Dirty Talk (1/6)
Title: Dirty Talk
Word Count: 5700+, complete
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: I love funny, clever, feel good fics. Love them. How 'bout the one where Harry is burningly jealous of Draco for something incredibly silly and petty, and Draco milks the fact for all it's worth. No established relationships, pls. Post-war, but not working in the same profession. Bottom!Harry for the win, bonus points for Draco/Harry/Remus worked in. Also? One can never go wrong with dirty talk.
I took some artistic license with this prompt. Hope it still satisfies!
Warnings: The usual … m/m slash, puns, Latin abuse, and minor character death for no good reason. Also, a frightening glimpse of my obsession with breakfast foods.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, all associated characters and settings are the property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
PART I
If Firenze himself had told Harry that someday the highlight of his week would be visiting his arch rival at work, he’d have laughed himself hoarse. Yet here he was, standing outside the picture window of Prince’s Magical Restoration and Repair with a muffin in each hand and a silly grin on his face. The cause of his amusement was a little blue-haired witch in drab robes inside the store, who was chatting avidly with the last scion of House Malfoy.
To the untrained eye, Draco seemed to be enjoying their discussion immensely. He was leaning forward, interjecting what were clearly insightful comments and questions. The little witch, no doubt pleased by the attention, began to gesture with greater abandon. Without breaking eye contact, Draco surreptitiously moved a garishly decorated flowerpot, the object of discussion, out of harm’s way.
But Harry was no novice in the area of Malfoy observation, and he could see all the subtle signals. The way Draco tapped one finger on the edge of the countertop, the almost mechanical smile, the way he had shifted all his weight to the foot closest to the door. It all screamed get out get out dear Merlin stop talking and GET OUT!! Harry, benevolent savior that he was, decided to put him out of his misery. He pushed the door open with one elbow and called, “Hello?”
There was a pin drop silence, then the little witch burst into the usual exclamations of, ‘why, it’s Harry Potter!’ and ‘just let me shake your hand, my bridge club will never believe it!’ and ‘you know, I always thought you’d be … taller in person.’
At this, Draco snorted derisively. Off the old woman’s startled look, he turned it into a small cough. Harry handed her back her autograph book and picked up his muffins again.
“It was nice to meet you - Gertrude, was it? But I was just coming in to bring Mr. Malfoy a bit of breakfast.” He gave a sad little smile that put off all but the most persistent fans. Flustered, Gertrude made her excuses and left. As soon as the door closed behind her, Draco’s congenial façade fell away and he curled his upper lip.
“Daft old biddy clearly doesn’t get out of the house enough.” He gave a long-suffering sigh and peered down at the flowerpot she had left behind. “But she’s willing to pay five galleons to fix this ceramic monstrosity, which makes her marginally tolerable. I suppose.” With a flick of his wand, he sent the pot flying to the work room, probably to the shelf he’d helpfully labeled Ridiculous Sentimentality, Minor Charm Work.
Business out of the way, Draco gestured imperiously for Harry to follow him through the tidy, brightly-lit shop into his parlor. Taking a seat in one slightly tatty armchair, he took both muffins and gave Harry a bland look. “Where’s yours?”
“Ha ha ha. Greedy git.” Harry slumped into the other chair and let his legs sprawl. This resulted in his right foot resting underneath Draco’s seat and his left half-way out the door. Harry strongly suspected that the small sitting room had once been a small supply closet.
“Keep those dirty clodhoppers to yourself,” Draco gave a haughty sniff as he produced two plates and a pot of tea from a small cabinet. He had once tried to explain how it worked as a one-way link to his kitchen in the upstairs bed-sit, but the description had evoked too many bad memories. Harry shrugged and accepted the teacup.
“Jealous, Malfoy? You know what they say about big feet …”
“Not to hear Weasley tell it.” One pale eyebrow quirked.
Harry scowled menacingly. “Leave Ginny out of it.”
“Who said anything about Ginny?”
It had taken Harry years to realize that few people got to see this petty, mean-spirited Draco Malfoy. After the war, Draco put a lot into redeeming his family name. All anyone saw was the contrite, subdued Malfoy that appeared during Ministry functions or the obsequious Malfoy from the shop or the flirting Malfoy at parties. Harry, of course, had seen through all that bullshit and felt no compunction in calling Draco out at every opportunity. They’d almost come to blows outside the dedication ceremony of the Poppy Pomfrey Memorial Wing at St. Mungo’s.
That night, Draco had looked ready to spit nails. “What in the seven hells is your problem, Potter?”
“You!” Harry snarled, barely holding back from giving him a good shove. “You’re such a fake, Malfoy, it turns my stomach. Nobody believes this … tame ferret act.”
“Oh no? Then why was I invited to this little gathering? You people will believe if anything if you want it enough. And you want a repentant Death Eater. Who am I to disappoint?” Draco’s smug expression fell slightly before he hoisted it back into place.
“Well … don’t!” Harry shouted, before suddenly losing steam. “I mean, not around me.”
Draco had stared as if he’d grown a second head, and then scoffed. “Pfft. Fine.”
“Fine!”
“Good.”
“I know it’s good!”
“Potter…” Draco trailed off, obviously fighting not to smile. “Bugger off.” With that he’d Disapparated, no doubt to ensure he had the last word. Harry had taken this as an invitation to drop by Prince’s at odd hours, usually bearing pastry.
It was catharsis, was all. Everyone in the Wizarding world (save Remus, Hermione, Ron and the Weasleys) wanted to suck up to The Chosen One. With Malfoy, he could berate and be berated with impunity. For the most part they avoided the extremely touchy subjects, like parentage and politics. They focused instead on mundane things like Quidditch, Harry’s total lack of fashion sense and Draco’s unholy obsession with Celestina Warbeck.
So Harry was caught completely off guard when Draco muttered, “Blaise Zabini owled me.”
“Really? He's still -” don’t say alive, don’t say your boyfriend, don’t say not dismembered by erumpents, like I imagined “- around?”
“In a manner of speaking. He’s been living in India for about a year. I take it he has relatives there.” There wasn’t a country in the world where Blaise didn’t have ‘relatives.’ Native tribes in the Andes Mountains could probably claim direct relation to the Zabini line. “Anyway, he’ll be staying with me for a couple of days.”
“Malfoy … you live in one room. Where’s Zabini going to sleep, the bathtub?”
“Not all of us can live in the palatial squalor you do.”
“Hey! I told you to call before you drop by, I just needed to pick up a bit.”
“Please. That place doesn’t need to be tidied, it needs to be exorcised. When I went to sit on the couch, it moved.”
“Whatever. Just don’t expect me to be nice to that git.”
“Funny, he said the same about you,” Draco said before gulping the rest of his tea. “Now begone, for I am an industrious businessman who must return to work, not an unemployed lay about like some shiftless former heroes I could mention.” He banished the dirty dishes and shooed Harry towards the door.
“I’m going, I’m going. So, you up for letting me kick your scrawny arse on the pitch later?”
“Actually, Blaise isn’t much for Quidditch.” Instead of scornful, Draco almost looked embarrassed. It didn’t suit him.
Zabini was coming today? Harry almost protested that he needed more warning, but luckily stopped himself from sounding like a big girl’s blouse.
“You could come out to dinner with us,” Malfoy continued, half-heartedly dusting a display case. He shot Harry a look from beneath his lashes. “Wear that suit from Twillfit & Tattings and you might have an outside chance of looking presentable.”
Harry had a sudden, vivid mental picture of himself sitting between the two of them in some posh restaurant, wearing that stiff, uncomfortable jacket that he’d only bought because Draco had insisted. He imagined trying to eat while they charmed one another senseless. Saw himself Apparating home alone, as usual.
“Er. No, thanks.”
Draco shrugged one shoulder and looked away. “See you later, then.”
It wasn’t a question, so Harry just waved over his shoulder on his way out the door. He was two blocks away before he realized Draco hadn’t told him where Zabini would be sleeping.
Continued in Part II
Word Count: 5700+, complete
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: I love funny, clever, feel good fics. Love them. How 'bout the one where Harry is burningly jealous of Draco for something incredibly silly and petty, and Draco milks the fact for all it's worth. No established relationships, pls. Post-war, but not working in the same profession. Bottom!Harry for the win, bonus points for Draco/Harry/Remus worked in. Also? One can never go wrong with dirty talk.
I took some artistic license with this prompt. Hope it still satisfies!
Warnings: The usual … m/m slash, puns, Latin abuse, and minor character death for no good reason. Also, a frightening glimpse of my obsession with breakfast foods.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, all associated characters and settings are the property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
PART I
If Firenze himself had told Harry that someday the highlight of his week would be visiting his arch rival at work, he’d have laughed himself hoarse. Yet here he was, standing outside the picture window of Prince’s Magical Restoration and Repair with a muffin in each hand and a silly grin on his face. The cause of his amusement was a little blue-haired witch in drab robes inside the store, who was chatting avidly with the last scion of House Malfoy.
To the untrained eye, Draco seemed to be enjoying their discussion immensely. He was leaning forward, interjecting what were clearly insightful comments and questions. The little witch, no doubt pleased by the attention, began to gesture with greater abandon. Without breaking eye contact, Draco surreptitiously moved a garishly decorated flowerpot, the object of discussion, out of harm’s way.
But Harry was no novice in the area of Malfoy observation, and he could see all the subtle signals. The way Draco tapped one finger on the edge of the countertop, the almost mechanical smile, the way he had shifted all his weight to the foot closest to the door. It all screamed get out get out dear Merlin stop talking and GET OUT!! Harry, benevolent savior that he was, decided to put him out of his misery. He pushed the door open with one elbow and called, “Hello?”
There was a pin drop silence, then the little witch burst into the usual exclamations of, ‘why, it’s Harry Potter!’ and ‘just let me shake your hand, my bridge club will never believe it!’ and ‘you know, I always thought you’d be … taller in person.’
At this, Draco snorted derisively. Off the old woman’s startled look, he turned it into a small cough. Harry handed her back her autograph book and picked up his muffins again.
“It was nice to meet you - Gertrude, was it? But I was just coming in to bring Mr. Malfoy a bit of breakfast.” He gave a sad little smile that put off all but the most persistent fans. Flustered, Gertrude made her excuses and left. As soon as the door closed behind her, Draco’s congenial façade fell away and he curled his upper lip.
“Daft old biddy clearly doesn’t get out of the house enough.” He gave a long-suffering sigh and peered down at the flowerpot she had left behind. “But she’s willing to pay five galleons to fix this ceramic monstrosity, which makes her marginally tolerable. I suppose.” With a flick of his wand, he sent the pot flying to the work room, probably to the shelf he’d helpfully labeled Ridiculous Sentimentality, Minor Charm Work.
Business out of the way, Draco gestured imperiously for Harry to follow him through the tidy, brightly-lit shop into his parlor. Taking a seat in one slightly tatty armchair, he took both muffins and gave Harry a bland look. “Where’s yours?”
“Ha ha ha. Greedy git.” Harry slumped into the other chair and let his legs sprawl. This resulted in his right foot resting underneath Draco’s seat and his left half-way out the door. Harry strongly suspected that the small sitting room had once been a small supply closet.
“Keep those dirty clodhoppers to yourself,” Draco gave a haughty sniff as he produced two plates and a pot of tea from a small cabinet. He had once tried to explain how it worked as a one-way link to his kitchen in the upstairs bed-sit, but the description had evoked too many bad memories. Harry shrugged and accepted the teacup.
“Jealous, Malfoy? You know what they say about big feet …”
“Not to hear Weasley tell it.” One pale eyebrow quirked.
Harry scowled menacingly. “Leave Ginny out of it.”
“Who said anything about Ginny?”
It had taken Harry years to realize that few people got to see this petty, mean-spirited Draco Malfoy. After the war, Draco put a lot into redeeming his family name. All anyone saw was the contrite, subdued Malfoy that appeared during Ministry functions or the obsequious Malfoy from the shop or the flirting Malfoy at parties. Harry, of course, had seen through all that bullshit and felt no compunction in calling Draco out at every opportunity. They’d almost come to blows outside the dedication ceremony of the Poppy Pomfrey Memorial Wing at St. Mungo’s.
That night, Draco had looked ready to spit nails. “What in the seven hells is your problem, Potter?”
“You!” Harry snarled, barely holding back from giving him a good shove. “You’re such a fake, Malfoy, it turns my stomach. Nobody believes this … tame ferret act.”
“Oh no? Then why was I invited to this little gathering? You people will believe if anything if you want it enough. And you want a repentant Death Eater. Who am I to disappoint?” Draco’s smug expression fell slightly before he hoisted it back into place.
“Well … don’t!” Harry shouted, before suddenly losing steam. “I mean, not around me.”
Draco had stared as if he’d grown a second head, and then scoffed. “Pfft. Fine.”
“Fine!”
“Good.”
“I know it’s good!”
“Potter…” Draco trailed off, obviously fighting not to smile. “Bugger off.” With that he’d Disapparated, no doubt to ensure he had the last word. Harry had taken this as an invitation to drop by Prince’s at odd hours, usually bearing pastry.
It was catharsis, was all. Everyone in the Wizarding world (save Remus, Hermione, Ron and the Weasleys) wanted to suck up to The Chosen One. With Malfoy, he could berate and be berated with impunity. For the most part they avoided the extremely touchy subjects, like parentage and politics. They focused instead on mundane things like Quidditch, Harry’s total lack of fashion sense and Draco’s unholy obsession with Celestina Warbeck.
So Harry was caught completely off guard when Draco muttered, “Blaise Zabini owled me.”
“Really? He's still -” don’t say alive, don’t say your boyfriend, don’t say not dismembered by erumpents, like I imagined “- around?”
“In a manner of speaking. He’s been living in India for about a year. I take it he has relatives there.” There wasn’t a country in the world where Blaise didn’t have ‘relatives.’ Native tribes in the Andes Mountains could probably claim direct relation to the Zabini line. “Anyway, he’ll be staying with me for a couple of days.”
“Malfoy … you live in one room. Where’s Zabini going to sleep, the bathtub?”
“Not all of us can live in the palatial squalor you do.”
“Hey! I told you to call before you drop by, I just needed to pick up a bit.”
“Please. That place doesn’t need to be tidied, it needs to be exorcised. When I went to sit on the couch, it moved.”
“Whatever. Just don’t expect me to be nice to that git.”
“Funny, he said the same about you,” Draco said before gulping the rest of his tea. “Now begone, for I am an industrious businessman who must return to work, not an unemployed lay about like some shiftless former heroes I could mention.” He banished the dirty dishes and shooed Harry towards the door.
“I’m going, I’m going. So, you up for letting me kick your scrawny arse on the pitch later?”
“Actually, Blaise isn’t much for Quidditch.” Instead of scornful, Draco almost looked embarrassed. It didn’t suit him.
Zabini was coming today? Harry almost protested that he needed more warning, but luckily stopped himself from sounding like a big girl’s blouse.
“You could come out to dinner with us,” Malfoy continued, half-heartedly dusting a display case. He shot Harry a look from beneath his lashes. “Wear that suit from Twillfit & Tattings and you might have an outside chance of looking presentable.”
Harry had a sudden, vivid mental picture of himself sitting between the two of them in some posh restaurant, wearing that stiff, uncomfortable jacket that he’d only bought because Draco had insisted. He imagined trying to eat while they charmed one another senseless. Saw himself Apparating home alone, as usual.
“Er. No, thanks.”
Draco shrugged one shoulder and looked away. “See you later, then.”
It wasn’t a question, so Harry just waved over his shoulder on his way out the door. He was two blocks away before he realized Draco hadn’t told him where Zabini would be sleeping.
Continued in Part II