[hp] corridors of power: interlude
Corridors of Power
Being An Originally Intermittent Account
of the Political (Mis)Adventures
of the Viscount Northallerton, Lord Malfoy of Wimbledon;
and the Rt. Honourable Harry J. Potter,
Member of Parliament for North Southwark and Bermondsey (Liberal Democrat).
Annotated, with Footnotes
Wednesday May 4th
"You do realise there's an election tomorrow, Potter?"
Harry shifted back on the couch (lumpy, squishy, bloody awful brown stripes, but it wasn't really the done thing to pad out the constituency office with furniture from Conran) and regarded Draco through the half-empty bottle of Corona. The stupid git was frowning at him from across the room, arms crossed, considerably more creased of shirt than he'd ever been in the House.
Harry had had a good laugh at the sight of Malfoy up a ladder, hanging up the bright yellow canvas sign and fussing critically until it was straight.
"Yep," Harry said, "and as of now I don't see what else I could be doing. Except drinking. And possibly organising some sort of doner kebab to appear before me."
More frowning. "I bet McNeill and Branch are still out door-knocking, or holding charity suppers in Peckham, or something."
"Or do I feel like a curry? You want a vindaloo?"
Suddenly Draco was right in front of him, and it wasn't the effect of viewing him through the curvature of the beer bottle.
"I did not," he scowled, plucking the bottle from Harry's hand, "spend my entire--sunny, might I remind you--bank holiday weekend making tea and scones--"
"Pfft. I saw the house elf. Don't you even."
"...tea and scones for the great unwashed of South London, suffering through your dreadfully earnest speeches just so you could fuck around at zero hour and drop the bloody quaffle." Draco picked out the piece of lemon, took a great gulp and finished off Harry's beer. "Yuck. Just because it's duty-free doesn't mean you have to drink it."
Harry yawned. Then he snickered, because Draco still had a badge on the knee of his trousers where Harry had pinned it while holding the ladder. "Honestly. Anyone would think it was you whose future was being determined by the voting public tomorrow."
Draco gave him a thoughtful look, and tore the piece of lemon in two.
*
"What you wearing?" Draco asked later, pushing the half-empty curry container across the table. "I mean, tomorrow. 'Cos, obvs'ly, I can see what you're wearing now. Although I wish I couldn't because I don't like lavender."
Harry surveyed the jalfrezi remains and decided he could be heroic and attempt more. Especially now he didn't have to move from his own, infinitely more comfortable couch.
"Lavender!" he said. "Poof. It's purple."
"It's horrible." Draco hiccupped. "I shall choose your victory suit. 'cept, not now. Right now I am slightly pissed."
Harry smiled. Whenever Malfoy got bossy and energetic about something it was always best to ply him with alcohol. Tories and Slytherins were all the same; a couple of glasses of chardonnay and it got them as pliable as a mild imperius.
Draco had stopped bleating on about last-minute canvassing when Harry suggested the Pouilly-Fuisse. Made for a quieter life all around, and anyhow, the final polls made him feel pretty bloody good about tomorrow's prospects.
Besides. He'd be a sorry excuse for a wizard if he couldn't tamper with a ballot box.
Notes from a "press release" owled to BZ by the abovementioned, somewhat later on that evening:
The previously-and-hopefully-prospective Honourable Harry J. Potter, and Viscount Northallerton, the Lord Malfoy of Wimbledon (Soho on weeknights), encourage all of you who are entitled to vote in the UK elections tomorrow, to do so. Or they will hunt you down and Crucio you. Mr Potter of course insists that you vote for the Liberal Democrats. Lord Malfoy insists he has no party-political affiliation but would probably vote Green in the Wimbledon electorate, were he entitled to vote. As a Lord he is not, and this irks him considerably.
The reply, sent by return:
Blaise Zabini, Magisterium candidate in Political Arithmancy, has conclusively proven that all Muggle forms of democracy are inherently flawed. Especially Westminister parliamentary systems. Not that he cares too much because he's considering moving to Cyprus and planting macadamias.
PS: Draco, don't sulk.
*
Part IX
Being An Originally Intermittent Account
of the Political (Mis)Adventures
of the Viscount Northallerton, Lord Malfoy of Wimbledon;
and the Rt. Honourable Harry J. Potter,
Member of Parliament for North Southwark and Bermondsey (Liberal Democrat).
Annotated, with Footnotes
Wednesday May 4th
"You do realise there's an election tomorrow, Potter?"
Harry shifted back on the couch (lumpy, squishy, bloody awful brown stripes, but it wasn't really the done thing to pad out the constituency office with furniture from Conran) and regarded Draco through the half-empty bottle of Corona. The stupid git was frowning at him from across the room, arms crossed, considerably more creased of shirt than he'd ever been in the House.
Harry had had a good laugh at the sight of Malfoy up a ladder, hanging up the bright yellow canvas sign and fussing critically until it was straight.
"Yep," Harry said, "and as of now I don't see what else I could be doing. Except drinking. And possibly organising some sort of doner kebab to appear before me."
More frowning. "I bet McNeill and Branch are still out door-knocking, or holding charity suppers in Peckham, or something."
"Or do I feel like a curry? You want a vindaloo?"
Suddenly Draco was right in front of him, and it wasn't the effect of viewing him through the curvature of the beer bottle.
"I did not," he scowled, plucking the bottle from Harry's hand, "spend my entire--sunny, might I remind you--bank holiday weekend making tea and scones--"
"Pfft. I saw the house elf. Don't you even."
"...tea and scones for the great unwashed of South London, suffering through your dreadfully earnest speeches just so you could fuck around at zero hour and drop the bloody quaffle." Draco picked out the piece of lemon, took a great gulp and finished off Harry's beer. "Yuck. Just because it's duty-free doesn't mean you have to drink it."
Harry yawned. Then he snickered, because Draco still had a badge on the knee of his trousers where Harry had pinned it while holding the ladder. "Honestly. Anyone would think it was you whose future was being determined by the voting public tomorrow."
Draco gave him a thoughtful look, and tore the piece of lemon in two.
*
"What you wearing?" Draco asked later, pushing the half-empty curry container across the table. "I mean, tomorrow. 'Cos, obvs'ly, I can see what you're wearing now. Although I wish I couldn't because I don't like lavender."
Harry surveyed the jalfrezi remains and decided he could be heroic and attempt more. Especially now he didn't have to move from his own, infinitely more comfortable couch.
"Lavender!" he said. "Poof. It's purple."
"It's horrible." Draco hiccupped. "I shall choose your victory suit. 'cept, not now. Right now I am slightly pissed."
Harry smiled. Whenever Malfoy got bossy and energetic about something it was always best to ply him with alcohol. Tories and Slytherins were all the same; a couple of glasses of chardonnay and it got them as pliable as a mild imperius.
Draco had stopped bleating on about last-minute canvassing when Harry suggested the Pouilly-Fuisse. Made for a quieter life all around, and anyhow, the final polls made him feel pretty bloody good about tomorrow's prospects.
Besides. He'd be a sorry excuse for a wizard if he couldn't tamper with a ballot box.
Notes from a "press release" owled to BZ by the abovementioned, somewhat later on that evening:
The previously-and-hopefully-prospective Honourable Harry J. Potter, and Viscount Northallerton, the Lord Malfoy of Wimbledon (Soho on weeknights), encourage all of you who are entitled to vote in the UK elections tomorrow, to do so. Or they will hunt you down and Crucio you. Mr Potter of course insists that you vote for the Liberal Democrats. Lord Malfoy insists he has no party-political affiliation but would probably vote Green in the Wimbledon electorate, were he entitled to vote. As a Lord he is not, and this irks him considerably.
The reply, sent by return:
Blaise Zabini, Magisterium candidate in Political Arithmancy, has conclusively proven that all Muggle forms of democracy are inherently flawed. Especially Westminister parliamentary systems. Not that he cares too much because he's considering moving to Cyprus and planting macadamias.
PS: Draco, don't sulk.
*
Part IX