Seven Preposterous Things

Hamlet: My excellent good friends! How dost thou Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do you both?
Guildenstern: Happy in that we are not overhappy. On Fortune's cap, we are not the very button.
Hamlet: Nor the soles of her shoe?
Guildenstern: Faith, her privates we.
Hamlet: In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true! She is a strumpet.


Draco had never not known Millie. She was one of those people, like Pansy, like Crabbe and Goyle, who would always be there, he assumed; mostly because they had always been there in the past. She was part of the landscape. He had never much thought about her, because what was there to think? Millie was what she was.

Then somehow, in the cauldron that was sixth year it had changed. It wasn't one simple thing; rather it had been a steady precipitation of change.

First off, she pulled her wand on him. When you knew it wasn't in earnest - the witch wasn't going to kill you, at any rate - that was pretty sexy.

Secondly, Draco remembered something his father liked to say, which was "When you choose your wife, you choose your children."

That thought made him uncomfortable when it came to Parkinson. True, she was vicious, but she was not exactly brilliant. To be brutally honest, except for a gift for flattery, she was dumb as a sack of gobstones.

He had enjoyed her fawning when he was younger, but it became fairly dull over the years. That was the trouble with Pansy; he still liked her, but that didn't do anything about the fact that she was dead boring.

Like everyone else, he had figured buck-toothed Granger would wind up with either Potter or Weasley. In that light, Parkinson looked even worse. He didn't want either one of those cunts to have better offspring than he did. He was Draco Malfoy, he deserved only the best. He began to realise the best might be Millie Bulstrode.

Then she told him "no."

It was shocking, really, and only served to seal her fate.

He took to studying her.

You know, she really wasn't ugly at all, only a bit odd looking. Mostly because she didn't put the effort into being pretty that the other girls did.

Draco noticed as she was making her way up the stairs, trying not to be late for charms class, that her bum was as perfectly round as her bubbies. After a certain point in the school year, he couldn't look at her wide, sensuous, and ever so slightly cruel mouth without wishing his prick was in it. He wondered at times what her hair would look like out of plaits. At others, he thought they'd make a perfect set of reins.

It was fate the day he looked across Defence Against The Dark Arts class to notice her small, nearly slanted eyes were the same pale blue as his.

Parkinson had been a fine girlfriend for a boy, but a grown wizard needed something, no someone, less cloying and more exciting. Someone who could be trusted to watch your back if you needed it. That someone was not Pansy Parkinson, but Millie Bulstrode fit the bill perfectly.

And now he had her. He could hardly wait to take her out for a spin.

He grinned at her with glee.

They were in the same bedroom where they'd played cards for cakes when the weather was too bad to fly or play in the wood.

He had a better game than cards, tonight.

Millie, meanwhile, was glaring at him; she'd soon get over that.

"I've had a bad day, I'm going to sleep," she said and lay down on the bed still in her bath robe and pointedly unalluring pyjamas. She even had on socks.

"Excuse me?" he asked in horror. This was not how wedding nights went. There was passion. There was sex. There was a lot of sex. He was supposed to get to see her bubbies. He was supposed to get to touch her bubbies.

"Excuse me?" Draco repeated himself.

Millie didn't reply, but rather put a pillow over her own face.

"Come on, Mil," he said, punching her shoulder, both lightly and experimentally.

"Hit me again and I promise I will rip your arm out of its socket," she said from under the pillow.

"Isn't there something I can do?" he asked, leaning over her. He would have whinged, except that he was a grown up, married Death Eater now, and therefore was incapable of whinging.

"My feet are sore," she said, from under the pillow. At least that was what it sounded like.

"Brilliant," he said, and he meant it.

The instant he pulled off her little cotton socks, he knew he had done the right thing in begging his mum to get Millie for him.

Her feet were a thousand times nicer than Pansy's. Millie had dainty little feet with short round toes like a row of pink grapes at the end. Her arches were gorgeously high.

Pansy had feet like a rhinoceros.

With all the care he could manage, Draco began rubbing slow deep circles on the ball of her foot. He certainly didn't want to make a mistake tonight. He switched to the other foot after what seemed like an appropriate length of time. She had a cute little mole on her instep on her left foot. Forgetting himself for a moment, he bent and kissed it.

"If you really want to make yourself useful, you can lick my cunt," Millie said, taking the pillow away from her face.

Without so much as a by your leave, Millie had pulled off her pyjama bottoms, nearly kicking Draco's face in the process. He flinched, some things were sacred, or should be.

She then spread her legs, not even bothering to remove her robe. She was more difficult to warm up than Draco had anticipated, drumming against the rail of the bed with her fingers like that.

She certainly was...feisty, at times. Never mind, she'd be smitten before it was all over with. He had faith in that.

From the hour of his birth, Draco Malfoy's natural hedonism had been not only nourished, it had been educated. His mother had wrapped him in only the finest silks, the richest velvets, the softest furs. She had poured her best perfumes into his bathwater. He had been taught to enjoy the finest music, the most delicious food. More than that, he had been kissed intelligently, cuddled with discernment. Now all he had to do was synthesise it all to the singular application of being Millie's. He would give her the finest the wizarding world had to offer: himself. Not only that, but he would give himself generously. He would please her or he was not worthy of his upbringing.

"Turn over," he said. "Like this, on your hands and knees." Draco was slightly surprised that she followed his directions.

Draco slid his face directly under her quim, but he didn't start right away. Instead he ran his hands slowly up the inside of her thighs feeling her chest tense up. Her cunt hair was plaited, just like the time he'd caught her in bed with Crabbe and Goyle. It sent a surge of jealousy into his gut until he reminded himself she was his now, all he had to do was convince her of it.

He closed his eyes and breathed in. She didn't smell at all like Pansy. No, Millie's cunt smelled like treacle. That was odd. He stuck out his tongue for a taste just to see.

Merlin's Balls! It was going to be like having tea in bed. He teased his tongue along the sticky slit. The juice was clear, but it tasted for all the world like treacle. Six...Seven...Eight...Nine... He went slowly, but what he really wanted was a deeper taste. He knew enough not to go too fast. He'd show her what this seventeen-year-old boy could do. It was murder holding back, though.

It didn't matter much because Millie responded quicker than Pansy and she wasn't shy about grinding herself on his face.

Heavenly.

He licked and sucked and she growled and swore, then she came in a spray of profanity that would have impressed Filch. But instead of falling off in a near faint, the way Pansy would have, she kept going and came two more times before rolling back on her side of the bed. Her side of the bed, he liked the sound of that. Being married to Millie was going to be bloody brilliant.

He was trying to climb on top of her when Millie opened her eyes and put one little hand around his throat. Draco shouldn't have had to tell himself not to be afraid, but he did. She wouldn't actually hurt him, would she?

"I thought you were smarter than this, Draco. Let me to spell it out clearly, if we are going to be married, you are going to do things my way. You're a dumb cunt and you do dumb things. That mark on your arm is proof. You have therefore lost your decision making privileges... And for future reference, I like to be on top." With that, she flipped him easily onto his back and climbed on top of him as if he were the new Thunderbolt.

It was amazing. If he thought she'd been magnificent before, that was nothing compared to the way she rode him. She was like a terrible goddess looming over him; Boadicea herself. Her magic crackled the air around them. He reached up and eased off her robe. She pulled off the hideously ugly pyjama top herself, throwing it forcefully across the room. Their bodies together, every inch naked, he felt he was drowning in flesh. And inside, inside she was tighter than Pansy had ever been, even the first time. It was hard to explain but Pansy, at first, had been like a new shoe, but Millie was like... all he could think of was a hand shake. It was like the muscles in her fanny squeezed and relaxed; whatever it was, it was brilliant and every time he got close to coming she stopped doing it. He was going to cry if she didn't let him come soon.

Her breasts were shaking in his face and her skin was soft and smooth as cream and inside her was a power like a clenched fist. He drew a deep breath, trying to hold back and took in a lung full of biscuit-scented skin. Suddenly, he felt as though his entire self was trying force its way out the head of his prick.

When the room stopped spinning, he saw two small, black lashed blue eyes staring at him.

"You know, your eyelashes are white," Millie said with her usual scowl.

"May I kiss you?" he asked.

Millie looked as though she was trying to think of a reason to deny him.

"I suppose," she said reluctantly.

He didn't need to be told twice. He knew he'd won some kind of victory when he felt her hands grip his bum.


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It was a peculiarly miserable mood in which Severus Snape found himself as he lay on the other side of the gingerbread wall that night, and for Severus Snape that was quite a statement. His equivalent of cheer was a shade darker than the average wizard's homicidal rage. But after sitting up and drinking to "old times" and "the new generation" with Phil Bulstrode, he was discovering new depths to the abyss.

He'd murdered one master, supremely hacked off another, his fate lay at the feet of a teenaged hag, and to add bad to worse he was never going to get to steal away Potter's girlfriend. Snape knew better than to believe that clap trap she had tried to hand him about her not being Potter's girlfriend. He might have been pissed, but he wasn't stupid. She'd hardly left the little cretin's side since they had been sorted together.

It would have been such sweet vengeance. He had planned it all out, down to the sneer he'd give Potter as he cradled the adoring Granger in his arms. At the rate he was going, he would never get his cock wet again, much less with a bright and nubile young thing who would simultaneously either scandalise or turn green with envy every single living person who'd done him wrong. Life was patently unfair. It was as if the architect of all things had designed the whole of creation with the singular intention of fucking Severus Snape. And not in a good way.

That was the only reason Severus Snape had for believing in a deity of any sort. Otherwise, he was just a monumentally unlucky bastard. It was the inverse equivalent of winning the lottery once a fortnight. And how bloody likely was that? No, the answer was clear, regardless of which religion had it right, their god despised Severus Snape above all other beings. He never got anything he wanted out of life. Never. If he had had the fortune to have been born an animal, someone would have put him out of his misery long ago. He was a prime example of fate's caprice.

He should have known Albus fucking bloody Brian Wulfric Dumbledore would find a way to bugger him beyond repair before it was all over. It had been such a beautiful plan.

Potter would rid him of the Dark Lord, freeing Snape, himself, to emerge from the war a dashing, heroic, and somewhat mysterious figure. He would then trap Granger in his web by granting her the approval she'd yearned for during her tender school years. It had first occurred to him when he saw her scrubbed and pretending at being a grown up witch at the Yule Ball, the year of the fiasco of a Tri-Wizarding tournament, driving Potter to sullen misery, with the numbskull Krum.

He imagined precisely how much he would enjoy her on his own arm in another ten years. He turned it over in his mind until he sometimes forgot that the original point was to wound Potter and focused instead on the witch Granger was going to grow into. The sort of witch he normally had a tendency to send sniggering gaily in the other direction. He'd seen that witch's infuriating shadow repeated in the girl over the years. He'd thought it out, though. He could seduce Granger if he was afforded half a chance.

Now the only way he was going to get to chance at her was if he wound up on trial for his life and she was appointed to defend him, which was less unlikely than he'd like to consider.

On the other side of the wall, Draco was getting his brain shagged loose. Severus swore, if the prince of brats so much as stubbed his precious toe, he'd look down and find his path littered with the lost jewels of Atlantis. It was classic Malfoy luck.

Severus had inherited his luck from Old Toby, may he rot in Muggle Hell. As far as Severus knew, he was still living but he wished him in Hell all the same. He was a worthless bastard, in both the literal and figurative senses of the words, without the common decency to simply get it over with and drop dead.

Of course, Severus' luck was far worse than Toby's, really. Toby could have changed things if he'd wanted. No one forced him to keep at a pursuit at which he had long since proved himself inept. As far as Severus knew, he hadn't been under a curse requiring him to be an utter shit smear of a human being either. No, Toby could have been happy had he set his mind to it, but instead he preferred to torment anyone with the misfortune to be in a ten meter radius.

Severus Snape was nothing like that. He was just hard done by.

Despite the silencing spells that had obviously been cast, Severus felt a clear thump against the wall at his back as something, Millicent's bed, most likely, hit the other side with resounding force.

Severus counted the length of time since he'd had a shag. He couldn't decide if it seemed worse expressed in months or years. At any rate, it was three Ministers of Magic ago.

With singularly dour resolve he lit a fag, wishing vaguely he'd set the bedclothes afire in his sleep. Not that he was that lucky.

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Author's Note:Thanks to Shiv for beta