Merry Christmas: Well, At Least He's Not A Mandrake, And It's Not Fatal. (We Think.)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: J.K owns. I make 'em sing. And dance. And have sex. *mumbles*
Title: Well, At Least He's Not A Mandrake, And It's Not Fatal. (We Think.)
Author: (The crazy fangirl to the left) sisika
Beta: None.
Rating: G
Pairing: H/D. (Cause that's not animosity, it's sexual tension. Seriously.)
Summary: It's not easy being a human jukebox that no one even pays for. It's even harder when you play Britney Spears all the time. Oh, and it's even harder if you're the epitome of masculinity, and have a Christmas Party at your house (which is now filled with Weasleys) and your husband buys a flashing reindeer to decorate the front lawn and your Mother wears a puce jumper and your son has your husband's hair and crap, Draco hates his life, so. Bloody. Much.
Warnings: Crack! Fic.
A/N: This is for a post materia_indigo made in harrydraco You'll find that here And, enjoy!
The house looked like a shop of Christmas decorations. He’d told Harry the flashing reindeer was a step too far, but no. No one listened to him anymore. Not even his mother, or that horrible Christmas sweater he’d advised her against wearing, (puce with plum and a snowman made of real snow that stuck out) wouldn’t have been tarnishing her beautiful form.
“Draco! Look at this! Isn’t Molly a dear?” Draco looked at his mother and the martini in her hand that he desperately wanted and gave her a smile.
His sweater was red. And had mistletoe (made of real mistletoe) sticking out of it. He matched Ron Weasley, and that was enough to ruin his Christmas.
***
George Weasley arrived with his brood (Great! More Weasley children.) And the house was pandemonium. Also, he was sure something expensive and made of crystal, (like his Great Aunt Bertha’s gravy boat) had been broken by someone’s little grubby fingers (Not his James’s of course! But that Fred Weasley, he wouldn’t trust) and that the flashing reindeer had been knocked over at least a few thousand times now, not that he regretted that one.
“James?” He called into the room the children were supposed to be playing in. He’d spent ages gathering all James’s toys in one pile, then dividing them according to the age group that would find them most amusing and fishing out the few Barbie dolls he’d bought or the sole purpose of jeeping James’s GI Joes company for the girls. After all that effort, it was only natural then that they all escaped into the garden. Natural his arse.
“Yes Daddy?” James appeared in the doorway, his black hair tousled his eyes bright and his hand clenched around something Draco couldn’t see. Ah, what an adorable young man his James was. Just like his daddy. In that moment Draco knew true love, before his life changed, forever...
“Noooooo...” Harry’s voice sounded odd, even to his ears. Even odder than that one time he’d screamed so much during, he coughed, looked around, who’s your father, and sounded like he’d swallowed granite. And then Harry was sprawling across his body and sobbing like a two year old child.
(A/N: In the U.K “Who’s your father” is a way to imply sexual activity on daytime television or in company of children)
And then, he promptly passed out.
***
While he was in his state of elegant brain rest, little bits of Weasley conversation floated into his mind. Quite entertaining really, if one was in his elegant state of brain rest. Which was, of course, not something as inelegant and feminine as fainting.
“Harry, he wasn’t hit with a killing curse! He’s fine! Just don’t be jittery! You’ll make him nervous!”
...
“What did you do to him Fred? What spell did you use?”
“I can’t remember Daddy...”
***
“Draco? Draco? Can you hear me?”
No, Draco was tempted to say, because he was that kind of a guy. You know, the one that ruins your day by calling you fat? Yeah, that one.
And then...
Something happened.
There was a tingle somewhere, he couldn’t identify exactly which body part, but he felt as if he was on fire, and the inescapable urge to just, just let lose entered his soul and mind and body, and all the repressed tunes from his youth burst into his head and...
“Finally! It’s happened to me, right in front of my face, my feeling, can’t describe them!”
There was pin drop silence for a moment. And then everyone, even his Mother, even Harry, even James almost died laughing.
No, seriously, they did almost die laughing.
It never had occurred to Narcissa that her son may need some vocal training, all of his line had been excellent vocalists, however, Draco’s singing gene must obviously have been replaced with the one that gave him extra blond hair.
Shame, really.
***
Draco was on his eighteenth song of the night. His throat hurt. His son had gone to bed after hearing his rendition of “All I Want For Christmas Is You” (and promptly hyperventilating of laughter), the pesky Fred brat had kissed him goodnight in an attempt to mollify him. Draco had sung “Last Christmas” right at him with feeling and the appropriate hand motions.
Fred would never be the same again.
Song no. 19, here we go...
Draco waited to hear the next disastrous melody that would spill out of his lips, usually he’d have a ten second lead, he was sticking generally cheesy muggle pop songs, a fact that amused Harry and sent Arthur into a haze of pleasure that Draco described as orgasmic. And, no he hadn’t expressed that by singing “Does Your Mother Know”.
“Everybody, needs somebody, everybody, needs somebody, to love (someone to love), sweetheart to miss (sweetheart to miss , sugar to kiss (sugar to kiss) , I need you you you, I need you you you.”
Ah, the Blues Brothers. And Draco even did the repeated bits in a faded voice, and he knew Harry thought it was cute, till he started to sing Cliff Richard.
Something needed to be done. And Draco, really couldn’t agree more.
***
“I see you looking at me, like I’m some kind of freak get up out of your seat, why don’t you do something?”
Hermione looked up from the heavy tome Ron had carried in to the room an hour ago and sighed.
“It’d be all right really, if you didn’t sing Britney Spears songs. That means the curse will last for at least a few weeks. But no, actually, the only relief is, you haven’t started on the Madonna yet. It says right here, ‘if the hexed subject shows signs of singing Madonna, beware, this curse could last for months.’ It’s such a mild curse, even Helga the Hypochondriac didn’t research into this. So, Draco, hope for the best and prepare for the worst! Harry, earmuffs for you and James! Soundproof James’s room, anything audio sensitive such as wands or password operated journals, no Draco, don’t even try to deny it, needs to be stowed away, and Draco, music lessons. Or at least, something that cures tone deafness.”
Draco said nothing. Partly ‘cause he couldn’t, what with the ‘Sing All Day Long’ curse he’d been hit with, and partly because that familiar bubbling sensation caught him again, the sensation of the verses flowing through his blood, overpowering his heart and bursting forth from his voice box with a force that needed to be reckoned with ad then he was singing again, just like God intended him to!
And he was happy in that one infinite moment, because all was well. Till he heard the words spilling from his lips.
“Hit me baby one more time!”
***
The End