Title: Harry Potter's Hogwarts Bucket List

Author: lethalogica

Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, a lot of other characters

Ships: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, various ones for different pranks

Rating: PG-13 sounds good.

Warning(s): Suggestive material, some cussing here and there, and abuse of magic.

Additional warning: Author is not responsible for underage readers. Mind the rating and warning(s).

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This fic was written for fun, not for profit.

11: Wonder to Hermione Granger if redheads really are "bigger"...

12: ... And if they also have freckles there...

13: ... And if the drapes match the carpet.

A tiny first-year enters Professor McGonagall's class and passes her a note. She raises a fine eyebrow as her eyes quickly scan the paper, then hands it back to him. "Class, Dumbledore has a few matters I must discuss with him immediately. To fill in for my absence will be..." Her eyes pass over the room of raised Gryffindor and Slytherin hands just as swiftly as they did for the note, and points with her chin, "Hermione Granger."

A chorus of "she always gets it!" and "Gryffindor bias!" and "you like us, right, Hermione?" ring out to accompany the end of the professor's choice. "Quiet!" she says. "Feel free to question the intentions of my decision once I return from the Headmaster's. For now, Miss Granger, please take up my space here."

With a bright face about, she strides up as McGonagall gives a sharp nod and exits. Harry bites his lip sharply to keep his stupid, proud grin from giving away his plan so early.

"To continue where Professor McGonagall was finishing off," she smiles gently, "are there any questions?"

No-one wants to put themselves on the spot, it seems; at least, not until a solitary arm is upright and patient and the whole class looks to see whose arm it is exactly. Some students' eyes widen to see that it belongs to a certain Draco Malfoy. The same students who thought it a sign from the supernatural forces that are that Ragnorak is soon upon this world and the first sign is Draco Malfoy raising his hand, well, their eyes promptly widen doubly so when they see that Harry Potter is forcing that arm up with his own hands, as in voluntarily touching the snotty git in front of an audience. One of those students is Ron Weasley, and his eyes are starting to hurt.

"Yes, Malfoy?" Hermione asks, reasonably suspicious, but not of the Slytherin's motives; no, it is of her best friend's that she finds herself slightly nervous. Even more nervous than the time that Crookshanks began coughing up fiery red hairballs and Ron was nowhere to be seen.

"We have some questions, actually," Harry grins.

Ron narrows his eyes and asks nobody in particular, "Has a stronger form of Imperious been created?" He himself does not know for whose sake he says that.

"Go on," she encourages, ignoring the ominous atmosphere surrounding those two, thus far, acting civil and even friendly.

"Tell me, 'Mione. Are redheads," Harry clears his throat in attempt to find a more tasteful term, "better equipped down South than the rest of us boring brunets and blonds?"

"And, I must just know, Granger," Draco drawls, "do they also have freckles...there?"

"But, first and foremost, could you tell us if the, uh, carpets match the drapes?"

A rustle is heard as Blaise leans over to Pansy and whispers, "I'm frightened. Hold me."

An, "Oi, keep your hands to yourself, you hyperactive, sex-crazed nymphomaniac!" and the connection between a fist and a jaw are heard in reply.

What is worse, however, is the lust-filled and very male moan that follows it.

But Hermione is still in shock from the three questions that bombarded her seconds earlier. "Er," she whimpers as thoughts ricochet in that gigantic encyclopedia she modestly refers to as her quite normal brain. Such thoughts include, How do they even know we've gone that far? and When this new development become? and, Oh no, not again, and she stops momentarily when she finds herself thinking that as she has no idea why she thinks that when this has never happened before, not as far as she knows at least, but it is forgotten when she sees something very, very red out of the corner of her eye and realises it is her very, very red boyfriend.

Not sure what to do, she panics, and shouts at Ron with a loopy shake of her wand, "Aguamenti!"

He is immediately doused, and dripping, damp, wet, soggy, he says, "Really, Hermione? Really?"

She gives him her best apologetic smile and mouths something that makes him blush even more than before, so it can be assumed that what she mouths is a promise that no-one else can translate because they are simply that close. That, or Ron misinterpreted her words for something very different from what she intended. Either way, she receives her response and turns back to the troublesome duo and clears her throat.

"That is a private matter that will remain so unless we choose otherwise, and we definitely do not choose otherwise."

The boys nod in acceptance, and all seems well - until Draco leans to Ron and asks in a loud whisper, "She's got you whipped tighter than McGonagall's bun, huh? What does she do? Withhold sexy time?"

Hermione gapes as Harry petulantly crosses his arms and mumbles in an equally loud volume, "Stop thinking everybody is cruel enough to do that, Draco. It's just you."

The blond raises a haughty brow. "Do you want me to demonstrate just how cruel I can be? Because you sure are asking for it."

"Oh, no, because as I remember it last night, you were the one begging for my hard-"

"Harry!" Ron barks.

"-in your lovely, pale-"

"Potter!" Pansy croaks.

"-and just asking for it over and over again until I thought my-"

"Harry!" Hermione squawks.

"-would fall off from overstimulation!"

The room is stunned into silence.

"You think they're ready to spill now?" Draco murmurs into Harry's ear.

"Just one more strike and he'll be out," he replies.

The Slytherin smiles. It is not a smile that inspires relief. It is a smile that forebodes trauma for any and all unlucky souls in the vicinity who did not have the fortune nor foresight to leave while they still had the chance. "Could you just imagine the looks on their faces when they find on whose beds we did it on?"

With desperate gurgle, Ron sobs out, "Harry! Oh, Harry, no! Please! Don't tell me it was my – was it my-"

Harry smiles abashedly.

"Why? Why? What did I ever do to deserve this? I'll do anything, just stop talking about your sex lives and telling me things I would've been happy to live my life with not knowing!"

The couple look to each other for a decision and shrug helplessly. "I don't think this would've ever started if Hermione had just answered our questions," Harry says, the face of innocence.

Ron whips his head towards the accused and glares. Hermione cringes.

Ron glares harder. "No. Sex."

Hermione gasps. "You can't be serious!"

Ron continues glaring. Hermione sighs resignedly with a heavy blush settling on her cheeks.

"Alright. I can't really answer the first since I've never seen another to," she coughs, "compare, but...yesandyes."

"Excuse me, what? I can't hear you very well, you're so far," Draco teases in his most sincere "sincere" voice.

"Yes! Yes, alright? Yes, they... The carpets match the drapes, and... God, must I? He also has freckles...there."

No-one says a word. Then Neville clears his throat and utters something that echoes throughout the room impressively: "TMI."

The class bursts into laughter right as McGonagall steps, clickity-clackety, into the room. "What is the meaning of this?" she demands, red in the face and ever-so-slightly hysterical.

Draco nudges Harry and asks, "What did you put on the note?"

"Sent her to an empty classroom where Snape may or may not have also been sent to at the same time that a time-delayed Snogging Vapour was set off."

The blond stifles his giggles into his sleeve and talks into Harry's arm, "Oh, I have much to plan with you, Harry Potter."

The Gryffindor indulges in a smile before turning to the professor and explaining, "Oh, it was nothing, Hermione was just, enthusiastically, might I add, telling us one of the many reasons why human beings don't, or shouldn't, Transfigure other human beings into different species - or vice versa, for that matter."

McGonagall's stern gaze softens considerably and she makes an impressed coo, not noticing Draco before he manages to detach himself from Harry. "Good job, Ms. Granger. Ten points to your house for teaching a room full of Gryffindors and Slytherins without the class bursting into a civil war."

Hermione gives a pleasantly surprised gasp and beams gratefully at him. He replies with a stationary curtsy as McGonagall sends Hermione back to her seat and resumes her stately presence.

It all seems back to normal until a round little curiosity rolls itself out of the professor's robes, making a sort of click-click-clicking sound when it hits the floor. Draco's eyes widen almost comically and he furtively grabs Harry's collar through the sudden eruption of wonder and speculation from the other students. "Tell me you didn't."

The Gryffindor gives him a sheepish smile. "Oops? I couldn't resist. Now, I'm claiming you before Zabini does with his gelled-to-perfection hair and crafty fingers." He makes a face and wiggles his fingers mockingly, but before Draco or any of the other students know it, he's in the brunet's arms, being snogged quite thoroughly, thank you very much, and the small, odd thing on the ground? It spins with a whooshing sound and splits in half. Fumes, smoke, a mist rises from inside it and settles over the classroom.

"Shite!" Pansy exclaims. "It's a Snogging Vap-" is all she is able to get out before Theodore Nott grabs her head and snogs the living blazes out of her, and all the while, she reciprocates, even though her eyebrows are furrowed in anger and anguish and just the slightest, tiniest itty-bittiest tic of pleasure. She would later refute those charges.

Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas are making out rather eagerly in a corner, though everyone knows they will vehemently deny so come lunchtime, and poor Blaise Zabini is being overwhelmed by Neville Longbottom's wicked, wicked, divine mouth - enjoying it however forced it is, of course.

The Patil twins are each almost eating, respectively, Crabbe and Goyle's faces, and Millicent Bulstrode is grabbing desperately at Lavender Brown, and everyone else who is nobody is just a part of the background of the production of the world's greatest reluctant symphony of smacking lips and panting ever. Which just becomes exponentially worse when Flitwick rushes in, hearing the ruckus from next door, because one moment, he and McGonagall lock eyes, and the next, they are pulling impatiently at each other's' robes, to the horror on all those poor, poor onlookers.

And in the eye of the storm, of course, are Harry and Draco, still kissing the hell out of each other, even when vapours dissipate about five or so minutes later.