The Recipe for Potted Rump Roast That Draco Doesn't Recall Remembering To Not Forget to Ever Know
Title: The Recipe for Potted Rump Roast That Draco Doesn't Recall Remembering To Not Forget to Ever Know.
Author: The House of Ill Repute (
house_illrepute )
Characters: Harry, Draco, Dennis (mentions of Colin and others)
Summary: Draco is is desperate to reclaim the Malfoy fortune, frozen by the Ministry. Just when victory is within reach, something comes along and snatches it from his grip. Worse still, Harry's not back from Brazil, which leaves Draco alone and lonely in a rather sizable London flat (that he may soon not be able to afford).
Warning: Smut-free
Rating: R
Challenge: Written for slytherin100's Double Entendre Monday Fun with the prompt "Bubble Bath".
Author's Notes: This follows the 'non-series' "Maintaining One's Station", which can be found [-here-]. Technically, this would be #3 and would take place between Perfectly Paranoid Portents and a Potion-Master’s Pestiferous Pernicious Perdition [-here-] and Blame it on the Tumultuous Temple Toads! [-here-]. You do not need to read them to understand what's going on, but I do reference things in both.
It was a long, rough day for Draco Malfoy. He had spent the better part of the past month trying to ensure he kept the Malfoy fortune; he had fought with Ministry officials, Goblin banking administrators, the Malfoy estate conciliators, lawyers... basically, anyone who would listen, provided Draco thought they enough political pull. The only one left was Harry Potter, whose name could still move mountains. But Draco was far too proud to ask for help in that regard.
(Generally speaking, the only requests Draco would ask for - gifts aside - were the occasional ‘more’ or ‘harder’ or ‘faster’; sometimes a ‘lower’ or a ‘move, curse you - move!’ thrown in for good measure.)
No, no. Securing the Malfoy fortune was something that only a Malfoy could do.
Draco had been making some leeway in this endeavour. Through cunning cleverness and devilish double-speak most true to the house of Slytherin, he had almost believed victory well in grasp. Instead, at the last minute, doors that were once open to him were closed and people who had before moved mountains to ‘fit him in’ their schedule suddenly couldn’t be bothered returning Floo calls. Even Blaise and Pansy Zabini had a sudden change of heart, it seemed. “Give it up,” Pansy advised. “Someone with a far greater name than yours must want you poor.”
After a month, Draco wanted nothing more than to lie in Harry’s arms and sleep until this dread nightmare passed.
Draco arrived at the Ministry-approved Apparition point closest to his London flat. The Charms around it - an old telephone booth - ensuring that Muggles (even those with an ever-growing affinity for magical detection) wouldn’t notice anyone appearing or disappearing in an old, dilapidated telephone booth - even someone as stunningly handsome as Draco. More to the point, the Muggles never noticed the dilapidated telephone booth in question, even during their many neighbourhood renovations. Not that it was inconspicuous, nothing of the sort! Under normal circumstances, its gaudy, red chassis would have certainly been deemed a ‘blot on the community’.
Draco walked down the pavement, oblivious to the beautiful day around him - the blue, the warmth, the life, it all seemed to exist in a world that no longer included him. This was hardly the first time Draco had met with defeat, but it certainly stung the most - and seemed the most final. There was nothing left for him to do, the Malfoy Estate was gone, absorbed by the Ministry, by all accounts.
So lost in this mire was Draco that he nearly passed the cobblestone stairway that led to his current home. His hand rested on the pillars the lined the steps. He paused, staring at the juxtaposition of hard concrete against soft flesh, long fingers accentuated with the intricate beauty of an engagement ring.
Usually, when life began to weigh heavy, the ring would always lighten the air around him and bring him, sometimes kicking and screaming, back to a happier place. But the ring had no such powers this day.
The entrance door swung open. Dennis Creevey stood, broad-shouldered, in the doorway, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else. He held a letter in his hand. Draco’s heart dropped.
“I hate Quidditch,” Draco said to himself.
They stared at each other, but neither moved.
“Well, come on then,” Dennis said, moving to the side and holding up the letter. “Let’s not wait for the grass to grow.”
Draco rolled his eyes. Where had he heard that expression before? As he passed Dennis, he accepted the proffered parchment. He felt a tingle of magic. It reminded him of his mother trying to soothe a much younger Draco when he fell from his broom and scuffed his knee. The name scribbled on the front confirmed Draco’s fears, Harry was still in Brazil.
They walked in the close, down the entrance hall, and up the stairs to the top floor. The lone door was wide open. Draco turned to Dennis, his glare more daggers than eyes.
“Were you raised in a barn, then?”
“I heard you coming, pillock,” Dennis said. “It’s a solitary apartment...”
Draco crossed the threshold and dropped the letter on the little table beside the door.
“You’re not going to read your letter?” Dennis called behind him.
“Why bother? ‘Sorry, Draco-love’,” Draco said in most unflattering imitation of Harry’s voice, “‘but I really must stay in Brazil a twee longer. I’ll be home soon, promise, smooches and all that toss’.”
“My, my... aren’t we bitter, today. Read the sodding letter,” Dennis ordered. Draco turned to see Dennis once again proffering the envelope. “You’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
Dearest Draco,
I hope all is well at home. I know I was supposed to be home today, and I would love nothing more than to be at your flat right now waiting for you. But the new Quidditch School is still a right mess. Things are well out-of-order and it really is for the best that I stay here for an extra day or three until it’s straightened out.
But don’t worry love - I’ve left explicit instructions with Dennis and I’m sure he’s up to the task. I would have sent Colin but well, ‘hording all the gold’ and all that and both Wood and Nott were far too eager for my liking. No no. Dennis was the best choice I think.
“By Merlin, Harry! You could at least have the decency of throwing a comma or a full stop in there, somewhere.”
Dennis peered over Draco’s shoulder, standing on his tip toes - he is more than a fair share shorter than Draco, after all. “What do you mean?? 'Commas', what?”
Draco jerked his elbow. “Scram!”
Don’t be mean to Dennis...
“... oops.”
... and remember, he’s there to cuddle, and cuddle only! No Elfish Brandy after eleven for him, lest his hands find courage enough to wander.
Draco rolled his eyes. “... as if.”
Anyway, I told him to have your bath drawn promptly by four o’clock. Everything should be to your liking.
And Draco, if nothing else, please know this: that I love you terribly. I do this not just because I want to, but because I want to make sure that I can provide you with the station befitting a Malfoy, with all the luxury and comfort that you are accustomed to and deserve.
Draco tilted his head to the ceiling. In his minds eye, he reread the last line: with all the luxury and comfort that you are accustomed to. That’s something a pauper tells his pauper lover, trying to seduce her with the ‘hopes and dreams of a better life’, obscuring the inevitability of a reality of wanting and not-having.
Between the extravagant engagement ring and now this letter, Draco was certain that Harry knew...
Gently, Dennis took the letter from Draco and ushered him down the hall to the bathroom.
“Come on, then,” he said, his voice infinitely softer than moments earlier. “You can read the rest later. But for now, your bath is ready. I’m cooking your favourite - according to Harry, at least - and it’ll be done shortly. Potted roast rump with a French crème glaze.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Draco said with a tired monotone. He wanted to say that he had never heard of such a dish and was certainly never served it by Harry, but he hadn’t the will. Indeed, he simply did not care.
“You seem to be in a bit of a strop...”
Draco snorted.
“Well, relax in the bath, then have a meal, and be done with this day. Tomorrow, it’ll be rain.”
“... ‘right as rain’,” Draco muttered. “Harry says that... I wish he were here.”
“I know.” Dennis planted a light kiss on the back of Draco’s shoulder.
True to his word, the bath had been drawn, as expertly as Harry would have done himself. The lights were dimmed, accentuated by strategically-placed candles that wafted the air with the soothing scents of vanilla and spring. A small boom box, one of the few purely Muggle items Draco owned, sat atop a small footstool beside the tub.
“Faure’s Pavane,” Draco said, referring to the soft music being played. In spite of himself, he smiled, though it wasn’t quite a complete smile. Still, Draco began to relax. So much so, that he didn’t find odd - or even flinch - when thick arms wrapped around him from behind, or when thick fingers began deftly unbuttoning his shirt. He didn’t even find queer that Dennis’ hands lingered about his shoulders as he removed Draco’s shirt. Nor did he find it out of sorts when Dennis planted another kiss, less chaste than the previous, on his naked shoulder.
“Thanks for being here for me Dennis,” Draco said. “I know it seems... odd, this little arrangement.”
Dennis stopped. Draco could feel his breath against his back.
“No worries. I know what it’s like to be lonely... to just... want someone there. I’m rather tickled that you and Harry picked me. I know I wasn’t first choice, of course...”
“It’s not that you’re not fit, Dennis - quite the contrary.” Draco pulled off his trousers, kicking off his shoes at the same time, then his underpants. “It’s just that... you’re...”
Draco turned to face Dennis and searched for the right words, but found that he didn’t quite know how to explain it.
“It’s just that I’m not Harry?”
Draco smiled for a second. Then, as though the world grew suddenly heavy again, the smile slid downward. Draco stared at Dennis... through Dennis... beyond Dennis. “Yes... you’re just not Harry.”
“Oh, stop being rubbish!” Dennis commanded, grabbing Draco’s shoulders and moving him bodily into the warm bath. “You act as though you’re never to see Harry again. Spiders-nest-in-a-wizard’s-hat, Draco; you act like he’s died or summat. He’ll be back later.”
“I know... it’s just...” Draco sat in the middle of the bath, bubbles and water slashing about. “Oh, it’s just that I’ve had a rather rough day, is all.” He slumped forward, slightly. Resembling more a petulant child, he couldn’t have looked any less aristocratic had he been born pitiable.
“I understand.”
“Do, you, re--what??” he looked up to find Dennis slowly removing his shirt, which suddenly fit a bit looser than Draco remembered. “Dennis, what are you doing?”
“Hush.”
Dennis fumbled with the buttons on his jeans, his arms looking quite too long and thin, now, for his body. There was a gleam in his eye and he began to suck seductively on his bottom lip. Draco gawked at him, but made no move; indeed, it all seemed rather surreal to him.
With a light flop, Dennis’ pants puddled around his feet.
Draco eyes widened, he couldn’t help but stare at the physique before him. Harry wasn’t skinny by any stretch of the word. He was built like a taut Olympic swimmer - sleek and smooth. Dennis was a totally different beast altogether: short and stocky, massively broad at the shoulders and chest, compact like a gymnast, with a stomach that a grandmother could wash her stockings over.
Draco blinked, unsure if he could believe his eyes. There was no mistaking it now, however; Dennis was standing in front of him, as naked as God made him with a dung-eating grin on his face.
“I... uh...”
Draco’s eyes pulled down to Dennis’ cock, as though it contained a gravitational pull all its own. Somehow, the Creevey brothers have managed to avoid being the topic of sexual prowess and cock discussions in the Malfoy residence. This was surprising considering Colin’s liaisons with Viktor Krum are well-documented and Dennis himself is a shameless flirt with Pansy (arguably Draco’s best friend outside of Harry). One could hardly blame Draco for being the least bit curious as to how Dennis fared down there.
“Errr... that is to say, I...”
Though it could hardly be said that he was a ‘shower’, Dennis cock had... heft, and what it may - or may not - have lacked in potential depth, it certainly made up for it in breadth. It seemed too heavy to be allowed and Draco found himself wondering how it didn’t anchor Dennis to the floor.
“I...”
The head just barely poked free from the foreskin, and the shaft had a slight twist to it. Draco couldn’t tear his eyes from it.
“Your dick,” he said.
“What of it?”
“It... it’s kind of... lopsided? Harry’s cock does the sa-”
“One side, Malfoy,” Dennis interrupted as he stepped into the bath water.
Draco pushed back until he was flush with the edge of the tub with an expression that could only be compared to a deer in headlights.
“I... I don’t think,” Draco said, between hard swallows, “that this is part of the contract.”
Dennis smiled. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Rather unfair question, that,” Draco admitted. “I am practically married. Besides, this is sort of... outside our agreement terms.”
Draco was about to protest with fanciful talk of contracts and remunerations, when he noticed Dennis grimacing. At first, he thought the lad was having a tummy ache (Dennis was infamous for eating too many chocolate frogs) or, worse yet, a seizure. However, Draco realised rather quickly that Dennis’ skin was merely bubbling, as though it were flesh-coloured broth coming to a slow boil.
“... ‘Merely bubbling’...?” Draco thought. “Skin’s not supposed to do that? Even Muggleborn skin... I think.”
Dennis’ short, curly hair began to pop up in spurts of black tufts. His eyes darkened beyond its usual brown, then lighten as though silver was pouring into them. Draco jumped when he felt feet creeping along the outside of his thighs; Dennis’ legs were lengthening. All of Dennis was lengthening: legs, arms, torso, face! The lad was no longer made of skin and bone, it seemed; rather, putty, being moulded and shaped by some invisible voice. As this process continued, Dennis began looking more and more like...
“Dear god, I hate Polyjuice!”
Draco could only gape. “Harry!?!”
Harry reached over the side of the bath and picked up his spectacles from the foot stool beside the tub. (Draco would later berate himself for not seeing them when he first came in the room.) No sooner had he put on his glasses that Draco leapt forward as deftly as he could, flinging his arms around Harry’s neck in a desperate embrace.
Harry laughed. “Whoa! Surprised to see me, then? Ow!!”
Draco had pinched Harry and pulled back, his face upturned into some horribly wonderful amalgamation of ‘pouty-youth’ and ‘pissed-off lover’ that only Draco could pull off.
“What was that for?”
“You are cruel and wicked, Harry James Potter, and I shan’t be marrying you.” To accentuate the point, Draco crossed his arms, turned his head up and to the side, stared at the ceiling, and pouted even more. “So there.”
Harry smiled. “You’re just mad that I got the one-up on you, is all. I can’t believe you didn’t catch on earlier. Any more clue-dropping and I’d have had to write it in the air in fire-script.”
“Oh, I knew it was you,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes. “I was just playing along.”
“All lies, I suspect. No matter... Happy to see me?”
Draco paused a moment. “Well... to tell you truth, I was rather exited for Dennis.”
“Wh-what?”
Draco leaned against the edge of the tub and lifted his legs, placing his feet atop Harry’s thighs. Instinctively, Harry took one in his hands and began massaging it, despite being confused.
“Yes, well,” Draco continued, “... oh, yes, that feels good ... Anyway. I’m betting Dennis has never actually done anything with a bloke. Bending is Colin’s forte in the Creevey household, no doubt - oooh, yes, right there, tha’s th’spot - so I figured it’d be fairly easy to convince him to... you know?”
Draco winked devilishly at Harry, who stopped with the massage.
“No, I don’t know.”
“Well, you aren’t exactly the most... versatile lover. Don’t get me wrong,” Draco added quickly upon feeling Harry’s grip tighten on around his foot, “you’re well good and all.”
Harry relaxed a bit. “But...?”
“But... it’d be nice to... you know? ‘Flip the script’ as they say?”
“Who’s ‘they’...?”
“You know what I mean. And, well... I doubt you’d be able to handle it and all, seeing as you’ve quite the ... girly bottom, as they say.”
“Who is ‘they’...?! And what do you mean by this? You doubt I’d be able to handle it!?”
In a sudden move, Harry stood up. Draco marvelled at the sight of this wet Adonis - his wet Adonis - towering over him, soap slipping downward accentuating the curve of every muscle. As if to prove a point, Harry tensed and flexed, rippling in places Draco hardly thought could ripple.
“This,” Harry yelled, waving an arm over his own body, “is the result of years - years, mind you - of Quidditch - proper Quidditch, mind you - training and playing.”
Draco’s gaze lingered on Harry’s body, occasionally failing to mask his lust and glee.
Harry outstretched his arms and flexed even harder, revealing the V-shape of his upper torso as it slid into a waist devoid of flab and smooth as milk.
“This body is streamlined, perfect for flying, deadly at manoeuvring, and designed specifically for fucking.”
“Yes, yes, all well and good,” Draco said, after a sigh. “But have you seen Dennis, lately? Oh, that’s right, of course you have. I forgot your ‘grand trick’ - but he’s no slouch in the body department either, I’m afraid.”
“That little miscreant-!”
“Besides, it’s not his body I was looking forward to. It was the good pounding I was going to give that tight, little Creevey bottom.”
“You’d... you’d choose a Creevey bottom... over mine?” Harry said, incredulously.
“Again, it’s not a matter of choosing one over the other,” Draco said. “But, to me, it’s obvious that you can’t handle a good fucking of that sort. I mean, you certainly never let me do it. And I understand, love. Really I do.”
“Understand what, exactly?”
Draco took one of Harry’s hands in his, and patted it rather sarcastically like a mother trying to placate a child. “That it’s very, very scary.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m too scared to get fucked?”
“It’s okay to be scared sometimes, Potter,” Draco said.
“I’m not scared!”
Another pat on the hand.
“Okay, love. You’re not scared. Maybe you’re worried that your twee arse simply can’t take it-”
Harry jerked his hand away and turned, practically shoving his arse into Draco’s face (and it took all Draco’s strength not to bury his face between two heaping helping of Potter rump).
“This,” Harry said, pointing at his backside, “is from years of broom handling, and everyone - everyone - knows that proper broom handling is all in the arse-muscles! I’ve flexed and flexed,” and he proved it by flexing and flexing, “and flexed and flexed for years. Years! See these?” He ran a thumb along the inward concave, the dimple, in the side of one cheek. “That doesn’t just happen, Draco Malfoy. I do arse exercises to get that!”
Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? 'Ass exercises', even?”
“I’m doing them now, see?”
And indeed Draco could see that Harry was tightening then releasing his rump, the cheek dimples becoming more pronounced before relaxing and smoothing out.
“Impressive,” Draco said.
“Damn right,” Harry said, turning around to face Draco. “Four hundred times a day... minimum! So don’t tell me that my arse isn’t up to scratch.”
“Whatever you say, love. Still, the proof is in the pudding.”
“That’s it!” Harry grabbed Draco’s hand, forcing him to his feet. “You think I can’t handle it? I’ll show you who can and cannot handle what!”
“Harry,” Draco giggled. “What are you-d”
“You want to fuck an arse; you’re going to fuck an arse!”
Harry pulled Draco from the bath and made towards the bedroom. Before they made it out of the bathroom, however, Draco stopped, forcing Harry to do the same. Harry turned to face him and his expression was stony determination. When their eyes locked, his visage softened. They stood in silence a moment and Harry wondered when Draco had washed his face, for it was certainly wet.
“Harry... I...” No words followed. It took all Draco’s strength just to stand.
Harry moved, quick as thunder, and wrapped his arms around Draco. They melted into something akin to a kiss, only much greater, much deeper. Maybe they stood in this connexion for mere moments, or maybe it was an aeon, no one could tell; time held no meaning anymore. For Draco, the only thing that mattered was Harry’s arms around him, Harry’s mouth over his, Harry’s tongue caressing his, Harry’s cock growing thicker and harder against his.
Harry pulled back, once again glaring at Draco. “No wiggling your way out of this, Slytherin.”
Laughing, Draco let himself be pulled into the bedroom.
Yes, Harry Potter had pulled a grand trick on Draco, most certainly.
But there were just deserts - and desserts - still yet to be had: namely a pounding of potterd rump.
♥ ♥ ♥ & the love will continue.
Author: The House of Ill Repute (
house_illrepute )
Characters: Harry, Draco, Dennis (mentions of Colin and others)
Summary: Draco is is desperate to reclaim the Malfoy fortune, frozen by the Ministry. Just when victory is within reach, something comes along and snatches it from his grip. Worse still, Harry's not back from Brazil, which leaves Draco alone and lonely in a rather sizable London flat (that he may soon not be able to afford).
Warning: Smut-free
Rating: R
Challenge: Written for slytherin100's Double Entendre Monday Fun with the prompt "Bubble Bath".
Author's Notes: This follows the 'non-series' "Maintaining One's Station", which can be found [-here-]. Technically, this would be #3 and would take place between Perfectly Paranoid Portents and a Potion-Master’s Pestiferous Pernicious Perdition [-here-] and Blame it on the Tumultuous Temple Toads! [-here-]. You do not need to read them to understand what's going on, but I do reference things in both.
It was a long, rough day for Draco Malfoy. He had spent the better part of the past month trying to ensure he kept the Malfoy fortune; he had fought with Ministry officials, Goblin banking administrators, the Malfoy estate conciliators, lawyers... basically, anyone who would listen, provided Draco thought they enough political pull. The only one left was Harry Potter, whose name could still move mountains. But Draco was far too proud to ask for help in that regard.
(Generally speaking, the only requests Draco would ask for - gifts aside - were the occasional ‘more’ or ‘harder’ or ‘faster’; sometimes a ‘lower’ or a ‘move, curse you - move!’ thrown in for good measure.)
No, no. Securing the Malfoy fortune was something that only a Malfoy could do.
Draco had been making some leeway in this endeavour. Through cunning cleverness and devilish double-speak most true to the house of Slytherin, he had almost believed victory well in grasp. Instead, at the last minute, doors that were once open to him were closed and people who had before moved mountains to ‘fit him in’ their schedule suddenly couldn’t be bothered returning Floo calls. Even Blaise and Pansy Zabini had a sudden change of heart, it seemed. “Give it up,” Pansy advised. “Someone with a far greater name than yours must want you poor.”
After a month, Draco wanted nothing more than to lie in Harry’s arms and sleep until this dread nightmare passed.
Draco arrived at the Ministry-approved Apparition point closest to his London flat. The Charms around it - an old telephone booth - ensuring that Muggles (even those with an ever-growing affinity for magical detection) wouldn’t notice anyone appearing or disappearing in an old, dilapidated telephone booth - even someone as stunningly handsome as Draco. More to the point, the Muggles never noticed the dilapidated telephone booth in question, even during their many neighbourhood renovations. Not that it was inconspicuous, nothing of the sort! Under normal circumstances, its gaudy, red chassis would have certainly been deemed a ‘blot on the community’.
Draco walked down the pavement, oblivious to the beautiful day around him - the blue, the warmth, the life, it all seemed to exist in a world that no longer included him. This was hardly the first time Draco had met with defeat, but it certainly stung the most - and seemed the most final. There was nothing left for him to do, the Malfoy Estate was gone, absorbed by the Ministry, by all accounts.
So lost in this mire was Draco that he nearly passed the cobblestone stairway that led to his current home. His hand rested on the pillars the lined the steps. He paused, staring at the juxtaposition of hard concrete against soft flesh, long fingers accentuated with the intricate beauty of an engagement ring.
Usually, when life began to weigh heavy, the ring would always lighten the air around him and bring him, sometimes kicking and screaming, back to a happier place. But the ring had no such powers this day.
The entrance door swung open. Dennis Creevey stood, broad-shouldered, in the doorway, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else. He held a letter in his hand. Draco’s heart dropped.
“I hate Quidditch,” Draco said to himself.
They stared at each other, but neither moved.
“Well, come on then,” Dennis said, moving to the side and holding up the letter. “Let’s not wait for the grass to grow.”
Draco rolled his eyes. Where had he heard that expression before? As he passed Dennis, he accepted the proffered parchment. He felt a tingle of magic. It reminded him of his mother trying to soothe a much younger Draco when he fell from his broom and scuffed his knee. The name scribbled on the front confirmed Draco’s fears, Harry was still in Brazil.
They walked in the close, down the entrance hall, and up the stairs to the top floor. The lone door was wide open. Draco turned to Dennis, his glare more daggers than eyes.
“Were you raised in a barn, then?”
“I heard you coming, pillock,” Dennis said. “It’s a solitary apartment...”
Draco crossed the threshold and dropped the letter on the little table beside the door.
“You’re not going to read your letter?” Dennis called behind him.
“Why bother? ‘Sorry, Draco-love’,” Draco said in most unflattering imitation of Harry’s voice, “‘but I really must stay in Brazil a twee longer. I’ll be home soon, promise, smooches and all that toss’.”
“My, my... aren’t we bitter, today. Read the sodding letter,” Dennis ordered. Draco turned to see Dennis once again proffering the envelope. “You’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
Dearest Draco,
I hope all is well at home. I know I was supposed to be home today, and I would love nothing more than to be at your flat right now waiting for you. But the new Quidditch School is still a right mess. Things are well out-of-order and it really is for the best that I stay here for an extra day or three until it’s straightened out.
But don’t worry love - I’ve left explicit instructions with Dennis and I’m sure he’s up to the task. I would have sent Colin but well, ‘hording all the gold’ and all that and both Wood and Nott were far too eager for my liking. No no. Dennis was the best choice I think.
“By Merlin, Harry! You could at least have the decency of throwing a comma or a full stop in there, somewhere.”
Dennis peered over Draco’s shoulder, standing on his tip toes - he is more than a fair share shorter than Draco, after all. “What do you mean?? 'Commas', what?”
Draco jerked his elbow. “Scram!”
Don’t be mean to Dennis...
“... oops.”
... and remember, he’s there to cuddle, and cuddle only! No Elfish Brandy after eleven for him, lest his hands find courage enough to wander.
Draco rolled his eyes. “... as if.”
Anyway, I told him to have your bath drawn promptly by four o’clock. Everything should be to your liking.
And Draco, if nothing else, please know this: that I love you terribly. I do this not just because I want to, but because I want to make sure that I can provide you with the station befitting a Malfoy, with all the luxury and comfort that you are accustomed to and deserve.
Draco tilted his head to the ceiling. In his minds eye, he reread the last line: with all the luxury and comfort that you are accustomed to. That’s something a pauper tells his pauper lover, trying to seduce her with the ‘hopes and dreams of a better life’, obscuring the inevitability of a reality of wanting and not-having.
Between the extravagant engagement ring and now this letter, Draco was certain that Harry knew...
Gently, Dennis took the letter from Draco and ushered him down the hall to the bathroom.
“Come on, then,” he said, his voice infinitely softer than moments earlier. “You can read the rest later. But for now, your bath is ready. I’m cooking your favourite - according to Harry, at least - and it’ll be done shortly. Potted roast rump with a French crème glaze.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Draco said with a tired monotone. He wanted to say that he had never heard of such a dish and was certainly never served it by Harry, but he hadn’t the will. Indeed, he simply did not care.
“You seem to be in a bit of a strop...”
Draco snorted.
“Well, relax in the bath, then have a meal, and be done with this day. Tomorrow, it’ll be rain.”
“... ‘right as rain’,” Draco muttered. “Harry says that... I wish he were here.”
“I know.” Dennis planted a light kiss on the back of Draco’s shoulder.
True to his word, the bath had been drawn, as expertly as Harry would have done himself. The lights were dimmed, accentuated by strategically-placed candles that wafted the air with the soothing scents of vanilla and spring. A small boom box, one of the few purely Muggle items Draco owned, sat atop a small footstool beside the tub.
“Faure’s Pavane,” Draco said, referring to the soft music being played. In spite of himself, he smiled, though it wasn’t quite a complete smile. Still, Draco began to relax. So much so, that he didn’t find odd - or even flinch - when thick arms wrapped around him from behind, or when thick fingers began deftly unbuttoning his shirt. He didn’t even find queer that Dennis’ hands lingered about his shoulders as he removed Draco’s shirt. Nor did he find it out of sorts when Dennis planted another kiss, less chaste than the previous, on his naked shoulder.
“Thanks for being here for me Dennis,” Draco said. “I know it seems... odd, this little arrangement.”
Dennis stopped. Draco could feel his breath against his back.
“No worries. I know what it’s like to be lonely... to just... want someone there. I’m rather tickled that you and Harry picked me. I know I wasn’t first choice, of course...”
“It’s not that you’re not fit, Dennis - quite the contrary.” Draco pulled off his trousers, kicking off his shoes at the same time, then his underpants. “It’s just that... you’re...”
Draco turned to face Dennis and searched for the right words, but found that he didn’t quite know how to explain it.
“It’s just that I’m not Harry?”
Draco smiled for a second. Then, as though the world grew suddenly heavy again, the smile slid downward. Draco stared at Dennis... through Dennis... beyond Dennis. “Yes... you’re just not Harry.”
“Oh, stop being rubbish!” Dennis commanded, grabbing Draco’s shoulders and moving him bodily into the warm bath. “You act as though you’re never to see Harry again. Spiders-nest-in-a-wizard’s-hat, Draco; you act like he’s died or summat. He’ll be back later.”
“I know... it’s just...” Draco sat in the middle of the bath, bubbles and water slashing about. “Oh, it’s just that I’ve had a rather rough day, is all.” He slumped forward, slightly. Resembling more a petulant child, he couldn’t have looked any less aristocratic had he been born pitiable.
“I understand.”
“Do, you, re--what??” he looked up to find Dennis slowly removing his shirt, which suddenly fit a bit looser than Draco remembered. “Dennis, what are you doing?”
“Hush.”
Dennis fumbled with the buttons on his jeans, his arms looking quite too long and thin, now, for his body. There was a gleam in his eye and he began to suck seductively on his bottom lip. Draco gawked at him, but made no move; indeed, it all seemed rather surreal to him.
With a light flop, Dennis’ pants puddled around his feet.
Draco eyes widened, he couldn’t help but stare at the physique before him. Harry wasn’t skinny by any stretch of the word. He was built like a taut Olympic swimmer - sleek and smooth. Dennis was a totally different beast altogether: short and stocky, massively broad at the shoulders and chest, compact like a gymnast, with a stomach that a grandmother could wash her stockings over.
Draco blinked, unsure if he could believe his eyes. There was no mistaking it now, however; Dennis was standing in front of him, as naked as God made him with a dung-eating grin on his face.
“I... uh...”
Draco’s eyes pulled down to Dennis’ cock, as though it contained a gravitational pull all its own. Somehow, the Creevey brothers have managed to avoid being the topic of sexual prowess and cock discussions in the Malfoy residence. This was surprising considering Colin’s liaisons with Viktor Krum are well-documented and Dennis himself is a shameless flirt with Pansy (arguably Draco’s best friend outside of Harry). One could hardly blame Draco for being the least bit curious as to how Dennis fared down there.
“Errr... that is to say, I...”
Though it could hardly be said that he was a ‘shower’, Dennis cock had... heft, and what it may - or may not - have lacked in potential depth, it certainly made up for it in breadth. It seemed too heavy to be allowed and Draco found himself wondering how it didn’t anchor Dennis to the floor.
“I...”
The head just barely poked free from the foreskin, and the shaft had a slight twist to it. Draco couldn’t tear his eyes from it.
“Your dick,” he said.
“What of it?”
“It... it’s kind of... lopsided? Harry’s cock does the sa-”
“One side, Malfoy,” Dennis interrupted as he stepped into the bath water.
Draco pushed back until he was flush with the edge of the tub with an expression that could only be compared to a deer in headlights.
“I... I don’t think,” Draco said, between hard swallows, “that this is part of the contract.”
Dennis smiled. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Rather unfair question, that,” Draco admitted. “I am practically married. Besides, this is sort of... outside our agreement terms.”
Draco was about to protest with fanciful talk of contracts and remunerations, when he noticed Dennis grimacing. At first, he thought the lad was having a tummy ache (Dennis was infamous for eating too many chocolate frogs) or, worse yet, a seizure. However, Draco realised rather quickly that Dennis’ skin was merely bubbling, as though it were flesh-coloured broth coming to a slow boil.
“... ‘Merely bubbling’...?” Draco thought. “Skin’s not supposed to do that? Even Muggleborn skin... I think.”
Dennis’ short, curly hair began to pop up in spurts of black tufts. His eyes darkened beyond its usual brown, then lighten as though silver was pouring into them. Draco jumped when he felt feet creeping along the outside of his thighs; Dennis’ legs were lengthening. All of Dennis was lengthening: legs, arms, torso, face! The lad was no longer made of skin and bone, it seemed; rather, putty, being moulded and shaped by some invisible voice. As this process continued, Dennis began looking more and more like...
“Dear god, I hate Polyjuice!”
Draco could only gape. “Harry!?!”
Harry reached over the side of the bath and picked up his spectacles from the foot stool beside the tub. (Draco would later berate himself for not seeing them when he first came in the room.) No sooner had he put on his glasses that Draco leapt forward as deftly as he could, flinging his arms around Harry’s neck in a desperate embrace.
Harry laughed. “Whoa! Surprised to see me, then? Ow!!”
Draco had pinched Harry and pulled back, his face upturned into some horribly wonderful amalgamation of ‘pouty-youth’ and ‘pissed-off lover’ that only Draco could pull off.
“What was that for?”
“You are cruel and wicked, Harry James Potter, and I shan’t be marrying you.” To accentuate the point, Draco crossed his arms, turned his head up and to the side, stared at the ceiling, and pouted even more. “So there.”
Harry smiled. “You’re just mad that I got the one-up on you, is all. I can’t believe you didn’t catch on earlier. Any more clue-dropping and I’d have had to write it in the air in fire-script.”
“Oh, I knew it was you,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes. “I was just playing along.”
“All lies, I suspect. No matter... Happy to see me?”
Draco paused a moment. “Well... to tell you truth, I was rather exited for Dennis.”
“Wh-what?”
Draco leaned against the edge of the tub and lifted his legs, placing his feet atop Harry’s thighs. Instinctively, Harry took one in his hands and began massaging it, despite being confused.
“Yes, well,” Draco continued, “... oh, yes, that feels good ... Anyway. I’m betting Dennis has never actually done anything with a bloke. Bending is Colin’s forte in the Creevey household, no doubt - oooh, yes, right there, tha’s th’spot - so I figured it’d be fairly easy to convince him to... you know?”
Draco winked devilishly at Harry, who stopped with the massage.
“No, I don’t know.”
“Well, you aren’t exactly the most... versatile lover. Don’t get me wrong,” Draco added quickly upon feeling Harry’s grip tighten on around his foot, “you’re well good and all.”
Harry relaxed a bit. “But...?”
“But... it’d be nice to... you know? ‘Flip the script’ as they say?”
“Who’s ‘they’...?”
“You know what I mean. And, well... I doubt you’d be able to handle it and all, seeing as you’ve quite the ... girly bottom, as they say.”
“Who is ‘they’...?! And what do you mean by this? You doubt I’d be able to handle it!?”
In a sudden move, Harry stood up. Draco marvelled at the sight of this wet Adonis - his wet Adonis - towering over him, soap slipping downward accentuating the curve of every muscle. As if to prove a point, Harry tensed and flexed, rippling in places Draco hardly thought could ripple.
“This,” Harry yelled, waving an arm over his own body, “is the result of years - years, mind you - of Quidditch - proper Quidditch, mind you - training and playing.”
Draco’s gaze lingered on Harry’s body, occasionally failing to mask his lust and glee.
Harry outstretched his arms and flexed even harder, revealing the V-shape of his upper torso as it slid into a waist devoid of flab and smooth as milk.
“This body is streamlined, perfect for flying, deadly at manoeuvring, and designed specifically for fucking.”
“Yes, yes, all well and good,” Draco said, after a sigh. “But have you seen Dennis, lately? Oh, that’s right, of course you have. I forgot your ‘grand trick’ - but he’s no slouch in the body department either, I’m afraid.”
“That little miscreant-!”
“Besides, it’s not his body I was looking forward to. It was the good pounding I was going to give that tight, little Creevey bottom.”
“You’d... you’d choose a Creevey bottom... over mine?” Harry said, incredulously.
“Again, it’s not a matter of choosing one over the other,” Draco said. “But, to me, it’s obvious that you can’t handle a good fucking of that sort. I mean, you certainly never let me do it. And I understand, love. Really I do.”
“Understand what, exactly?”
Draco took one of Harry’s hands in his, and patted it rather sarcastically like a mother trying to placate a child. “That it’s very, very scary.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m too scared to get fucked?”
“It’s okay to be scared sometimes, Potter,” Draco said.
“I’m not scared!”
Another pat on the hand.
“Okay, love. You’re not scared. Maybe you’re worried that your twee arse simply can’t take it-”
Harry jerked his hand away and turned, practically shoving his arse into Draco’s face (and it took all Draco’s strength not to bury his face between two heaping helping of Potter rump).
“This,” Harry said, pointing at his backside, “is from years of broom handling, and everyone - everyone - knows that proper broom handling is all in the arse-muscles! I’ve flexed and flexed,” and he proved it by flexing and flexing, “and flexed and flexed for years. Years! See these?” He ran a thumb along the inward concave, the dimple, in the side of one cheek. “That doesn’t just happen, Draco Malfoy. I do arse exercises to get that!”
Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? 'Ass exercises', even?”
“I’m doing them now, see?”
And indeed Draco could see that Harry was tightening then releasing his rump, the cheek dimples becoming more pronounced before relaxing and smoothing out.
“Impressive,” Draco said.
“Damn right,” Harry said, turning around to face Draco. “Four hundred times a day... minimum! So don’t tell me that my arse isn’t up to scratch.”
“Whatever you say, love. Still, the proof is in the pudding.”
“That’s it!” Harry grabbed Draco’s hand, forcing him to his feet. “You think I can’t handle it? I’ll show you who can and cannot handle what!”
“Harry,” Draco giggled. “What are you-d”
“You want to fuck an arse; you’re going to fuck an arse!”
Harry pulled Draco from the bath and made towards the bedroom. Before they made it out of the bathroom, however, Draco stopped, forcing Harry to do the same. Harry turned to face him and his expression was stony determination. When their eyes locked, his visage softened. They stood in silence a moment and Harry wondered when Draco had washed his face, for it was certainly wet.
“Harry... I...” No words followed. It took all Draco’s strength just to stand.
Harry moved, quick as thunder, and wrapped his arms around Draco. They melted into something akin to a kiss, only much greater, much deeper. Maybe they stood in this connexion for mere moments, or maybe it was an aeon, no one could tell; time held no meaning anymore. For Draco, the only thing that mattered was Harry’s arms around him, Harry’s mouth over his, Harry’s tongue caressing his, Harry’s cock growing thicker and harder against his.
Harry pulled back, once again glaring at Draco. “No wiggling your way out of this, Slytherin.”
Laughing, Draco let himself be pulled into the bedroom.
Yes, Harry Potter had pulled a grand trick on Draco, most certainly.
But there were just deserts - and desserts - still yet to be had: namely a pounding of potterd rump.
♥ ♥ ♥ & the love will continue.