The Benefits of Breakfast
Title: The Benefits of Breakfast
Author:
wonkyveela
Genre: Humor/Romance
Rating: PG-13, if you squint. Er. Or are offended by possible jam orgies.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine and is the property of JKR. C'mon, you all know the drill by now.
Summary: Harry's luck runs amuck and there is spam but not jam and -- really, it isn't Harry's fault that Malfoy's stupid hair is so shiny or that his Secret-Hidden-Depths are located quite deep.
Warnings: Un-beta'd. Possible amounts of OOC-ness. Also, beware of unstable humor attempts.
Author's Notes: It was a dark and stormy night, and I really wanted some toast. Um. And that is probably where the trouble started.
Long before he had figured out that his first class of the day was Double Potions, and before he remembered that he had forgotten to do his Charms essay, and before Ron and Hermione had gotten into their biggest and most ridiculous squabble ever, Harry had known that it was going to be a bad day.
"I’m sorry, what?" asked Hermione.
A very, very bad day.
"Strawberry." Harry repeated. "Out. Jam. Mine."
"Er - maybe you should try the grape?" Ron suggested.
Because Ron was his best friend, Harry was going to pretend he hadn’t just said that.
Bad. Bad day.
"Strawberry." said Harry. He always had strawberry jam. Always. Always. Always had strawberry. It was his breakfast meal: Toast. And strawberry jam.
Ron and Hermione exchanged looks. Not very good friends, Harry thought, if they couldn’t even remember that he hated grape jelly and had eaten strawberry every day for the last seven years.
"The marmalade isn’t bad," said Neville, hopefully. He pushed it towards Harry.
"Thank you," said Harry, but didn’t taste it. He surveyed the other tables.
What was the world coming to when there were no jars of strawberry jam in sight?
"It’s only jam," Ron looked confused. "Just have some eggs, yeah?"
"It’s not just jam," Harry said, loyally. "It’s a way of life."
The surrounding Gryffindors within a five-foot radius stared.
Hermione scraped some marmalade on her piece of toast. Traitor, Harry thought. Walk the planks!
"Did you do your homework, Harry?" she asked. Harry held a mutinous silence. "We have Double Potions first."
A bad day. Very bad.
*
Possibly the worst day ever. Harry mournfully stirred in his salamander eyes and avoided breathing loudly for fear of another detention. How was he to have known that unicorn tears cost more than his Firebolt? It wasn’t Harry’s fault that Hermione had dropped the bottle.
Except he may have run into her. A little bit. And made her spill her potion on Malfoy.
It wasn’t Harry’s fault, though! Malfoy had been talking - well, hissing, more like, which was sad because Harry had always considered Parseltongue to be rather sacred and now it was ruined forever - and Harry had needed to know what he was talking about. He was probably plotting, or something equally sneaky, like with the fake Dementors and the "Weasley Is Our King" and -
Well, Harry had to listen. And then he couldn’t because Hermione had to go and try and help him with his potion and now he had detention. And Malfoy had laughed at him and Harry hadn’t been able to hear what he was saying.
Harry scowled at Hermione. She bared her teeth at him and he shrank back. He wasn’t actually sure how Ron could be - dating her. Hermione was nice, as a friend; she had helpful insights to feelings and emotions and was good with homework and stuff, but she was - she was Hermione, just like Ginny was Ginny and Ron was Ron. And she was a bit scary.
He gave her a hopeful smile.
She snarled.
Er.
Harry hurriedly turned back to his potion and much less fearsome problem. He could listen to Malfoy now, at any rate, because Snape had made Harry sit in the back of the room and behind Malfoy’s stupid, shiny hair with the spiders, which he was probably hoping would scare Harry but didn’t because Harry once had a pet spider that had mysteriously combusted one day when Harry was mad at Dudley.
Suddenly, that made a bit more sense now. Harry felt immensely guilty as he added exactly eight spider legs to his potion and gave it a half-hearted swirl before leaning a little, hoping his rather poor eavesdropping skills weren’t noticeable enough for Malfoy to turn around and choke him to death because Hermione certainly wouldn’t be helping him.
"This is the worst day ever," Malfoy whined, and Harry’s day was already ten times better because at least Malfoy was suffering like he was. "My new robes! I hate Granger." A pause, and then, sulkily, "And I really, really hate Potter. Clumsy oaf."
Shiny-head, Harry thought back triumphantly. He felt a bit worse when he realized he insulting the mentally unstable. Still, Harry couldn’t help that Malfoy’s parents were nutters and had raised him into a sadistic, walking black hole of Slytherin-ness.
"I never would’ve thought," said Zabini, dryly enough to make Harry think of the alarming lack of water in the Sahara desert.
"No," said Malfoy thoughtfully, "Everyone else does seem to love him. I must be unique."
"Of course," said Zabini. Harry hoped he would push Malfoy in the potion. "Unique. Exactly." Harry was pretty sure there was an "exactly not what I would use, you nutcase " hanging off the end of that sentence somewhere, crying out as it was lost in the sea that was Malfoy’s apparent obliviousness.
Then Malfoy flicked a piece of dead caterpillar down Zabini’s robes with an amused sort of scowl, so he had obviously picked up the message and was probably dangling it over the edge of the sea vindictively. Or he wasn’t nearly as stupid as Harry had hoped, which was shattering so many hopes and dreams where Malfoy was sent back to primary school so that he could learn nice un-Death Eater things like manners and courtesy that it was hard to keep count.
"The worst part of this day, though," Malfoy said, affecting a miserable sort of sigh as Zabini fished the caterpillar out of his robes and Harry wondered how anyone could ever put up with him, "The worst part is much more devastating than ruined robes."
Malfoy had probably run out of hair gel. Or his mother refused to give him a personal island. Or another plot against Harry had failed. Harry couldn’t hear, in any case, because Malfoy had dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper that was totally unnecessary because Malfoy was Snape’s favorite. Harry took a half side step over get into hearing range again.
"Oh, do tell," said Zabini. "Does it have anything to do with those enormous bags under your eyes, or are those there because you were too busy with Smith to even notice you had them?"
Too busy with Smith?, Harry wondered. What, exactly, did that mean? He checked, and decided it didn’t matter: Malfoy did have bags under his eyes! Hah!
"Don’t be daft," Malfoy drawled loftily, so irritating that Harry would have liked to smash that pale face. Or take up a permanent relationship with some earmuffs. "They’re not enormous. Jealousy isn’t becoming, Blaise."
He paused. "Besides, I have standards."
Which made absolutely no sense to anyone with even a half of a brain, Harry wanted to point out, because how could you have standards with the bags under your eyes? Did Malfoy talk to his face? I’d rather if you could be a little bit smaller today - yes, yes, that’s quite fine. No zits, if you please. Zabini smiled, however, in obvious understanding, which was quite sad because Harry had always liked Zabini, as far as Slytherins went; and, compared to Malfoy’s git-face, thought he had very nice skin. Not that he was comparing the skin of two male Slytherins.
Worst. Day. Ever.
Zabini heaved a rather amused sigh and very carefully slid in six ounces of shrivelfig root. Harry realized he had been stirring his potion for half a minute too long and hastily followed suit. "What was the worst part?" he asked drolly.
Malfoy beamed. It was rather disconcerting to see his face as lit up as his stupid hair was when it hit the sunlight. Zabini, apparently, thought so as well because he gave Malfoy a dazed sort of smile. Harry half expected Malfoy to hand him a small pamphlet reading: You have done well, minion, I shall bestow upon you the Hawaiian islands when I rule the world.
"The worst part," he repeated, giving Zabini a look usually reserved for funerals, "Is the horrible injustice that was wrought upon the poor, defenseless students of Hogwarts this morning."
Harry wracked his brain: Had someone released a Flobberworm on the firsties during his jam dilemma this morning? Had Hagrid scarred someone by accidentally setting his clothes on fire again? Had someone found the strawberry jam and not told Harry?!
"My childhood is ruined," Malfoy continued, sounding forlorn. "I don’t know if I shall ever be the same."
We grew up in a war, Harry thought, at the same time as Who uses words like "shall?" and The world would be a better place.
He had paused thoughtfully. "I wonder if I could sue?"
"Oh," said Zabini. He sounded both vaguely disappointed and heavily amused. As if Malfoy was amusing. Slytherins were strange.
"They were out of strawberry jam at breakfast again, weren’t they?"
Harry’s potion exploded as he slid off of his stool. He thought his mind probably did, too.
*
"I don’t see what the big deal is, Harry," said Hermione impatiently as they headed down to the Charm’s classroom. "Maybe you and Malfoy have more in common than you think."
"We do not!" Harry protested, horrified.
"You’re both teenage boys," Hermione huffed. She was obviously still quite a bit cross about the whole Unicorn-Tears-Potion-Everywhere-Thing, although Harry would have thought when he toppled his own cauldron on his head the humiliation might have made up for something. "You both like Quidditch. You’re both very... passionate. And you both enjoy strawberry jam, apparently. There’s three things already."
"He does not," Harry scowled. "Strawberry jam is mine. He can’t have it."
Hermione made a little noise in the back of her throat that made her sound like an angry Crookshanks.
Crookshanks had once shredded Harry’s six-foot long Transfiguration essay in pure spite. Harry shrank back.
They stepped into the Charms classroom together. Hermione stomped over to her seat and plopped her bag on the other side of Ron’s seat ungracefully.
"I have detention," Harry informed Ron gloomily, before Hermione could get a word out. "For the next two months. Every Friday. And Malfoy does not like strawberry jam."
"For what?" asked Ron eagerly. "Did you poison Malfoy?"
He was avoiding the larger issue. Harry wanted to throttle him.
"No, he did not." Hermione said, sharply, and glared at the two of them. "Get out your Charms essay, you know Flitwick’s going to be asking for them first thing."
"Nothing in common." Harry muttered rebelliously, and then, with sinking horror: "We had a Charms essay?"
*
"Bad luck, mate," said Ron, Harry’s true and best-est friend, that night in the Common Room. "Detention with Flitwick and Snape?"
"It’s his own fault," said Hermione, Harry’s un-true and ex-friend, tartly. "Honestly, Harry, how could you have forgotten about your essay? Didn't you write it down in the planner I gave you?"
"Er, yeah," Harry lied. "Of course."
"It’s not his fault Snape’s a git," said Ron, off-handedly. "Right, Harry?"
"And it’s not Snape’s fault Harry wasn’t paying attention." Hermione said coolly, before Harry could vehemently agree. "Maybe if Harry spent a little bit more time on his lessons and less time on things like Malfoy and Quidditch and jam-" Harry gasped in outrage. "- then he wouldn’t get detention all the time!" She was glaring at Ron instead of Harry, though, and spun on her heel and stalked away without looking back.
"Bloody hell," said Ron, sounding bewildered, and sent Harry a cross look. "Why’s she mad at me?"
*
Hermione understood some things, Harry thought agitatedly, but she didn’t understand this.
There was no strawberry jam again.
This is wrong, Harry thought, pitifully. It had to be stopped! Innocent children were jam-less!
"Look, mate," said Ron, looking uncomfortable. He was sitting two seats away from Hermione, who was pointedly ignoring him. "Maybe-"
"No." said Harry sharply. "I want my jam."
Ron gave him a wary look. Harry scowled.
*
By the end of the week, Harry couldn’t take it anymore.
"There’s no jam again," Ron ventured, as Harry stared woodenly at the table. He seemed slightly unnerved.
"I know," said Harry in a steely voice, and stalked over to the Hufflepuff table. He sat down next to Hannah Abbott.
"Excuse me," he said, more to catch her attention than to be polite, "Is there any strawberry jam here?"
"I-Huh?" She blinked. "Harry?"
"Strawberry jam," Harry urged.
"Oh- no, there hasn’t been any for a few days, I don’t think - "
"Thank-you," said Harry curtly, and headed straight for the Ravenclaw table. His heart sank when Terry Boot also denied him.
"You might check the Slytherin table," Boot suggested. "I know Malfoy likes strawberry jam, he’s probably hoarded it all - "
"No, he doesn’t," said Harry coldly. Boot looked offended, but Harry ignored him and made his way back to Ron.
"You didn’t ask the Slytherins," said Hermione, pointedly.
"All Slytherins hate jam."
"Don’t be ridiculous," Hermione snapped, and slathered her traitor-toast with traitor-marmalade. "You can’t regulate what another House can or cannot like."
She just didn’t understand, Harry thought sadly. The marmalade was already invading her brain. If Malfoy liked strawberry jam, that meant he wasn’t all bad. No one who liked strawberry jam could be all bad. And if he wasn’t all bad, then what was he?
*
Harry pondered this during Transfiguration, and transformed his finger into a banana instead of the paperweight. He pondered during History of Magic, when he could have been sleeping. He pondered during Quidditch and got hit by a Bludger. He pondered in detention and got another weeks worth.
If Malfoy wasn’t all bad, then what was he?
Irritating, certainly. But he was Slytherin, so maybe that came naturally.
Vain. But his hair was rather shiny, so maybe that was natural too.
Harry really didn’t know, and he found that very strange, because Malfoy was his rival and shouldn’t he know things like that? He didn’t, usually - he couldn’t name all the people in his year, even if he tried, but this was Malfoy. Harry should know him by now, at least, but Harry didn’t even think he could name Malfoy’s favorite color. Not that he cared, but he still should know.
If he didn’t know that, than what else about Malfoy didn’t he know? Malfoy could be up to no good and Harry wouldn’t even know because Harry didn’t know Malfoy.
That was no good.
Or maybe, Harry thought hopefully, the strawberry jam wasn’t really telling him to learn more about Malfoy. It was saying something along the lines of Please pound Malfoy’s face in and Malfoy was really just a pointy git and Harry could got back to hating him in peace without worrying about his favorite color.
But it had never lied to him before. And if Malfoy liked it, then Harry owed seven years of strawberry goodness to at least talk to him. Maybe about jam. And if he could figure out the Slytherin Table Jam Mystery at the same time, well, that was good too.
*
"So," said Ron, sounding horrified, "you want to - to be - his friend?"
"No, said Harry, and this time made sure to dodge the Bludger, because Malfoy was not going to be the cause of another bruise. "I just want to converse. Of jam. Jam converse. Conversing of the jam."
Ron was giving him a look. It reminded Harry of the ones he sometimes gave to Hermione when she began to girl-talk.
"Jam conversions," he repeated, faintly.
"Yes," said Harry, pleased.
Ron took a deep breath.
And another.
And another.
"Harry," he said, finally, "You know I will always support you," he swallowed. Loudly. "Even if you want to chat up Malfoy over jam."
"Ron!" Harry exclaimed indignantly, and then, in a hushed whisper, "Do you think I should?"
Ron made a croaking noise and fell off his broom. That was rather funny, Harry thought, because the Bludgers were on the other side of the field.
*
"You didn’t go to the Slytherin table," said Hermione from behind the Daily Prophet; the same way she had everyday when Harry returned from his Jam-Hunting.
"I know," said Harry, determinedly. "Don’t worry."
He stood up. Hermione slammed her paper on the table.
"Where are you going?!"
"To find my jam," said Harry, and headed deliberately to the Slytherin table.
Strawberry, Harry reminded himself, and squeezed into the small space between Crabbe and Malfoy. Very small. Had Crabbe gained weight recently?
"Hullo," said Harry. The entire Seventh-Year section of the Slytherin table fell deathly quiet. Harry tried not to notice how eerie the Slytherins really were up-close. Especially Parkinson. She had her fingers resting on Malfoy's other arm. Harry thought her face looked like a squashed fly.
"Potter." said Malfoy. He looked startled, at first, then irritated, before his face slide into a cool, haughty sort of mask that made his entire face seem sort of pinched. Harry considered telling him this. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"
He made it sound like: I will kill you.
"Well," said Harry, and tried not to notice when Crabbe stabbed him in the ribs with a rather large elbow, "Actually, I was wondering if there was any strawberry jam here?" Harry didn’t think so; not after Malfoy’s I-Shall-Sue-Hogwarts spiel, but he cast a hopeful sort of glance at the table anyway.
There was not a jar in sight.
"There is a sad lack of strawberry jam in this school." Harry stated solemnly.
"I think," said Malfoy, who was looking startled again, "that now I understand why Mother always told me to stay away from drugs." Then he narrowed his eyes. "Are you mocking me, Potter?"
The strawberry jam had lied. There was nothing worth learning about Malfoy and Harry wanted to shove his face in the nearest wall.
Failing that, he wouldn’t have said no to having some jam, either.
"No," he said, feeling a bit betrayed.
He and Malfoy blinked at each other.
"Is there none at your table either?" Malfoy asked.
Harry hesitated, but: "No. Or the others."
The rest of the Slytherins seemed mute. Zabini was blinking rapidly. Pansy-the-fly had a spoon held half-way up to her mouth.
It was a direct sign from the strawberry-gods: Either Malfoy suddenly wanted to carry on a conversation with Harry, or he really did like strawberry jam. Harry wasn’t sure which was worse. Then again (and Harry had his hopes up), maybe he just delighted in shocking his House-mates.
"Hmm," said Malfoy, calculatingly. His eyes glinted strangely. It was scarily similar to the look he got right before he landed Harry in detention. Harry felt the urge to flee.
"Er," said Harry. He felt it was probably best to leave politely. "That’s it, then."
Pause.
"Hmm," Malfoy repeated.
Harry made a run for it.
*
He did that for the next few days, in hopes of both finding some strawberry jam and discovering that Malfoy had secret hidden depths.
He had to be decent. Had to be!
"I’m sure he is, down deep," said Hermione, who had recovered quite well from seeing Harry sit with the Slytherins. Ron still looked rather afflicted. She glanced up from her book for a moment. "Very, very deep."
"Hidden depths," Harry agreed. "He must."
Hermione sighed and gave him a concerned look. "You can’t judge someone by what type of jam they like, Harry."
"Jam never lies." said Harry stoically. Besides, she was only saying that because she liked maramalade. She was still his friend, but some things were unforgiveable.
*
The next day, Malfoy demanded that Harry be his partner in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Lupin looked startled. Harry certainly was.
"But, Professor," said Malfoy, innocently, "Surely you don’t mind us promoting House unity?"
Malfoy had always been a sneaky bastard.
For the jam! Harry thought bravely.
"It’s okay, Professor," he said. "I don’t mind."
And also to find Malfoy’s hidden depths of goodness.
Now the rest of the class looked shocked, too. Harry made his way over to Malfoy’s desk before Zabini’s glare could turn him into a pile of ash.
"Alright," said Lupin, uncertainly, "I suppose if you want to partner while taking notes that’s - fine. Fine. Yes. Well, back to Vampires..."
"I talked to Professor Snape," Malfoy hissed, as soon as Harry had sat down, and gave him a look that said, quite clearly, Bow before my awesome prowess!
Harry frowned. "Okay." He opened his textbook and took out a fresh quill.
Malfoy made an exasperated noise. "About the jam, you twat!"
He suddenly had Harry’s full and undivided attention, even when Lupin began his lecture. Malfoy had a Quick-Notes Quill out, set to Facts, which was strictly against school policy but Harry had more important matters to attend to, like:
"Jam?"
"Yes," said Malfoy, impatiently. His lips twitched in annoyance. They were very pink, compared to the rest of his face. "I’ve learned some information."
Harry didn’t know how Malfoy turned "information" into sex personified, but he drawled it out like a lover’s name. Harry wondered if Malfoy had become Snape’s mistress to get the information and decided it was possible. Probable.
"Don’t you want to know?" Malfoy pressed.
"No," said Harry dryly, and then, because it seemed timely, "Bastard. Of course I do."
Malfoy gave him a lofty look. "What’s it worth to you?"
Deep, Harry reminded himself. Malfoy’s goodness was buried.
"Is it worth your face?" he asked sweetly, and gave Malfoy a very provocative poke with his wand.
"No need to get nasty," said Malfoy, who clearly realized that Lupin was probably the only teacher Harry would never offensively attack another student in front of. Harry scowled at him, but Malfoy let the silence drift onward and eyed Harry lazily as his Quill took notes. Harry resisted the urge to do - something to that pink, smug little mouth.
"He said," Malfoy intoned, at length, "that Dumbledore told the House Elves not to serve it anymore because too few students were eating it."
Every modicum of respect Harry had ever had for Professor Dumbledore was oozing down the drain with the rest of Harry’s hopes for strawberry-filled breakfasts.
"I quite agree," said Malfoy. It was a disconcerting to think that Malfoy could read him that well, but then Harry realized he’d spoken aloud.
"Not that I had much respect in the first place," Malfoy added. "I always thought Professor Snape would be a better Headmaster."
Harry’s body tried to spontaneously combust, or the way Malfoy leaned in was making his chest convulse.
"I would kill myself."
"Yes," said Malfoy thoughtfully. "See? Better."
*
"Hold on," said Ron, with a pained expression. "He told you to - 'work your wiles' on the Headmaster? And you’re listening?"
"Well," said Harry, blankly, "Yes." And then, after a moment: "I hope I don’t have to become a mistress."
Ron made a distressed noise. Harry gave him a concerned pat on the back.
"Wait - mate - " Ron pleaded. "Just - you’re not about to go have some - some sort of orgy, with Malfoy, are you?"
Really, Ron had been listening to too many Slytherin Secrets Tales from Seamus.
"Er," said Harry, shiftily. "Hah. Haha. Of course not."
He smiled.
Ron closed his eyes.
"You know what, Harry," he said, "I’m trying to be a good friend, but - I don’t care. Just go."
"Okay," Harry chirped, and trotted off to the Headmaster’s office.
Silly Ron, Harry thought fondly.
How could there be orgies with no jam?
*
"It didn’t work," Harry announced the next morning, after touching Jam-Base with the other House tables. He hadn’t actually sat at the Slytherin table since the first morning after Crabbe’s elbow had bruised his ribs.
Also, he had a feeling they all wanted to kill him.
"You are a failure," said Malfoy, who was always more grumpy before he had at least two cups of coffee. Harry wasn’t sure if it was a step in the right direction that led him to notice this or purely survival instinct. "At life. Get out of my sight."
Curiosity killed the Slytherin, Harry thought, and said slowly: "Well, alright then. Guess I’ll just go by myself."
Blaise growled at him. "Go away, Potter. Draco’s not going to fall - "
"Go where?" Malfoy interrupted suspiciously, and eyed Harry over the edge of his coffee cup.
Blaise made a sound of mourning and buried himself in Pansy’s shoulder. She patted him.
Harry shrugged, just to be a bit mean. "Be seeing you, Malfoy," he said, and exited the Great Halls. He had gotten to the count of five before Malfoy came striding out, still holding a cup of coffee in one hand and scowling fiercely.
"I demand that you bring me," Malfoy said, "especially if you’re going to get jam."
"Don’t think so," said Harry, who hadn’t actually decided whether or not he wanted to bring Malfoy along or just hold the knowledge above his head.
Malfoy waved his coffee-hand threateningly. "Potter," he snapped, "If you get jam and I don’t, I’ll make sure you can never eat it again."
Harry was looking. He really, really was, but he was pretty sure Mother Goodness had just skipped right over Malfoy when he was being born.
"Give me a reason."
Malfoy paused, then took a sip of coffee. "Well," he said, thoughtfully, "I hate you, but I hate not having jam more." He looked slightly surprised at the revelation.
Harry thought that was pretty fair.
*
Malfoy observed him clinically.
"Aha!" he said. "We are at a portrait. Of a pear. Obviously the pear is going to spew out some jam for us."
Harry was beginning to regret bringing him.
"And now - My God, Potter, did you just fondle - "
The potrait swung open. Harry tried his hardest to ignore all thoughts containing Malfoy and fondling.
Malfoy took in the sight of the kitchens.
"House Elves!" he cackled, and swung down upon them like the Grim Reaper.
It was slightly terrifying to watch all the House Elves throw themselves at Malfoy’s feet. And also strangely amusing.
Harry had larger issues to deal with.
"Shut up, Malfoy," he commanded, and then, this time to the House Elves, "You can stop dancing now."
They stopped. Malfoy looked disappointed.
"We’re here on a mission," said Harry. "Is Dobby around?"
There was a pause, and all the House Elves shared a dark look.
"We is getting Dobby," one of them promised, and they hustled out. Dobby popped into the room with loud cry a few seconds later.
"Harry Potter has come to visit Dobby!"
"Hello, Dobby," said Harry, and tried to gently shake Dobby off of his leg without kicking him in the face. He wasn't sure if it worked. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor."
"Anything for Harry Potter!" Dobby cooed. Harry very distinctly avoided Malfoy’s gaze as Malfoy made a coughing noise that sounded eerily like sex slave.
Dobby glanced at Malfoy, clutched his ears, and focused his gaze on the ovens.
"Oh, no you don’t," said Harry firmly, and grabbed a hold of Dobby’s tattered clothing. "No punishing yourself. We have a serious problem."
"Harry Potter is in trouble?" Dobby looked heartened, which Harry thought was rather disturbing. Still, all was fair in love and jam.
"Emotionally," Harry assured him. He felt like a bit of a bastard, which was probably how Malfoy felt all of the time. "I need you to do something for me, but you have to keep it a secret."
"Dobby will keep Harry Potter’s secrets," Dobby whispered. His eyes were large and teary. Harry heard Malfoy snort.
"Good," said Harry. "Do you think you could get us some strawberry jam?"
Dobby gasped so loudly that for a minute Harry thought he had miss-spoken and said something like Can we please sacrifice your mother?
"Master Dumbledore is telling us to throw away all the strawberry jam!"
No sacrificing of the mothers. This was good.
"I know," said Harry, in what he hoped was a soothing tone. Dobby looked entranced, but Harry wasn’t sure if that was because of his voice or Malfoy’s hair. "But aren’t we friends?"
Yes. Bastard. Maybe Malfoy was nice and good and kind, compared to Harry, who shamelessly took advantage of deranged House Elves. "Surely you have a jar or two laying around?"
Dobby looked shifty. "Harry Potter will give Dobby more socks?"
"Loads of them," Harry promised.
"Dobby will be right back," said Dobby, and left the kitchen with a pop.
"My, my," drawled Malfoy. "Who would of thought: Harry Potter has a House Elf kink?"
Harry tried his hardest not to shudder, but he couldn’t quite keep back the flush. "Dobby’s - he’s a bit, um, enthusiastic -"
"You would know," Malfoy leered, smirking, but before Harry could protest his House Elf virginity, Dobby was back, holding a plate of toast and -
"I could kiss you right now, Potter," said Malfoy, holding the jar reverently, and Harry wouldn’t have even cared if Malfoy had kissed him, or maybe kissed him and gotten jam at the same time, but then - jam - oh...
*
The next two days were like strawberry orgasms, or happy bunnies dancing around in fields of flowers with rainbows, or -
"We’re out," Harry told Malfoy, hollowly. "And Dobby hasn’t got any more."
Suddenly, Malfoy looked a lot less like strawberry orgasms and lot more like his life had just ended. Or his orgasm. Harry wasn’t sure.
But orgasms had nothing to do with the loss of their jam, so Harry resolutely told himself that he would think of Malfoy and orgasmic facial expressions at another time.
Not that Harry wanted to think of that. Well, maybe. Malfoy made a sound like he had been stabbed, though, and collapsed on the Slytherin table with a weak moan before Harry could contemplate those thoughts any further. Which was good. Yes.
Harry left Malfoy in mourning on the table and left to lick his own wounds.
*
"Well," said Ron, in-between staring wistfully at Hermione, who was still ignoring him for reasons unknown, "At least it was good while it lasted, yeah?"
"It would be better if it had lasted every day," said Harry coldly. Ron was a traitor, too, covering his toast in marmalade just so he could pass the jar to Hermione when he was done.
Harry hated them all.
*
On Friday, after detention with Snape, Harry found an owl waiting for him in the Common Room.
"Wouldn’t let us touch him," Seamus said, with an indignant glower. He held up is finger, which was bleeding.
"That’s because it’s Malfoys," said Harry, because Malfoy was the only person Harry knew with an eagle owl. The owl gave him an affectionate sort of nip as he took the letter and flew out the window.
Malfoy’s penmanship was so loopy Harry could barely translate it. Like handwriting, like owner, he thought.
Potter, Harry read. Meet me at the doors of the Great Hall tomorrow at six ‘o clock AM. Don’t be late.
Short and sweet, very much unlike the owner. Except, Malfoy was a bit shorter than Harry was. Hah.
"I don’t think you should go," said Hermione, instantly, as she read over his shoulder. "Just because you two are - bonding - " Ron shuddered. " - over jam doesn’t mean - "
"Jam never lies," said Harry, stubbornly. And besides, he was still on the prowl for Malfoy’s - er, goodness. Yes.
"I’m going," he declared.
*
When Ron saw Harry the next morning, he started to laugh and laugh.
"Shut up, Weasley," Malfoy ordered. There was a clinking noise as his chain bumped up against the door.
"Harry," asked Hermione, looking frazzled, "What are you doing?"
"Boycotting," said Harry stoutly. He rattled his handcuffed wrist at her. One end was attached to Malfoy. The other connected to the door handle of the Great Hall.
"Boycotting," Hermione repeated, faintly. There was a steady line of people growing behind her. "Boycotting what, exactly?"
Malfoy and Harry shared a look.
"Anything that’s not jam," said Harry, and shrugged.
"What’s the hold up?" barked Pansy Parkinson, whom Harry had decided wasn't so bad when he had realized she was dating Nott, as she pushed her way through the crowd. She caught sight of them.
"Oh, Draco," she groaned, "you didn’t."
Malfoy waved his handcuff at her cheerfully. The door wouldn’t be budged unless they were freed. Or snapped in two.
"We shan’t move until we get our jam!" Malfoy declared. "Jam, not spam!"
"Spam?" someone asked.
"Canned meat," said Hermione, and then, "Spam?!"
"It’s what the make the bacon and sausage out of," said Malfoy knowledgeably. Hermione looked distinctly horrified. "Jam, not spam!" It sounded like a war-cry.
"Mate," said Ron, skeptically, as Malfoy continued chanting, "You don’t actually - "
"Yes," said Harry, even though he hadn’t known about the plan until Malfoy had handcuffed him to the door and after Harry had tried to stab his eyes out for doing so, "Jam, not spam!"
"I don’t believe this," Blaise grumbled, and then sighed. "Wait. Yes, I do."
"Oh," said Malfoy, almost as a gleeful afterthought, "And no food for you until we get our jam." He smiled, even as the crowd broke out into outraged mumbles.
"Harry," Ginny pleaded, "I’m starving!"
Harry shrugged and leaned up against the door as much as the chain would allow. "So am I."
"I can’t believe you’re boycotting all the food made at Hogwarts," a sixth year Gryffindor sneered.
"Not all food," Malfoy corrected. "Just anything that isn’t strawberry jam." He gave Harry a look, like, Control your people! and Harry turned the fiercest scowl he had on the crowd. He was proud to see the sixth year flinch.
"We’re not leaving," he announced defiantly, "until we get our jam."
*
"I can’t believe you willingly attached yourself to Malfoy for five hours," said Ginny, disbelievingly. Harry shrugged.
"I can’t believe Malfoy had a spell the teachers couldn’t undo," said Hermione. She looked distinctly put out. Harry felt rather proud of Malfoy right then, which was a strange feeling.
"I can’t believe we missed breakfast and lunch," Ron moaned, "All for jam."
"Worked, though, didn’t it?" Harry asked cheerfully, and slathered a generous amount of strawberry jam on his toast.
His jam was back. All was right in the world.
"Now if only you’d put that much effort into your studies," Hermione began. Jam, Harry thought happily. Jam, jam, jam, jamjamjam-
"Malfoy," growled Ron suddenly, interrupting Hermione’s speech and Harry’s much-needed re-aquaintance with the most important substance in his life, "What do you want now?" Ron actually sounded quite sad, like he wasn’t sure Malfoy could come up with anything worse than denying him breakfast and lunch.
"Budge over," said Malfoy, and shoved Ron. He faced Harry, straddling the bench gracefully.
"Canna heplh ‘oo?" Harry asked.
"You are disgusting," said Malfoy. Harry swallowed. "Also: I didn’t want you to fall under any delusions."
"Okay," said Harry. Jam, he thought, and eyed his toast lovingly.
"Because we’re not friends now," said Malfoy.
Jam.
"Understood."
"I still hate you."
Jam!
"Got it."
Malfoy scowled at him. Harry stroked the jam jar.
"Pay attention!" Malfoy ordered, sounding peeved. "Potter - "
Harry knew that tone; the one that meant Malfoy was going to do something that Harry might or might not regret later on, like handcuffing him to the door of the Great Hall. He glanced up hurriedly, but it was too late; Malfoy had scooted forward and he had that glint in his eyes again, the one that said: Be scared! Be scared!
Harry was.
"Did you know," Malfoy said, breathed into Harry’s face, and his breath sort of smelled like mint and strawberry jam and very much like what the rest of Malfoy smelled like, which was some sort of cologne that was probably worth more than Harry’s life, "That you have strawberry jam on your lips?"
"Er," said Harry, feeling vaguely and confusingly flustered and unsettled because Malfoy was definitely in Harry’s personal space, "I’ll - "
"Oh, no," said Malfoy, coyly, "Allow me."
Harry wasn’t quite sure what happened except Hermione gasped and Ron shrieked MALFOY! and someone else dropped a plate or four.
Also, and the fact that this was much more distracting was a bit alarming considering that Ron’s voice had never been able to squeal that high before and he had most certainly just alerted the entire castle to whatever was happening, there was something hot and rather slick prodding at the corner of his mouth and over his lips and -
Harry felt a bit dazed.
"Did you just kiss me?" he asked, dumbly.
Malfoy studied him. "No," he said, decisively, and then, looking up through his lashes, "Would you like me to?"
Harry thought that maybe the strawberry jam had been wrong and now Harry needed to save the school again because anyone who was willing to starve the other students was obviously evil and if Malfoy wanted to kiss Harry than Harry would just have to become a sacrifice so that no others were harmed in his schemes against mankind.
If Malfoy wasn't evil and just wanted to kiss him, Harry was fine with that too.
"Yes," said Harry, confidently, and met Malfoy’s eyes to let him know that Harry was not going to let him back out of this, "That would be good, I think."
"It will be," Malfoy promised, with a charming sort of smile that wasn’t quite a smirk. Harry decided that ignoring Ron’s squeak was actually was easy when compared to the discovery that Malfoy’s stupid shiny hair was actually more soft than stupid under Harry’s fingertips and that those pink lips were good for something else besides being annoying. And also, they were quite warm -
If kissing was the only good part of Malfoy’s hidden depths; Harry thought he could live with that, especially if Malfoy ate jam before every time they kissed.
But what if there were other good things about Malfoy that needed to be discovered? What if he actually had lots of good things, hidden in secret places like under his robes and Harry had to find them right now or - oh. Oh, that was... nice...
See, Harry wanted to say to Hermione, when his brain started to function again, except his lips were still pressed against Malfoys and his tongue was otherwise engaged and he couldn’t quite work up the will power to drag himself away so mostly he just thought it:
Strawberry jam never lied.
*
[End]