sisika (sisika) wrote,
sisika
sisika

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I'd Rather Not, Buddy Boy 1/3


Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and Co. I make no money from them. And I'm also not a perverted bunny.
Title: I'd Rather Not Buddy Boy
Author: sisika 
Pairing: H/D (Because they are my OTP.  And I'm a crazed fan girl)
Warning: Slash. The only thing that keeps me alive. Oh, and coke.

Summary:

Harry promptly falls out of his chair. It hurts. The carpet is, really, very scratchy. And his head bangs into his desk, and the clock falls off the wall because the rest of his body hits the wall.


Oh how he hates his life.

Chapter One


 

It’s dark.

Why? Because the Ministry is empty, and no one likes working overtime on a Friday when they can go back to their wife and kids and dog and pint of beer. And they're trying to save energy to cut back on the muggle taxes they have to pay to the asshole Prime Minister.

Harry is fortunate, he thinks, because the last time he got a pint with Ron it turned into nine and Hermione had a fit and gave them both lectures of sobering charms and drinking responsibly.

Hermione is slowly turning into Mrs. Weasley. And Ron has always been Mr. Weasley. But the fetish for muggle appliances has been replaced with a fetish for frizzy hair, intelligence and a very intense love for chess.

***

Where was he? Yes, his tiny hovel-y office in the dark depths of the Ministry, where his files fester on the cheap scratchy carpet and the door squeaks and the roof leaks every time someone takes a leak in the toilet on the fifth floor just off the Auror Training Ladies Changing Room. That’s not very often mind, it’s been two years since the war, and most women are still too busy popping out children just in case Voldemort suddenly appears from behind a shrub.

And the ones that aren’t very much into procreation (e.g. Hermione) are taking over the world. And that can’t be done, (as Harry very well knows) from the Auror department.

People either assume that you’re all brawn and no brains or that you’re Dad’s been pretty influential when it came to giving a healthy donation from time to time.

But what he is really concerned about (because Harry really doesn’t care about World Domination) is the squeaky door and the leaky carpet because he saved them all from getting killed by a maniac, and this is how they repay him?

With a tiny hovel and a desk job with no field action because he didn’t bloody realise they’d still make him do training.

For three bloody years.

With a minimum wage and no regular hours, and did he mention, the terrible, terrible, office?

And yet, here he was. Shitting himself, because Code Breaking and Enemy Line Infiltration was not his best bit of the course at all. And even though he kept putting the little piece of paper Richards had owled him through the Code Breaker 2000, it came up with crap like “Sushi. Skirt. Sandwich.” and “Sex. On. The. Beach.”

 Which Harry’s sure, is illegal.                                          

Some time passes. The paper is getting worn. The Code Breaker 2000 is making whirring sounds that are alarming Harry further and his watch says it is precisely ten at night.

 And then Harry looks up, because the door squeaked, and by the door stands Draco Malfoy. In an orange jumpsuit.

And Harry can’t help it. He squeaks. Like the door, only mortifying because Draco Malfoy has only regarded him with cool appraisal, not squeaked like a teenage girl.

And he has squeaked.

Why? It’s not because he hasn’t seen Draco Malfoy for the one and a half years since the trial that set him and his family free. It’s not because Malfoy’s hair is long, shiny and sleek, it’s not because his cheekbones are like twin peaks that Harry would love to conquer. Not because his lips are as tempting as strawberries, and probably just as delicious. And definitely not because his chin is so pointy. Because pointy is bad. It must be the ugly, burnt orange of the jumpsuit then.

Draco Malfoy opens his mouth.

And a litany of insults doesn’t come out.

What does however, is even more mortifying.

“I need to clean your office sir. About what time do you think you will be leaving?”

Harry promptly falls out of his chair. It hurts. The carpet is, really, very scratchy. And his head bangs into his desk, and the clock falls off the wall because the rest of his body hits the wall.

Oh how he hates his life.

 

TBC
 


 
Tags: drarry, ewe, fanfic, fluff, h/d, i'd rather not buddy boy, sisika
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