Written for the Dance Competition [smart person], the Crayola Colours Competition [Minerva McGonnagal], and the Sharing A Bed Challenge, and the Jukebox Challenge [based off of the song], Chemistry Challenge: AU.

Main Pairing: Terry Boot X Draco Malfoy

Other Pairings: RonXHermione, HarryXGinny, HarryXCho, ChoXCedric, DracoXAstoria, McGonnagalXSinistra, TeresaXDraco, PansyXDaphne, woo.

Warnings: There is an OC in this. AUish.

Monday.

All I have to learn from this so called "DA" thing is that we are going to get caught, a Gryffindor has surpassed me in knowledge, and that Potter is far from straight. Far from.

From my vantage point in the back of the room, perched on a grimy crate, I saw three- not one, not two- but three gorgeous ladies staring at him with unequivocal adoration, and you know who he fixes his stunning green eyes on?

Zacharias Smith.

And constantly licking his lips as he gazes languidly down Smith's skinny, wiry frame.

So that and the tousled hair that must have taken hours to style pretty much gives him away. Pfft, poor Harry Potter. I might not be that NEWT-level Hermione, but I can still tell when you're about as straight as a bent pin.

It just occurred to me that I am wasting valuable time writing in this when I could be studying to catch up with a Gryffindor (bloody hell, I never knew I would be capable of saying that), dammit.

Cordially,

Terry Boot

Tuesday morning, 2:00 am

You will not believe it.

I can't believe it. I won't believe it.

Of all things, why is Draco Malfoy sobbing into my bed after kissing me?

First off, why did he kiss me?

Second, why is he crying? I'm not that bad for a first-timer...I hope.

I was going to the Astronomy Tower at midnight for a little catching up on some star charts, armed with some ink and parchment and naught else.

The stone steps seeped coldness into my feet with every step, but when I stepped into the tower, I saw the sky was an inky blue, stray puffs of clouds spread across miles. You could see the smoky silhouette of the Forbidden Forest to your right, and save for the mournful cry of a Great Gray owl in the distance, all was still.

It was beautiful.

Until a drunk -how did he get drunk?- Draco Malfoy stumbled into my view arguing about which number came first in the Fibonacci System. (It is, and will always be one, no matter how much Padma Patil tries to protest it). "Is zero," he hiccoughed. "Isss one, you little...you little-" Here he commenced to try to punch himself.

"It is the zeroth term!" He continued, before noticing me.

He took a second to process the random guy standing dumbfounded in front of him.

Then he promptly flipped me off. "Fuggov," he slurred, swaying on the spot. "This conservation is for intellellec-intellelle-intellellectualites only." He looked green and queasy, his blonde hair a fair contrast to the deep shade of Slytherin green his face was becoming.

Malfoy took one step forward and careened head first into me, his face planting into my stomach before sliding down into a tidy little heap on the ground. "Merlin's soggy-" I began as he fell silent.

"Ow," a childlike, plaintive voice escaped from his mouth.

I sighed. Let's be a good Samaritan tonight.

I hefted him onto my shoulder, and with a lot of grunting and heavy breathing (a fourteen year old asthmatic Ravenclaw whose only exercise is walking from class to class can't be expected to carry a six foot tall behemoth Quidditch player who feasts on first years for lunch).

I didn't know the Slytherin House password, and I doubted that he did either, in his drunken state. Plus, the Ravenclaw house was closer.

So after casting a quick Silencio on him, I dropped him on my bed where he let out a Firewhiskey-scented exhale. And after another equally quick Finite Incantatem (even if I'm not a NEWT-level Gryffindor, I am still a Ravenclaw, thankfully) I realized: blackmail.

I'd have this prick wrapped around my pinky if I had proof that he was passed out in my bed, drunk, in the middle of the night!

I set my magicked-camera to take a picture every five seconds (quantity produces quality, after all) and placed it next to the bed.

"So...Malfoy...care to explai-" I started, sitting awkwardly on the edge of my bed.

"Igutstedipped," came a muffled sob.

"What?"

"I got stood up by Teresa Boot!" He wailed. "She was so ho-o-ot...and I'm so ho-o-ot and I am like a sexy fiend just like Pansy says and she still stood me up and she was so ho-o-ot."

I made a mental plan to first congratulate, then kill, then thank my older sister for this delightful-yet-increasingly-awkward situation I had stumbled into.

And all of a sudden he was straddling me, his vacant eyes focused on mine. His nose was barely a millimeter away from my own.

"Excuse me, but-"

"Do you think I'm a sexy fiend?"

Yes, yes I do. Everybody does. "Um-"

And then he attacked my mouth in what only could be known as a snog, his hands wrapping around my neck. Of course I was incapable of motion at this point.

He sprung off of me as I let out a groan (which was not a moan, or a sigh of pleasure, no matter what it sounded like). "See, aren't I a good kisser? I'm so ho-o-ot why did I get stood u-u-up?"

As I stuttered something incoherent, still feeling his dazed lips on my own shocked ones, he began sobbing into my pillow, which is where he still is as I am writing this.

Dammit.

I know I'm a heteronormative, white, intellectually-gifted male with a tendency to develop nervous tics when under great stress, but dammit, he's a good kisser.

Dammitdammitdammit.

Dammit.

Cordially,

Terry Boot