(Untitled)

[dracolicious]

As a rite of passage, Mother decided it was time that we and the birthday girl enjoyed a leisurely spa weekend, to mark the occasion of My Angel turning the ripe old age of seven. I hadn't been dragged along to the spa since before my first year of Hogwarts (or, in other words, the age when I finally found a sense of shame by cohabitating with

Comments

[boywholives]

You don't see me as anything more than the family chef, do you? Here to bake cakes and fry up bacon every time you snap your fingers?

[dracolicious]

That isn't true! For your information, I also see you as my bedroom slave.

[boywholives]

Oh. Well that's alright, then.

[dracolicious]

I thought so, too.

[boywholives]

And here I thought it was my dashing good looks all this time...

[dracolicious]

That certainly doesn't hurt, especially outside of the kitchen.

[boywholives]

So who has the next birthday, then? It's your turn next, isn't it?

[dracolicious]

Don't remind me, it's bad enough I've got a bloody seven year old, already. One foot in the grave, I say.

[boywholives]

Yes, Draco, you're so old and decrepit. It's like crawling into bed with an old age pensioner every night.

[dracolicious]

I should be so lucky as to collect a bloody pension, perhaps it would offset a bit of the Widdleton expenses.

[boywholives]

Because we're oh so poor?

[dracolicious]

Exactly. Positively destitute. I may need to begin selling myself on the streets right alongside the elves, you know.

[boywholives]

Would I have to pay like all the others for a place in line?

[dracolicious]

You would be the one collecting my fees, Pimp Potter.

[boywholives]

There wouldn't be many who could afford you.

[dracolicious]

Oh, so that's how it's going to be, is it? Fine pimp you turned out to be, you greedy thing.