The Abbey Roads Scholars (Harry/Draco, Beatles, Draco/Ringo Starr -- NC-17)
Title: The Abbey Roads Scholars
Length: Long
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Implied and established Harry/Draco, Draco/Ringo Starr
Warnings: Crossover (Beatles RPS), crack!fic, time-travel
Disclaimer: Oh, so not mine -- this market's been cornered.
Summary: Draco has a nose fetish -- Harry helps make music history.
Author notes: Written for carbonised on the occasion of her very belated birthday.
Betaed by rosesanguina. Britpicked by underlucius. Inspired by ignited.
The Abbey Roads Scholars
"Draco! You used too much! I told you how many drops it would take!"
"My hand slipped."
Harry's brow arched, his scar inching up his forehead. "Ten times?"
Draco ignored Harry's query. "Where are we anyway?"
"The question isn't where but when." Harry shot Draco a censorious look. Reluctantly, Draco placed the empty phial into Harry's outstretched hand. "Grab a paper."
Draco grabbed 'The Times' from the corner newsstand and read the date aloud. "First of July nineteen sixty-three."
"Perfect," Harry replied sardonically. "I have no fucking idea how we're going to get back to our own time."
"Yeah, well, I told you there might be consequences to drinking that Draught of Peace before a side by side Apparation."
"You know Apparation makes me sick, Draco."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I can't take you anywhere, can I?" Draco asked with a laugh.
"No, I suppose not," Harry replied irritably.
"Well, apparently, your delicate constitution has not only landed us in the wrong city, but in the wrong decade," Draco offered helpfully, albeit smugly.
"You're so fucking perceptive." Harry rolled his eyes. Draco never ignored the opportunity for 'I told you so's.'
"We could go to The Leaky Cauldron," Draco suggested.
"And run the risk of bumping into Hagrid? No, we're less likely to get into trouble staying in Muggle London."
"Well, wherever we stay, I've got to piss. That building across the street looks like it'd have a posh bog."
"Fuck's sake, Draco, find and water a wall."
"You just want a look at my cock," Draco smirked, grabbing and shaking the crotch of his trousers.
Harry's frown one-eightied. Draco wasn't the poster boy of sophistication around Harry that he was around his father. It was refreshing seeing him so blasé. It was this blithe attitude that led to first a peace treaty and finally a friendship -- with fringe benefits.
With a sly smile, Harry thought about how he was going to withhold a blowjob from Draco for getting them into such a fix. He narrowly avoided a collision with a Volkswagen Beetle as he leisurely strolled the Abbey Road zebra crossing, lost in such trouser-tenting thoughts. It was only when Draco caught up with him that Harry snapped from his reverie.
"That fucking wanker at the newsstand called me a bird. Said my hair was longer than a bloke's should be. It's barely touching my shoulders."
"Consider the decade, Draco. And really, we should get out of these clothes."
"Best thought you've had all day mate. Fucking's a great way to pass the time."
"That's not what I meant," Harry said with a sigh. "Now tuck your hair into your collar and try to blend."
Harry and Draco had made it most of the way to the entrance until they were stopped by a throng of screaming girls and a dozen or so policemen in charge of crowd control. The scene was reminiscent of a Weird Sisters concert.
"Ideas?" Harry shouted above the din.
"Always," Draco replied just as loudly, dropping to all fours. He crawled through the crowd, peeking up a skirt or two en route. He motioned for Harry to follow.
Harry managed the door albeit somewhat slower, nearly trampled in the process. He cradled his stepped-on fingers until Draco nursed them each with a kiss. "Stupid cows, one of them mistook me for Paul." Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with an index finger, frowning as he regarded Draco through smudged lenses. "If I didn't know better, I'd wager these girls are waiting for the Beatles."
"The who?"
"No, not The Who. They come later."
Draco looked confused.
"Oh, nevermind," Harry said, dismissing Draco's naiveté with a wave of his hand. "I'll explain later."
What started out as a routine visit to the loo turned into an exploratory excursion. Nobody bothered to stop and question two teenaged boys, only giving them over-the-shoulder glances at what could only be their fashion sense. Most assumed that Harry and Draco were 'with the band' even without proper identification. It certainly explained Harry's Beatle-esque haircut and Draco's dramatics. He had one of the studio engineers thoroughly convinced he was on this Brian Epstein's payroll -- whoever that queeny Jewish bloke was.
It wasn't long, however, before Draco would come face to face with his superior after accidentally barging in on 'the' recording session. There, with mouths agape and mop tops properly tousled, stood four lads from Liverpool. The vocalist of the lot was obviously their spokesman, quieting the hum of his Rickenbacker to address the disruption.
"What's this then? I thought you were going to keep the interruptions at bay, Eppy?"
Eppy? So that was Brian Epstein, Draco thought, noting the man's less-than-masculine demeanour. Nice pinstripe though, he added in silence.
"You two will have to leave," George Martin insisted, standing up from his position at the mixer. "The boys are terribly busy and have no time for autographs."
"We're not here for autographs," Harry frowned, immediately reminded of Gilderoy Lockhart.
The Beatles were pleased rather than disappointed at this declaration. Finally, fans that didn't want to scream in their ears or make off with locks of their hair.
"S'all right. Let 'em stay. We could use a bit of a break. Been at this for hours," the bassist announced, setting his violin-shaped Hoffner down.
"Thirty minutes then, boys," Epstein announced. While Martin looked less than thrilled with his star group taking a breather, Epstein looked pleased as punch, patting Draco on the arse as the two were escorted inside.
"Hey, he just--"
"Get used to it, mate," the guitarist laughed, lighting up a fag. "He fancies the cut of your trousers."
There was a round of laughter at Draco's expense, and Harry, sensing Draco's embarrassment through reddening cheeks, changed the subject quickly to introductions. "I'm Harry, and this is Draco. My aunt Petunia was a big fan of yours."
"Was?" the guitarist asked, lifting a brow.
"Er, still is." In the minute or two it took to make introductions, Harry was just as scarlet of cheek as Draco. "So let's see -- you're John Lennon, you're Paul McCartney, you're George Harrison, and you're Ringo Starr, right?"
"What gave it away?" the drummer asked, wiggling multi-ringed fingers.
Harry simply shrugged observing as Draco raked his teeth over his bottom lip. He knew exactly what Draco was thinking and gave his shin a kick for being so barefaced. Harry was fairly certain Draco might've retaliated had a jarring voice not startled them from their skins. Party's over, boys. Your little friends can watch from in here. There's history to be made, and I've got a schedule to keep. Thirty minutes was obviously studio lingo for about half the time.
There was an exchange of goodbyes as Harry and Draco made their way into the sound booth, taking refuge in the nearest corner, out of everyone's way as well as everyone's earshot. It wasn't until the Beatles began their session with a song called 'She Loves You' that Harry spoke.
"Right smooth move, Captain Obvious. What is it with you and blokes with large beaks?" Harry looked more than a little incensed. It was never easy watching Draco flirt.
"He reminds me of you-know-who."
"Snape."
Draco said nothing in response.
"Apart from their noses they're nothing alike."
"Well, you know what they say about men with big noses."
"They have bigger bogeys?"
There was an uncomfortable silence between the two before Harry resigned himself to caving in. "Fine. Whatever, Draco. But he's a Muggle. Just so you know."
"Fuck's sake, Potter. I want to shag him, not marry him. And besides, that Lennon bloke's taken a liking to you." Draco sidled up to Harry, discreetly slipping a hand down the front of his trousers. He whispered something so obscene into Harry's ear that his glasses fogged at the sudden flush of warmth, and all arguments pertaining to Draco's formerly firm stand on the inferiority of Muggles fizzled out in favour of the much preferable debate of Can he DO that?
Draco always did know how to properly ask his permission, Harry thought with a pleased look. He was hard pressed to admit, however, that he was probably the more cock-whipped of the two. "Just don't do anything stupid."
Famous last words.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The drum and guitar tracks were laid first, which gave Draco the perfect opportunity to follow the two not so charmed with Potter. Lennon and McCartney were playing 'keep away' with Harry's glasses, and he was a bit envious. He'd patented teasing Harry about his glasses, and now he was going to have to fuck away the jealousy threatening to soften his erection. With two of them, however, the shagger quickly became the shaggee. Not that he had much choice in the matter. The beaky bloke insisted he couldn't properly hold a conversation with his mate if he was the one with his face pressed against the glass. At the very least, Draco thought, he could boast about his being fucked against a soft-drinks machine.
Muggle rock 'n roll stars were interesting fucks, he'd come to find out, especially this lot. They had endless supplies of condoms and lubricants in their dressing rooms and kept detailed accounts of their 'fuck-du-jours' in little black books. If Draco hadn't been craving a random and meaningless fuck so badly, he would've minded spelling his name over a few times. How difficult was Draco Malfoy to sound out anyways? And wasn't it custom to 'Tally the Tallywhackers' afterwards?
If this was in any way an irritant, it was forgotten with the first slide of Beatle cock into his arse and the warm press of Snape-esque schnozz flattened against his neck. The conversation was easy enough to drown out, even with mentions of bathroom knee-tremblers and telly appearances and grotty, matching Cardin suits, though after awhile their incessant prattle started to annoy him. To distract himself, Draco counted six cokes that fell into the bottom tray of the machine from the rough and rhythmic slams into his arse. If this didn't properly blight his tender flesh, the heavy rings would leave permanent indents. How many rings did one hand need anyway?
Draco was so busy getting fucked that he didn't notice his wand slip out from the back pocket of his trousers where he'd stashed it. It rolled under the pointed toe of George's boot, and to anyone who didn't know better, it looked curiously like a drumstick. It was a karmic calling for a drummer and his extremely bored mate to mess about.
Well on his merry way to orgasm, Draco cursed at the unexpected departure of warm cock from his arse. Instead, the cool feel of slick wood slid down the cleft of his arse, followed by a smooth invasive tip. Arching his back, he stood on tiptoes, pushing off on the balls of his feet to force the wooden phallus deeper inside. Fuck. He was going to come. No, he was going to come hard. His heart felt like it was going to seize up, like he'd been doused with cold water, and then…
He felt a rat-a-tat-tat on both of his arse cheeks. Short, sharp strikes with not one, but two hard sticks.
"My arse is a not a bloody snare drum!" Draco's growl was met with laughter and a rum-a-tum-tum before he turned around and demanded he be fucked right proper. Sure, he sounded like a pushy bugger, but he had needs, dammit. He was pleased with himself when his demand was quickly attended to.
A few quick thrusts into his arse and Draco came, spraying the face of the machine with pearly strands of come that slid down at a snail's pace. Draco grimaced at the feel of twisted metal burrowing into the soft flesh above his hipbones, and to add insult to injury, 'The Nose' called out the wrong name en climax. 'Marco,' of course, sounded nothing like 'Draco.' He didn't bother to correct the faux pas, instead returning the favour with a 'thanks for the shag, Rocco' mid-trouser yank. Draco bit his tongue when he was given a pat on the arse and what seemed like something being shoved into his back pocket on the way out. Sore arsed and ego bruised, he made his way back to Harry. In his mind he'd proved his theory about noses and cocks and couldn't wait to boast his findings: even if all it took was looking like he'd ridden a hippogriff all week.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Rounding the corner to the recording studio, Draco heard the drunken slurs of three distinct voices. Harry had gone off and gotten pissed without him. And with those smarmy blokes! He stood and listened, wondering if they were talking about him. Or more like hoping.
"So run it by me one more time?" Harry took a swig of scotch with a chaser of coke, as if he needed the liquid courage to give what would otherwise be an unworthy opinion in the face of two geniuses.
Both Paul and John sang in unison. "She loves you, hey, hey, hey."
"Nah, dun like it. 'Hey, hey, hey' sounds a bit wonky."
Paul nodded in agreement. John lit a fag.
"What about 'she loves you, ooh, ooh, ooh?'"
Harry tipped the empty coke bottle, frowning. J and B tasted like shite on its own. "Even worse."
Draco rolled his eyes. They weren't talking about him. It was time, he thought, to break this little party up. Maybe then the focus would switch to him.
"Harry?"
Harry almost fell out of his chair, turning to see who was calling him. "Yeah?"
Draco proceeded to make his grand re-entrance, when he was so rudely interrupted.
"That's it! She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah! That's brilliant, mate!" John clapped Harry on the back rather roughly in thanks.
And just like that, the focus was back on Harry.
Harry hiccoughed his 'you're welcome' back. "More coke?"
John shoved some change at Draco, making house elf demands of him. "Fetch Harry s'more coke then. That's a good lad."
Draco thought about the vending machine and the mess he'd made and how it gave new definition to the words 'cream soda.' "We'll just be on our way then." He pulled Harry up by the crook of his arm and placed his hand over Harry's mouth to stifle the retching noises.
When they finally managed to leave the studio, Lennon and McCartney were still arguing over song credits. In the nearest bathroom, Harry explained his motivations -- stopping every few sentences to vomit.
"So let me see if I have this right. You got yourself pissed to simulate the effects of the Draught of Peace? So we could Apparate back to our time?"
Harry managed a weak nod.
"That's either the stupidest thing I've ever heard -- or the most brilliant." He helped Harry to his feet, linking arms. "To you, Potter. Here goes nothing."
There was a loud crack and Harry and Draco Disapparated, reappearing in near darkness. There was no longer a building where they were standing. Just a charred ruin. A closer look revealed many charred buildings. Draco speculated they were somewhere in the future. Muggle London didn't become post-apocalyptic overnight.
"You drank way too much, Potter! You overshot us, you stupid, speccy git!" He dragged Harry to the nearest newsstand to confirm his findings. Pulling out his wand, he quietly uttered 'Lumos,' only his wand didn't illuminate the fine, black print. In fact, it wasn't a wand at all, but a drumstick.
Despite their grim situation, Harry let out a drunken laugh. "I told you not to do anything stupid, you fucking slag!"
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Back in nineteen sixty-three, the Beatles were getting ready to record the final take of 'She Loves You.'
"And where are we going boys?" John asked with a smile.
"To the toppermost of the poppermost!" came the resounding answer.
Admiring his thinner, sleeker drumstick, Ringo cued the backbeat of their future number one hit.
There was a brilliant flash of light. A thunderous crash. And six very confused looks.
Fin
Length: Long
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Implied and established Harry/Draco, Draco/Ringo Starr
Warnings: Crossover (Beatles RPS), crack!fic, time-travel
Disclaimer: Oh, so not mine -- this market's been cornered.
Summary: Draco has a nose fetish -- Harry helps make music history.
Author notes: Written for carbonised on the occasion of her very belated birthday.
Betaed by rosesanguina. Britpicked by underlucius. Inspired by ignited.
The Abbey Roads Scholars
"Draco! You used too much! I told you how many drops it would take!"
"My hand slipped."
Harry's brow arched, his scar inching up his forehead. "Ten times?"
Draco ignored Harry's query. "Where are we anyway?"
"The question isn't where but when." Harry shot Draco a censorious look. Reluctantly, Draco placed the empty phial into Harry's outstretched hand. "Grab a paper."
Draco grabbed 'The Times' from the corner newsstand and read the date aloud. "First of July nineteen sixty-three."
"Perfect," Harry replied sardonically. "I have no fucking idea how we're going to get back to our own time."
"Yeah, well, I told you there might be consequences to drinking that Draught of Peace before a side by side Apparation."
"You know Apparation makes me sick, Draco."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I can't take you anywhere, can I?" Draco asked with a laugh.
"No, I suppose not," Harry replied irritably.
"Well, apparently, your delicate constitution has not only landed us in the wrong city, but in the wrong decade," Draco offered helpfully, albeit smugly.
"You're so fucking perceptive." Harry rolled his eyes. Draco never ignored the opportunity for 'I told you so's.'
"We could go to The Leaky Cauldron," Draco suggested.
"And run the risk of bumping into Hagrid? No, we're less likely to get into trouble staying in Muggle London."
"Well, wherever we stay, I've got to piss. That building across the street looks like it'd have a posh bog."
"Fuck's sake, Draco, find and water a wall."
"You just want a look at my cock," Draco smirked, grabbing and shaking the crotch of his trousers.
Harry's frown one-eightied. Draco wasn't the poster boy of sophistication around Harry that he was around his father. It was refreshing seeing him so blasé. It was this blithe attitude that led to first a peace treaty and finally a friendship -- with fringe benefits.
With a sly smile, Harry thought about how he was going to withhold a blowjob from Draco for getting them into such a fix. He narrowly avoided a collision with a Volkswagen Beetle as he leisurely strolled the Abbey Road zebra crossing, lost in such trouser-tenting thoughts. It was only when Draco caught up with him that Harry snapped from his reverie.
"That fucking wanker at the newsstand called me a bird. Said my hair was longer than a bloke's should be. It's barely touching my shoulders."
"Consider the decade, Draco. And really, we should get out of these clothes."
"Best thought you've had all day mate. Fucking's a great way to pass the time."
"That's not what I meant," Harry said with a sigh. "Now tuck your hair into your collar and try to blend."
Harry and Draco had made it most of the way to the entrance until they were stopped by a throng of screaming girls and a dozen or so policemen in charge of crowd control. The scene was reminiscent of a Weird Sisters concert.
"Ideas?" Harry shouted above the din.
"Always," Draco replied just as loudly, dropping to all fours. He crawled through the crowd, peeking up a skirt or two en route. He motioned for Harry to follow.
Harry managed the door albeit somewhat slower, nearly trampled in the process. He cradled his stepped-on fingers until Draco nursed them each with a kiss. "Stupid cows, one of them mistook me for Paul." Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with an index finger, frowning as he regarded Draco through smudged lenses. "If I didn't know better, I'd wager these girls are waiting for the Beatles."
"The who?"
"No, not The Who. They come later."
Draco looked confused.
"Oh, nevermind," Harry said, dismissing Draco's naiveté with a wave of his hand. "I'll explain later."
What started out as a routine visit to the loo turned into an exploratory excursion. Nobody bothered to stop and question two teenaged boys, only giving them over-the-shoulder glances at what could only be their fashion sense. Most assumed that Harry and Draco were 'with the band' even without proper identification. It certainly explained Harry's Beatle-esque haircut and Draco's dramatics. He had one of the studio engineers thoroughly convinced he was on this Brian Epstein's payroll -- whoever that queeny Jewish bloke was.
It wasn't long, however, before Draco would come face to face with his superior after accidentally barging in on 'the' recording session. There, with mouths agape and mop tops properly tousled, stood four lads from Liverpool. The vocalist of the lot was obviously their spokesman, quieting the hum of his Rickenbacker to address the disruption.
"What's this then? I thought you were going to keep the interruptions at bay, Eppy?"
Eppy? So that was Brian Epstein, Draco thought, noting the man's less-than-masculine demeanour. Nice pinstripe though, he added in silence.
"You two will have to leave," George Martin insisted, standing up from his position at the mixer. "The boys are terribly busy and have no time for autographs."
"We're not here for autographs," Harry frowned, immediately reminded of Gilderoy Lockhart.
The Beatles were pleased rather than disappointed at this declaration. Finally, fans that didn't want to scream in their ears or make off with locks of their hair.
"S'all right. Let 'em stay. We could use a bit of a break. Been at this for hours," the bassist announced, setting his violin-shaped Hoffner down.
"Thirty minutes then, boys," Epstein announced. While Martin looked less than thrilled with his star group taking a breather, Epstein looked pleased as punch, patting Draco on the arse as the two were escorted inside.
"Hey, he just--"
"Get used to it, mate," the guitarist laughed, lighting up a fag. "He fancies the cut of your trousers."
There was a round of laughter at Draco's expense, and Harry, sensing Draco's embarrassment through reddening cheeks, changed the subject quickly to introductions. "I'm Harry, and this is Draco. My aunt Petunia was a big fan of yours."
"Was?" the guitarist asked, lifting a brow.
"Er, still is." In the minute or two it took to make introductions, Harry was just as scarlet of cheek as Draco. "So let's see -- you're John Lennon, you're Paul McCartney, you're George Harrison, and you're Ringo Starr, right?"
"What gave it away?" the drummer asked, wiggling multi-ringed fingers.
Harry simply shrugged observing as Draco raked his teeth over his bottom lip. He knew exactly what Draco was thinking and gave his shin a kick for being so barefaced. Harry was fairly certain Draco might've retaliated had a jarring voice not startled them from their skins. Party's over, boys. Your little friends can watch from in here. There's history to be made, and I've got a schedule to keep. Thirty minutes was obviously studio lingo for about half the time.
There was an exchange of goodbyes as Harry and Draco made their way into the sound booth, taking refuge in the nearest corner, out of everyone's way as well as everyone's earshot. It wasn't until the Beatles began their session with a song called 'She Loves You' that Harry spoke.
"Right smooth move, Captain Obvious. What is it with you and blokes with large beaks?" Harry looked more than a little incensed. It was never easy watching Draco flirt.
"He reminds me of you-know-who."
"Snape."
Draco said nothing in response.
"Apart from their noses they're nothing alike."
"Well, you know what they say about men with big noses."
"They have bigger bogeys?"
There was an uncomfortable silence between the two before Harry resigned himself to caving in. "Fine. Whatever, Draco. But he's a Muggle. Just so you know."
"Fuck's sake, Potter. I want to shag him, not marry him. And besides, that Lennon bloke's taken a liking to you." Draco sidled up to Harry, discreetly slipping a hand down the front of his trousers. He whispered something so obscene into Harry's ear that his glasses fogged at the sudden flush of warmth, and all arguments pertaining to Draco's formerly firm stand on the inferiority of Muggles fizzled out in favour of the much preferable debate of Can he DO that?
Draco always did know how to properly ask his permission, Harry thought with a pleased look. He was hard pressed to admit, however, that he was probably the more cock-whipped of the two. "Just don't do anything stupid."
Famous last words.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The drum and guitar tracks were laid first, which gave Draco the perfect opportunity to follow the two not so charmed with Potter. Lennon and McCartney were playing 'keep away' with Harry's glasses, and he was a bit envious. He'd patented teasing Harry about his glasses, and now he was going to have to fuck away the jealousy threatening to soften his erection. With two of them, however, the shagger quickly became the shaggee. Not that he had much choice in the matter. The beaky bloke insisted he couldn't properly hold a conversation with his mate if he was the one with his face pressed against the glass. At the very least, Draco thought, he could boast about his being fucked against a soft-drinks machine.
Muggle rock 'n roll stars were interesting fucks, he'd come to find out, especially this lot. They had endless supplies of condoms and lubricants in their dressing rooms and kept detailed accounts of their 'fuck-du-jours' in little black books. If Draco hadn't been craving a random and meaningless fuck so badly, he would've minded spelling his name over a few times. How difficult was Draco Malfoy to sound out anyways? And wasn't it custom to 'Tally the Tallywhackers' afterwards?
If this was in any way an irritant, it was forgotten with the first slide of Beatle cock into his arse and the warm press of Snape-esque schnozz flattened against his neck. The conversation was easy enough to drown out, even with mentions of bathroom knee-tremblers and telly appearances and grotty, matching Cardin suits, though after awhile their incessant prattle started to annoy him. To distract himself, Draco counted six cokes that fell into the bottom tray of the machine from the rough and rhythmic slams into his arse. If this didn't properly blight his tender flesh, the heavy rings would leave permanent indents. How many rings did one hand need anyway?
Draco was so busy getting fucked that he didn't notice his wand slip out from the back pocket of his trousers where he'd stashed it. It rolled under the pointed toe of George's boot, and to anyone who didn't know better, it looked curiously like a drumstick. It was a karmic calling for a drummer and his extremely bored mate to mess about.
Well on his merry way to orgasm, Draco cursed at the unexpected departure of warm cock from his arse. Instead, the cool feel of slick wood slid down the cleft of his arse, followed by a smooth invasive tip. Arching his back, he stood on tiptoes, pushing off on the balls of his feet to force the wooden phallus deeper inside. Fuck. He was going to come. No, he was going to come hard. His heart felt like it was going to seize up, like he'd been doused with cold water, and then…
He felt a rat-a-tat-tat on both of his arse cheeks. Short, sharp strikes with not one, but two hard sticks.
"My arse is a not a bloody snare drum!" Draco's growl was met with laughter and a rum-a-tum-tum before he turned around and demanded he be fucked right proper. Sure, he sounded like a pushy bugger, but he had needs, dammit. He was pleased with himself when his demand was quickly attended to.
A few quick thrusts into his arse and Draco came, spraying the face of the machine with pearly strands of come that slid down at a snail's pace. Draco grimaced at the feel of twisted metal burrowing into the soft flesh above his hipbones, and to add insult to injury, 'The Nose' called out the wrong name en climax. 'Marco,' of course, sounded nothing like 'Draco.' He didn't bother to correct the faux pas, instead returning the favour with a 'thanks for the shag, Rocco' mid-trouser yank. Draco bit his tongue when he was given a pat on the arse and what seemed like something being shoved into his back pocket on the way out. Sore arsed and ego bruised, he made his way back to Harry. In his mind he'd proved his theory about noses and cocks and couldn't wait to boast his findings: even if all it took was looking like he'd ridden a hippogriff all week.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Rounding the corner to the recording studio, Draco heard the drunken slurs of three distinct voices. Harry had gone off and gotten pissed without him. And with those smarmy blokes! He stood and listened, wondering if they were talking about him. Or more like hoping.
"So run it by me one more time?" Harry took a swig of scotch with a chaser of coke, as if he needed the liquid courage to give what would otherwise be an unworthy opinion in the face of two geniuses.
Both Paul and John sang in unison. "She loves you, hey, hey, hey."
"Nah, dun like it. 'Hey, hey, hey' sounds a bit wonky."
Paul nodded in agreement. John lit a fag.
"What about 'she loves you, ooh, ooh, ooh?'"
Harry tipped the empty coke bottle, frowning. J and B tasted like shite on its own. "Even worse."
Draco rolled his eyes. They weren't talking about him. It was time, he thought, to break this little party up. Maybe then the focus would switch to him.
"Harry?"
Harry almost fell out of his chair, turning to see who was calling him. "Yeah?"
Draco proceeded to make his grand re-entrance, when he was so rudely interrupted.
"That's it! She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah! That's brilliant, mate!" John clapped Harry on the back rather roughly in thanks.
And just like that, the focus was back on Harry.
Harry hiccoughed his 'you're welcome' back. "More coke?"
John shoved some change at Draco, making house elf demands of him. "Fetch Harry s'more coke then. That's a good lad."
Draco thought about the vending machine and the mess he'd made and how it gave new definition to the words 'cream soda.' "We'll just be on our way then." He pulled Harry up by the crook of his arm and placed his hand over Harry's mouth to stifle the retching noises.
When they finally managed to leave the studio, Lennon and McCartney were still arguing over song credits. In the nearest bathroom, Harry explained his motivations -- stopping every few sentences to vomit.
"So let me see if I have this right. You got yourself pissed to simulate the effects of the Draught of Peace? So we could Apparate back to our time?"
Harry managed a weak nod.
"That's either the stupidest thing I've ever heard -- or the most brilliant." He helped Harry to his feet, linking arms. "To you, Potter. Here goes nothing."
There was a loud crack and Harry and Draco Disapparated, reappearing in near darkness. There was no longer a building where they were standing. Just a charred ruin. A closer look revealed many charred buildings. Draco speculated they were somewhere in the future. Muggle London didn't become post-apocalyptic overnight.
"You drank way too much, Potter! You overshot us, you stupid, speccy git!" He dragged Harry to the nearest newsstand to confirm his findings. Pulling out his wand, he quietly uttered 'Lumos,' only his wand didn't illuminate the fine, black print. In fact, it wasn't a wand at all, but a drumstick.
Despite their grim situation, Harry let out a drunken laugh. "I told you not to do anything stupid, you fucking slag!"
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Back in nineteen sixty-three, the Beatles were getting ready to record the final take of 'She Loves You.'
"And where are we going boys?" John asked with a smile.
"To the toppermost of the poppermost!" came the resounding answer.
Admiring his thinner, sleeker drumstick, Ringo cued the backbeat of their future number one hit.
There was a brilliant flash of light. A thunderous crash. And six very confused looks.
Fin