[DISCONTINUED] The Broom Closet

Chapter One: Houston, We Have A Problem.

     Harry was a phenomenal teenager, simply by chance. He was known for several shocking acts both big and small. He didn't choose this life, however, he didn't exactly feel hostility toward it too much either. Quidditch matches were always nerve-wracking. Harry's first game especially. However, they always ended up involving some kind of astonishing turn of events. He felt like his team was just based off of more luck than skill, nonetheless, he didn't really have any complaints. Hearing the cheers of the audience and voices within the back of his head was what drove him forward, to triumph.

     The locker rooms were empty. He made it there toward the last of everyone else, so he would have some privacy while showering and such. It sounded foolish, though the boy was rather shy and reserved about himself. Regardless, he still enjoyed a hot and luxurious shower as a refresher. He would dry himself off, cozying himself within sweats and a hoodie. Nothing extraordinary. The hoodie wasn't his, he took it from Ron at one point when in need of clothing and never gave it back. It was rather long but comfortable. It smelled of autumn, and sweater weather. In contrast, his own cologne was more complex. Perhaps, it would be best described as laundry detergent, autumn woods, and pomegranate. A sweet, yet manly smell, that mixed rather nicely with the bit of scent from Ron that lingered amongst him.

     Picking up his three-fourths of the way zipped bag, he left the room, not bothering to shut the lights off knowing they would simply shut off on their own after some time. He slung the strap on his shoulder, looking down as he made his way to the closet, with his broom to be set inside it within his other hand. Harry wasn't much of a talker after games, and he didn't feel the need to say anything to anyone. He just wished to put his broom away, and furthermore go relax in his dorm with Ron. Quidditch was rather draining. His body ached essentially everywhere, and his eyelids felt heavy. Both emotionally and physically depleted, the wizard was. From a lengthy day of doing magic, topped by an hour or two worth of sporting definitely wore a man down.

     Winding up on the closet, Harry noticed Draco, restraining eye contact at all costs. He had won against the Slytherin team and knew damn well that the blonde-headed idiot would most likely have some sort of witty comment revolving around this. Malfoy was a rather poor sport. He was just the kind of person to show up just to win, or more so pulverize his opponents instead. He was fresh, and there wasn't anything that could really be done to change his crappy antics and habits.

     Typically, Harry positioned his broomstick toward the back. An easy spot of which he always remembered where to locate it. Hence, he stepped further into the closet, the bag still strapped atop his shoulder, and placed the fancy and expensively branded broom toward the typical spot of his. Potter took reasonable care of his broom. He cleaned it and made sure not to break it. There have been times where he nearly has, and broken broom incidents of his own in the past, but this one he shielded with his entire being so he wouldn't repeat such scenarios. It was one of those brands you'd recognize upon window shopping, and Harry was more than advantageous to have it.

     To prevent any awkwardness, Harry just merely brushed by Draco, presumably accidentally dragging his bag against him as he made his way to what he didn't know to be a now closed door. It was obvious that Draco as well was trying his best to ignore the other's existence, aside from constantly shooting glares his way whenever he thought the boy wasn't looking. Half the time, he wasn't, but on the other hand, there was still that remaining fifty percent. Reaching the door in the closet that felt so endless, as Draco just continued to find a spot for his own broom while gazing upon several others, Harry put his hand on the handle, snatching it downwards. It was stiff and didn't want to move. He furrowed his eyebrows, murmuring a little to himself as he continued to wiggle and nudge on the locked door. Houston, we have a problem. It was locked from the outside.