Mystery Week, Day 21: HP/SPN Story
( Mystery Week Rules Here!)
Title: Saving People, Hunting Things. (It’s not just for Winchesters.)
Author: cold_poet
Fandom: HP/SPN
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R for language and mild sex scenes
Spoiler/Warning: Mild spoilers for Deathly Hallows (and pretending there is no epilogue)
Word Count: 3,300
Notes: I owe a ton of thanks to my husband for the Latin translation, my good friend Bill for checking my punctuation, and kaizoku for stepping in at the last second and helping clean up a few things. Any remaining errors/idiocies are my own. *G*
Um. This is pretty much crack.
A is for Auror.
The rules and regulations book has three-hundred and ninety-seven pages.
Harry’s on page fifty-three when it occurs to him he’s never been very good at following rules.
B is for Boogeymen.
“As in, actual boogeymen?”
“Yes. Hide in closets and creep out at night and eat you. Boogeymen.”
“And you can’t hunt them here?”
“No. That’s the job of Aurors, Malfoy. But they don’t have Aurors in the States,” Potter paused, his lips pursed in thought, “it’s more of an underground movement there.”
Draco thought longingly of the days when maiming Potter and his insufferable Gryffindor pals was his greatest ambition and The Git Who Lived wasn’t determined to have him along on his insane adventures. And damn Weasel and Granger anyway, with their love and devotion and month long honeymoon in Cabo, surely they could talk the prat out of his mad plan. “You can’t just be an Auror?”
Potter rolled his eyes.
“Alright.” Draco sighed as long and suffering as he could manage. “When do we leave?”
Potter beamed and held out an old wheel.
C is for Coincidence.
Through a series of unfortunate events, (the time Potter tripped over him in the street, the time they both grabbed the same book, were given each other’s orders at The Leaky, wound up in the same changing room in Madam Malkin’s…) Draco finds himself once again waiting for Harry Sodding Potter in a dark Muggle bar where they’ll get pissed on crappy Muggle beer, wonder, again, when exactly they stopped trying to kill each other, bicker over who started it like they’re still eleven years old, and possibly get into a fist fight over Quidditch before the night is through.
The worst part is, they do this every Thursday, and one would think it would have gotten old by now.
It hasn’t.
D is for Domicile.
It’s not like he ever liked the place. Had considered razing it to the ground more than once. But now that he’s sharing a bathroom with Malfoy in a rather shabby wizarding tent, Harry finds he really, really, really misses number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
E is for Enough.
Draco gaped--appalled, again--at the manner in which Potter consumed his food. His manners were well enough, wiped his fingers on the napkin instead of his clothes, wiped the bits that clung to his lips, didn’t slurp, didn’t belch, didn’t drop crumbs everywhere… but the speed in which he consumed everything set in front of him, the sheer volume he inhaled, it was boggling.
“Fucking hell, Potter. Didn’t your family ever feed you growing up?”
Potter stopped chewing, burger halfway to his mouth and blinked owlishly at Draco. He swallowed thickly, batted his eyelashes a few more times and said, quite seriously, “Um. No, not really, actually.”
Draco just really didn’t know what to say to that.
F is for Futuere Aut Morior.
“Not all of us had the benefit of Latin tutors before we could walk, Draco. I know that Expelliarmus isn’t really Latin, and that’s about it.”
“Well I’m sure we have Granger to thank for even that much.” Draco sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, turned to gesture at the wall to the right. “It starts here, I mean, I think it starts here, it’s the most logical place but as it’s just one big buggering loop it’s hard to know exactly.”
Harry nodded, trying desperately to look interested. Which he was, sort of, insofar that the writing covering the walls of the room, wrapping round and round in a demented spiral, was probably the key to getting out of said room. Maybe. That Draco had to stop every few minutes to shake off the dizziness of spinning round in a circle in order to read it meant that Harry had to at least feign a desire to know what it said. Which he kind of did. If it got them out.
“So, this whole first five or so lines are essentially a dissertation on the vast greatness, brilliance, power, stamina, desirability et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum, of the writer.” He paused. And sighed. “These next few lines are, ah, descriptive. Very…very descriptive.” Draco was kind of adorable when he blushed.
“Right. Descriptive. Look, you don’t need to translate the whole bloody thing for me; does it tell how to get out of this fucking room?”
Draco snorted and then grimaced. “More or less?” That didn’t sound promising.
“What? Bloodletting? Must cast all three Unforgivables? Only unrepentant Death Eaters allowed? It can’t be that bad.”
“Futuere Aut Morior,” Draco muttered.
“What?”
“Fuck or die, Potter. The motherfucking walls say ‘Fuck or die.’ That’s what it all boils down to. We fuck or the doors don’t open. Fuck. Or. Die.”
Harry just kind of stared for a few minutes until the pink flush started to fade from Draco’s cheeks. “Well.” Harry scratched the back of his head. “Fuck.”
“Or die. Yes.”
After a few more minutes Draco quit pacing the short room and glared at Harry. “Surely the idea of fucking me isn’t that horrid, Harry!”
Harry started, and then smiled sheepishly. “No. No, that’s not…no, that’s fine, not worried about it, whatever. We’ll do what we have to.” Draco didn’t look much mollified, but Harry would think on that later. “I was just wondering, how much do you know about automobiles?”
“They require large amounts of fuel, have parts that break often, and make a horrendous noise.”
“Think there’s any way to change the color of one? Not permanently, just…for a few days? ”
“Possibly.” And now Draco looked intrigued.
“Good. Well, let’s do this thing and get the hell out of here.”
G is for Gander.
“Harry, I simply do not understand why that old man told us to take a gander out into an empty field. What possible use is a waterfowl in this situation? People are dying!”
“Well he didn’t say we had too, he just said we were more than welcome to. Maybe some ancient tradition? Sacrifice to some old wizard playing God?”
“Do you think we should?”
“Might not hurt.”
It was much later that day-while nursing sore pride with cherry pie in the local diner-when they finally found out why the old man had laughed himself nearly to death while watching the boys try to wrangle a full-grown goose out into the middle of a wheat field (where the locals had been seeing mysterious lights.)
Mississippi went on the list of states to avoid when at all possible. The language barrier was simply too much to handle.
H is for Harry.
“I don’t mind, you know.”
“What?”
“When you call me Harry. Rather like it, to be honest.”
Draco didn’t respond.
And Harry didn’t smile too ridiculously when Draco asked him, later, to “Pass the bread please, Harry.”
I is for Itch.
Harry stretched languorously in the afternoon sun as he stepped out of the swimming hole, the warm rays touching and warming his gloriously naked skin.
Draco focused intently on the book laid out in his lap, in the shade, out of the sun and most decidedly not gaze upon Harry’s sun-kissed arse-cheeks and think in terms of “languorous” and “glorious” and “touching” and “naked.”
Definitely.
And if his hand drifted down between his legs for just a moment, it was to scratch at an itch. On his thigh. Because of the grass.
J is for Jerk.
“Bitch.”
“What! I am no one’s bitch, thankyouverymuch.” Draco huffed indignantly and crossed his arms.
Harry rolled his eyes. “No, Draco. I wasn’t…gah! You’re supposed to say jerk. I say bitch and you say jerk and it’s…it’s a thing, see?”
Draco did see, rather more than he wanted to. “I’m going home.” He stood and started packing his clothes into the worn-out duffel he’d been carting around ever since Potter decided to abandon the ministry and England and all of wizard-kind and go hunt for dark-creatures in America.
“Draco. Draco, come on!”
No. Absolutely not. Bad enough to be living out of a wizard-space tent. Bad enough to be continuously fighting for his life against the fucking undead. Bad enough Harry thought Dean Winchester was the best thing since pumpkin juice. (Sam wasn’t that bad, but then he had manners and understood Latin.) No. Just…no.
Harry was standing in front of the opening with a forbidding expression on his face. “You can’t leave.”
It was Draco’s turn to roll his eyes. “I most certainly can, and will, just as soon as you move your ill-kempt arse out of my way.”
K is for Kiss.
The last possible end Draco saw for that argument was this. Yelling? Yes. Insults? Yes. The throwing of things until Potter relented and moved the hell out of the way? YES.
On his back on the lumpy couch with Harry’s tongue cataloguing every bump and ridge and crevasse inside of Draco’s mouth? No. Delightful, (finally!) but no.
“I’m still not letting you buy an antique Muggle “muscle car,” you know,” Draco muttered into Harry’s lips.
Harry grinned, and then leered ridiculously. “That’s fine; I’ll just ride around in you.”
Draco groaned at the terrible come-on but didn’t disagree when Harry started tugging at his trousers.
L is for Lost.
“We’re not lost.”
“We are lost, you great git, and we’re not going to get un-lost until we set down and ask for directions.”
Harry made a rude gesture in Draco’s general direction and continued searching fruitlessly in the dark for some indication of the direction they should be flying.
He thought maybe he should admit Draco might be right, but that felt rather like giving up. He wasn’t much good at that.
M is for More.
Draco loved words that had many uses. The simpler the word and the more ways to use it, the more he loved it. Like fuck, for instance. Not only satisfying to say but, Merlin, you could use it to express so many things.
More is not one of Draco’s favorite words. More means exactly one thing: greater in size or quantity or amount. Which is fantastic when talking about Harry’s cock, chocolate cake, and galleons.
Not so much when it’s monsters, mud, and guts.
Which it was tonight. The shower may never be the same again.
N is for Nasty.
Harry stood, evaluating the shower, for long minutes. Nastiest thing he’d ever seen in his life. They’d cast every spell they knew for banishing, cleaning, transfiguring even!
Nothing for it, they would simply have to have it replaced. And then let the Winchesters deal with any more swamp things that popped up.
Ugh.
O is for Obliviate.
Harry waved cheerfully at the family of Muggles as they pulled away and disappeared down the twisty mountain road. As soon as they were out of sight, he groaned. “Ugh. I don’t think I’ve cast Obliviate as many times in my whole life as I have in the last two years.”
Draco laughed. “Yes, well, if I recall correctly, professional Quidditch players rather want their actions remembered, as opposed to erstwhile hunters who would rather people forget almost getting eaten by Bigfoot.” Harry snorted and summoned their brooms.
“They were awfully nice though, don’t you think?” He mused, as they took to the air.
“The Muggles?” Harry nodded. “Humm, they were, weren’t they?”
P is for Pink.
The yelling and string of profanity coming from the parking lot yanked Sam immediately into consciousness. He was halfway out the door before he’d managed to get his jeans buttoned.
Dean was on the ground, on his knees, face slack in abject horror, his hands in fists beside him. Sam ran over to him, and grabbed at his shoulders, turned Dean to face him, and started checking him for injuries. Dean whimpered a little bit and looked to his left, swatting Sam’s hands away. Reluctantly, Sam followed his gaze and…well.
Sam laughed. A lot.
“Shut. Up. Shut up right now or I will practice on you before I track down those miserable motherfucking goddamned British wizards and remind them just what I do for a living in the most painful fucking way possible.”
Sam tried as hard as he could to suck the laughter down, wipe the grin off his face. “I’m sure it’s not permanent.”
“It’s a sacrilege, Sammy. I just…I mean LOOK!” He flung his arm in the general direction of the Impala. The day-glow pink--only-found-in-highlighters pink--Impala. With leopard print upholstery. And a blue feather boa on the dashboard.
Sam had to bite his lip to keep from laughing again. “We kind of deserved it.”
That earned him a dirty look. “What the fuck have we ever done that could possibly have deserved that?”
“Four words, Dean. Fuck. Or. Die. Room.”
Dean’s eyes went wide, and a grin broke across his face. “Heh. That was pretty awesome.” Then he frowned again. “They didn’t have to fuck with my car, though.”
Q is for Quiet.
Harry rather loved the quiet of the early morning. Those rare days when he woke naturally, no nightmares to send him shuddering into sweaty wakefulness. He lay still in his warm bed for long moments listening to the sounds of the world waking up. Birds singing softly, squirrels or whatnot scurrying up the trees outside.
He made his way to the loo and then decided to go back to bed for a bit, they had nothing urgent to seek out today, a few days of rest to indulge in. He noticed that Draco’s door was open and poked his head in before he thought better of it.
Draco was sprawled across the bed in a way he’d never allow while awake. One arm tucked up under his head, his face pressed against his wrist, the other by his side, one long pale naked leg exposed to the cool morning air.
Harry blushed and hurried back to his room before he did something foolish like licking his way up that soft expanse of leg and nibbling on the equally naked cheek it was attached to.
R is for Rough Sex.
They’d tried it once with all the lube, and stretching, and strategically placed pillows, following a few glasses of wine and lots and lots of deep, penetrating kisses.
But frankly when your first time is against a brick wall with only spit to ease the way and creepy narcissistic Latin etchings pressing creases in your skin, and your second time is half-dressed and bent over the arm of the couch… it’s kind of hard to get excited about gentle and slow and kind, after that, you know?
They kept the deep, penetrating kisses part though, those were fantastic.
S is for Sectumsempra.
The zombie had its decaying hands wrapped around Harry’s throat when Draco came to, a few feet away.
“SECTUMSEMPRA!” He screamed without thinking.
It tore even more shreds into the zombie’s flesh but didn’t do much actual damage. It did surprise the thing long enough for it to loosen its hold a bit and let Draco cast a hefty stunner and a binding curse, knocking it off its feet and tying it neatly as a Christmas package.
Harry was on his knees gasping for air and Draco dropped down in front of him. “Harry. Harry, are you alright?” Draco asked as he ran his hands over and over Harry’s shoulders and neck.
Harry gaped at him, guilt and awe and fear all warring for a spot on his face, and then tilted forward and leaned against Draco’s chest, deep, difficult breaths wracking his frame. Draco buried his nose in the mess of dark hair and held on tightly.
T is for Train Wreck.
The very first “job” they’d found for themselves turned out to be a demon that had a penchant for violent, metal-twisting, explosive train wrecks. It had derailed three passenger trains and five cargo transports before they managed to get a locator spell modified and were able to track it.
Unfortunately they didn’t catch up with the damned thing until it had pulled another train off the tracks, and with the Muggles wandering about and the screaming and fires and panic it turned into quite a bit more of a nightmare than it needed to be - trying to catch a body-hopping demon without anybody seeing their wands.
And that was before the Muggles started shooting at them.
In the end, Draco had cast a devil’s trap, Harry a binding spell, and the two Muggles that had been shooting at them (with rock salt of all things) figured out what they were doing and finished the job with a nicely timed exorcism.
That was how they met the Winchester brothers.
U is for Understatement of the Year.
“This hunting business is harder work than I thought it would be,” Harry said, as he threw another Slicing Hex at yet another Vampire.
Draco snorted.
V is for Voldemort.
“You know, at least with old Tom I always knew what to expect. And the monologues always gave me time to plot.”
“Well, look at it this way, Harry, next time you find yourself at Hogwarts you can gloat at Peeves about having absolutely slaughtered his cousin.”
“We spread herbs and said a few chants, Draco. The last Expelliarmus I cast at Old Voldie was more of a slaughter than this.”
“Do you think it’s weird we spent nearly seven years palling around with ghosts, asking for directions, confiding in them, and now we do our level best to get rid of them?”
Harry looked at him like he’d gone completely ‘round the bend. “This is completely different, Draco.”
The “duh” was rather well implied.
W is for Werewolf.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not killing a werewolf when I know they are perfectly capable of living and working in society and fathering my God-children.”
Draco didn’t really have an argument for that.
They bought the boy a plane ticket to London and sent Andromeda a note asking her to please help him find a way to live with his disease. Or a pack to run with, or something.
X is for Extenuating Circumstances.
There are worse places to be in the world than tied tightly to a shirtless and trouserless Dean Winchester.
Until your former-Death Eater-boyfriend shows up with guns and a long and well documented history of irrational thoughts.
Harry considers calling out Dean’s name as a joke, later that night, but then decides he likes his testicles too much for that.
Y is for Yes.
Harry watched the sun sinking behind the mountains, head pillowed comfortably in Draco’s lap. He’d fallen in love with the Rockies during their many passes back and forth across the country and couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather spend his final hours before returning home to England. “Draco?”
Draco looked down at him, eyebrow raised in question.
“You glad you came with me?” Harry watched the blond eyebrows furrow in thought, he figured Draco to be running down the list of various monsters and nasties they’d faced down since running away from home. Finally, Draco stopped frowning and smiled.
“Yes, Potter. I do believe I am.”
Z is for Zombie.
“They really weren’t shooting for accuracy with that one, were they?”
Harry chuckled. “Not really, no.” He passed the bag of popcorn to Draco and moved to the enormous pile of zombie films next to the television. “So, what next?”
“My mum said 28 Days Later gave her nightmares for a week,” Hermione said, and nestled in closer to Ron.
“Brilliant,” Draco drawled out, “I’m in the mood for another comedy.” Ron choked down a laugh as Hermione grabbed a throw pillow and started hitting Draco with it.
Harry watched them all laughing and spilling snack-foods everywhere, and smiled.
Poll Mystery Schmoop Week
Title: Saving People, Hunting Things. (It’s not just for Winchesters.)
Author: cold_poet
Fandom: HP/SPN
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R for language and mild sex scenes
Spoiler/Warning: Mild spoilers for Deathly Hallows (and pretending there is no epilogue)
Word Count: 3,300
Notes: I owe a ton of thanks to my husband for the Latin translation, my good friend Bill for checking my punctuation, and kaizoku for stepping in at the last second and helping clean up a few things. Any remaining errors/idiocies are my own. *G*
Um. This is pretty much crack.
A is for Auror.
The rules and regulations book has three-hundred and ninety-seven pages.
Harry’s on page fifty-three when it occurs to him he’s never been very good at following rules.
B is for Boogeymen.
“As in, actual boogeymen?”
“Yes. Hide in closets and creep out at night and eat you. Boogeymen.”
“And you can’t hunt them here?”
“No. That’s the job of Aurors, Malfoy. But they don’t have Aurors in the States,” Potter paused, his lips pursed in thought, “it’s more of an underground movement there.”
Draco thought longingly of the days when maiming Potter and his insufferable Gryffindor pals was his greatest ambition and The Git Who Lived wasn’t determined to have him along on his insane adventures. And damn Weasel and Granger anyway, with their love and devotion and month long honeymoon in Cabo, surely they could talk the prat out of his mad plan. “You can’t just be an Auror?”
Potter rolled his eyes.
“Alright.” Draco sighed as long and suffering as he could manage. “When do we leave?”
Potter beamed and held out an old wheel.
C is for Coincidence.
Through a series of unfortunate events, (the time Potter tripped over him in the street, the time they both grabbed the same book, were given each other’s orders at The Leaky, wound up in the same changing room in Madam Malkin’s…) Draco finds himself once again waiting for Harry Sodding Potter in a dark Muggle bar where they’ll get pissed on crappy Muggle beer, wonder, again, when exactly they stopped trying to kill each other, bicker over who started it like they’re still eleven years old, and possibly get into a fist fight over Quidditch before the night is through.
The worst part is, they do this every Thursday, and one would think it would have gotten old by now.
It hasn’t.
D is for Domicile.
It’s not like he ever liked the place. Had considered razing it to the ground more than once. But now that he’s sharing a bathroom with Malfoy in a rather shabby wizarding tent, Harry finds he really, really, really misses number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
E is for Enough.
Draco gaped--appalled, again--at the manner in which Potter consumed his food. His manners were well enough, wiped his fingers on the napkin instead of his clothes, wiped the bits that clung to his lips, didn’t slurp, didn’t belch, didn’t drop crumbs everywhere… but the speed in which he consumed everything set in front of him, the sheer volume he inhaled, it was boggling.
“Fucking hell, Potter. Didn’t your family ever feed you growing up?”
Potter stopped chewing, burger halfway to his mouth and blinked owlishly at Draco. He swallowed thickly, batted his eyelashes a few more times and said, quite seriously, “Um. No, not really, actually.”
Draco just really didn’t know what to say to that.
F is for Futuere Aut Morior.
“Not all of us had the benefit of Latin tutors before we could walk, Draco. I know that Expelliarmus isn’t really Latin, and that’s about it.”
“Well I’m sure we have Granger to thank for even that much.” Draco sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, turned to gesture at the wall to the right. “It starts here, I mean, I think it starts here, it’s the most logical place but as it’s just one big buggering loop it’s hard to know exactly.”
Harry nodded, trying desperately to look interested. Which he was, sort of, insofar that the writing covering the walls of the room, wrapping round and round in a demented spiral, was probably the key to getting out of said room. Maybe. That Draco had to stop every few minutes to shake off the dizziness of spinning round in a circle in order to read it meant that Harry had to at least feign a desire to know what it said. Which he kind of did. If it got them out.
“So, this whole first five or so lines are essentially a dissertation on the vast greatness, brilliance, power, stamina, desirability et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum, of the writer.” He paused. And sighed. “These next few lines are, ah, descriptive. Very…very descriptive.” Draco was kind of adorable when he blushed.
“Right. Descriptive. Look, you don’t need to translate the whole bloody thing for me; does it tell how to get out of this fucking room?”
Draco snorted and then grimaced. “More or less?” That didn’t sound promising.
“What? Bloodletting? Must cast all three Unforgivables? Only unrepentant Death Eaters allowed? It can’t be that bad.”
“Futuere Aut Morior,” Draco muttered.
“What?”
“Fuck or die, Potter. The motherfucking walls say ‘Fuck or die.’ That’s what it all boils down to. We fuck or the doors don’t open. Fuck. Or. Die.”
Harry just kind of stared for a few minutes until the pink flush started to fade from Draco’s cheeks. “Well.” Harry scratched the back of his head. “Fuck.”
“Or die. Yes.”
After a few more minutes Draco quit pacing the short room and glared at Harry. “Surely the idea of fucking me isn’t that horrid, Harry!”
Harry started, and then smiled sheepishly. “No. No, that’s not…no, that’s fine, not worried about it, whatever. We’ll do what we have to.” Draco didn’t look much mollified, but Harry would think on that later. “I was just wondering, how much do you know about automobiles?”
“They require large amounts of fuel, have parts that break often, and make a horrendous noise.”
“Think there’s any way to change the color of one? Not permanently, just…for a few days? ”
“Possibly.” And now Draco looked intrigued.
“Good. Well, let’s do this thing and get the hell out of here.”
G is for Gander.
“Harry, I simply do not understand why that old man told us to take a gander out into an empty field. What possible use is a waterfowl in this situation? People are dying!”
“Well he didn’t say we had too, he just said we were more than welcome to. Maybe some ancient tradition? Sacrifice to some old wizard playing God?”
“Do you think we should?”
“Might not hurt.”
It was much later that day-while nursing sore pride with cherry pie in the local diner-when they finally found out why the old man had laughed himself nearly to death while watching the boys try to wrangle a full-grown goose out into the middle of a wheat field (where the locals had been seeing mysterious lights.)
Mississippi went on the list of states to avoid when at all possible. The language barrier was simply too much to handle.
H is for Harry.
“I don’t mind, you know.”
“What?”
“When you call me Harry. Rather like it, to be honest.”
Draco didn’t respond.
And Harry didn’t smile too ridiculously when Draco asked him, later, to “Pass the bread please, Harry.”
I is for Itch.
Harry stretched languorously in the afternoon sun as he stepped out of the swimming hole, the warm rays touching and warming his gloriously naked skin.
Draco focused intently on the book laid out in his lap, in the shade, out of the sun and most decidedly not gaze upon Harry’s sun-kissed arse-cheeks and think in terms of “languorous” and “glorious” and “touching” and “naked.”
Definitely.
And if his hand drifted down between his legs for just a moment, it was to scratch at an itch. On his thigh. Because of the grass.
J is for Jerk.
“Bitch.”
“What! I am no one’s bitch, thankyouverymuch.” Draco huffed indignantly and crossed his arms.
Harry rolled his eyes. “No, Draco. I wasn’t…gah! You’re supposed to say jerk. I say bitch and you say jerk and it’s…it’s a thing, see?”
Draco did see, rather more than he wanted to. “I’m going home.” He stood and started packing his clothes into the worn-out duffel he’d been carting around ever since Potter decided to abandon the ministry and England and all of wizard-kind and go hunt for dark-creatures in America.
“Draco. Draco, come on!”
No. Absolutely not. Bad enough to be living out of a wizard-space tent. Bad enough to be continuously fighting for his life against the fucking undead. Bad enough Harry thought Dean Winchester was the best thing since pumpkin juice. (Sam wasn’t that bad, but then he had manners and understood Latin.) No. Just…no.
Harry was standing in front of the opening with a forbidding expression on his face. “You can’t leave.”
It was Draco’s turn to roll his eyes. “I most certainly can, and will, just as soon as you move your ill-kempt arse out of my way.”
K is for Kiss.
The last possible end Draco saw for that argument was this. Yelling? Yes. Insults? Yes. The throwing of things until Potter relented and moved the hell out of the way? YES.
On his back on the lumpy couch with Harry’s tongue cataloguing every bump and ridge and crevasse inside of Draco’s mouth? No. Delightful, (finally!) but no.
“I’m still not letting you buy an antique Muggle “muscle car,” you know,” Draco muttered into Harry’s lips.
Harry grinned, and then leered ridiculously. “That’s fine; I’ll just ride around in you.”
Draco groaned at the terrible come-on but didn’t disagree when Harry started tugging at his trousers.
L is for Lost.
“We’re not lost.”
“We are lost, you great git, and we’re not going to get un-lost until we set down and ask for directions.”
Harry made a rude gesture in Draco’s general direction and continued searching fruitlessly in the dark for some indication of the direction they should be flying.
He thought maybe he should admit Draco might be right, but that felt rather like giving up. He wasn’t much good at that.
M is for More.
Draco loved words that had many uses. The simpler the word and the more ways to use it, the more he loved it. Like fuck, for instance. Not only satisfying to say but, Merlin, you could use it to express so many things.
More is not one of Draco’s favorite words. More means exactly one thing: greater in size or quantity or amount. Which is fantastic when talking about Harry’s cock, chocolate cake, and galleons.
Not so much when it’s monsters, mud, and guts.
Which it was tonight. The shower may never be the same again.
N is for Nasty.
Harry stood, evaluating the shower, for long minutes. Nastiest thing he’d ever seen in his life. They’d cast every spell they knew for banishing, cleaning, transfiguring even!
Nothing for it, they would simply have to have it replaced. And then let the Winchesters deal with any more swamp things that popped up.
Ugh.
O is for Obliviate.
Harry waved cheerfully at the family of Muggles as they pulled away and disappeared down the twisty mountain road. As soon as they were out of sight, he groaned. “Ugh. I don’t think I’ve cast Obliviate as many times in my whole life as I have in the last two years.”
Draco laughed. “Yes, well, if I recall correctly, professional Quidditch players rather want their actions remembered, as opposed to erstwhile hunters who would rather people forget almost getting eaten by Bigfoot.” Harry snorted and summoned their brooms.
“They were awfully nice though, don’t you think?” He mused, as they took to the air.
“The Muggles?” Harry nodded. “Humm, they were, weren’t they?”
P is for Pink.
The yelling and string of profanity coming from the parking lot yanked Sam immediately into consciousness. He was halfway out the door before he’d managed to get his jeans buttoned.
Dean was on the ground, on his knees, face slack in abject horror, his hands in fists beside him. Sam ran over to him, and grabbed at his shoulders, turned Dean to face him, and started checking him for injuries. Dean whimpered a little bit and looked to his left, swatting Sam’s hands away. Reluctantly, Sam followed his gaze and…well.
Sam laughed. A lot.
“Shut. Up. Shut up right now or I will practice on you before I track down those miserable motherfucking goddamned British wizards and remind them just what I do for a living in the most painful fucking way possible.”
Sam tried as hard as he could to suck the laughter down, wipe the grin off his face. “I’m sure it’s not permanent.”
“It’s a sacrilege, Sammy. I just…I mean LOOK!” He flung his arm in the general direction of the Impala. The day-glow pink--only-found-in-highlighters pink--Impala. With leopard print upholstery. And a blue feather boa on the dashboard.
Sam had to bite his lip to keep from laughing again. “We kind of deserved it.”
That earned him a dirty look. “What the fuck have we ever done that could possibly have deserved that?”
“Four words, Dean. Fuck. Or. Die. Room.”
Dean’s eyes went wide, and a grin broke across his face. “Heh. That was pretty awesome.” Then he frowned again. “They didn’t have to fuck with my car, though.”
Q is for Quiet.
Harry rather loved the quiet of the early morning. Those rare days when he woke naturally, no nightmares to send him shuddering into sweaty wakefulness. He lay still in his warm bed for long moments listening to the sounds of the world waking up. Birds singing softly, squirrels or whatnot scurrying up the trees outside.
He made his way to the loo and then decided to go back to bed for a bit, they had nothing urgent to seek out today, a few days of rest to indulge in. He noticed that Draco’s door was open and poked his head in before he thought better of it.
Draco was sprawled across the bed in a way he’d never allow while awake. One arm tucked up under his head, his face pressed against his wrist, the other by his side, one long pale naked leg exposed to the cool morning air.
Harry blushed and hurried back to his room before he did something foolish like licking his way up that soft expanse of leg and nibbling on the equally naked cheek it was attached to.
R is for Rough Sex.
They’d tried it once with all the lube, and stretching, and strategically placed pillows, following a few glasses of wine and lots and lots of deep, penetrating kisses.
But frankly when your first time is against a brick wall with only spit to ease the way and creepy narcissistic Latin etchings pressing creases in your skin, and your second time is half-dressed and bent over the arm of the couch… it’s kind of hard to get excited about gentle and slow and kind, after that, you know?
They kept the deep, penetrating kisses part though, those were fantastic.
S is for Sectumsempra.
The zombie had its decaying hands wrapped around Harry’s throat when Draco came to, a few feet away.
“SECTUMSEMPRA!” He screamed without thinking.
It tore even more shreds into the zombie’s flesh but didn’t do much actual damage. It did surprise the thing long enough for it to loosen its hold a bit and let Draco cast a hefty stunner and a binding curse, knocking it off its feet and tying it neatly as a Christmas package.
Harry was on his knees gasping for air and Draco dropped down in front of him. “Harry. Harry, are you alright?” Draco asked as he ran his hands over and over Harry’s shoulders and neck.
Harry gaped at him, guilt and awe and fear all warring for a spot on his face, and then tilted forward and leaned against Draco’s chest, deep, difficult breaths wracking his frame. Draco buried his nose in the mess of dark hair and held on tightly.
T is for Train Wreck.
The very first “job” they’d found for themselves turned out to be a demon that had a penchant for violent, metal-twisting, explosive train wrecks. It had derailed three passenger trains and five cargo transports before they managed to get a locator spell modified and were able to track it.
Unfortunately they didn’t catch up with the damned thing until it had pulled another train off the tracks, and with the Muggles wandering about and the screaming and fires and panic it turned into quite a bit more of a nightmare than it needed to be - trying to catch a body-hopping demon without anybody seeing their wands.
And that was before the Muggles started shooting at them.
In the end, Draco had cast a devil’s trap, Harry a binding spell, and the two Muggles that had been shooting at them (with rock salt of all things) figured out what they were doing and finished the job with a nicely timed exorcism.
That was how they met the Winchester brothers.
U is for Understatement of the Year.
“This hunting business is harder work than I thought it would be,” Harry said, as he threw another Slicing Hex at yet another Vampire.
Draco snorted.
V is for Voldemort.
“You know, at least with old Tom I always knew what to expect. And the monologues always gave me time to plot.”
“Well, look at it this way, Harry, next time you find yourself at Hogwarts you can gloat at Peeves about having absolutely slaughtered his cousin.”
“We spread herbs and said a few chants, Draco. The last Expelliarmus I cast at Old Voldie was more of a slaughter than this.”
“Do you think it’s weird we spent nearly seven years palling around with ghosts, asking for directions, confiding in them, and now we do our level best to get rid of them?”
Harry looked at him like he’d gone completely ‘round the bend. “This is completely different, Draco.”
The “duh” was rather well implied.
W is for Werewolf.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not killing a werewolf when I know they are perfectly capable of living and working in society and fathering my God-children.”
Draco didn’t really have an argument for that.
They bought the boy a plane ticket to London and sent Andromeda a note asking her to please help him find a way to live with his disease. Or a pack to run with, or something.
X is for Extenuating Circumstances.
There are worse places to be in the world than tied tightly to a shirtless and trouserless Dean Winchester.
Until your former-Death Eater-boyfriend shows up with guns and a long and well documented history of irrational thoughts.
Harry considers calling out Dean’s name as a joke, later that night, but then decides he likes his testicles too much for that.
Y is for Yes.
Harry watched the sun sinking behind the mountains, head pillowed comfortably in Draco’s lap. He’d fallen in love with the Rockies during their many passes back and forth across the country and couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather spend his final hours before returning home to England. “Draco?”
Draco looked down at him, eyebrow raised in question.
“You glad you came with me?” Harry watched the blond eyebrows furrow in thought, he figured Draco to be running down the list of various monsters and nasties they’d faced down since running away from home. Finally, Draco stopped frowning and smiled.
“Yes, Potter. I do believe I am.”
Z is for Zombie.
“They really weren’t shooting for accuracy with that one, were they?”
Harry chuckled. “Not really, no.” He passed the bag of popcorn to Draco and moved to the enormous pile of zombie films next to the television. “So, what next?”
“My mum said 28 Days Later gave her nightmares for a week,” Hermione said, and nestled in closer to Ron.
“Brilliant,” Draco drawled out, “I’m in the mood for another comedy.” Ron choked down a laugh as Hermione grabbed a throw pillow and started hitting Draco with it.
Harry watched them all laughing and spilling snack-foods everywhere, and smiled.
Poll Mystery Schmoop Week