The Hazards of Minding Your Own Business
Title: The Hazards of Minding Your Own Business
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/George
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: Harry enjoys Minding His Own Business, thank you very much. At least, he does now. Years of mucking about in other people’s business-especially after that whole ordeal with him being the Chosen One, and that pretty much making him the business of everyone else in the world-has a way of doing that to a person.
Author's Notes: For megans_writing, who requested Harry/George, fluff/romance/humor, and any combination of tomato soup, the ocean at midnight, losing weight, mpreg, a lost key, amenseia, a love potion, and learning to text message. This turned out to be more like crack than fluff, but I hope you enjoy it, anyway! It also got slightly out of hand.
The Hazards of Minding Your Own Business
Harry enjoys Minding His Own Business, thank you very much. At least, he does now. Years of mucking about in other people’s business-especially after that whole ordeal with him being the Chosen One, and that pretty much making him the business of everyone else in the world-has a way of doing that to a person. So as far as he’s concerned, Harry Potter has disappeared-you know, for a few months or so, until he’s needed or can’t suppress the urge to save someone any longer.
Yes, Harry enjoys his own affairs. He enjoys his own, quiet flat. And he enjoys his tomato soup, too-good, old fashioned, straight-out-of-a-can bliss.
He’s basking rather gloriously in this bliss late one night, actually, when all of a sudden, there comes a loud KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK upon his door. Considering the fact that everything, up until that point, has been so quiet-and that he’s a little more gun-shy than he likes to admit-he starts and spills soup all down his front.
“YEARRGH!” he sputters, standing up so quickly that he knocks his chair back. His spoon drops, leaving an orangey-red stain on the carpet and a few splatters on his glasses.
All is once again quiet for a beat, then-
“YEARRGH!” Harry hears.
He thinks maybe it’s an extremely delayed echo until the door explodes from the wall and comes crashing down on the floor of his flat.
By this time, there’s not only tomato soup, but rubble in his eyes, as well. Harry quivers, and vows to never again eat dinner after midnight.
“HARRY!” Whoever Has Inflicted This Heinous Damage cries out in-Harry thinks it sounds something like joy.
“Hullo?” Harry calls out hesitantly.
When the dust settles a bit, he looks up and sees George Weasley looming in his slightly-wider-than-usual doorway. He stares, bewildered, until George spots him, helps him to his feet, and then plants a large, sloppy kiss on Harry’s lips.
“Bzuh?” questions Harry.
“Harry!” George crows once more. “You taste like tomato soup!”
“Er,” says Harry, who figures he’d probably bleed tomato soup at this point. He notes, briefly, that George tastes of something sickeningly sweet, but he isn’t sure what.
George throws his arms around Harry’s shoulders, casts him a huh-that’s-strange-have-you-lost-weight-since-I-last-saw-you look, and says, “I’ve lost my key. Can I have yours?”
“Er,” says Harry, and he pauses to seriously consider the facts that 1) he never gave anyone the key to his flat, and 2) it’s kind of pointless to have a key when there’s no door, isn’t it?
But somehow-though he actually has gained a little weight since the war-he manages to not collapse under George and get the sorry pair of them to the sofa. (“Your eyes!” George cries. “They’re like the ocean at midnight!”) He then stands up, steadily as he can, and tries to figure out What’s Going On.
“George,” Harry begins carefully, “what’s going on?”
George flutters his lashes.
Harry thinks, in a stroke of unearthly brilliance, that George might be drunk.
“Are you drunk, George?” Harry asks.
But George only manages a coquettish giggle.
“Right.” Harry is Clearly Dismayed. “Well-”
“Let’s have a baaaby,” George suggests suddenly. “A cute little baaaaby.”
Before Logic sets in, Harry almost tells him that, no thank you, but their children would be hideous, don’t you think? Then he locates his grip on reality and shuts his mouth. He wishes Hermione were here to help him with these sorts of things.
“Right,” he says again. “I reckon you’re under some sort of curse, or something.” George’s toes are inching dangerously close to his ankle, so he starts to pace and Think Out Loud. “D’you remember anyone cursing you, maybe? Were there any-shifty people-wherever you were last?”
George looks scandalized. “Love is not a curse, Harry! It’s a beautiful thing!”
“Oh, er-are you in love with someone, then?”
George bursts into tears. “Oh, Harry! Why must you torment me so?”
“Oh-OH.” Harry understands, at the same time that he actually doesn’t. “Well, I’m, er, flattered, but-”
George gasps. “You don’t-want me?” His voice is very small, and his lower lip trembles.
Harry, who is on the Verge of Panic, takes an unconscious step back. He probably is a little flattered, truthfully, but he’s really more freaked out than anything at the moment, and so he doesn’t have the time to realize this.
The only thing he feels capable of realizing, currently, is that it’s going to be a Really Long Night.
-o0o-
The Next Morning After That One Really Long Night, Harry wakes up with a pain in his neck and his glasses still perched crookedly upon his nose. When he rolls over-he’s on the floor, apparently-the carpet smells like soup. As does his hair.
He gags and covers his mouth.
There’s a chuckle from somewhere above him. “Oi, careful there.”
Harry tries to rub his eyes, but ends up only smashing his glasses into his skull. “Urgh.”
“Felt about the same, myself,” George tells him, and proceeds to babble on about something all-too-merrily, and it’s strangely altogether nothing like the George From Last Night would have said.
Harry blinks blearily. “Just curious,” he interrupts. “What exactly were you doing last night before you-er-dropped by?”
George grins impishly. “Lee and I were testing a new product,” he proclaims.
“Oh?”
“Now, now.” George waggles his finger at him. “Can’t go giving away the details-it’s highly volatile stuff, might not even make it to the shelves at this rate.”
“But-”
“We might consider diluting the base a bit, though…”
Harry resists the urge to shout Well, you think, but asks what the base is, instead.
George hesitates; then he looks thoughtful. “Sort of an Amortentia-hybrid. Ron thinks it adds a bit more of a shock to it. Why d’you ask? Didn’t do anything funny last night, did I?” He leans closer and winks.
Harry’s breath catches so hard in his throat that he chokes. “No, no, you were-p-perfectly normal. Yeah…”
He thinks George might look mildly disappointed at this, though he isn’t exactly sure why. It could, he considers, just be due to the angle (Harry is still on the ground).
But either way, he decides, it hardly matters. Really.
Because Harry’s decided that he seriously needs to consider perfecting the art of Minding His Own Business. So far, it hasn’t really been working out.
THE END
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/George
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: Harry enjoys Minding His Own Business, thank you very much. At least, he does now. Years of mucking about in other people’s business-especially after that whole ordeal with him being the Chosen One, and that pretty much making him the business of everyone else in the world-has a way of doing that to a person.
Author's Notes: For megans_writing, who requested Harry/George, fluff/romance/humor, and any combination of tomato soup, the ocean at midnight, losing weight, mpreg, a lost key, amenseia, a love potion, and learning to text message. This turned out to be more like crack than fluff, but I hope you enjoy it, anyway! It also got slightly out of hand.
The Hazards of Minding Your Own Business
Harry enjoys Minding His Own Business, thank you very much. At least, he does now. Years of mucking about in other people’s business-especially after that whole ordeal with him being the Chosen One, and that pretty much making him the business of everyone else in the world-has a way of doing that to a person. So as far as he’s concerned, Harry Potter has disappeared-you know, for a few months or so, until he’s needed or can’t suppress the urge to save someone any longer.
Yes, Harry enjoys his own affairs. He enjoys his own, quiet flat. And he enjoys his tomato soup, too-good, old fashioned, straight-out-of-a-can bliss.
He’s basking rather gloriously in this bliss late one night, actually, when all of a sudden, there comes a loud KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK upon his door. Considering the fact that everything, up until that point, has been so quiet-and that he’s a little more gun-shy than he likes to admit-he starts and spills soup all down his front.
“YEARRGH!” he sputters, standing up so quickly that he knocks his chair back. His spoon drops, leaving an orangey-red stain on the carpet and a few splatters on his glasses.
All is once again quiet for a beat, then-
“YEARRGH!” Harry hears.
He thinks maybe it’s an extremely delayed echo until the door explodes from the wall and comes crashing down on the floor of his flat.
By this time, there’s not only tomato soup, but rubble in his eyes, as well. Harry quivers, and vows to never again eat dinner after midnight.
“HARRY!” Whoever Has Inflicted This Heinous Damage cries out in-Harry thinks it sounds something like joy.
“Hullo?” Harry calls out hesitantly.
When the dust settles a bit, he looks up and sees George Weasley looming in his slightly-wider-than-usual doorway. He stares, bewildered, until George spots him, helps him to his feet, and then plants a large, sloppy kiss on Harry’s lips.
“Bzuh?” questions Harry.
“Harry!” George crows once more. “You taste like tomato soup!”
“Er,” says Harry, who figures he’d probably bleed tomato soup at this point. He notes, briefly, that George tastes of something sickeningly sweet, but he isn’t sure what.
George throws his arms around Harry’s shoulders, casts him a huh-that’s-strange-have-you-lost-weight-since-I-last-saw-you look, and says, “I’ve lost my key. Can I have yours?”
“Er,” says Harry, and he pauses to seriously consider the facts that 1) he never gave anyone the key to his flat, and 2) it’s kind of pointless to have a key when there’s no door, isn’t it?
But somehow-though he actually has gained a little weight since the war-he manages to not collapse under George and get the sorry pair of them to the sofa. (“Your eyes!” George cries. “They’re like the ocean at midnight!”) He then stands up, steadily as he can, and tries to figure out What’s Going On.
“George,” Harry begins carefully, “what’s going on?”
George flutters his lashes.
Harry thinks, in a stroke of unearthly brilliance, that George might be drunk.
“Are you drunk, George?” Harry asks.
But George only manages a coquettish giggle.
“Right.” Harry is Clearly Dismayed. “Well-”
“Let’s have a baaaby,” George suggests suddenly. “A cute little baaaaby.”
Before Logic sets in, Harry almost tells him that, no thank you, but their children would be hideous, don’t you think? Then he locates his grip on reality and shuts his mouth. He wishes Hermione were here to help him with these sorts of things.
“Right,” he says again. “I reckon you’re under some sort of curse, or something.” George’s toes are inching dangerously close to his ankle, so he starts to pace and Think Out Loud. “D’you remember anyone cursing you, maybe? Were there any-shifty people-wherever you were last?”
George looks scandalized. “Love is not a curse, Harry! It’s a beautiful thing!”
“Oh, er-are you in love with someone, then?”
George bursts into tears. “Oh, Harry! Why must you torment me so?”
“Oh-OH.” Harry understands, at the same time that he actually doesn’t. “Well, I’m, er, flattered, but-”
George gasps. “You don’t-want me?” His voice is very small, and his lower lip trembles.
Harry, who is on the Verge of Panic, takes an unconscious step back. He probably is a little flattered, truthfully, but he’s really more freaked out than anything at the moment, and so he doesn’t have the time to realize this.
The only thing he feels capable of realizing, currently, is that it’s going to be a Really Long Night.
-o0o-
The Next Morning After That One Really Long Night, Harry wakes up with a pain in his neck and his glasses still perched crookedly upon his nose. When he rolls over-he’s on the floor, apparently-the carpet smells like soup. As does his hair.
He gags and covers his mouth.
There’s a chuckle from somewhere above him. “Oi, careful there.”
Harry tries to rub his eyes, but ends up only smashing his glasses into his skull. “Urgh.”
“Felt about the same, myself,” George tells him, and proceeds to babble on about something all-too-merrily, and it’s strangely altogether nothing like the George From Last Night would have said.
Harry blinks blearily. “Just curious,” he interrupts. “What exactly were you doing last night before you-er-dropped by?”
George grins impishly. “Lee and I were testing a new product,” he proclaims.
“Oh?”
“Now, now.” George waggles his finger at him. “Can’t go giving away the details-it’s highly volatile stuff, might not even make it to the shelves at this rate.”
“But-”
“We might consider diluting the base a bit, though…”
Harry resists the urge to shout Well, you think, but asks what the base is, instead.
George hesitates; then he looks thoughtful. “Sort of an Amortentia-hybrid. Ron thinks it adds a bit more of a shock to it. Why d’you ask? Didn’t do anything funny last night, did I?” He leans closer and winks.
Harry’s breath catches so hard in his throat that he chokes. “No, no, you were-p-perfectly normal. Yeah…”
He thinks George might look mildly disappointed at this, though he isn’t exactly sure why. It could, he considers, just be due to the angle (Harry is still on the ground).
But either way, he decides, it hardly matters. Really.
Because Harry’s decided that he seriously needs to consider perfecting the art of Minding His Own Business. So far, it hasn’t really been working out.
THE END