[fic] overture ; hp, harry/draco
overture. harry potter. harry/draco. pg-13. 1,758. ao3.
“can i ask what you were trying to do?”
“i was trying to make you a birthday present! next year, i just won’t bother.”
notes: for hd_pots_n_porn june/july prompt: birthday cake/birthday food.
no turkish angoras were harmed in the making of this fic.
“Draco?” Harry calls out as he steps out of the fireplace and into the living room, staring at the fluffy, white, and unusually frightened Turkish Angora in front of him. “Er - is there any particular reason why Marguerite is hiding under the couch like she’s terrified for her life?”
“She’s just being dramatic!” Draco calls back.
Harry lets out a deep sigh, kneeling down on their ridiculously expensive shag rug. As he does so, his knees let out a deep groan of protest.
“That’s a bit pot calling the kettle black, innit?” Harry asks the cat, who just blinks back at him.
“C’mon,” he says gently, holding his hand out like he’s hiding one of her favorite treats in it. His attempt at coaxing Marguerite out of her hiding spot only succeeds in making her crawl even further underneath the couch until all Harry can see is her bright blue eyes blinking owlishly back at him.
Harry sighs once more. “C’mon, love, whatever it was, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
Harry swears Marguerite lets out a harrumph in response to this. He spends far too long lying prone on the floor and feeling utterly ridiculous as he tries to charm her into jumping into his awaiting arms. It doesn’t work. His charm hadn’t worked on any of his previous partners - those were mainly the result of vast quantities of alcohol consumption, unresolved sexual tension, and heated arguments, or, in the case of he and Draco, all three - he didn’t know why he expected it to work on a haughty feline.
When it’s clear that Marguerite isn’t coming out no matter how many exorbitantly costly pieces of caviar Harry promises her, he gives up. He goes to push himself up off the floor and immediately collapses back down. Marguerite laughs at him, he’s sure of it. He eventually manages to get back up, but not without almost every bone in his body cracking in a distressing manner. Wonderful, he’s barely forty-one and his entire body is giving up on him.
He stretches his arms, shoulders, and neck as he walks to the kitchen and then immediately cancels out any good that stretching may have done him by immediately whipping his neck back and forth as he takes in the scene before him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I thought I was walking into my kitchen but apparently I walked into a war zone by mistake.”
“Oh, shut up,” Draco says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not nearly as bad as it looks.”
“Oh, really?” Harry asks, his eyes darting to the flour-covered counters then to the multiple cake pans strewn across the stove top, the island, and the floor and finally to a yellow puddle in the corner that could be eggs or urine. Harry really hopes it’s eggs.
“What were you even trying to make?” Harry asks, unable to ascertain an answer from the remnants of destruction all over the kitchen.
“A cake,” Draco says flatly, his nostrils flaring.
“A cake?” Harry frowns. “I don’t see a cake...Oh.”
The cake, or, what Harry assumes was intended to be the cake, is sitting sadly on the counter, underneath a very light dusting of flour - or perhaps that’s powdered sugar? - burnt to a crisp. He isn’t sure what kind of cake Draco was going for exactly because it just appears to be a large, black dome. And, are those meant to be wings, on either side of it? And what are those little burnt squiggly things on the top?
“Draco, love,” Harry says gently, “Can I ask what you were...trying to do?”
“I was trying,” Draco replies, throwing his hands up in the air, “to make you a birthday present! Next year, I just won’t bother.” He pouts, crossing his arms again and looking so adorably put out that Harry has to bite his lip to stop himself from either laughing, kissing him, or both.
“No, no, no,” Harry says, wrapping his arm around Draco and rubbing his shoulder. “I love it. Honest.”
“Really?” Draco says, dubious.
Harry looks back at the lump of coal-resembling cake sitting on the counter. “I love...that you tried to make something for me.”
Draco rolls his eyes and tries to wrestle his way out of Harry’s embrace.
“No, seriously,” Harry says, locking his arms even tighter around Draco. “It means a lot that you even remembered, let alone tried to do something nice for me. Most people don’t even remember.”
He doesn’t say it in a way that’s searching for pity, pity is the last thing Harry would ever want, he’s received more than his fair share of it in his lifetime, but it breaks Draco’s heart all the same.
“I know,” Draco says softly, his eyes softening as he melts into Harry’s touch. “I just wanted to…,” his gaze turns towards the floor, as if what he’s about to say is embarrassing, “try and do something nice. I know just one good birthday isn’t going to make up for an entire childhood of shit ones but…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence but Harry can fill in the gaps. He wanted this birthday to be the first good birthday in a series of good birthdays to come. A large lump appears in Harry’s throat and he has to swallow it and take a minute to breathe so he doesn’t start to cry.
Draco shakes his head. “Now, instead of that, all I’ve done is given you another shit birthday to add to the collection.”
“Draco,” Harry says, the word full of emotion he doesn’t quite know how to name. “It's okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Draco groans, “Even Hagrid can make you a birthday cake, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well,” Harry says, “In fairness, Hagrid’s cake wasn’t exactly...edible.”
“Apparently, neither is mine,” Draco snaps. Harry can’t help the snort that escapes him.
“Are you laughing at me?” Draco asks, twisting out of Harry’s hold.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, trying to stop his giggling but unable to.
“That’s it,” Draco declares, dramatically taking off his apron. “This is officially the last time I try to do anything nice for you.” He turns to glare at Harry. “Ever.”
“I said I’m sorry!”
Draco harrumphs sounding eerily similar to Marguerite which reminds Harry…
“Wait. So, what exactly happened to send Marguerite into hiding?”
Heat rises on Draco’s cheeks and he turns away from Harry to start cleaning up his mess, which is somewhat short of a miracle. He hates tidying up even more than Harry does.
“Draco,” Harry says sternly, “what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Draco snaps, waving his wand and clearing off the island. “At least not intentionally,” he mutters under his breath.
“Draco…” Harry warns.
“Alright, alright. It’s possible I may have, accidentally, mind you, almost, superficially…” Draco’s voice gets so low Harry has to strain to hear him, “burned the tip of her tail.” He finishes the sentence so quickly and in such a jumbled manner it takes Harry a second to realize what he’s just said.
“You singed her tail off?” Harry yells, his voice going up an octave with every word.
“I said almost!”
Harry doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he check on her? He should check on her, right? Definitely. He should absolutely, definitely check on her. He spins around to go find her then remembers his earlier luck with getting her to come out of her hiding spot. He turns on Draco, pointing an accusatory finger his way.
“She won’t come out from under the couch! We need to take her to the vet! How are we supposed to take her to the vet if she won’t come out from under the couch?”
“Stay calm,” Draco says, trying to put his hands on Harry’s shoulders and relenting when Harry warns him off with a glare.
“Luna already came round and gave her a check up. She said she’s fine. Just a little…” Draco trails off.
“Traumatized?” Harry suggests, his voice still much higher in pitch than average.
Draco narrows his eyes at him. “Skittish.”
Harry snorts. “Skittish!”
“Yes, skittish,” Draco repeats. “That’s the word she used. And Harry, I hate to say it but...she’s been through worse.” He does sound like it pains him to say it and Harry knows that it does. Draco had been the one that brought her into their home, the one who rescued Marguerite from the cold and rainy streets of London. She’s so much of a diva that sometimes Harry forgets her origins aren’t as pompous as she is.
“And frankly,” Draco says, “I’m insulted that you think I don’t already feel awful enough and haven’t attempted to apologize to her about three hundred times already! But Luna said it was best to just let her have some space and let her come to me when she’s ready.”
“Oh,” Harry says quietly.
“Yes, oh, indeed,” Draco huffs.
“Sorry?” Harry offers, smiling sheepishly. “Really, I am. I was just so worried about her.”
“I know,” Draco replies, “I would’ve acted the same if the positions had been reversed.”
“Well, that would never happen because I would never be idiotic enough to think I could bake in the first place.”
Draco glares at him but concedes the point. “True,” he sighs. “Maybe we should all be banned from the kitchen for the foreseeable future.”
“That,” Harry says, grabbing Draco and pulling him out of the kitchen. “Sounds like a great idea.”
Harry takes him over to the couch, not the one Marguerite is hiding under, of course, but the love seat and lets Draco burrow his face into Harry’s neck. “I just wanted to make you something special,” he mumbles.
“I know, love,” Harry says, placing a soft kiss on the top of Draco’s head. “And I appreciate the effort, truly. But next time try something you actually know how to prepare.” Harry pauses, trying not to grin. “Like your arse.”
Draco gasps, pulling away from him. “Harry James Potter! You little---” Before he can finish Harry tugs him into a kiss.
“I love you,” Draco whispers against his lips when they finally pull apart.
“I love you too. Now,” Harry says, pushing Draco up off the seat and slapping him on the ass once he’s standing. “I’ll order us something to eat. You go and apologize to the cat.”
Draco’s face turns as ashen as Harry’s ever seen it. “I think I’d rather face the oven.”
This entry was originally posted at https://delacourtings.dreamwidth.org/156344.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
“can i ask what you were trying to do?”
“i was trying to make you a birthday present! next year, i just won’t bother.”
notes: for hd_pots_n_porn june/july prompt: birthday cake/birthday food.
no turkish angoras were harmed in the making of this fic.
“Draco?” Harry calls out as he steps out of the fireplace and into the living room, staring at the fluffy, white, and unusually frightened Turkish Angora in front of him. “Er - is there any particular reason why Marguerite is hiding under the couch like she’s terrified for her life?”
“She’s just being dramatic!” Draco calls back.
Harry lets out a deep sigh, kneeling down on their ridiculously expensive shag rug. As he does so, his knees let out a deep groan of protest.
“That’s a bit pot calling the kettle black, innit?” Harry asks the cat, who just blinks back at him.
“C’mon,” he says gently, holding his hand out like he’s hiding one of her favorite treats in it. His attempt at coaxing Marguerite out of her hiding spot only succeeds in making her crawl even further underneath the couch until all Harry can see is her bright blue eyes blinking owlishly back at him.
Harry sighs once more. “C’mon, love, whatever it was, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
Harry swears Marguerite lets out a harrumph in response to this. He spends far too long lying prone on the floor and feeling utterly ridiculous as he tries to charm her into jumping into his awaiting arms. It doesn’t work. His charm hadn’t worked on any of his previous partners - those were mainly the result of vast quantities of alcohol consumption, unresolved sexual tension, and heated arguments, or, in the case of he and Draco, all three - he didn’t know why he expected it to work on a haughty feline.
When it’s clear that Marguerite isn’t coming out no matter how many exorbitantly costly pieces of caviar Harry promises her, he gives up. He goes to push himself up off the floor and immediately collapses back down. Marguerite laughs at him, he’s sure of it. He eventually manages to get back up, but not without almost every bone in his body cracking in a distressing manner. Wonderful, he’s barely forty-one and his entire body is giving up on him.
He stretches his arms, shoulders, and neck as he walks to the kitchen and then immediately cancels out any good that stretching may have done him by immediately whipping his neck back and forth as he takes in the scene before him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I thought I was walking into my kitchen but apparently I walked into a war zone by mistake.”
“Oh, shut up,” Draco says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not nearly as bad as it looks.”
“Oh, really?” Harry asks, his eyes darting to the flour-covered counters then to the multiple cake pans strewn across the stove top, the island, and the floor and finally to a yellow puddle in the corner that could be eggs or urine. Harry really hopes it’s eggs.
“What were you even trying to make?” Harry asks, unable to ascertain an answer from the remnants of destruction all over the kitchen.
“A cake,” Draco says flatly, his nostrils flaring.
“A cake?” Harry frowns. “I don’t see a cake...Oh.”
The cake, or, what Harry assumes was intended to be the cake, is sitting sadly on the counter, underneath a very light dusting of flour - or perhaps that’s powdered sugar? - burnt to a crisp. He isn’t sure what kind of cake Draco was going for exactly because it just appears to be a large, black dome. And, are those meant to be wings, on either side of it? And what are those little burnt squiggly things on the top?
“Draco, love,” Harry says gently, “Can I ask what you were...trying to do?”
“I was trying,” Draco replies, throwing his hands up in the air, “to make you a birthday present! Next year, I just won’t bother.” He pouts, crossing his arms again and looking so adorably put out that Harry has to bite his lip to stop himself from either laughing, kissing him, or both.
“No, no, no,” Harry says, wrapping his arm around Draco and rubbing his shoulder. “I love it. Honest.”
“Really?” Draco says, dubious.
Harry looks back at the lump of coal-resembling cake sitting on the counter. “I love...that you tried to make something for me.”
Draco rolls his eyes and tries to wrestle his way out of Harry’s embrace.
“No, seriously,” Harry says, locking his arms even tighter around Draco. “It means a lot that you even remembered, let alone tried to do something nice for me. Most people don’t even remember.”
He doesn’t say it in a way that’s searching for pity, pity is the last thing Harry would ever want, he’s received more than his fair share of it in his lifetime, but it breaks Draco’s heart all the same.
“I know,” Draco says softly, his eyes softening as he melts into Harry’s touch. “I just wanted to…,” his gaze turns towards the floor, as if what he’s about to say is embarrassing, “try and do something nice. I know just one good birthday isn’t going to make up for an entire childhood of shit ones but…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence but Harry can fill in the gaps. He wanted this birthday to be the first good birthday in a series of good birthdays to come. A large lump appears in Harry’s throat and he has to swallow it and take a minute to breathe so he doesn’t start to cry.
Draco shakes his head. “Now, instead of that, all I’ve done is given you another shit birthday to add to the collection.”
“Draco,” Harry says, the word full of emotion he doesn’t quite know how to name. “It's okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Draco groans, “Even Hagrid can make you a birthday cake, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well,” Harry says, “In fairness, Hagrid’s cake wasn’t exactly...edible.”
“Apparently, neither is mine,” Draco snaps. Harry can’t help the snort that escapes him.
“Are you laughing at me?” Draco asks, twisting out of Harry’s hold.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, trying to stop his giggling but unable to.
“That’s it,” Draco declares, dramatically taking off his apron. “This is officially the last time I try to do anything nice for you.” He turns to glare at Harry. “Ever.”
“I said I’m sorry!”
Draco harrumphs sounding eerily similar to Marguerite which reminds Harry…
“Wait. So, what exactly happened to send Marguerite into hiding?”
Heat rises on Draco’s cheeks and he turns away from Harry to start cleaning up his mess, which is somewhat short of a miracle. He hates tidying up even more than Harry does.
“Draco,” Harry says sternly, “what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Draco snaps, waving his wand and clearing off the island. “At least not intentionally,” he mutters under his breath.
“Draco…” Harry warns.
“Alright, alright. It’s possible I may have, accidentally, mind you, almost, superficially…” Draco’s voice gets so low Harry has to strain to hear him, “burned the tip of her tail.” He finishes the sentence so quickly and in such a jumbled manner it takes Harry a second to realize what he’s just said.
“You singed her tail off?” Harry yells, his voice going up an octave with every word.
“I said almost!”
Harry doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he check on her? He should check on her, right? Definitely. He should absolutely, definitely check on her. He spins around to go find her then remembers his earlier luck with getting her to come out of her hiding spot. He turns on Draco, pointing an accusatory finger his way.
“She won’t come out from under the couch! We need to take her to the vet! How are we supposed to take her to the vet if she won’t come out from under the couch?”
“Stay calm,” Draco says, trying to put his hands on Harry’s shoulders and relenting when Harry warns him off with a glare.
“Luna already came round and gave her a check up. She said she’s fine. Just a little…” Draco trails off.
“Traumatized?” Harry suggests, his voice still much higher in pitch than average.
Draco narrows his eyes at him. “Skittish.”
Harry snorts. “Skittish!”
“Yes, skittish,” Draco repeats. “That’s the word she used. And Harry, I hate to say it but...she’s been through worse.” He does sound like it pains him to say it and Harry knows that it does. Draco had been the one that brought her into their home, the one who rescued Marguerite from the cold and rainy streets of London. She’s so much of a diva that sometimes Harry forgets her origins aren’t as pompous as she is.
“And frankly,” Draco says, “I’m insulted that you think I don’t already feel awful enough and haven’t attempted to apologize to her about three hundred times already! But Luna said it was best to just let her have some space and let her come to me when she’s ready.”
“Oh,” Harry says quietly.
“Yes, oh, indeed,” Draco huffs.
“Sorry?” Harry offers, smiling sheepishly. “Really, I am. I was just so worried about her.”
“I know,” Draco replies, “I would’ve acted the same if the positions had been reversed.”
“Well, that would never happen because I would never be idiotic enough to think I could bake in the first place.”
Draco glares at him but concedes the point. “True,” he sighs. “Maybe we should all be banned from the kitchen for the foreseeable future.”
“That,” Harry says, grabbing Draco and pulling him out of the kitchen. “Sounds like a great idea.”
Harry takes him over to the couch, not the one Marguerite is hiding under, of course, but the love seat and lets Draco burrow his face into Harry’s neck. “I just wanted to make you something special,” he mumbles.
“I know, love,” Harry says, placing a soft kiss on the top of Draco’s head. “And I appreciate the effort, truly. But next time try something you actually know how to prepare.” Harry pauses, trying not to grin. “Like your arse.”
Draco gasps, pulling away from him. “Harry James Potter! You little---” Before he can finish Harry tugs him into a kiss.
“I love you,” Draco whispers against his lips when they finally pull apart.
“I love you too. Now,” Harry says, pushing Draco up off the seat and slapping him on the ass once he’s standing. “I’ll order us something to eat. You go and apologize to the cat.”
Draco’s face turns as ashen as Harry’s ever seen it. “I think I’d rather face the oven.”
This entry was originally posted at https://delacourtings.dreamwidth.org/156344.html. Please comment there using OpenID.