Disclaimer:
Warning: Contains Slash, dislike of American Football, DM/HP, and quite a lot of Potter Monologue; if you're in any way, shape, or form against any of the things listed above, leave.
Summary: Harry has a foot fetish, Draco likes television, and no one knows quite where the plot is.
Feet
It was official; Harry Potter had a foot fetish. How had this started? Many would ask that same question, but, sadly, the resident hero of Hogwarts didn't seem to possess an answer. He could only speculate that it had something to do with his possessive and slightly eccentric lover, Draco Malfoy; the Slytherin who, to Harry, sported the most fantastical and sexy feet in the Wizarding World.
It was complete nonsense, really. More than once, his friend's had made their inquiries known upon the subject of his odd attraction; how could he explain? Draco had feet sculpted from an artist. They were the perfect shade of alabaster, had a delicate arch of perfect symmetry and five flawlessly shaped toes, while polished off by pedicure toe-nails. It was amazing, along with incredibly arousing.
Again, how did he explain?
Maybe he shouldn't. As of right now; he was comfortably spread across the plush couch in the Head Boy rooms owned by the wealthy wizard. His head was cushioned by the multiple pillows near the arm of the furniture, while his legs were resting in the Malfoy's lap. Had he mentioned his current lover gave the positively best foot massages? No? Well, he did.
They were both flipping through channels on the telly, commenting every so often, but otherwise sitting in a comfortable silence; Harry humming in appreciation when the blond rubbed just right. The television was one of Draco's current Muggle obsessions. The young Malfoy had been granted special permission from the Headmaster to bring it into the castle, under the pretense of a project for Muggle Studies. It had been magically tuned to Hogwarts, playing channels in every language (except Finnish). The damn thing captured the Slytherin's attention avidly, only put to silence when Harry offered something more… pleasurable.
Then, the Malfoy proceeded to discover American Football, rendering Harry's distractions useless.
Damn Americans.
But this wasn't about Draco's unhealthy obsession with Muggle contraptions, or the utterly ridiculous idea of ramming into people for an oddly shaped ball; but the Gryffindor's current fixation with feet. At the risk of sounding repetitive, did he already cover that Draco had the perfect feet? Really? Oh.
Unfortunately, he had mentioned this "fact" to Malfoy, making him smug for days, and wholly unsociable. Could anyone really be so narcissistic? It was only when Hermione knocked him down a few notches, quite literally, (physical violence accomplished so much nowadays) that the Slytherin found something other than his "perfection" to think, well, brood, about. After that, the be-speckled boy remained tight-lipped about the subject, until, of course, his conversation with his Godfather, Sirius Black.
They were in the House of Black, sitting at the dingy dining room table. It was the last week of summer and Professor Dumbledore had conceded to Harry's pleas of spending time with one of the only parental figures in his life; even if it was in the Order's Headquarters, and their quality time together was commonly interrupted by member's bunking for the night, or flooing from potentially dangerous situations to the Headmaster's office.
"So," Sirius had begun, "I heard you liked feet."
"I refuse to dignify that with a response," Harry retorted. He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes at the ex-convict. Black had reflected his expression, chuckling softly.
"How about: Like, dude, heard some nifty things floating 'round the 'hood, care to 'laborate?" Sirius rephrased, trying to sound "Gangster." Harry snorted, choking on his tea.
"Merlin, never talk like that again. I get enough of that from Dudley and his gang of losers," Harry stated, "And to clarify, I don't just like feet. I like Draco's feet, there's a difference."
Sirius winced at the mention of Malfoy and the reminder of his current romantic status with his Godson. He disapproved of their relationship; as far as Sirius Black was concerned, no man would ever be good enough for his ward. However, if the Slytherin made Harry happy, he would support him without a word of protest, but the second that conniving ferret raised a finger against the raven-haired Gryffindor… Well, let's just say one didn't sit around in Azkaban for twelve years and twiddle their thumbs.
"What makes Malfoy different?" Black asked. He sneered as Kreacher came forward to deliver their breakfast. Harry picked up his cutlery, and prodded the morsels of food on his china wear.
"Well, it's just…" He drifted off, trying to formulate a response, "despite what you might think, Draco can be amazing. His feet are just another thing that sets him apart. Perfect."
"You know, it's unhealthy to think of him like that, he isn't perfect. I'm sure he has just as many faults," Sirius Black commented seriously, poking at his food in disinterest, and grimacing at the compliments aimed at the Slytherin.
"Oh, there's no doubt about that," Harry had agreed, "He can be unnecessarily mean, possessive, and arrogant. He still has problems with Hermione's blood status, has moments where he is just as childish as Ron, but that's just it… The quirks in his personality, our fighting, it makes us closer; no relationship is perfect, I know that."
Sirius grumbled, still disgruntled with the blond, but couldn't help the spark of pride he felt when he heard Harry's rather mature comment; though he was a reflection of his father, Harry was just like Lily.
"Well, I hope he snores," Black said vindictively. He scooped some hash browns onto his spoon, tossing the fried potatoes at his Godson. Harry squawked in indignation, before taking his over-easy eggs and retaliating. A very sticky Food War commenced, effectively breaking the sober atmosphere.
Harry sighed nostalgically at the memory, turning his gaze to his boyfriend. He sat up, removing his legs from Draco's lap. The Slytherin's attention on the telly was momentarily broken, and he turned his focus on Harry, who patted his lap invitingly; it was his turn to give a foot massage. Placing his feet in the Gryffindor's lap, Draco whole-heartedly agreed.
The End.
Not much Dialogue between Draco and Harry, but I hope everyone enjoys this piece; I certainly had fun writing it. Please tell me if there is any grammar or spelling issues I've missed, I appreciate constructive criticism. Thank you.
Sweet_Shiva.