ficlet: Packing without House-Elves
Who: Draco, Harry
What: Packing Without House-Elves
When: Sometime after the battle, when things are still settling down.
Where: Draco and Harry's manor.
Word count: 617
Rating: PG-13 (for mild language and brief homosexual moments)
Notes: Originally written in a challenge for lagreyeyes, who was packing (haha, or not, considering!) and needed a little H/D distraction. I then went back and expanded it a little bit, but it's more or less intact.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Harry stood in the doorway, face somewhere between horror and bemusement. His lanky body pressed against the edge of the doorframe, arms crossed in front of him, wand just barely visible poking out of his back pocket. He’d put on one of Draco’s old Slytherin jumpers (which he refused to wear out of the house, but did have to admit that it brought out the green in his eyes) and was wearing a favourite pair of jeans. Draco, on the other hand, was dressed like he was always on display - long robes gathered around him where he sat on the floor, a ridiculous waistcoat, and even his father’s old pocketwatch.
“I,” Draco spat out, a pair of boxers in his hand, “am packing.” He looked around. “As you can see.”
In actual fact, there was no clear indication that anything had happened in his room besides someone letting a giant have a go at his armoire. Robes and cloaks, shirts, ties and trousers were all strewn about as though said giant had gone on a rampage, and the clothes had been the unfortunate casualty of the attack. Draco sat at the epicentre of the horror, pulling random bits towards himself then discarding them with quiet huffs of discontent.
Harry bit his lip and continued to watch his boyfriend sort helplessly through the articles surrounding him. Not long after the Battle, Hermione had managed to push legislation through that required for house-elves to be paid. Draco had given his elf clothes that very day, though now he was starting to regret that decision, not that Harry would have let them have a house-elf. Harry watched Draco struggle.
“Stop laughing, Potter,” Draco snapped, frowning. “I’ve got my method.”
“Right,” Harry said, no longer holding back his laughter as he crossed to the small open trunk, then pawed through the clothes that were piled thoughtlessly in there. “Which is why you’re bringing your swim trunks and a winter cloak with you on our trip to Paris. It’s April, Draco… why the hell would you need either article? Are you planning on going swimming or,” he held up the cloak, “battling a Yeti while we’re there?”
“It’s so easy to judge,” Draco muttered, leaning forward and snatching the cloak from Harry’s hand, then stroking its fur lining momentarily before setting it aside. “If you’re so clever, what are you packing?”
Harry shrugged and sat down across from his lover, plucking at a threadbare patch on his knee. “A few shirts, two pair trousers, a pair jeans, my robe, a jumper… We’re going on a fact-finding mission, not setting out on an exploratory expedition. In Paris, no less. You should pack more Muggle clothes.” He paused while Draco rolled his eyes, then plowed forward. “Or at least clothes that are less… wizard-y.”
“I am perfectly capable of picking out my own clothes,” Draco said tartly, grabbing a discarded sock with unnecessary vehemence.
Harry leaned forward and pulled the sock from his hand, an impish smile on his face, dark hair falling across his green eyes in a way that made Draco’s stomach churn in ways that he still wasn’t quite used to.
“I could pick your clothes out for you,” he murmured, running a hand up Draco’s side, causing him to shiver. “I could pull your clothes off you,” he said even more huskily, dangerously close to Draco’s lips. The pureblood turned his face up to his lover’s attentions, breath hitching in a way that was most undignified, especially for a Malfoy.
“Make me,” the pale-haired boy replied, meeting Harry’s eyes, their old joke resurfacing.
“Maybe I will,” Harry said, and covered Draco’s mouth with his own.
What: Packing Without House-Elves
When: Sometime after the battle, when things are still settling down.
Where: Draco and Harry's manor.
Word count: 617
Rating: PG-13 (for mild language and brief homosexual moments)
Notes: Originally written in a challenge for lagreyeyes, who was packing (haha, or not, considering!) and needed a little H/D distraction. I then went back and expanded it a little bit, but it's more or less intact.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Harry stood in the doorway, face somewhere between horror and bemusement. His lanky body pressed against the edge of the doorframe, arms crossed in front of him, wand just barely visible poking out of his back pocket. He’d put on one of Draco’s old Slytherin jumpers (which he refused to wear out of the house, but did have to admit that it brought out the green in his eyes) and was wearing a favourite pair of jeans. Draco, on the other hand, was dressed like he was always on display - long robes gathered around him where he sat on the floor, a ridiculous waistcoat, and even his father’s old pocketwatch.
“I,” Draco spat out, a pair of boxers in his hand, “am packing.” He looked around. “As you can see.”
In actual fact, there was no clear indication that anything had happened in his room besides someone letting a giant have a go at his armoire. Robes and cloaks, shirts, ties and trousers were all strewn about as though said giant had gone on a rampage, and the clothes had been the unfortunate casualty of the attack. Draco sat at the epicentre of the horror, pulling random bits towards himself then discarding them with quiet huffs of discontent.
Harry bit his lip and continued to watch his boyfriend sort helplessly through the articles surrounding him. Not long after the Battle, Hermione had managed to push legislation through that required for house-elves to be paid. Draco had given his elf clothes that very day, though now he was starting to regret that decision, not that Harry would have let them have a house-elf. Harry watched Draco struggle.
“Stop laughing, Potter,” Draco snapped, frowning. “I’ve got my method.”
“Right,” Harry said, no longer holding back his laughter as he crossed to the small open trunk, then pawed through the clothes that were piled thoughtlessly in there. “Which is why you’re bringing your swim trunks and a winter cloak with you on our trip to Paris. It’s April, Draco… why the hell would you need either article? Are you planning on going swimming or,” he held up the cloak, “battling a Yeti while we’re there?”
“It’s so easy to judge,” Draco muttered, leaning forward and snatching the cloak from Harry’s hand, then stroking its fur lining momentarily before setting it aside. “If you’re so clever, what are you packing?”
Harry shrugged and sat down across from his lover, plucking at a threadbare patch on his knee. “A few shirts, two pair trousers, a pair jeans, my robe, a jumper… We’re going on a fact-finding mission, not setting out on an exploratory expedition. In Paris, no less. You should pack more Muggle clothes.” He paused while Draco rolled his eyes, then plowed forward. “Or at least clothes that are less… wizard-y.”
“I am perfectly capable of picking out my own clothes,” Draco said tartly, grabbing a discarded sock with unnecessary vehemence.
Harry leaned forward and pulled the sock from his hand, an impish smile on his face, dark hair falling across his green eyes in a way that made Draco’s stomach churn in ways that he still wasn’t quite used to.
“I could pick your clothes out for you,” he murmured, running a hand up Draco’s side, causing him to shiver. “I could pull your clothes off you,” he said even more huskily, dangerously close to Draco’s lips. The pureblood turned his face up to his lover’s attentions, breath hitching in a way that was most undignified, especially for a Malfoy.
“Make me,” the pale-haired boy replied, meeting Harry’s eyes, their old joke resurfacing.
“Maybe I will,” Harry said, and covered Draco’s mouth with his own.