco imagined the brunet’s expression would be priceless when the meaning of it crashed down on him and he realized what the bottle (and instructions) truly signified. But what other conclusion could the classmate he coveted come to?

The name of the product said it all: ‘The Most Potente Pootion’

)*(

Author’s Note:

Hope you liked that one, and understand the appeal of going back in time to explore some random moments of self-discovery with these two!

(And just for shits and giggles in case anyone cares, someone has actually tried to analyze and name the phenomenon that Draco is playing with here—although, I will admit, I still don’t quite understand the odd wording of the term: http://www.poopreport.com/Ask/Content/whemying.html)

Never fear, Harry-fans: the next story is all about him! Hope you come back for the next go! :)
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Crap! #2