A fun, light-hearted (for the most part) humor fic for all you readers out there. Involving Harry, a pigeon, Draco, an over-protective house elf by the name of Phineas (better known as Finny), and Lucius. And maybe everyone's favorite Dark Lord, Voldie.
And of course, slash. HD/DM.
Co-written with Becca, my lovely best friend. Go review her poetry.
Harry Potter & Co. does not belong to me, nor Becca, and we make no money off this.
I'd love to explain the plot to you. But you'll just have to wait, won't you? -winks-
Harry Potter was sprawled across the small, ratty bed that the Dursleys grudgingly provided for him (he refused to think of it as his own), his History of Magic book open and lying face down on his stomach. He sighed, and squeezed his tired eyes shut tightly, pulling off his glasses with a limp hand.
It was only a week into vacation, and Harry already felt that he was well along the road to insanity.
The Dursleys were not being any less insufferable than what Harry considered normal. Granted, they had gained the habit of glancing nervously at Harry as he entered a room, then quickly skirting around him and scuttling into another room. Dudley, in fact, had taken to carrying a portable television with him, so he could lumber between rooms, avoiding Harry, and not miss any of his shows. Harry had often entertained the idea of removing the television's batteries, but had yet to carry through with it.
Harry chuckled at Dudley's imagined reaction, his hand over his closed eyes, smirking slightly. He wouldn't be surprised if his cousin soon gained a rolling mini-fridge, just to counteract the mild exercise he was getting by carrying around the seven-pound television.
When Harry entered a room, Vernon, actually, would most commonly bristle at Harry. His face would quickly become an intriguing shade of fuchsia before he opened his mouth, as if to bark at the wizard, but would instead close his gaping maw, and stomp out of the room, furniture trembling with each step.
And the weather. The weather was absolutely horrid. It was hot, and so terribly humid that going on a walk was more like going for a swim. And despite the awful muggy weather, and low impending clouds, there had been no sign of precipitation for weeks. Everyone was praying for rain, and Harry was nearly ready to sacrifice a goat to whatever malicious god was with-holding the rain. Or Dudley. He supposed Dudley might actually bring more rain. Him being much larger than a goat, and all.
Sighing, Harry slid his glasses back over the bridge of his nose while half-sitting up, flipping his History of Magic book shut as it slid off his stomach onto the mattress next to him. He pushed the heavy book off the bed with his bare foot, and turned himself over, flopping onto his stomach. His thankfully thin, worn pajama top rode up his stomach at the movement, baring a strip of flesh to the damp air. And as the book hit the floorboards with a dull thud, Harry couldn't find the energy to blink.
Despite the invading heat, Harry had left his window raised half-open, partly in the hope that some sad, stranded breeze would find its way inside, and partly because Hedwig had glided away hunting about an hour ago. When she returned, he didn't want to be savaged for the crime of leaving the window shut.
Eyes still closed, Harry could feel a drop of sweat clinging to his eyelashes. He summoned up a burst of energy, raised a hand, and wiped it away, scrubbing at his eye for a moment before letting his arm fall to the windowsill. His fingers dangled out into the heavy night air.
"I wish there'd be a bloody great storm," Harry implored of and into his pillow, his voice muffled. His fingers on the windowsill picked up an irregular staccato beat, and drummed against the wood, seeking a breeze and finding nothing. He paused for a moment, and added sardonically, "And if I can't get the rain and all, please just let me be hit by lightening."
Thunder rumbled suddenly in the distance, and Harry's eyes snapped open in a quick panic.
"And live!" he continued hastily, his voice squeaking to a pitch that would have been embarrassing, had anyone been around to hear it. He took it upon himself to be ashamed anyway, and glanced furtively around the room out of instinct before pulling himself up on his elbows to peer hopefully out the window.
It was deep, eleven o' clock dark outside, but Harry fancied that he could see a cluster of blue-black storm clouds gathering on the horizon. His fantasies were proven true as another rumble of thunder, louder than the first, trembled through the gap in his window.
Harry couldn't actually hear Dudley rolling over at the interloping noise, his sleep disturbed, but he did feel the foundation of the house shift a bit.
The wizard slid a little farther off the bed, laying his cheek on the windowsill, his arms crossed over his bedside table, which was clear of objects except for a dingy lamp. The lamp always flickered when on, no matter the quality of the bulb, but it boasted a better condition that most of the appliances in the room, so Harry bit back any complaints he ever had.
It probably wasn't safe to rest with his cheek pressed against the varnished wood of the windowsill, considering the caliber of the things that tended to arrive unannounced outside Harry's window, but he was too tired and the promise of the impending storm was too tempting for him to much care. Yawning quietly, Harry gave in to the onrush of sleep, which easily defeated thoughts of homework and anything else that vied for his attention.
This would, and it tended to, turn out to be exceedingly stupid.
For the present, however, Harry found himself trapped in a dream that seemed to be something like a very bad Godzilla film starring Dudley, complete with hundreds of Japanese people screaming and running in fear, as quiet raindrops began falling to the roof with a soft resonance. A gentle breeze picked up, bringing raindrops to spatter on the skin of Harry's hand.
Harry was roused from his dazed half-sleep first by a soft beating sound, then jolted quickly into awareness by a sharp cuff to his head. Falling back ungracefully onto his arse, he blinked blearily, holding a hand to his head, his other hand scrubbing at his tired eyes. He pushed his glasses back over the bridge of his nose, and focused on Hedwig, who was on his dresser, hooting happily, despite her damp condition.
Raising an eyebrow, Harry let his eyes trail expectantly to Hedwig's talons, one of which was planted firmly on the top of the dresser, and the other, which was holding down a supremely peeved pigeon.
"Bloody hell, Hedwig," Harry muttered sleepily, pulling himself to his feet with a hand on the headboard of his bed and rubbing his bruised tailbone ruefully. "Can't you kill it before you bring it home?"
Hedwig hooted loudly in owlish pride.
Wincing, Harry stroked Hedwig's damp head quickly, fingers running between water-laden feathers, trying to content her before her war cries woke his aunt and uncle and he had to explain why there were two emotional birds in a room they were already openly displeased about containing one. One hand keeping up the soothing ruffling of Hedwig's feathers, Harry bent down to inspect his owl's indignant cargo.
Upon closer inspection, Harry was very glad that Hedwig had not killed the pigeon. It was in obvious distress, straining wildly against the grasp of the owl's talons and giving little exhausted, angry coos. His eyebrows furrowed in sudden concern, Harry leaned forward, extending a tentative finger towards the trapped bird's head.
The pigeon immediately bit him hard on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Harry bit back a yelp and a swear, his injured hand now a balled fist clutched up to his chest.
He glared at the pigeon, as Hedwig fluttered her wings in a self-satisfied, I-told-you-so sort of way.
"All right, Hedwig," Harry murmured, eyes trained on the pigeon's clacking beak. "When I say so, let go of the pigeon. Okay?"
The snowy owl hooted her consent, bobbing her white head once to emphasize the statement, and lessened the grip of her talons around the pigeon a minuscule amount.
"Okay, all right," the boy muttered to himself bracingly, unconsciously arching up onto the balls of his feet, his fingers splayed in the air and flexing, readying themselves to catch the obviously frustrated avian. The pigeon clacked its beak threateningly, and Harry focused his eyes on Hedwig's talons, waiting for them to snap open.
"Now."
Hedwig spread her wings wide, beat them once, twice, and simultaneously lifted her feet from the scarred varnish of the dresser top, maintaining her balance with her flared wings and tail. She opened her talons, and the pigeon dropped quickly, just missing what would have been an unfortunate collision with the dresser edge, too surprised to snap open its wings.
Harry leapt forward, snatching the pigeon out of air just before the creature hit the floor. The bird let out an undignified squawk as the direction it was moving in was quickly reversed, and Harry landed in a crouch, wincing at the thud his feet made against the floorboards. Pausing, his slender frame tense, he listened carefully for any noises from the other rooms. His body and face visibly relaxed when all that could be heard were heavy snores, and the sullen boom of thunder. Carefully but firmly, Harry changed his grip on the pigeon's body, cautiously avoiding letting the animal get enough room to escape his grasp, slim fingers wrapped around the bird's chest and folded wings. The creature parted its beak and hissed at him, and Harry started minutely. He hadn't known that pigeons, of all things, could hiss.
Standing slowly, Harry held the pigeon as far from his body as possible, eyeing it warily. Turning its head to the side, the bird gave Harry a distinct glare. For some reason, Harry got the feeling that if it had been possible, the pigeon would have been sneering at him.
Review?