Side-Along.pdf

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M/M
Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Hermione
Granger/Ron Weasley
Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter
Mildly Dubious Consent, Humor, Anal Sex, Sirius Black's Flying
Motorbike, Motorcycle Sex
Harry/Draco Erised
Published: 2013-12-21 Words: 22058
Side-Along
by
lumosed_quill
Summary
If this wasn't a curse then it was Hell. Because surely, in Hell, all roads would lead to
Harry Potter's living room.
Notes
Warnings:
possible dub-con…but possibly not (that's real helpful, isn't it?)
Content/Enticements:
my attempt at humor, ust, banter, bickering, Harry being
unintentionally super hot, and some angst…oh and smut! Other pairings include past
Harry/Ginny, current Ginny/Dean, Hermione/Ron as well as other canonical Weasleys.
Author's Notes:
Thank you to my beta! , you said you enjoyed many genres, and I tried
to do the humor and snark, the heavy UST, the angst, and of course:
"The fire between
them and the fact they shouldn't work but they do – perfectly."
I hope you enjoy it!
See the end of the work for more
notes
If this wasn't a curse then it was Hell. Because surely, in Hell, all roads would lead to Harry
Potter's living room.
"Malfoy," Potter intoned with an eyebrow raised – just the one, mind you – as, once again, Draco
found himself in Potter's house, this time having tumbled out of the Floo.
"Fuck!" Draco spat, looking around himself in disbelief.
Potter turned to him and crossed his arms. "By any chance is your life malfunctioning?"
Draco sneered at him, picked up the briefcase he'd dropped, and stomped off toward Potter's front
door.
He stepped out onto the pavement, through the glamors and magicks, and frowned on the curb.
Draco pulled his wand and thrust it out. Moments later, a Knight Bus pulled up.
"Ah, Mr. Malfoy, where ought you be going to today, sir?"
Draco shoved his wand back into its holster and stepped aboard. He bypassed Stan Shunpike and
glared instead at the driver. "You are to take me straight to the Ministry of Magic, do you
understand?"
The driver nodded.
"No, I need you to answer me. The Ministry of Magic. Do you understand?"
"Oi. I understand, lad."
"Straight there, do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Nowhere else."
"Yes, yes."
Draco straightened his suit coat, his tie. "Good."
"Please have a nice kip, Mr. Malfoy," Shunpike said. "Could I get you a hot chocolate?"
"No, you can't get me a hot chocolate," Draco growled. He marched up the stairs to the second
floor, intending to get his parchments in order for the morning meeting on the way.
But no sooner had he reached the landing than Shunpike called, "The Ministry of Magic!"
Draco turned and marched back down the stairs. He stepped off the bus and...
"Wait!" Draco called, turning, but the bus had already boomed off down the lane. He turned back
to the bleak facade of Grimmauld Place. He ran a weary hand over his face. "You have got to be
joking," he murmured beneath his breath.
There seemed to be nothing for it; Draco lugged his briefcase up the walkway, through magicks
that allowed him for no apparent good reason, and he saw Potter there, leaned in his own
doorway, a faded red dish towel slung over his shoulder.
Waiting for him.
Draco stormed toward him. "Is this your doing? What in the name of Merlin have you done to
me?"
"Why would I want you to keep coming back here?" Potter asked reasonably. "Do you think I
salivate for your scintillating company, Malfoy? I should hope it's not me; I'm getting a raw deal as
you only stay a few seconds, shout, 'Fuck,' and then bolt. What is it now? Four times?"
"I have to get to work," Draco huffed.
"Malfoy, I don't think that's going to happen."
"Let me use your Floo. Perhaps it will work the other way around."
Potter shrugged. "Suit yourself." He pushed out of the doorway and opened the door. "And since
you asked so politely and all."
Draco followed him into the house and down the long hallway, wishing Potter would get a move
on. Draco checked his pocket watch. In five minutes, he'd officially be late.
Potter led him into his study. "I'm running low on Floo powder, so don't go wild or anything."
Draco shoved his hand into the ugly urn Potter provided while Potter watched him with a bland
expression. Once again, Draco's gaze was caught by the red dish towel.
"Do you do your dishes like a Muggle?" Draco couldn't help but ask.
"I was a Muggle for eleven years of my life, Malfoy," Potter explained with what seemed like
barely concealed anger.
"No you weren't," Draco muttered under his breath as he turned to the hearth.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, Potter." Draco threw the powder into the fireplace, stepped into the green flames, and
emphatically enunciated, "The Ministry of Magic."
He watched Potter and his towel twist and swirl into oblivion while he himself went shuttling
through the Floo network, his elbows drawn in tight, hands clutching his briefcase. After several
seconds, he ejected from the Floo with such force that he tumbled end over end, finally coming to
a stop on his arse in the middle of...
"Bloody
fuck."
"Come on," Potter said with what seemed like a distinctly amused half-second quirk to this lips.
"Hermione's in your division. We'll let her know you're going to be late." Potter held out his hand
as though to help Draco up.
Draco firmed his lips and got to his feet on his own, brushing off his suit, half-expecting Doxies to
come flying out of it from the state of Potter's floor.
"Do you want to talk to her or shall I?" Potter asked.
"Who, Granger?"
"Yeah."
"You, I suppose," Draco said. Although, he did work with her, and it wasn't as though he couldn't
do it himself. Still, he let Potter handle it since it was his stupid Floo, and as Potter knelt on the
floor in front of the hearth, Draco turned his attention to the décor rather than suffer that dip in
Potter's denims as he stuck his face into the flames.
It was precisely how one might imagine Potter's house to be kept: cluttered with all manner of
nonsense, from worthless art on the walls and tasteless knick-knacks to stacks of books and
parchments tottering in the corners and on every surface, with photos of his smiling friends and
their recent escapades laughing everywhere and making Draco feel nauseous.
Plus, nothing matched. Nothing was chosen with the care he'd have given. It looked like a second-
hand store had mated with Flourish and Blotts and conceived a lovechild.
"She wants to talk to you."
"Excuse me?"
"Hermione. She wants to talk to you." Potter lugged himself off the floor and promptly left Draco
there with Hermione Granger's head.
Draco, far from wanting to kneel on Potter's floor, squatted before the hearth.
"So, you're cursed then," Granger began.
"It appears so."
"And whatever mode of travel you try, you end up in Harry's house."
"That's correct," he sniffed.
"Have you tried a broom yet?"
"No, but nothing else has worked; why would that?"
"Harry has multiple brooms. Maybe it's only your--"
"His Floo doesn't work for me either."
Granger sighed, biting her fiery lip.
"Look, I'm late," Draco told her. "Would you tell Rogers?"
"Of course. Do you want to owl me your report?"
Draco sighed. He looked around Potter's study once more. As though on cue, a photograph of
Ronald Weasley in Muggle ski gear tossed his head back and laughed uproariously. Draco fought
a sneer. It would be pathetically stupid to sneer at a photograph, even one so imbecilic. He looked
back down at Granger. "No. I'll try a broom. If it works, I should make it there before the end of
the meeting at least."
"All right then," Granger nodded. "Oh and could you please remind Harry about Saturday night?"
He was about to answer with an affronted, 'Merlin's pants, no,' but then he remembered that
though she had once punched him in the face, now she appeared to be trying to help him. He
swallowed down his ire. "Fine."
When her head had disappeared from the grate, Draco stood once more, sneezed from the dust
that rose as he did so, and then went in search of Potter.
He found him in the kitchen, as the dish towel had suggested he might be.
"I need a broom," said Draco perfunctorily.
Potter wiped his hands on the towel, turning from the sink. He
was
doing dishes by hand. What a
complete tosser. Draco's gaze dropped to where his jumper was pushed up his arms. The hair on
Potter's forearms was still damp. There was a line where a wristwatch once was.
There was a line where a wedding band once was, too.
Potter tossed the towel aside. "All right then. Follow me."
Draco lifted his gaze from Potter's wet hands and cleared his throat.
Potter led him out to what was clearly an
Engorgioed
back garden. They walked across a vast
lawn that was really more like a meadow, dotted with wildflowers and littered with little shrubs
and benches and such. It was ridiculous really. Why should a single man and one complete
arsehole of a house elf need all that space?
Draco did have to admit, though, that it was kept better than the house at least.
The summer sun beat down on their heads, and Draco dearly wished to take off his suit jacket, but
he didn't dare. It would feel too much like he was staying – like he'd been defeated. The last thing
he wanted to do was make himself comfortable.
Potter walked up to a large shed beneath a huge oak tree at the edge of the property. He produced
a very Muggle-looking key and opened a very also-Muggle-looking padlock, removing it from a
heavy pewter chain.
"Colloportus too difficult for you, Potter?"
Potter turned to him with an unfazed smirk. "Afraid of getting your hands dirty, Malfoy?"
"Yes, actually."
At that, Potter broke into an actual smile. He might have even laughed a little bit.
Draco frowned deeply, and Potter hauled open the metal doors. "Lumos," he called, and the entire
shed – which was really the size of a large garage – lit up.
They stepped inside, and though there was an impressive rack of every kind of broom imaginable
lining one wall, Draco couldn't help but notice the hulk of something else in the middle of the
room under a tarp. The kickstand was just visible.
"Is that...?" Draco began.
"That's none of your business, Malfoy," Potter interrupted. His jaw had tightened, and there was a
small muscle twitching in his cheek.
Even Draco himself realized his rudeness. For lack of anything better to do, he straightened his tie.
"Take your pick," Potter said, then, gesturing to the brooms. He settled his hands on his hips as
Draco slowly walked the line of them. "The new Clean Sweep is quite good for city travel. They
charmed it with automatic Muggle wards."
Draco touched its twigs. Tightly bound. Sturdy. He moved on to the Nimbus Classic.
"I wouldn't recommend that one," Potter said. "I crashed it a week ago. Haven't had the time yet
to fix it."

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