Title: Dirty Martini
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Warnings: fluff, reluctantly pining!Draco, and Quidditch Player!Harry. Nothing untoward, unless you count checking out someone's backside:D
Word Count: 593
Summary: "If you know I run away every time, why do you keep asking?" "If you know I'm going to ask every time, why do you keep coming back?"
A/N: Written for
digthewriter for the
hd_owlpost. Beta'd by the brilliant
vaysh11; any remaining mistakes are my own.
The way Potter looked in his Quidditch uniform really ought to be illegal. Puddlemere United's navy blue was good for his complexion. And the dark, aged-looking leather on his forearms and shins invoked a sense of rugged power.
Most people would have said Potter exuded power without the leather's aid, but most people didn't know Potter was a pompous, self-obsessed, egotistical prick who walked around wearing his bloody Quidditch uniform to get attention, which was an insatiable need for him.
Potter was undoubtedly lovely to look at, but how anyone could stand his arrogance was beyond Draco's imagining.
"How's your internship going?" Potter asked as he sat down next to Draco at the bar-uninvited, of course. Draco supposed the man felt himself above invitations. "Hermione says Healer Watkins hates you already."
Draco scowled briefly at the mention of his handler at St Mungo's. "She feels threatened by my superior skill," he replied, prickling.
Potter chuckled. "The Healer with thirty-five years of experience feels threatened by the new graduate's skill? You must really be something."
"Naturally," Draco drawled and was decidedly not pleased by Potter's ensuing laughter. "How goes the revelling in the spoils of victory?" he asked offhandedly, referring to Puddlemere's latest (inevitable) triumph over the Canons, which his fellow pub patrons were celebrating enthusiastically.
Shrugging, Potter sipped his lager. "S'alright. Not the victory I was after, though."
Draco sniffed haughtily at the other man. It was just like Potter to be ungrateful for the good things in his life.
"And which victory is that?" Draco asked begrudgingly, if only because there was nothing else to say and Potter was clearly hinting that he wanted to be asked. Anyway, Draco was pretty sure he knew what Potter was going to say.
"Will you let me buy you a drink?" Potter asked, smiling that ridiculous smile that dimpled his cheeks and did not in any way make Draco want to kiss him.
"You already know the answer to that," he snapped, raising his hand to get the barman's attention. He needed his check. Potter offering to buy him a drink was Draco's cue to leave.
"You don't have to run away every time I ask, Draco," Potter said with a sigh.
"If you know I run away every time, why do you keep asking?" He flinched when he realised what he'd said and backtracked to add, "Not that I'm running away, that is." He was not blushing. Slytherins didn't blush.
"If you know I'm going to ask every time, why do you keep coming back?" Potter countered, leaning closer to Draco. "You know Dean and Seamus throw a party for us here every time we win, so if you hate having my attention so much, why do you keep showing up?"
The barman slid Draco his tab and Draco dropped some Galleons on the table before standing. "I like the martinis here," he said matter-of-factly and prepared to leave.
Potter rolled his eyes. "Do you also like the live-action view of my arse?"
Draco puffed up to vehemently deny any arse-viewing but Potter cut him off with a presumptuous finger on his lips.
"Don't try to deny it, Draco. Everyone in this pub has caught you looking at least once." Potter was grinning in spite of Draco's glare.
Taking his arm, Potter coaxed Draco back into his seat and sat next to him again, this time with an arm around his shoulders that Draco really ought to have shaken off.
"Now, about those martinis. Do you like them dirty?"