Fortune Favours the Fortunate
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
AN: Cowritten with the lovely IzzyThatGleekPotterHead2019 for the Candyland Pairing Challenge Game on HPFC
Mundungus Fletcher was well aware that he had the devil's own luck.
It wouldn't have seemed like it, not to other people—fuck, even he'd been under the impression that his usual golden luck was goin' sour when Dumbledore had handed him two of Potter's lot, a pair of shinies if'n he'd ever seen 'em, practically hitched up already, and told him to make 'em inta half-decent spies and sneak thieves.
Weren't like he'd thought that it was a good score for him at the time. But, he'd hadn't known back then that what he'd been handed was precious.
Didn't matter. He'd figured it out in a fucking jiff. He was smarter than other people about shit like that. Saw value under rust and dust. Hell, it was practically his fucking job to find those hidden gems—and take 'em for himself.
Dung had to grin at that, 'cause this old magpie had finally got his gems right where he wanted them. In his own bleeding nest.
How was that for a bit o' luck?
The flat weren't nothin' special. It was a muggle dive but had good location, the wallpaper was faded, peeling right off the wall in some places, and stank to high heaven of his fireweed—a sweet smoky sort of smell that he'd always liked but had been told was actually fucking gross—but it was his and Kitty Bell—now also his, by lady luck's good graces—was taking care o' things like that.
Actually, opening the door, the flat smelled mouth-wateringly like hot summer air, stewing meat, and fresh curry. Luck again, in the form of Greg.
"Hey, Fletch" greeted Kit-Kat, all warm pearly smiles and Easter egg nails. She had surveillance notes swamping his makeshift coffee table and she'd hung one of the paintings she'd pilfered from that job last week on the wall to cover the funky stain that'd been there since afore he'd moved in. "Everything copacetic?"
There she went trynna expand his fucking vocabulary again—Merlin knew he loved her for it—copa-fucking-cetic.
"Weren't nuffink I couldn' deal wiv, Kiss-me Kate," he told her, tossing his coat and hat on their pegs in the front hall and kicking off his boots.
Down to his ratty jeans and his too-big shirt—this one pilfered from Greg's washing—he crossed the room and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. She turned and did him one better, planted a good one on 'im. Right on the mouth, and she tasted like she'd been poking her fingers in the dinner and suckin' 'em clean again. Spicy.
He didn't have the foggiest 'bout what it was she saw in a piece o' shit skeave that'd seen the best side of thirty already. Or what Greg did for all that. But he was fucking grateful for it, and kisses like this were his thank yous gone and dialed up a notch.
Just as he was pulling away, more'n ready to see what Greg was up to in his mouse-sized kitchen, a pair o' big broad hands clamped down around his waist, and Chef Boyardi himself pressed all up against him.
Rumbling, "Fucking late, had her worried," right in his ear—right where it went straight to his dick— the arse.
Well two could play like that. Dung pushed his hips back so his skinny arse slotted right perfect into the cradle of Greg's hips.
"You ain't been worried though have ya, Greggy."
Boy, made 'nother of those rumblin' sounds and pushed him away a few inchs, giving his arse a parting smack—the tease—"Wait til after we eat, Fletch."
Dung pouted, and Katie laughed at him, nipping at his mouth and then clambering up o'er the back of the couch to reach Greg giving him a very nice view and not helpin' 'im get in an eating frame o' mind.
"Kit, my treasure, who could think o' food wiv that bounty in front've 'em?"
She favoured him with a saucy wink, the minx.
"I can. Come on, Greg made chicken with that spicy coconut stuff that I like, let's eat it before it gets cold."
"Ya know they thought o' warmin' spells fer a good reason," tried Dung, one last time, just in case.
"Man can't live on sex alone," she laughed, draggin' 'im the three feet into the kitchen proper.
"It's fun to try," conceded Greg, "But I'm starving. Need my strength to keep up with the two of you."
"Ooh, I made dessert too! My mum's rice pudding, she finally caved and sent the recipe. I went and got it from Alicia yesterday."
Dung and Greg shared an alarmed look, many things their Kitty Bell was, but a cook weren't one of those things. No way no how. Last time they'd let her take a stab at it—the celebration of Dung's first month off the snuff—Greg'd ended up in hospice.
Hoping to distract her Dung pulled out his best smoulderin' look.
"Kitty luvvy, you are the dessert."
'Parently it was less effective and more hilarious 'cause she burst out into gales of laughter. Folding into her usual seat at their table like her knees just couldn't hold her up no more.
Greg gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder—one that said somethin' long the line o' nice try but no dice on the flirty luv—that was fine, there were plenty o' ways to skin a kneazle, and he was the best thief in the biz. He'd just nick the poison masqueradin' as dessert when Katie weren't lookin' and let Greg distract 'em both into forgettin' all 'bout it.
Well-pleased with his plan, tucking into Greg's curry and feelin' like a fox among the chickens watchin' his pair o' shinies—laughin' and carryin' on like there weren't a massive war going on outside—Dung let a softer secretive kind o' smile touch his mouth.
His luck might've carried 'em here, but his love would keep 'em close.