Wreathing Havoc.
Title: Wreathing Havoc.
Author: Pekeleke
Pairing(s): Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter.
Rating: M
Challenge: Written for the adventdrabbles 2021. Prompt #3: Yule Goat.
Word Count: 887
Warnings: Explicit Language. Dramatic Draco. Humor.
Disclaimer: The characters, setting, and the HP franchise are owned by JKR and not me. I make no profit from writing this piece of fanfiction.
A/N: Unbeated.
Summary: "I like bathrooms that smell like gardens, Potter," Draco sniffs, "I can't go in the type of stinky hellholes you frequent. I have refined sensibilities and a delicate stomach."
Wreathing Havoc.
Draco is having a terrible day. Turns out that Juliet messed up the spacing on six of the thirty-two seasonal garlands that hang above the ground floor fireplaces and, instead of recognizing her mistake and accepting the justified dressing down Draco delivers, refuses to correct the half-inch difference on the grounds that it's barely noticeable, and only 'a stuck up git like you would notice it, anyway.' Draco doesn't much care to be so insulted by a subordinate before his second morning cuppa, so he sends her up to Scotland to deal with the goatherd who has promised to provide them with twenty-five goats for the Department Of Magical Games And Sport's office party next Wednesday. Why those Quidditch-obsessed idiots insist on having bloody 'Yule Goats' bleating about during their annual Christmas soiree, Draco can not understand. The stupid things are just regular goats sporting Santa hats, and Draco hates them. Last year, they tried to eat his favorite silk scarf. He'd had to donate it to his favorite house elf. He'd been heartbroken.
After his argument with Juliet, Draco decides to address the lopsided garland problem himself. He is perched atop a stepladder, wrestling his fourth pile of prickly greenery into submission, when Potter shows up.
"Looking good, Malfoy," The savior says in that cheerful, friendly way of his that makes Draco grind his teeth. Potter's friendliness is another thing that sets them apart. Everyone thinks Scarhead is charming, while Draco gets the stuck-up git label. Him! An exquisitely educated pureblood heir who was waltzing by the age of three, and attended finishing school in Marseille!
"Are you blind?" Draco grumbles, looking down his nose at Potter, "It doesn't look good at all. It's half an inch too high on the left side."
Potter is so rude he isn't even looking Draco in the face. The idiot continues to stare somewhere in the region of Draco's middle as he shrugs casually and replies, "Trust me, Malfoy, it doesn't look the slightest bit lopsided from here."
"Really?"
"Sure. It's firm and full, and altogether glorious."
"Hum. I don't think it's aligned yet," Draco frowns at the garland and pulls out his ruler from where he stashed it on the back pocket of his pants. He'd left his robes in his office, knowing they'd only get in the way. Draco bends forward slightly, all the better to measure the distance between the edge of the wreath and the top of the fireplace, and Potter starts coughing for no reason. Draco looks back down at him, concerned. Potter is a bit red in the face, and his famous green gaze is just a tad too shiny.
"Are you alright? You shouldn't be loitering around here if you're allergic to winter greens."
Potter looks at him funny, "I'm not allergic to anything."
Draco rolls his eyes at the git's pointless posturing, "Sure. And you weren't hacking up a lung just now."
"I wasn't— look, I came by to tell you that the note you received turned out to be a dud. There's no magical signature. It was probably a prank."
"A dud," Draco repeats, unimpressed, "Is that the best you can do? Someone threatens to kill me, and you don't even spend twenty-four hours on the case?"
Potter's gaze turns frosty, "Nobody is trying to kill you, you, berk. It was an offer of sex. Pretty amazing and energetic sex by the sound of it."
Draco is so affronted that he leaves the garland hanging and climbs down his ladder just to stab his pointy index finger into Potter's obnoxiously buff chest, "What kind of deviant believes that threatening to pull a lover's cock out of joint is even remotely sexy?"
"A dragon tamer. A sex god. The type of bloke every other bloke wants to be," Potter mutters defensively.
"Most dragon tamers are ridiculous adrenaline junkies. And sex gods are overrated. Who the heck wants to bed one of those? It's hard enough to look confident when you're trying to get it off with a run-of-the-mill idiot in The Prickly Porcupine's toilet."
Potter goggles at him, "The Prickly Porcupine. Are you serious? That place has potpourri sachets on the vanity counters!"
"So?"
"Everyone I know gets it on inside the last stall at The Wizard's Trumpet," Potter explains.
"I like bathrooms that smell like gardens, Potter," Draco sniffs, "I can't go in the type of stinky hellholes you frequent. I have refined sensibilities and a delicate stomach."
"Merlin! Ron is right," Potter says, apropos of nothing, and visibly wilts where he stands.
Draco frowns suspiciously, "And what, precisely, is Weasley right about?"
"Nothing! I just— I suck at gardening, you know? I kill every flower Neville gives me."
Draco blinks, thoroughly bemused. He doesn't give a rats' arse about Potter's gardening woes. He hums in acknowledgment and climbs back up his ladder as subtly as he can. Potter might be cute, but he's also crazy. Maybe surviving two killing curses fucks a man in the head. Poor Potter.
Draco proceeds to rearrange his hopelessly lopsided wreath, studiously ignoring Potter. The auror hangs around, staring at him forlornly for the most awkward ten minutes of Draco's week before sighing dramatically and stomping noisily away. Draco is already nursing a terrible headache by that time, courtesy of Harry Potter.