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22 November 2004 @ 07:30 pm
You know the way Robert Jordan wants his coffin nailed shut...  

It's a bit sad, I suppose, when some days are so rotten the only good thing about them is lj. (At least I have it, I guess.)

*just ignore the sour bint*

Title: Wizards Abroad

Word Count: 8648

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter, and Christy Moore the opening lyrics. I don't make money out of this,  but it does keep me sane(ish).

Summary: In which Arthur Weasley comes into contact with far more Muggles than is healthy, Harry hosts Ron's stag party with increasing mother-hen tendancies, and two unexpected guests turn up in Ibiza...

WIZARDS ABROAD

And this is heaven

And this is hell

Who cares

Or who can tell

Anyone for the last few choc ices?

The morning dawned damp and overcast, with a grim grey and lowering sky (even though it was no further away than it usually was). Six in the morning is not a time consciously welcomed by most people, except perhaps prostitutes and those people sleeping snuggled under big downy coverlets, who wake up for five seconds to think, ‘Oh yeah baby, I don’t have to get up for another two hours!’

However, the five men who staggered out of the Burrow, singing ‘We’re going to Ibiza’ at the top of their lungs, were determined not to be fazed by either the inclement weather or the unholy hour. It was Ron’s goddamn stag party, and they were jolly well going to make the most of three Mrs-Weasley-free days even if the heavens pissed on them all the way to the airport.

The stag party to Ibiza for Ron, and its concurrent hen for Hermione in Lanzarote having been Harry’s wedding present to them, he had booked plane tickets before remembering that he was catering for wizards. Most of whom wouldn’t know a Concorde if it crashed into burning flames in front of them. Once he’d done it - never being one to renege on an idea, however ill-though-out, after it had been undertaken - he thought it could very well add to the fun of the whole thing.

He kept hanging grimly onto the idea even when Mr Weasley told the taxi driver, in high excited tones that the innocent observer might be forgiven for mistaking as coming from someone who’d recently dropped acid, that they were going in the big metal bird in the sky, ‘And I don’t know how it’s held up, exactly, but it probably has something to do with eckeltrickery, or plugs, even! Right, Harry?’

Harry tried very hard to pretend he’d been christened Bernie.

‘Maybe it flies by magic,’ the driver suggested facetiously.

‘Oh no, we just use fires,’ Mr Weasley said dismissively. Thankfully, the driver had already written him off as a nutcase, so he just nodded good-humouredly.

‘I suppose you have a magic carpet, too,’ he said, sniggering around his damp cigar.

‘No,’ Mr Weasley said, making a disapproving face. ‘They’re illegal.’

They kept this up as far as the airport, at which point Mr Weasley remembered that Muggles were not supposed to know about magic.

Ever.

Meanwhile, Harry endured a very cramped journey squashed onto Bill’s lap. He could understand that this was a Muggle car that had never meant to seat four in the backseat, and that the two Weasley boys, Seamus and himself were no inconsiderable size, but still, did Bill have to hold onto him quite so firmly? And he was sure he could have squeezed at least some of his rear onto the car seat, but Bill was most solicitous for his comfort. To the extent that Harry could just relax and lean on Bill, no problem.

Harry reckoned that, by comparison, the edge of the car seat would have been immeasurably more comfortable.

All in all, he was never gladder than when the taxi pulled up in front of Stanstead airport.

Within minutes they were soaked by a sudden spring shower, hauling three bags apiece. Mr Weasley had never travelled Muggle-style before, and his method of packing for the eventuality could only have been bested by someone anticipating nuclear fallout on their home town. The four boys, who had enough contact with travelling in general and the Muggle world in particular to pack only the equivalent of a sports bag (Seamus’ was filled with nothing but condoms, all flavoured), all ended up toting some part of Mr Weasley’s luggage. Which was a matching set. In tartan.

Harry thought, on general terms, that it lowered the coolness quotient of the whole proceedings.

Even Bill’s earring - a clenched fist - didn’t help, merely making him look somewhat - effeminate.

But Mr Weasley was having such fun with the tickets, Harry couldn’t harbour the mean-spiritedness in his generous soul for longer than a few, admittedly angst-filled, seconds.

Even when Mr Weasley accidently ripped his ticket in half.

Once Harry had undertaken to repair it by magic - while the others crowded around to shield him, making them look like lost tourists and at least explaining the tartan - they made it to the departure lounge without incident. Oh, Bill set off the metal detector with his earring, and Mr Weasley got some odd looks when his luggage was scanned (one tote bag contained his entire collection of batteries), but nothing to write home about or alert the Ministry with.

Harry found it somewhat enjoyable, besides being in the presence of some of his favourite people, to sit in a public place incognito. In the aftermath of Voldemort’s final defeat, and so many deaths, his fame - or infamy - had only increased. He had taken to wearing his hair long to hide the scar, but it didn’t help much, especially when it was windy. It was interesting, although almost disquieting, to be surrounded by Muggles who had no idea who he was, didn’t know that he was the Boy Who Lived, or the Boy Who Lived Again, and that their peaceful existence was due, in part, to him.

(After all, if Voldemort had discovered Saddam Hussein, Slobadan Milosovich, George Bush and weapons of mass destruction (real or not), heaven only knew what would have happened…but the words ‘Ethnic Cleansing’ would probably have become part of his vocabulary in a major and essentially terminal way.)

His brief interlude of peaceful anonymity was rudely desecrated by Seamus when he leaned over to hiss, loudly, in Harry’s ear, ‘Cor! Check out the pair sitting by the door!’

Reluctantly - because several other people within a three-foot earshot were doing the exact same thing - Harry jerked his head in the direction indicated.

And felt, not for the first time in his life, that the world had moved without leaving a forwarding address.

For, lounging nonchalantly (the best take on the slump precipitated by slippery airport chairs seemingly undersigned for human use) not twenty feet away were two people Harry had not seen for five years and had, along with the small portion of the wizarding world who gave a damn, assumed dead.

These were not - flying in the face of narrative imperative, which would assume them to be people Harry would actually like to see - either his parents or Sirius Black. They were, in fact, a radically altered Blaise Zabini, whom Harry only recognised by his proximity to the still pale and pointed person next to him, one Draco Malfoy.

‘Jes-us, get a load of the brunette,’ Seamus groaned in undisguised appreciation, fulfilling the perverted interest of a couple of dozen listeners in.

‘Seamus, he’ll hear you!’ Harry admonished - a not unlikely proposition, considering that Seamus’ idea of a whisper could be likened to a cyclonic wind, and that the rest of his aural tone scaled up accordingly. ‘Besides,’ Harry added, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘that is Blaise Zabini, you know.’

‘It is?’ Seamus said, his eyes widening in astonishment. ‘Oh shite, I never realised.’

‘You didn’t?’ Harry said incredulously. ‘Didn’t you point them out because you recognised Malfoy?’

‘No,’ Seamus said, making an embarrassed face. ‘Skinny blondes are more your type - I didn’t notice him. So that’s Zabini, is it? I’d say he’s changed but it’s not a big enough verb.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said meditatively, wondering if he could have been mistaken. He glanced over again, but the pair’s seats were empty. At that moment, their flight was called, and Harry put phantoms of dead men out of his mind in order to focus on the nearer threat of Mr Weasley actually exploding with excitement.

They had been at the back of the queue, and it was a cheap flight on a matchbox plane. Harry counselled the others on the likelihood of their having to split up, at the same time trying to alert one of his peers to the need of keeping Mr Weasley from happening to some innocent Muggle.

Harry was proved correct, as the only seats left were on the aisle next to, almost without exception, someone’s screaming children. In the end, he took it on himself to guide Mr Weasley to one of the few free adjacent seats, and take the other. Aside from a short tussle with the seatbelt, and a firm warning not to buy any overpriced condiments from the carmine-lipsticked air attendant, Mr Weasley made for an easy charge. From the rear of the plane, he could hear Seamus - who had ordered a pint of lager in the lounge, and another as soon as he boarded - start up another and slightly slurred round of ‘We’re going to Ibiza’. He winced, and thanked the random vagaries of fate that allowed him to pretend he didn’t know Seamus from Adam.

Especially as the other air attendant - the younger, blonder one - had given him an alluring smile, unhindered by lipstick but enhanced by a rather false looking shine. One that seemed to bypass the extra-long haystack hair and glasses and settle on his kissable mouth, as always. A few minutes later Harry realised he was checking out the male attendant’s arse as he bent over the drinks tray and found himself treading deep water in yet another sexual identity crisis.

He ruminated on his romantic history as they flew, and Mr Weasley experimented with earplugs. To be honest, it was more of a pamphlet than a tome. He had once confessed, drunkenly, to Seamus that he thought he might fancy boys, and spent the rest of the night alternating between snogging and berating himself. Seamus found Harry’s denial crisis far too heavy going and merely trotted it out whenever he got bored, as opposed to pursuing any sort of relationship with him. Which was fine by Harry. Mostly. After all, he only found Seamus attractive when he was desperate, even though he was the only gay man Harry knew.

Although he was having his suspicions about Bill.

Hermione had once told Harry, disapprovingly, that he was searching for some kind of impossible ideal.

Whatever that meant.

He’d wanted Cho Chang, and got her. Eventually. And sort of. He’d wanted Ginny and Susan and Parvati, alternately, and got them. True, once he’d got them he didn’t want them any more, but his commitment issues were nothing to the fact that he’d used the ‘I think I’m gay’ line on each one as a prelude to breaking up with them.

Now the whole world, his wife and their copy of the Daily Prophet thought he was gay.

A large percentage of male wizards was said to be Very Happy about this, causing concern over falling birth rates and the sad truth that there wasn’t enough of Harry to go around.

Harry got around this quandary by pretending to be totally oblivious, a tactic that enjoyed disturbing success. He also tactfully ignored Seamus’ magazines, which he would leave lying around open even when people visited, and which invariably gave hints on stalking, attracting and shagging himself, Harry, whenever they needed a space filler.

After about half an hour, Mr Weasley fell asleep, still grinning, and proceeded to snore with the pitch and regularity of a steam train, all the while leaning on Harry’s shoulder, quite heavily. Harry made an apologetic face at the disgruntled Muggle on Mr Weasley’s other side, and looked away in embarrassment.

Right into someone’s denim-clad crotch.

Lifting his eyes slowly, Harry found himself encountering some very familiar flint-coloured eyes, which were as hard as ever.

Harry had to admit that Malfoy had made a successful assimilation into Muggle culture, with worn-look dark jeans, a U2-at-Slane t-shirt and, it appeared, Lynx aftershave. Of course Malfoy would wear that. Harry thought uncomfortably that he had been almost too successful. If Malfoy’s face hadn’t been so thin and drawn, or his hair so obviously sun-bleached to the texture of hay and the colour of bone, he could have passed for one of those Calvin Klein models.

All this passed through his head with the same speed as a deep blush rose up his neck. This, too, was the norm - or had been, when Malfoy had been around to engender the reaction with his haughty scowls and disdainful remarks. Meanwhile, Malfoy just paused minutely, squinted briefly and mouthed ‘Potter?’ before hastening on, with almost unseemly speed.

Harry didn’t know what to make of this response, and fell back on his standard course of action: ignoring it.

Still, at least he was proved right now.

Malfoy was here, and that meant Zabini was too. They were alive - very much so, and passing as Muggles into the bargain.

Which only begged the question of how on earth they had managed it.

~

The sun was splitting the rocks when the stag party emerged from the airport, each blinking like Thumbelina’s mole. Once it had better candidates than indifferent minerals, however, the sun turned its attention to them, and switched to the ‘pounding relentlessly the foolish homo sapiens’ segment of its routine.

Seamus was very merry indeed, and insisted on trying to perform a jig whenever anyone addressed him.

‘How many did he have?’ Harry asked Ron, whose own eyes were crossing in an attempt to focus on one of the three talking Harrys.

‘’m not sure,’ Ron replied at last, and giggled.

Harry sighed, and heaved his portion of Mr Weasley’s bags over to where Mr Weasley was standing near the bus shelter, prodding the poster for shampoo with avid interest.

‘Mr Weasley?’ Harry said in an undertone. ‘I think the others are completely smashed.’

He needn’t have bothered; even as the words left his mouth Ron, Bill and Seamus had linked arms and were dancing a most ungraceful cancan, to the music of a spirited but distinctly unmelodious rendition of ‘I just can’t wait to be King’. As Mr Weasley and Harry turned to watch, Harry wishing he was drunk enough not to feel thoroughly ashamed, Seamus roared out, ‘Weasley is our King! He didn’t let the Quaffle in, that’s why Weasley is our King!’

The surrounding Muggles clapped politely, and some threw coins near them. However, Harry heard more than one mutter, ‘What the hell is a Quaffle? They are English, aren’t they?’

‘They’re going to give the game away if we’re not careful!’ Harry warned urgently.

‘Ah, it’s Ron’s stag,’ Mr Weasley said fondly, and Harry could forgive him, as Ron was his first son to get married. ‘You’re meant to get hammered, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Harry had to admit, although he would have preferred that they’d waited until the multitude of bags had been dumped in some hotel room, and they had no more transport to worry about.

He wondered, uneasily, if he was channelling Mrs Weasley.

‘Come on,’ he said wearily to Mr Weasley. ‘There’s our bus over there.’

‘A bus?’ Mr Weasley’s eyes lit up. ‘You mean we get to go on more M - ordinary transport?’

‘Unfortunately,’ Harry muttered. Staggering over to the others, he made a face, and then frowned. Inching Mr Weasley’s entire luggage behind the bus shelter, as the others raced obliviously for the bus, he looked around quickly then cast a Reducing Charm, and stuffed the doll-size baggage into a pocket of his sports bag.

‘Tsk, tsk. Doing magic in front of Muggles? I should report you.’

Harry flushed nervously, even as he realised that anyone using the word Muggle wasn’t going to be one. He turned around, finding, as he’d vaguely expected from the mellifluous voice, Blaise Zabini.

‘And Harry Potter, into the bargain!’ Blaise said gleefully.

‘Full marks for observation,’ Harry said sarkily. ‘Who, exactly, would you have reported me to? The Ministry who wants your hide?’

Blaise looked momentarily discomfited, but he recovered admirably. ‘Nah. The Muggle police. They probably would have had you committed, now wouldn’t that be interesting?’

‘Not as interesting as what Mr Weasley would do without supervision,’ Harry said distractedly, noticing the huge commotion his companions were making as they ostensibly ‘queued’ for the bus. Their actions bore as much resemblance to it as horse-riding did to a motocross rally.

‘Oh my God, you’ve brought Weasleys!’ Blaise said in tones of malicious delight. ‘What’s the occasion? Or are you just trying to spread them more evenly around Europe?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Harry said measuredly, heading for the bus as Blaise, unfortunately, followed, ‘but its Ron’s stag.’

‘His what?’ Blaise looked around, apparently for large antlered mammals. Harry gave him an incredulous look.

‘His pre-wedding party, Zabini?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, I knew that. Went to one once. My own.’ Blaise blinked, looking distracted.

‘You’re married?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that makes sense. For a Slytherin.’

‘Who’s he marrying? Let me guess - the Mudblood?’

‘No,’ Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Hermione Granger is his fiancée, in fact.’

‘I see that pole is still firmly wedged up your arse,’ Blaise observed sweetly.

‘Why don’t you do yourself a favour and push off, before I actually kill you?’

‘No can do, Potter,’ Zabini said, in tones of mock regret. ‘You see, we appear to be catching the same bus.’

Harry looked up and realised that along with his friends, Draco was also among the crowd, sending him a look of unmitigated horror. Detaching himself quickly from Blaise, he made his way over to Ron, hoping he wouldn’t notice Draco. Generally, homicide was not a recommended way of beginning your married life.

Once they were safely ensconced on the worn seats, Harry passed Mr Weasley’s miniscule bags into his own keeping, and proceeded to get distinctly tipsy on the bottle of vodka Seamus had secreted in his bag. By the time they reached their hotel, Harry was reeling with the best of them, beyond caring that he kept lamping people with his suitcase. It was only about one in the afternoon, which was good, because in the event of darkness Harry reckoned they would have ended up kipping on the pavement.

As soon as they arrived in their hotel room, they decided to leave again, for a bar, any bar. Harry wanted to take a shower. This conflict of interests was speedily resolved in favour of the as yet nameless bar, Harry ensuring Seamus took his mobile so he could catch up with them later.

As he dressed in a plain white shirt and canvas trousers, in deference to the heat, Harry wondered what would happen if they encountered Malfoy and Zabini, an event which considering they were staying in the same small hotel was a distinct possibility. Annihilation was probably too weak a word for the potential result.

He rang Seamus, who gave him hiccupping directions to one of the numerous Irish pubs in the near vicinity. On arrival he found his question speedily answered, as his friends were squashed into a booth with none other than their former adversaries.

Deciding not to make an issue of it if no one else - read Ron - was going to, Harry shrugged and settled at the edge of the booth, uncomfortably close to Bill.

‘What are you having, Harry?’ Seamus roared, next to his ear.

‘Heineken!’ Harry yelled back, having been rendered temporarily deaf. Seamus clapped him on the back, almost sending him face-first into the table.

‘I could get over my irrational hatred of Gryffindors for a piece of that arse,’ Harry heard Blaise murmur, apparently apropos of nothing. Harry sent him a rather shocked look, and in response Blaise flashed him a pierced tongue.

A few minutes later Seamus returned with a tray of drinks, which he hefted onto the table carelessly before seating himself heavily opposite Harry, next to Blaise, who didn’t look too unhappy about it. Seamus passed Harry his lager and took a gulp of his own, drinking off half of it in one go.

His fortitude hardened by the alcohol, Harry risked a glance at Draco, and found to his inherent surprise that he was apparently talking to Ron. Draco’s face was set, but he didn’t appear to be overtly discourteous, while Ron was in that stage of drunkenness that made him love everybody, up to and including Crookshanks.

‘So what was it like, living in Luxembourg?’ Ron asked, only a tad unsteadily.

‘Well, we had a flat,’ Draco said, almost reluctantly. ‘On a clear day, from the balcony, you couldn’t see Luxembourg at all. This is because there was a tree in the way.’

Harry almost spat out his drink in astonishment at hearing Malfoy making a joke. The words went together like oil and ice-cream, yet impossibly it seemed to be genuine.

Draco shot him an annoyed look, and drank off his vodka and orange juice before rising, somewhat unsteadily, and informing Blaise that he was going to bed.

Watching him leave, frowning at the tiny hint of - was it regret? - that he seemed to be feeling, Harry only half-heard Blaise’s huge, false sigh.

‘It’s so sad,’ he told the ceiling. ‘Ruined for life.’

This provoked no response whatsoever from Harry, who thought that Blaise was simply being a drama queen, as usual.

‘He lost his heart,’ Blaise said, rather more sharply.

‘Did he report it missing?’ Harry asked vaguely.

Irritated, Blaise nudged Seamus. ‘Poor Draco,’ he said, without a trace of sympathy. ‘His one true love went off and got married, isn’t life cruel, deary me.’

Seamus sat open-mouthed for a few seconds, waiting patiently for Blaise’s words to register. Once they had, he waited a few seconds more, for his next thought to arrive.

‘Terrible,’ he managed at last.

Harry rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Bill’s hand had strayed to his knee.

‘They couldn’t have loved him that much if they got married - to someone else,’ he pointed out. ‘Mind you, this is Malfoy we’re talking about. Marriage to even a total stranger would be a happy alternative.’

Blaise scowled at him. ‘He never told them.’

‘That he loved them? Thank god for small mercies, I suppose. They remain unscarred for life.’

‘You are an awful bastard, Potter,’ Blaise pronounced in disgust.

‘If you expect me to feel sorry for Malfoy, of all people, you might as well wait around for those aerial pigs,’ Harry retorted, belatedly remembering he had promised himself not to make trouble during Ron’s stag. Still, pointing out the blatantly obvious shouldn’t count.

Blaise was giving him an odd look, and Bill’s hand was creeping inexorably northwards. Harry thought it would be a strategic time to get himself another drink or four. At the bar. By himself.

On exploration, he found that the other end of the bar was actually open onto the beach, onto which several patrons had unsteadily ventured. Several lumps which bore a greater resemblance to beached whales than anything else were using the sand as an impromptu bed.

Carrying a luridly-coloured spur-of-the-moment cocktail, which had an innuendo-laden name Harry rejected in favour of ‘Hello and Goodbye, Mr Brain cell’, Harry made his way down the beach, with the undefined aim of reaching the sea. What he would do once he got there, except drown seeing as he couldn’t swim, he had no idea, but he headed on regardless.

His tragic death was curtailed when he tripped over a sand dune and landed awkwardly, losing most of his drink into the bargain. He tossed the glass into a handy patch of marram grass, and found that his hands had gained a sticky sugary coating which was attracting sand grains like iron filings to a magnet.

‘Littering is bad, Potter.’

Harry got unsteadily to his feet, not bothering to turn around to face Draco. It had to be him. No one else’s voice dripped with contempt like melting fat. No one said his name like that either, like it was a disgusting swearword.

He continued walking towards the sea, with the brilliant plan of using it to wash his sticky, grainy hands. Behind him, he heard Draco breathe out impatiently through his nose. He remembered that too, from when they were briefly paired together during one term of Potions. Eventually, after their third potion had been deliberately exploded, Snape faced the inevitable, and Harry spent the next year and a half next to a perpetually snivelling Theodore Nott, in constant terror of catching his permanent-cold germs.

But when Draco was his partner, he’d made that sound on average once every five seconds, in despair of Harry’s apparently non-existent Potions skills. The fact that Harry had scored an E in his OWLs cut no mustard with him. That Harry sabotaged their potions on purpose, in hopes of wiping the smug look off Draco’s face, had probably coloured his opinions a little.

Harry stopped when he felt water seeping into his trainers, and recklessly discarded them. It was an interesting feeling, the wet sand squelching between his toes. He’d only done it once before, on a deserted beach in Australia, but it still felt just as good. Carefully rolling up his trousers, he knelt on the sand and laved his hands in the frothy, salty water.

‘Potter, what are you doing?’

He’d followed him.

‘Washing my hands,’ Harry said scornfully.

‘Right.’ There was a pause. ‘Why did you take your shoes off, then?’

‘They were - wet.’

‘Well, they’re wetter now.’ There was triumph lacing every word, and when Harry looked behind him he realised why. The incoming wave had completely swamped his shoes and socks. Not to mention his knees, he now came to realise. And he’d left his wand in the hotel room.

Even as he thought this, another wave washed in, and Harry realised he was in deeper water than he’d thought because it hit him square in the chest, the force of it knocking him back on his elbows. His trousers were completely sopping now, and the back of his shirt was drenched.

‘Shit,’ Harry said, without much energy. He’d never been to the beach as a child, and in his life had not had much chance to play in the sea. He thought he might as well make up for it now as not.

He stretched out his legs so they were completely submerged, and let his lower body sink into the sand. As the waves came in his legs floated, and Harry did something he’d never done before, and giggled.

‘Potter?’

The voice was much closer at hand. Harry glanced up into Draco’s upside down face, and saw that he was standing behind him. His expression was the picture of incredulous scorn.

‘Are you trying to drown?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said, because it was easier. ‘You’re distracting me. Go away.’

Draco looked on the point of doing just that, before his eyes narrowed. ‘I think not. Since when do I ever do what you want me to?’

‘Never,’ Harry conceded, and proceeded to ignore him, gazing out over the horizon and feeling the sand shifting under his hands.

Suddenly, Draco lowered himself into the water next to Harry, sending a splash of cold water onto Harry’s exposed chest.

‘Isn’t this nice?’ he said, with his customary sneer.

‘No,’ Harry said incredulously. ‘You’re here; the two facts are mutually exclusive.’

‘And here is your lesson for today, Potter: that was what we like to call sarcasm.’

‘What would we call it if I made you eat your own liver?’ Harry wondered.

Your slow and painful death, I think.’

Harry paddled his feet in the water, not liking the fact that Draco’s hand was resting on the sand not two inches from his own. What with tides and water and constantly moving sand, he could end up touching him.

That thought was not as disgusting as it possibly should have been.

To distract himself from the disturbing tangent his thoughts were taking, he glanced at Draco’s - awfully long - body to remind himself how much he hated him. His threadbare t-shirt was rapidly dampening and beginning to stick to his skin, clinging to every dip and curve, and there were an awful lot of those. Draco looked in serious need of a proper feed, not that Harry was feeling in any way solicitous or anything. He quickly moved on, and sniggered.

‘Malfoy, you stupid git. Don’t you know what happens when denim gets wet?’

Draco opened his mouth to snap out a sharp response, looked down and shut it again, almost sheepishly. ‘I forgot about that.’

Harry was about to use this ideal opening to laugh him to scorn, but somehow, with Draco’s head bent, the sinews of his arms deliciously tautened, the moonlight glancing off his bleached head, he just couldn’t. He was rapidly realising how dangerously close he was to, well, wanting Draco. And that was not good, because it went against everything Harry stood for, and in a lesser way because of what Blaise had told him. Casual sex was not Harry’s style, whatever that actually was.

He scrambled to his feet, dripping water like a dog, as Draco looked up in astonishment. Before he could say anything, Harry beat him to it. He just had to know, before he left this precarious situation.

‘How?’

‘I require a little more specification, even from you, I’m afraid, Potter.’

Harry grunted, and said, ‘When you left. How did you escape? Lucius told everyone you were dead. Why?’

Draco looked up at him, his expression unreadable. ‘Why exactly do you think you deserve to know that, Potter?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Never mind.’ He turned away and started sloughing up the beach. His clothes felt as if someone had slipped weights into the lining, and the breeze froze the water on his skin.

‘Potter, wait.’

Draco’s voice was as guarded as ever, and Harry turned slowly. A quick spin was out of the question, hampered as he was by two-tonne clothing.

‘You forgot your shoes, you blithering idiot.’ Draco held out his trainers, dangling them from one finger as if they carried a contagious disease.

‘Oh.’ Harry’s voice was small, and he reached for them. Quick as a trained cobra, Draco’s other hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Harry gritted his teeth; Draco’s hands were very cold.

Draco leaned in close to Harry, so that the stiff outlines of his trainers were crushed between them. He spoke in a hurried whisper, as if the words pained him.

‘You really want to know?’

‘It was just idle curiosity, Malfoy,’ Harry said. ‘But yes, I have a taste for useless information. I’m a nosy person.’

‘Fine. Come back here tomorrow, and I’ll tell you. It’ll cost you, though.’

‘Will I have to keep it a secret?’

‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Draco said, shrugging. His eyes flickered for a moment, as if the flint had struck out a flame.

‘How much?’

‘As much as you can pay,’ Draco breathed, with the ghost of a snake-like smile, before dropping Harry’s hand like a hot coal and disappearing into the night.

Man, but this has some mother long paragraphs. Cont. in next post.

 
 
Current Mood: crappycrappy
Current Music: 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams', Greenday
 
 
 
gabbysun on November 24th, 2004 10:40 pm (UTC)
I read the whole thing with this huge beam on my face which is crazily rare for me, because I usually have a very solemn face when I'm reading. BUT I LOVE THIS.

AHHH in the beginning I felt so bad for Harry, but I couldn't keep from cracking up. And dude, Bill? EW. C'mon, even if he's got what maybe passes for a stereotypical gay look, we all know he's straight.

But poor, poor Harry.

You know, you could just almost convert me to H/D. ALMOST though, and I mean almost, because I believe Harry's fated to die a virgin and loveless at the series' end. So far I still think he's straight. Sorry. ;D
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 25th, 2004 11:10 am (UTC)
As your icon so concisely puts it, SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Oh, that...I'd just been reading some v.v.v.v. bad (and bad in the bad sense, not bad in the good-but-wicked sense) orgy fics on Chocolate Frog, which probably accounts for it...and yeah, him and Fleur? Made for each other.

I'm glad you liked it! But honestly, I'm here to amuse, and if you can be amused and *not* converted, I'll be just as happy. I think he'll die in the end, too, not quite unloved but alone in himself...at least, I want him to! Revered forever as a hero, but unknown for himself...oh, and he is straight. Most likely. (But you have to admit that Remus and Sirius AREN'T. Please!) I'm just playing on the bisexual sliver that we're all supposed to have *shrugs*. Am thinking of writing a Harry/Ginny epic, though, 'cause the H/D goodfic ship is too crowded to break into!
gabbysun on November 28th, 2004 02:38 am (UTC)
BADFIC SCARES ME. :( And I can totally believe LeansTowardTheLeft!Bill, but with the amounts of slash floating around the general fanverse I don't see how the human species won't die out before the series is through.

Yeah, maybe the 'unloved' was going too far. But definitely unfulfilled physically. xD And what you say is EXACTLY how Harry should go. Spot-on! (R/S? Like, only the most canonical non-canon ship ever. The best.)

Am thinking of writing a Harry/Ginny epic, though, 'cause the H/D goodfic ship is too crowded to break into!

While I'm sure that any Harry/Ginny of yours would be awesome, there is no way that you could not successfully elbow your way into the H/D ship. Your fics are excellent. SO YOU SHOULD TRY. And I mean it.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 28th, 2004 11:18 am (UTC)
Leans to the Left? Good way of putting it, but for the HPverse, it has to be 'flying that side of the Quidditch pitch'! Yeah, several authors josh about that, ie 'It's a wonder that the wizarding race didn't die out centuries ago, Snape thought in amusement'.

I have to agree, R/S, it don't get much more almost-canon than that. I bet she thinks it but doesn't want to say it outright...at least, I reckon so!

Hehehe! Thank you! *glomps* but the plot bunnies have already multiplied at an alarming rate and they MUST BE FED!!
gabbysun on November 29th, 2004 03:17 pm (UTC)
*snicker* AAAHHHHH. Exactly.

The majority of most fangirls agree with you there, judging by the amount of fan creations dedicated to the pair. xD (OMG IMA POET AN' I DIDN'T KNOE IT.)

What do they eat!? :O!?
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 30th, 2004 11:39 am (UTC)
Yeah, but what's not cool is INSISTING on it. When all's said and done, it's fun to play with the characters, but until we find Remus' diary we will NEVER KNOW.

Oh, plot ideas. Ravenously. xD.
gabbysun on November 30th, 2004 11:49 am (UTC)
I think it's rather fun . . . ner to have the hope than the reality in cases like this. Canon enjoys madly tangling even the best fanon creations into horrible messes. :(

xD
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on November 30th, 2004 11:52 am (UTC)
You wouldn't believe...the word funner was a whole plot line in my first H/D fic...must post that, actually.

There's a point where you wonder who is better: the canon author or the fanficcers? Because while the canon is the mother, who knows what the child could become...?
gabbysun on November 30th, 2004 09:12 pm (UTC)
Yes! Post!

I think that in some — if not most — ways fanficcers outdo the canon author, but there is something very real about an author's creations. Basically I'm saying that even most excellent fan-created character, situation, plot is still an OC, and is not as solid until it is seen in canon.

. . . am I making any sense? xD;
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on December 1st, 2004 12:21 pm (UTC)
-.O We'll see...it's VERY BAD.

Absolutely! That's what I was trying to say. The quality can be far better, because the fanficcer has everything - the characters, their descriptions, settings, backgrounds. To be honest, we should all be excellent at it, because everything's handed us on a plate! I reckon a lot of us are like me - couldn't plot for crap on our own.

And of course props to any author for creating such an inspirational, cool playground!
gabbysun on December 1st, 2004 02:27 pm (UTC)
Psh, whatever. And oh well anyway. I'd read it! :D

xD D'OH. Have you ever tried an origific?

Yes, like the HPverse? I mean, wow. That's pretty genius. And then to keep churning out books that don't ever really falter enought to make a dent in the track record, wow. :D
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on December 2nd, 2004 02:36 pm (UTC)
To answer your question: yes, hundreds! That all die after the first chapter. The most I've ever written is 30,000 words for Nano, some kind of fantasy thing...I reckon I need more practice.
gabbysun on December 2nd, 2004 02:44 pm (UTC)
You should let me read them.

I'd gush with brilliant witty words that inspire!

. . .

UM.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on December 9th, 2004 12:32 pm (UTC)
How is it I did not read this? *shakes head* STUPID EMAIL IS NEARLY AS BAD AS STUPID FLIST. AHHH TECHNOLOGY.

Sure, you can if you like...*shrugs* I guess I could post them here, or something...Okay, I just searched my memory, which is chockfull of fanfic, but I only seem to have my Nano stuff saved! Strange. Anywho, would you want some of that? There is the gay, but...fantasy? I dunno. If I'm insecure about my fanfic, double it for original stuff, 'm afraid. xD
gabbysun on December 9th, 2004 03:53 pm (UTC)
xD Blame it on LJ!? It infects all it touches.

um . . . YES PLEASE? xD The gay is fine. I'M OKAY WITH GAY! ;D
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on December 10th, 2004 06:03 am (UTC)
It's certainly addictive, I know that much.

I WILL! And it's not real gay anyway. Watch out, world!
gabbysun on December 13th, 2004 02:46 pm (UTC)
Oh, so addictive.

xD AWRIGHT.