The Highest Bidder
by Kay

Draco sat at the Slytherin table, sulking and pushing food around his plate listlessly. He knew that "sullen" was not his best look, but at this point, he was beyond caring. He was still floating in a state of shock, unable to believe the outcome of the auction. He'd garnered the highest bid; this was supposed to be his shining moment of triumph, the golden opportunity for him to flaunt his obvious supremacy in everybody's faces. However, the nagging little fact of who'd bought him had effectively ruined his glory.

Oh, he'd tried everything he could think of to change the horrifying possibility of having to spend a day--an entire 24-hour period, mind you--at Ron Weasley's mercy. Mercy, ha! The big lout undoubtedly had many plans for him, and it was quite likely that none of them included anything vaguely resembling mercy. And that was why he'd searched for any possible out. He'd talked to Dumbledore, demanding to know if Ron could actually pay the outrageous price he'd offered. Unfortunately, Weasley could, and he already had. One hope gone.

He'd tried to get someone to switch places with him in return for his own 250 galleons. No such luck. Dumbledore had said before that the rules of the auction exchange plainly stated that the Quidditch player whom the bidders had won must fulfill their day of servitude. Another idea shot down.

Unfortunately, most of his other ideas weren't going to fly, either. The first was to offer to pay Weasley more money in return for his freedom. Not likely. Those high Gryffindor ideals and the thirst for revenge were much too strong for that, he was sure. Playing sick wouldn't work. He'd still have to fulfill his end of the bargain sometime. And he quickly discarded the idea of using a memory charm. Too messy. Plus, he'd never quite perfected them. It always seemed that he erased just a little bit too much of the memory, which could be decidedly inconvenient and incriminating if it came right down to it.

So he was stuck with it. The shocked disbelief and mental rejection concerning the events of earlier in the day had worn off, and the awful truth was finally sinking in. He was going to have to serve his time as Ron Weasley's slave, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was completely, utterly helpless. Now he was experiencing a myriad of emotions: horror, disbelief, self-pity, trepidation, anxiety, humiliation, curiosity, and, perversely enough, excitement. He had no idea of what was to come, and that insecurity was doing a damn good job of undermining his much-valued and carefully cultivated self-assurance.

Sure, he'd been his normal obstinate and demanding self at first, bound and determined to buck the rules and get out of it. After all, he was Lucius Malfoy's son! In his opinion, that meant that no one should be able to deny him anything and get away with it. Unfortunately, that's not how the rest of Hogwarts saw it. They thought it was one great joke, teasing him and laughing as he passed in the halls of the school. Anyone so much as looking his way in a manner which he found to be offensive was fixed with his patented death-glare. Those who actually had the audacity to speak to him or laugh at him received an insult so scathing that their ears would be ringing for a week.

That's precisely the reason he hadn't understood why so many people had still been laughing at him before dinner. Didn't they know better than to incur the wrath of Draco Malfoy? It wasn't until Crabbe and Goyle finally clued him in to the sign on his back that he figured it out. Someone, thinking they were quite witty, had magicked a tag sewn to the back of his best robes. Property of Ron Weasley, it read. Draco ripped it off viciously, letting fly some choice venemous remarks that caused a few nearby first years to flee in terror. However, the jibes and laughter still continued, and Draco just didn't feel like dealing with it anymore.

In fact, that was the very reason Draco wasn't eating his dinner. The pitying looks of his fellow Slytherins coupled with the gloating grins of all those students who believed he was finally getting what he deserved were enough to make him completely lose his appetite. He most definitely didn't need to look over at the Gryffindor table to see the smug satisfaction that was no doubt written all over his face. Though Draco hadn't even seen the redhead since the auction, he had the irrepressible urge to punch him in the face. And that was a mark of the enormous degree to which Draco was thrown out of equilibrium. He was not and never had been one to resort to physical violence, but this situation was making the possibility very tempting indeed.

Wanting to avoid any such unpleasantness over dinner, he staunchly refused to glance up at all, not even breaking eye contact with his food when Dumbledore tapped on his goblet to direct the students' attention to the head table. Draco ignored the headmaster's announcements, wondering instead just how the man could make a little chiming on his goblet loud enough to be heard over the din of the Great Hall at mealtime. He suspected that Dumbledore put some kind of amplification spell either on his goblet or the utensil he hit it with. Casting a contemplative look at his own goblet and spoon, Draco cocked his head to the side and frowned. He had half a mind to try it out, but he had no wish to gain the attention of everyone in the room. He'd already had enough of that, thankyouverymuch!

However, Dumbledore gained Draco's full attention the moment he mentioned the auction. Draco's head snapped up, and his back straightened immediately.

"On the subject of the Quidditch auction," Dumbledore was saying, "I am proud to announce that the four teams were able to raise more than sufficient funds to provide for this season's equipment." He paused to allow time for polite applause. "At this point in time, I'd like to request that all players and winning bidders stay after dinner for a few instructions concerning the exchange."

The headmaster began to sit, but then he seemed to remember something. "Also, I'd like to thank all the participating bidders whose generous offers made this fundraiser such a success. Special recognition to Ron Weasley for making such a generous donation, especially to an opposing team."

At that, the Gryffindor table burst into loud applause. Draco glowered. Even though Weasley's bid meant more money for the Slytherin team, the Gryffindors were most likely ecstatic that at least Draco's life was going to be made a living hell for a day. So that bastard was being recognized for something that would be pleasant enough for him to begin with? That hardly seemed fair. Oh, well. At least the dolt hadn't been awarded points like some kind of half-arsed hero, Draco consoled himself, feeling slightly better.

But just then, and Draco would swear later that Dumbledore's eyes had glinted with some sort of sadistic pleasure, the headmaster did the one thing Draco most wanted to avoid: he directed everyone's attention right to the seventh year student.

"Of course, the Slytherin team has Draco Malfoy to thank for garnering the highest bid of any player."

So this is how an owl in a broom's path feels, then, Draco thought as he fought the instinct to duck under the table or to run from the room...anything to avoid all those stares! Now, by nature Draco enjoyed attention, but this wasn't exactly the kind of attention he was used to.

Not to be outdone by the Gryffindors, the Slytherin table clapped and cheered loudly, and the sound brought Draco back to his senses. He fought down the flush that was trying to cross his cheeks, forcing a sly smirk onto his face and resolutely staring back instead. If his dignity was going to be put under such harsh strain, he was going to fight tooth and nail to keep at least a few shreds intact. With that end in mind, Draco restrained himself from glaring and snapping at Goyle when a meaty hand slapped him on the back. He gritted his teeth and plastered on an arrogant smile until attention returned to the head table, then he allowed himself a relieved sigh. Draco mentally thanked his father for all those childhood etiquette lessons. If nothing else, he had definitely benefitted from the coaching on how to look the exact opposite of what he felt.

Somehow he made it through the rest of dinner, though he didn't taste a bite of the food he shoved down his throat. When the Great Hall began to empty out, he edged closer to the head table, careful to stay in the midst of the other Slytherin players. Glancing around and trying not to look as nervous as he felt, Draco noticed that he wasn't the only one feeling out of sorts.

Most others wouldn't be able to tell from looking, but Draco could plainly tell from the way he kept biting his lower lip and glancing in the direction of the door that Professor Snape was not at all comfortable with the situation. As he was the only adult involved in the exchange, he stood out like Weasley-red hair in a sea of blonde heads.

Draco snickered quietly at the comparison, then stopped abruptly when he caught sight of said red hair. Quickly, he stepped behind Crabbe so that the view was blocked. He tried to convince himself that it was because looking at Weasley after dinner was never a good idea for his digestive system, but he failed miserably. To be honest with himself, Draco knew his avoidance was due to unease about what the Weasel had planned for him. He didn't care to have any more lurid winks and suggestively-mouthed phrases directed at him any time soon.

He peeked around Crabbe's hulking shoulder, but the crowd had shifted until he could only see Potter. At least he looked about as scared out of his wits as Draco felt.

As well he should! Draco thought smugly. It's about time he was brought down a peg or two...

But his self-righteous inner voice shut up just as soon as he realized that people were probably thinking the exact same thing about him.

With that thought in mind, it was no small wonder that Draco was scowling darkly when, once all the players and bidders were gathered and the rest of the room had cleared, Dumbledore cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Now that you're all here, I'd like to remind you that the day of servitude begins tomorrow morning, promptly one hour after breakfast. Then the bidders, referred to hereafter as the Masters, have full reign to make demands of the players they bid upon. As it is a Hogsmeade weekend, any second year players will be allowed to accompany their Masters if it is so wished."

The only three second year players perked up, as did a few of the youngest bidders. "However," Dumbledore continued, "any underage Masters will not be allowed to go, even if their charges are old enough."

Draco had already half-tuned him out, so he didn't notice a few disappointed looks. He was too busy fuming, barely restraining a frustrated groan. Of course it had to be a Hogsmeade weekend! Weasley was probably plotting to do everything in his power to ensure that Draco had the worst experience of his life. Horrific visions of the possible torture popped into his mind: Weasley, forcing him to carry all his purchases like some low-class valet (Though a petulant voice in his head cackled, asking if it would be such a huge chore to carry whatever purchases Weasley might be able to afford. But then again, he wasn't going to be bowing to the prat's every wish for no reason. It wasn't like he'd been bought with leprechaun gold.); Weasley, forcing him to get more Butterbeer for him and the Mudblood; Weasley, demanding that Draco walk two steps behind him or some such garbage.

Draco shuddered at the thought that the Weasel was most likely going to take every possible opportunity to humiliate him. Of course, he didn't know that things would have been any better if they'd had to stay at Hogwarts, but the idea of being seen in public actually serving an inferior made Draco seethe, eyes narrowing and fists clenching tightly.

"Now, as for what Masters can and cannot demand of their charges, I gave this subject some serious thought. I can't simply say 'anything within reason' because those boundaries are quite subjective. Some of your definitions of those orders within reason would be egregiously narrow." Draco tried to look innocent when Dumbledore's gaze settled on him. "Others," he continued, looking away, "might have a very wide range of demands they think would be well within reason, including some things I'd like to think none of you would actually order anyone to do."

Dumbledore's voice was sharp, and his hawklike eyes pierced the group standing in front of him. Draco actually paled when he thought about possible "orders" that some of the Masters, notably his own, might think up. Thank goodness Dumbledore was placing limits on this!

"So," Dumbledore continued, "I've settled upon a simple rule to judge your demands against. If it would be harmful to either party involved or would cause considerable damage to a player's psyche or reputation, it's off-limits. If there is any kind of disagreement about how a demand fits into this guideline, all complaints are to be brought to me. And I do not intend to deal with any petty squabbles," he warned pointedly. Then, with a quick smile and sparkling eyes, he was back to his normal, good-natured self. "I'm done, so if the Masters would like a few words with their charges, this is a good time to lay out plans for tomorrow," he concluded.

Draco immediately turned to leave the hall, desperate to escape without seeing Weasley. He didn't turn when he heard his name being called, but when a hand clamped down on his arm, he jerked out of the grip and whirled to face his assailant, breathing hard.

Predictably, Weasley was grinning, white teeth glinting and making Draco think of some lithe predator...not a very well-camouflaged predator, but a predator all the same.

"What?" Draco snapped irritably.

"Oh, now is that any way to talk to me?" Weasley asked, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed casually.

"What the hell do you want, Weasel?" Draco hissed, ignoring Weasley's comment.

"Just to talk to you about tomorrow, that's all," the redhead replied, completely unruffled. "Oh, and you can't call me that," he stated matter-of-factly.

Draco snorted. "Then what the fuck am I supposed to do? Yell, 'Hey, you!' every time I need to get your attention?"

Ron rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. "Oh, I don't know. I think Master has a nice ring to it, don't you?" he asked, grinning crookedly, self-satisfaction written all over his face.

Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That'll be the day that I have a wet dream about Snape!" he snapped, spinning on his heel to stalk out of the room. He shook his head at the stupidity of his comeback, knowing that it was undoubtedly the dumbest one he'd ever made during all his years of verbal sparring. However, he laid all the blame at Wealey's feet, attributing his own maimed thought process to the git's annoying self-assuredness and outright antagonism.

He didn't see it when Ron's eyebrows raised in shocked surprise. He also didn't see the look morph into one of wicked consideration. He did hear it, however, when Weasley called out, "Then I hope you have sweet dreams, Drakey-poo!" after his retreating figure.

"Fuck off, Weasel," he muttered, not at all sure he'd even be able to sleep that night.

Draco woke a few hours later, heart beating erratically, breath coming hard between his parted lips...and sheets sticking to his lower body.

"Shit," he groaned, his own words coming back to haunt him.

"That'll be the day that I have a wet dream about Snape!"

Oh, it was not going to be a good day.