Title: Birds of a Feather
Disclaimer: The great good J. K. Rowling owns all things in the HP universe. I merely own the plot of my little ideas.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: Slash. Suggestive content. Language. A little bit naughty, though not as naughty as some situations I've written.
Rating: I think T or PG-13 should do it. If you think it should be M let me know and I'll bump it up.
Summary: Draco's dressed like a gangster, he and Harry are getting drunk, someone they both thought was dead makes an appearance, and really, it's all that bloody bird's fault.
A/N: I was challenged to write a ficlet involving a purple flamingo, a fedora, the song "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga, and a living character who I won't name until he appears in the story. Please, review and I'll respond back! :D
It all started with that damn flamingo.
Someone left it sitting right in front of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Not within the charmed confines of the property; but on the very edge, like a border marker. It was bright purple and sparkly and gaudy and for some reason Harry loved it. He even moved it onto his property so that no muggles could abscond with it.
That's how Draco learned that Harry Potter was insane.
"Potter, it's an eyesore," he complained. "How am I supposed to enjoy coming over for a drink if my eyes must be raped every time? I'm not coming over again until you get rid of it," he threatened. They both knew it was an empty threat. For all that they'd nearly killed one another when they were first assigned together, the Auror partners now enjoyed each other's company too much to end their weekly tradition of drinks at Harry's.
"We could go out for a drink," suggested Harry.
"Merlin, Potter, you have gone mad. Do you remember what happened the last time we tried that? You were swarmed!"
"I remember," Harry cut in morosely. He shuddered, the memory of having some woman's knickers thrown in his face and getting into his open mouth when he had tried to talk nearly making him gag. "I didn't mean a wizarding place; Godric, no. I meant somewhere Muggle."
"Muggle?" Draco asked doubtfully. Just three years after the war had ended, he still hadn't bothered much with muggle culture. He was woefully ignorant. "I don't know, Harry." He sounded doubtful.
"Oh come on, it'll be fun!" Harry's eyes shone with enthusiasm, as he perched on the edge of his desk. Draco couldn't resist those eyes.
"Alright," he relented reluctantly.
"You'll need some nice muggle clothes," suggested Harry. "I can tell you a few places you could go to get some." They both knew better than for Harry to volunteer to come with the blond – Draco might love shopping, but Harry couldn't stand it. "I can even make some suggestions, although the people in the store might be better to ask."
He tried not to think of Draco in tight black jeans that would show off his perfect arse, with a skin-tight tee to complete the picture by showcasing the abs, pecs, and biceps Harry knew were there from working with him in such close quarters for three years. Draco looked slender, but he had an amazing body, from what Harry had seen. Harry shook his head. Draco was his work partner, nothing more, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. He probably wasn't even gay.
The two men agreed to meet at an apparition point where Harry would side-along Draco to the alley behind a club he had seen and heard good things about. He was eager to go and see the scene. Draco would go get his clothes and meet Harry there.
So it was that Draco ended up in the middle of muggle London, lost. He had no idea where he was going or how to get there, and now regretted not dragging Potter along with him to help. He cursed Potter, cursed confusing muggle street signs, and most of all he cursed bloody purple flamingos.
He stopped and leaned against a post, agitated, and cursed Potter's stupid, beautiful, deep green eyes that made him melt and want to do whatever the hell fool thing the idiot Gryffindor asked of him. He cursed himself for weakness, and for refusing to go back to Potter's house until he got rid of that bloody bird. At Potter's house it was just the two of them, and Draco still held out hope that something might happen. He could have sworn he'd caught Potter checking him out in the showers at work, just as he checked out the messy haired brunet, but he wasn't certain. He hated to make a move until he was certain.
He looked up, and could have crowed for joy. Across the street was a sign that read, "Al's Fancy Dress Shop" and there were elegant enough looking clothes in the window. Heartened, he hurried across the street and into the store, nearly getting hit by a car in the process.
Feeling slightly jittery after his near mishap, he explained to the shop keeper that he was looking for some good muggle clothing to wear out. The confused shop keeper tried to understand what he wanted, but the two of them progressed farther and farther into misunderstanding as they went on. Draco did not understand that he was in a costume shop, and the poor shop keeper was at a loss to procure appropriate "muggle" attire when he had no idea what a "muggle" was.
That was how Draco came to arrive at the apparition point dressed like a gangster in a grey pinstripe suit, carrying a fake tommy gun and wearing a fedora. Harry took one look at him and burst out laughing.
"Draco," he wheezed. "What the bloody hell are you wearing?"
"I'm dressed like a muggle," Draco replied, miffed. "What the hell are YOU wearing?"
"I'm dressed like a muggle, Draco," laughed Harry. "You're dressed like Al Capone."
After some discussion – during which Draco stubbornly refused to acknowledge that he might have made a mistake with his clothing – it was agreed that he shrink down the tommy gun and store it in his pocket until he returned the costume the next day.
Harry took Draco's arm and side-alonged him to the alley behind the club. Together they made their way inside. It was and upbeat, trendy place, with loud music and lots of people. The two made their way over to the bar and tried to catch the attention of the bartender.
The bartender, a tall man with longish, dark greasy-looking hair, finally turned around. Both Aurors felt their jaws drop as the bartender's eyes widened in recognition and he gasped.
"You – you're dead!" choked Harry.
"I don't know what you're talking about," drawled the bartender, looking away nervously. He began edging away from them but Draco seized his wrist.
"Severus. Uncle Sev," he murmured. "Please, don't leave."
Severus Snape hesitated, then relented with a sigh. "You'll undoubtedly not let this drop till we've talked, then, and since I don't particularly fancy being hunted by a pair of Aurors I might as well speak with you now. But I'll do this on the understanding that I'm to be left alone, and undisturbed afterwards. Are we clear?"
Harry nodded, and Draco did as well, albeit more reluctantly. Snape launched into a harrowing tale of how, hours before the confrontation with Nagini, he had taken an experimental potion that he hoped would allow his body to heal potentially fatal injuries beginning as soon as they were inflicted, without the need for further first aid, and how, hours after Nagini's vicious attack, he had awoken, cold, bloody and alone, and had made his way to a safe house he had hidden nearby under a protective charm.
"At least now we know what happened to his body," muttered Harry. Draco elbowed him and pressed Snape for details. He opened up a little more, seeming to almost enjoy having an audience to complain to. He made them each a drink, and then another, and soon another after that. His attention kept getting called away by other patrons needing drinks, but he always returned and continued his story. Apparently, he was not just the bartender, but the owner of the club. Apparently skill in potions translated into skill in mixing muggle drinks.
Both Harry and Draco were so immersed in his story that they forgot to watch how much they drank, and were son well over their usual limit. It was during one of Snape's interludes that it happened.
The song "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga began playing, and Harry sat up and started clapping like a seal. "I love Gaga!" he shouted.
"Shhh!" hushed Draco loudly.
"Dance with me, Draco," Harry pouted, holding his arms out for Draco. Draco didn't hesitate to take his arm.
They weaved their way out to the dance floor and had to hold one another up. They danced so close they were grinding on one another, and soon the delicious friction made them want more. Without any thought for what he was doing or what Draco might think of it, Harry captured the Slytherin's mouth in a steamy kiss.
He nipped at Draco's lower lip, worrying it with his teeth until the blond gasped into his mouth. He took the opportunity to put his tongue to good use, darting forward and teasing, tasting, and reveling in the feel and taste and smell of the man in his arms. Draco began kissing him back, very enthusiastically.
Teeth clacked and tongues twined and oh, Merlin! Draco tasted like vanilla and he smelled like spices and his kiss was just the right combination of wet-but-not-too-wet and his slippery tongue was oh-so-clever.
It seemed to go on forever but it wasn't nearly long enough before they were rudely interrupted. Snape stood there; looking pained, and pulled them towards the exit. "Will you two please stop frotting on my dance floor?" he asked in a sarcastic tone of voice. Considering he was all but throwing them out, it seemed a moot question. At the door he handed them each a sobriety potion. "Drink up, and go home," he advised them before turning heel and leaving them in the alley behind the club.
They chugged the foul tasting sobriety potions and began to feel themselves again. Harry was mortified. "I'm so sorry," he said. "Really, I am; I swear that will never happen again…"
"It won't?" Draco looked put out. "You're sorry? I'm not. And what if I want it to happen again?"
"Are you still drunk?" asked Harry worriedly.
"No, Harry, I've been working up the nerve to ask you out forever, but I always chickened out because I wasn't sure if you even played for my team. But I think that in there," he pulled Harry close and thrust his hips against him, and Harry moaned. "You answered that question for me."
"Your place or mine?" asked Harry, feeling bolder.
"Yours," murmured Draco, nibbling on his ear. "I have a flamingo to thank."