[Potter fic] Idiot Philosophers
Idiot Philosophers
Rating: PG-13 ish for drunk wizards.
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter
Summary: Harry and Draco are adults and coworkers and occasionally get drunk together and wind up talking about stupid things in their underwear.
Notes: Slowly plying Emily with stories about wizards from our childhood. Albeit, I couldn't get them to screw, so this is a dubious offering at best...
The number of time Harry ends up being mostly naked and drunk with Draco Malfoy is starting to become a little alarming.
But all the same, there they are. Stripped down to their boxers, bottles scattered around them. They’re both scarred, Harry more so and Malfoy spends a lot of their drunken encounters idly tracing scars and asking about ones he doesn’t remember. For one reason or another. He never answers Harry’s questions about his own scars, when it does occur to Harry to ask. It never occurs to Harry that he could just... Not answer Draco’s questions.
Malfoy is tapping out a beat on a scar across Harry’s arm. “Do you think there’s such a place as Hell?”
Harry doesn’t answer for a while. He can see, clearly, the answers his younger, angrier self would give, fresh from battle. And he can see the answer his even younger self would give, calling out from the cupboard under the stairs. Instead he says “I haven’t really thought about it.”
Malfoy hums and goes back to tapping out the nonsense beat on Harry’s arm. “Well, if there’s a Hell, there has to be a Heaven, right?”
It makes sense. “ ‘s what conventional wisdom seems to say.”
The taps turn lighter and a little more flurried and Harry wonders briefly if Malfoy is trying to tap out some sort of message on Harry’s skin.
“And what would you know about conventional wisdom, Potter?” Almost a sneer. It’s not that he does it any less than when he was a kid, but it does seem like Draco is more practical about what he does with it. Constructive sneering.
Sneering for the forces of good.
“I am a fount of conventional wisdom these days,” Harry says, gesturing with the arm Malfoy isn’t practicing Morse Code on, spilling a bit of his brew in the process, “Ask the Daily Prophet.”
The almost-sneer turns into a twisted sour thing. Completely worth the spilled brew.
“I’m being serious.” That’s really more of a pout than a sneer.
“No, you’re being dramatic.” Harry turns his head a bit to watch Draco out of the corner of his eye, just because he knows it drives the other man mad. “Seem to remember you having a flair for that.”
Malfoy sniffs and turns up his nose. “Pot to kettle, Potter.”
“Pick a point and stand on it, Malfoy.”
They’re playing. Harry doesn’t know when the childhood rivalry and hatred turned into a game, but it has. And he can tell when Malfoy sobers a little and looks back at Harry.
“I was just wondering if you could see Hell from Heaven.”
He has no idea how to respond to that. He turns back to look properly at Malfoy, who looks entirely too serious for as drunk as Harry is sure they are. He can hear the answers from his younger selves again. Clear as day and right at the tip of his tongue. Before he can respond, Draco smiles. Or tries to smile. It’s a terrible attempt.
“I was just thinking that it would be nice if I was remembered at the end of all this. Even a little bit.”
“...Don’t be a git, Malfoy,” Harry says with more conviction than he’s sure he feels. Throwing his arm around Draco is better, even if it disrupts the Morse Code tapping and earns him a glare.
“I am not being a git, how rude.”
“You’re always being a git.”
“Pot to kettle.”
“Yeah, well.” Harry shrugs and doesn’t mind if it shifts Draco more snugly against him. They’re not going anywhere anytime soon. “Takes one to know one.”
Rating: PG-13 ish for drunk wizards.
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter
Summary: Harry and Draco are adults and coworkers and occasionally get drunk together and wind up talking about stupid things in their underwear.
Notes: Slowly plying Emily with stories about wizards from our childhood. Albeit, I couldn't get them to screw, so this is a dubious offering at best...
The number of time Harry ends up being mostly naked and drunk with Draco Malfoy is starting to become a little alarming.
But all the same, there they are. Stripped down to their boxers, bottles scattered around them. They’re both scarred, Harry more so and Malfoy spends a lot of their drunken encounters idly tracing scars and asking about ones he doesn’t remember. For one reason or another. He never answers Harry’s questions about his own scars, when it does occur to Harry to ask. It never occurs to Harry that he could just... Not answer Draco’s questions.
Malfoy is tapping out a beat on a scar across Harry’s arm. “Do you think there’s such a place as Hell?”
Harry doesn’t answer for a while. He can see, clearly, the answers his younger, angrier self would give, fresh from battle. And he can see the answer his even younger self would give, calling out from the cupboard under the stairs. Instead he says “I haven’t really thought about it.”
Malfoy hums and goes back to tapping out the nonsense beat on Harry’s arm. “Well, if there’s a Hell, there has to be a Heaven, right?”
It makes sense. “ ‘s what conventional wisdom seems to say.”
The taps turn lighter and a little more flurried and Harry wonders briefly if Malfoy is trying to tap out some sort of message on Harry’s skin.
“And what would you know about conventional wisdom, Potter?” Almost a sneer. It’s not that he does it any less than when he was a kid, but it does seem like Draco is more practical about what he does with it. Constructive sneering.
Sneering for the forces of good.
“I am a fount of conventional wisdom these days,” Harry says, gesturing with the arm Malfoy isn’t practicing Morse Code on, spilling a bit of his brew in the process, “Ask the Daily Prophet.”
The almost-sneer turns into a twisted sour thing. Completely worth the spilled brew.
“I’m being serious.” That’s really more of a pout than a sneer.
“No, you’re being dramatic.” Harry turns his head a bit to watch Draco out of the corner of his eye, just because he knows it drives the other man mad. “Seem to remember you having a flair for that.”
Malfoy sniffs and turns up his nose. “Pot to kettle, Potter.”
“Pick a point and stand on it, Malfoy.”
They’re playing. Harry doesn’t know when the childhood rivalry and hatred turned into a game, but it has. And he can tell when Malfoy sobers a little and looks back at Harry.
“I was just wondering if you could see Hell from Heaven.”
He has no idea how to respond to that. He turns back to look properly at Malfoy, who looks entirely too serious for as drunk as Harry is sure they are. He can hear the answers from his younger selves again. Clear as day and right at the tip of his tongue. Before he can respond, Draco smiles. Or tries to smile. It’s a terrible attempt.
“I was just thinking that it would be nice if I was remembered at the end of all this. Even a little bit.”
“...Don’t be a git, Malfoy,” Harry says with more conviction than he’s sure he feels. Throwing his arm around Draco is better, even if it disrupts the Morse Code tapping and earns him a glare.
“I am not being a git, how rude.”
“You’re always being a git.”
“Pot to kettle.”
“Yeah, well.” Harry shrugs and doesn’t mind if it shifts Draco more snugly against him. They’re not going anywhere anytime soon. “Takes one to know one.”