Title: Draco 101
Archiving: just ask.
Rating: PG
Date: March 2002.
Summary: Co-authored with Frances Potter (
dragon_charmer). Written for Draco_101.
Notes: Dedicated to the original Draco_101. A FRAJA Production.
Malfoy stood outside the door to the conference room, looking very cross about something. His black Armani jacket was clinging very attractively to his lean figure, showing off his long legs. He stretched carelessly and then thrust his hands irritably in his pockets, aware that he couldn’t have looked any more shaggable had he come with a collar and leash. He thought about the set he’d seen in the back of Madam Malkin’s in that secret closet she tried to pretend wasn’t there. He might have to make a stop by there later, after he got all this nonsense sorted out…
He checked his watch. Figures. Potter was late. He was just about to turn and stride into the room without him when the ungainly wizard rounded the corner at top speed, his robes flapping behind him. Malfoy raised an eyebrow at his flushed cheeks and heaving chest as he gasped for breath. On the whole he looked very much like a puffing cow.
“Well? What’s this about, Potter?” He straightened and glared. Potter put a hand on the wall, panted a bit more, and didn’t answer him. “Out with it! I’m a busy wizard. What’s so important you made me floo over here in the middle of Smallville?”
Potter muttered something that sounded like, “You would have a thing for Lex Luthor,” and handed over a plain white manuscript. Malfoy took it and eyed it warily before understanding struck him and he looked up, horror-stricken.
“No. Another one?” Potter nodded grimly. Malfoy’s jaw clenched in determination and he began to slam open the door, which bore the ominous-looking logo, “FRAJA ENTERPRISES” in big bold letters. Potter, however, jumped between him and the object of his ire, so instead of flinging himself against the door he merely flung himself against the Gryffindor. He grunted in disgust. Potter calmly waited for Malfoy to disentangle himself from his robes. “Let me through, Potter!” Malfoy growled, trying to shove past him, despite the fact that there was hardly any space between them to begin with and Potter seemed very determined to keep him at bay.
“I think we should wait,” Potter managed to choke as he blocked Malfoy from grabbing the door-handle, inadvertently causing Malfoy to grab a different handle altogether. Malfoy recoiled, looking absolutely disgusted, and Potter managed to squeak, “Let’s at least just read it first!”
Malfoy brushed himself off with a haughty toss of his head. “All right, Potter. But if they even mention a bloody t-shirt, I’m going to go in there and wrap my wand around their necks.”
Potter glared at him. “Can we just get this over with?”
“I hate you, Potter.”
“Roger that.”
Begrudgingly he came to stand beside Malfoy, who flipped open the manuscript. They began to read.
The sign was in rainbow colours that twinkled and glittered in the shop lights as they changed through the spectrum from red to blue. If the shopper was very unlucky and stood looking at it for too long the words would leap off the card and explode in a shower of sparks, thus attracting even more attention. It proclaimed in those gaudy colours, Support Your Favourite Seeker. Let Them Both Know You Care!
Malfoy cast Potter a look. “Let them know you care?”
Potter raised his eyebrows uncertainly. “Do you know a store like that in Hogsmeade?”
“I certainly do not.”
Potter went back to reading. Malfoy sniffed.
Harry Potter was unfortunate enough to stand for too long looking at the sign. The shower of sparks announced to the shop that they had amongst their midst one of those self-same Seekers. The shoppers turned as one and stared at the now red-faced Gryffindor who quickly hid behind the rack of t-shirts desperately hoping that no one would notice who he was.
“I do not get red-faced,” said Potter indignantly, red-faced. Malfoy giggled.
“Of course you do, Potter. You’ve that radish look about you when you’re all worked up.”
“Well at least I don’t look like a dried-up prune!” Potter crossed his arms. “How do you know what I look like when I’m worked up anyway?”
“I—” Malfoy began to reply, then promptly bit his lip.
Potter gave him a strange sort of smile. “Anything you want to share, Malfoy?”
“Sod off, Potter.”
He had hoped for a quiet trip to Hogsmeade, but the frantic build-up to the Quidditch game on the following day made that almost impossible. Not only was it the last match of the season, it was also the last Harry would play as a Hogwarts student. It was also the decider for the Quidditch Cup.
And it was between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
“Of course it was,” muttered Malfoy.
“Like either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff would beat one of us,” echoed Potter.
“Why, Potter, I sense spite.”
“Just the truth. Turns you on, does it?” chuckled Potter. “All this blasted t-shirt rubbish starting to appeal to you?”
“In your dreams, Pot-head.”
“Oh, original.”
Harry had always known it would be a problem and had even tried to have the game moved to earlier in the season. The last thing he wanted was to play some sort of grudge match against the Slytherins as his final game. Particularly now that everyone seemed to be aware of Hogwarts best kept secret... that he and Draco Malfoy were an ‘item’. They had tried so hard to keep their assignations a secret, but someone (and Harry expected it was Ron in a fit of pique) had told and now the burning question on everyone’s lips seemed to be how would the lovers play against each other? Would they still play to win? Would they just get on with the game or spend the entire time staring into each other’s eyes?
Potter emitted a strange noise and began to choke.
Malfoy took the initiative to help him along by wrapping his fist around the Gryffindor’s neck. “Damn you, Potter! I knew I should have put the collar on those bunch of loony women the first time! You were the one who said, ‘oh, no, maybe it was just the one-time thing—let’s leave them alone and maybe they’ll go away.’ You’re a bloody arse!”
Potter was gargling.
“You dim-witted, cock-eyed, git-faced, macaroni-noggined”—
“All right, I get the picture!” gasped Potter, shoving away finally and pushing Malfoy into the doorframe. The paper in Malfoy’s hand crinkled and he began to rip it up in disgust when Potter stopped him. “No, wait. You said you’d read it through.”
“I don’t care! Staring into each other’s eyes?!”
“I know it’s preposterous, Malfoy, but you don’t want to manhandle the evidence!”
Malfoy straightened, brushed himself off, and glared at Potter. “All right, fine,” he said, handing the manuscript back over to the other boy. “But I’m not reading any more.”
Potter looked exasperated. “Oh, come off it, Malfoy, it’s only a story!” Malfoy huffed. “What’s the matter,” Potter continued cheekily, “can’t handle the thought of being ‘an item’ with the enemy? Is that all it takes to defeat the great Draco Malfoy? Two women, a really odd front corporation logo, and a snoglet?”
“I will never snog you! The very idea is an insult to my intelligence.”
Potter snickered. “Macaroni-noggined?”
“Quit dodging the issue.”
The snicker turned into a grin. “I thought it wasn’t an issue.”
“Sod off, Potter!”
Sarcastically: “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
Malfoy glowered.
Well, as far as Harry was concerned it was just another Quidditch game and he was going to win even if it meant knocking Draco off his broom. And as it turned out, at this particular moment in time, he hated the Slytherin anyway. Draco could be so -- so -- annoying sometimes and last night had been no exception.
One day, Harry decided, he would wipe that smug self-satisfied smirk off Draco Malfoy’s face. And tomorrow seemed to be as good a time as any.
Malfoy glanced over at Potter. “Wipe the smug, self-satisfied smirk off your, face, Potter.”
“Bugger off.”
Hidden in the shadows, Harry’s green eyes suddenly fixed on one of the shirts. They widened in shock as he saw what was written on the Gryffindor Red shirt in large gold letters:
Malfoy cursed. “The t-shirts. The bloody t-shirts!”
Potter was wearing a crooked half-grin. “Well, at least they’re getting more original all the time.”
Malfoy stared at him. “You would wear something like that, is that what you’re saying?”
“Well…no!” Potter shifted uncomfortably. “I would never get off on playing Quidditch against you!”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Isn’t it?”
They exchanged fierce glares at each other, then blanched at the same time and looked away, embarrassed for reasons unknown.
Awkward pause.
“Let’s just get this bloody thing over with.”
“Right.”
“What?!” He grabbed at the shirt in disbelief. Maybe ... just maybe close up, it might actually read something different. No, there was no doubt about what was scrawled across the front in writing which look distinctly like his own. He turned it over. There in big bold lettering it proclaimed: Harry Potter, Gryffindor Seeker. “I don’t believe this.”
“I thought it was pretty good myself.”
A mutter from Potter. “You are such an arse. Always having to make an entrance.”
“I thought I was pretty good myself.”
Harry’s head shot up to meet the new voice. Grey eyes stared at him from the other side of the rack. Draco’s arms were leaning across the metal bar, hands dangling freely, and he was smiling. Yes, smiling rather sexily, Harry decided. Well, he wasn’t going to let the Slytherin sidetrack him. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, it’s such a beautiful day. I thought we might have a picnic. You know, get away from the masses for a few hours. Indulge in some excellent food, enjoy quality discussion and maybe ...” Draco paused dramatically and suddenly looked around the shop as if trying to see if anyone else was listening. His voice dropped to a deep whisper. “... even some hot outdoor lovemaking.”
Potter had turned faintly red for some unfathomable reason, and though Malfoy too was fighting for composure, he managed to snap, “Malfoys don’t picnic.”
“It’s just because you’re afraid to go out in the sunshine,” rejoined Potter, who sounded angry. “You might shrivel up and die from all that light.”
“Whatever, Potter. This just proves that you and I could never have quality discussion.”
“You don’t know what quality is, Malfoy.”
“Says the Weasel-lover.”
“I don’t love him—you know what I mean—and—and just leave him out of it!”
“Overhasty.”
“I really hate you, you know that?”
“Yes, Potter, I do! That’s why we’re here, or did you forget and think this was about some chance to cuddle up and talk about how cute we are in this stupid story?”
“You couldn’t be cute if you were wearing a flower rope and a pink muumuu!”
Malfoy blinked and burst into fits of laughter. “Thought about that image before, have you?”
“I really hate you.”
“…along with the image of the hot outdoor lovemaking?” Malfoy’s giggles were growing extreme now. “Thought about stripping me down and crowning me with a chain of daisies, is that it?”
“You’re sick, Malfoy! Sick!”
“And that’s why you can’t get enough of me?”
As soon as he blurted that unfortunate question Malfoy stepped back looking very horrified with himself. Potter straightened, eyed him, and simply went back to reading.
“Oh don’t be coy about it, Draco. The whole world already seems to know.” Harry waved the shirt at him. “Perhaps we should sell tickets!” The shirt was almost flung back onto the rack where the hook missed the rail. It fell in an untidy heap at Draco’s feet. “I don’t believe they are actually selling these -- that people would buy a t-shirt with this on it.”
Draco picked up the discarded item and looked at it with an appraising eye. One elegant eyebrow rose thoughtfully. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of it ourselves and make lots of money.” He looked at the label, which read ‘Fraja: Purveyors of Quality Harry and Draco Merchandise’. “Maybe we should get in touch with them and see what cut they get. We could endorse some of these and charge commission.”
“Draco!” Harry’s voice hissed angrily and he stomped around the rack, snatching the shirt out of Draco’s hands. “You are making things worse. I want this stopped, not turned into some marketing ploy.”
“Interesting they’ve made you out to be the outraged one. In truth you look like you’re rather enjoying this.”
“I am not enjoying this!” Potter’s cheeks burned. “And how would you know, anyway? It’s not like I ever enjoy myself around you.”
“Point taken.”
“I can’t believe they made you so…ugh…”
“Articulate, Potter, what’s the ‘ugh’ all about?”
“Nothing,” mumbled Potter.
“I think they’ve made me damn sexy.”
“Proof they can’t possibly know you at all.”
“You’re saying you think they made me sexy as well?”
Potter emitted a strange noise.
“A lucrative marketing ploy.” Draco's hand rose and he waved it before him as though over some imaginary billboard. “I can see it now: ‘The Boy who lived and The Boy who’s dad’s a Death Eater: Share the Dream’. We could have all sorts of sponsorship deals. Harry and Draco brooms, little Harry bubble bath bottles, good quality Draco wines, Harry underwear, Draco watches and jewellery, Harry every-flavoured lubricant, a Draco designer label. The possibilities are endless.”
Draco giggled. “Little Harry bubble bath!!”
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
“Note that I’ve got the quality merchandise in this spiel while you’ve got stuck with—ouch, underwear and—” a deliberate non-emphasis on the word—“lubricant.”
“Yeah, well, they probably knew no one in their right mind would consider you capable of marketing sex products.”
“Weren’t you just saying I’m sexy?”
“I never said that!”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, you didn’t. And no, you don’t.”
“Oh. Fine.” Potter’s voice was a bit uncertain.
They eyed each other.
“Right.” Harry had folded his arms and was watching Draco through his long, but still whispered, speech. “Why do you get all the fancy things?”
“Why do you think?” Draco suddenly reached out and ran a quick caressing hand over Harry’s face. “Because I am the sophisticated one, while you...” the fingers lingered on his lips. “...are the cute one everyone wants to take home and look after.”
“Oh, look, we’re reading our minds!”
“I am not cute!”
“Oh, come off it, you know everyone thinks you’re bloody adorable.”
A quizzical look.
“Everyone else, Potter.”
“Right.”
Draco glanced briefly over his shoulder checking no one was around before pulling Harry into the briefest kiss. “You aren’t going to get round me like that,” Harry responded. Bugger, his little inner voice complained, you are supposed to be mad at him.
“We’re kissing.”
“Yes.”
“Ugh.”
“Yes.”
Slight pause. “And I don’t have an inner voice.”
“Not even the one that’s telling you you’re enjoying this?”
“Look, I thought we were going to just read through this and get it over with, not sit here haggling over every line.”
“Who says we are? We just commented on the fact that I kissed you and that you enjoyed it.”
“I’m not enjoying it!”
“Then why are you red?”
“You’re red too!”
“I am not! And stop changing the subject!”
“Fine! Let’s just read, shall we?”
“Fine.”
Glares.
“Hate you.”
“Hate you too.”
“And stop changing the subject. What are we going to do about this?” He grabbed at a black shirt that said in sparking silver lettering:
"Harry and Draco: Because nothing says loving like a throbbing hard-on."
“How are we going to play tomorrow if people are wearing these?”
“Fortunately, I’m not that easily distracted.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“No,” Draco giggled in a way that always turned Harry’s legs to jelly.
“I do not giggle.”
Potter snickered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, Potter, out with it. Do I or do I not giggle?”
“Of course you giggle, Malfoy! How can you not know that?!”
“I do not! You’re the one with the high-pitched shriek of a laugh!”
“Oh, and you don’t call that stupid whiny titter you have a giggle?”
“That the one that turns your legs to jelly?”
“More like the one that makes me want to pummel you into jelly.”
“Tough to tell the difference sometimes, isn’t it?” said Malfoy knowingly.
Potter’s eyes flickered in suspicion. “What are you playing at?”
“Not a thing, Potter, not a thing.”
“Ooh, more slogans.” Pause. “These are really quite…clever.”
Softly after a moment, “Yes.”
“But what about this one. It’s quite cute.” "Draco - The Snitch Harry Really Wants To Catch."
“Is that what you’ve been trying to do all these years?” Draco suddenly frowned. “Hmm, they all seemed to be about you loving me. Look here’s another one -- Lost my heart to a Slytherin -- and here -- Lost the Game, but Found the Perfect Match. -- and it’s got your name on the back. Do they think I’m so shallow that all I’m in this for is the sex?”
Harry finally smiled. “Not far from the truth is it, Malfoy?”
“Ouch.”
“Well, it would be the truth, wouldn’t it?”
“What?” Potter caught Malfoy’s look of indignation and he lowered the page, a bit alarmed. “The truth, Potter,” Malfoy said, advancing on him and forcing him back up against the doorframe, “Is that I wouldn’t be caught dead in a relationship with you, nor would I, if I were so inclined as to involve myself with anyone so, so, ignominious—”
“World famous, you mean—”
“—whatever, if I were so inclined, I would never, ever be in it just for the sex!”
Potter’s mouth fell open. Malfoy backed away and sulkily took the story and re-opened it to the correct page. He avoided Potter’s gaze.
“I’m…sorry?” Potter said uncertainly.
“Never mind,” said Malfoy shortly, still not looking at him as Potter came to stand beside him once more. Potter cast him a long, studious glance, and finally bent his head over the page.
Harry reached out and ran a hand over his boyfriend’s arm. “Let’s go and have that picnic. And you can say sorry.”
“I don’t do....”
“Yes, I know, you don’t do ‘sorry’.” Harry allowed Draco to kiss him, letting the sensation deepen until he groaned under the touch. Suddenly he didn’t care who saw. When Draco finally pulled away, Harry saw the look in the Slytherin’s eyes that said he was sorry. A look that went beyond the words. “I’ll be out in a minute. Go on.” He shooed Draco away. Once he was alone Harry surreptitiously took one of the t-shirts from the rack and paid for it.
“I…what did I just do?” said Potter softly.
“You just let me kiss you again.”
“I meant with the t-shirt.”
“Shhh,” said Malfoy, not harshly.
Outside, Draco was waiting. He looked at the small bag Harry was carrying. “What did you get?”
“Nothing,” Harry pulled the bag out of Draco’s searching hands.
“Of course it’s something. I can see it.” He grabbed for the bag again. “Show me, or no chocolate body paint later.” The handle finally snapped, leaving Draco with his prize. He favoured Harry with a triumphant look and pulled the black shirt from within the bag. Across the front, emblazoned in emerald and silver, were the words,
I lost to Slytherin.
He turned it over to reveal what was written on the reverse:
…Couldn't handle my stick. —Harry Potter, Gryffindor Seeker
“And where were you going to wear this?” Draco finally asked.
For a moment Harry seemed very embarrassed. He was looking at the ground, feet shuffling in the dust and moving a pebble between them. Then very slowly he looked up and met the grey eyes of his lover. The green was hard like the emerald the colouring matched. As he folded his arms across his chest, a small gleeful smile slowly grew on his lips. Draco recognised the stance -- Forceful!Harry, who could beat anyone and anything. “I’m going to wear it tomorrow when I beat the crap out of you.”
“Really? Now that’s fighting talk from where I’m from.”
“I’ve never lost to you, Draco, and I don’t intend to now.”
“So what’s this then?” He waved the shirt at Harry. “Reverse psychology? If you wear a shirt proclaiming you’ve lost, then somehow you’ll end up winning?”
“Maybe.” Harry snatched the shirt and bag back.
“Well, we’ll see who it works for best.” With that, Draco pulled off his robes and folded them carefully over his arm. He stood for a moment in front of Harry, the Slytherin t-shirt brilliant green in the springtime sunshine. Across the front it read:
My team lost to Gryffindor and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.
“Come on, the champagne will be getting warm.” Draco turned on his heel and started off up the road.
For a moment Harry just stared after him as the silver words Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Seeker winked at him from Draco’s back. He shook his head in wonderment for a moment before hurrying to catch him up.
Silence.
“Chocolate body paint.”
“Forceful Harry.”
“Chocolate body paint.”
“You bought the t-shirt.”
“So did you.”
“Couldn’t handle my stick. Hmph.”
“Chocolate body paint.”
“Chocolate body paint.”
“Ridiculous, really.”
“As though we could ever—”
“Exactly.”
They were now looking everywhere but at each other. Potter looked down at his feet and mumbled after a moment, “Well, I suppose we’ve got plenty of ammo to use on them now. I mean…since we wanted to go give them what for and all.”
“Right.” Malfoy looked suddenly uncomfortable. Potter turned and started to open the door into the Fraja Enterprises conference room. He had just moved his hand over the doorknob when Malfoy’s own stopped him. “Wait, Potter.” Potter stared down in surprise at the fingers grasping his wrist. “I was just thinking…since…”
“Yes?” Potter’s eyes flickered up to his in a mix of hopeful astonishment.
“Well, I mean…since it is so ridiculous and all…and since there’s no way in hell you and I could—would actually…”
“Right,” said Potter, too eagerly.
“Right,” nodded Malfoy. “Since we both know that it’s just a bunch of rubbish and that we…could never…you know… why not just, um…”
“Let them have their fun,” ended Potter breathlessly. His eyes were glittering as they locked onto Malfoy’s. “Since, you know, we could obviously never…”
“Right.” Malfoy’s lips parted slightly as he stared back into Potter’s face.
“I…”
“Yes?” Malfoy heard himself ask far too anxiously.
“I…wonder if you had strawberries in that picnic basket.”
“What?”
“Well, I mean…to go with the chocolate, of course.” Potter had stiffened a bit and was bracing himself against the intensity of Malfoy’s stare.
“Oh…right. Well, I mean…and champagne. What could be more romantic?”
“I thought Malfoys weren’t romantic.” Potter’s glance flickered down to Malfoy’s parted lips, and he gulped.
“Never…never said that,” Malfoy replied dazedly, vaguely aware that he and Potter seemed to have gotten a lot closer together and appeared to be moving closer still.
“Oh…”
“Malfoys can be very romantic when…when it comes to…um…romance…”
“Oh…”
“Yeah…”
“And it…wouldn’t be for sex…if, I mean, you’d ever…do something like that…”
“Right…which…I mean…we’d never…”
“…Right….”
“Cause…it’d just be too…too…”
“…too…” Someone let out a gasp. “…too good…”
“Harry…”
“Draco…”
“Oh…”
Their eyes fluttered shut, and the story fluttered, forgotten, to the floor.
On the other side of the door, the chairwomen of FRAJA Enterprises were smiling.