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Breakfast that Saturday morning was rather dull, consisting of porridge and slightly burnt toast. Harry figured this was a sign of a fairly unexciting day, as breakfast tended to regularly reflect the rest of the day’s events at Hogwarts. When something new and thrilling was about to happen (like Dumbledore suddenly announcing the existence of heretofore unheard-of school events, mysterious characters appearing in the stands during a Quidditch match, or Harry not having to watch his best friends arguing or flirting for once in his life), breakfast was generally something like crispy rashers of bacon or absolutely divine sausages and tomatoes.
When it was about to be a bad day (Voldemort was about to arrive, Umbridge had a new evil plan, Hagrid forgot to lock something’s cage, etc.), there was nearly inedible food: watery grayish eggs, chunky pumpkin juice, and blackened papery bread. (Nearly inedible, because Harry was certain he had seen Ron and Goyle, at separate times, eating bad-day breakfast.) Personally, Harry figured bad-day breakfast was generally terrible because the house elves were too terrified to do proper work.
And when it was going to be a particularly boring day of History of Magic lectures and the usual Hermione-Ron banter, breakfast was equally dull. Sometimes there was bland oatmeal, other times under-flavored fried bread that was salvageable with oceans of jam, and more often than not, porridge.
So, whilst in the middle of his porridgey mastication, the last thing he expected was for Draco Malfoy to come strolling into the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a pin-up boy. What he expected even less, if it was possible, was for said pin-up boy to walk straight to the Gryffindor table, lean his scantily-clad form over Harry’s shoulder, and whisper, “The Parlor, one o’clock,” before slithering out again. After all, Harry’s gibbering brain supplied, proper school uniform was required within the Great Hall.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice broke through the haze, “Are you all right? Did Malfoy say something to you?”
“W-what was that?” Harry stuttered.
“Er, Malfoy not wearing a shirt under his school robe?” Ron answered practically.
A decent portion of the females (and a handful of males) sitting in the Hall seemed to agree with Harry’s reaction more than Ron’s.
Harry really wasn’t sure why he was reacting so much. It was just a scantily-clad boy, and boys were disgusting. They were hairy and thick and sweaty and smelled bad, and they weren’t pretty at all. Except Malfoy had been shaven so close his cheeks had been smooth, and he had smelled like soap, and he was, after that display, obviously quite slim and pretty. Even for a boy.
Hermione was looking concerned again, so Harry quickly placated her with assurances that he was fine, and just a bit disturbed at having Malfoy look so…unclad. Also, the whole whispering bit, but he figured Ron would have a fit if Harry mentioned that, oh right, the half-naked bloke I’m supposed to hate with all my guts just asked me to get ice cream with him at Hogsmeade, so Harry told them Malfoy’s whispering had just been something insulting. Which, if Harry thought about it enough, it probably was.
Harry knew he probably should stand Malfoy up, primarily because Malfoy was probably planning on standing him up and laughing about it later. Or maybe this was the work of some sort of potion or hex, and it would probably wear off by the afternoon. In any case, Harry had very little hope that the whole thing was not going to embarrass him terribly, so he found it rather odd that he felt somewhat like going anyway. Ron and Hermione would probably want some lovey-dovey time to themselves, now that they were finally together, and Harry rather preferred his frozen delights without feeling like a third wheel. Plus, after Malfoy had hovered over him looking like that…
His mind was stuttering and jabbering again.
Shortly after noon, Ron had finally worked up the courage to ask Hermione to eat with him at Madam Puddifoot’s. Now, why Ron had difficulties asking a girl he was already dating to lunch was beyond Harry, and why either of them (especially Hermione, who was much too clever) would want to go to Madam Puddifoot’s for any reason was especially beyond Harry. However, this left him with a good excuse to go wandering about Hogsmeade alone. It also left him with just the right amount of time to angst over his choices (To hot-boy or not to hot-boy? Holy Merlin’s scraggly beard, I just called him hot!), before finally shutting off the mental tap to his brain and simply moving his feet.
In a flash, he was already standing at the door of The Parlor, the brand new ice cream store that had opened in Hogsmeade shortly after the war. Oh, but his body had not had any trouble deciding. Harry started feeling slightly disturbed by the fact that the rest of him was apparently in strong agreement about whether or not to hot-boy, but quickly twisted the mental tap further to stop the thought leakage.
He walked straight into the place and took a look around. There were several groups and not a few couples sitting at booths and tables throughout the room, including one group consisting of Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott, but Draco himself was nowhere to be seen.
Harry sighed, denying vehemently to himself that he was disappointed, and slid into a nearby booth, after which he figured to check the time. It was only 12:45. Oh, well, that would explain why Dra—er, Malfoy had not arrived just yet. Harry found himself tapping his fingers irritatingly on the table as he waited.
“Impatient, are we, Harry?” a female voice interrupted smugly, emphasizing his name with a marked smirk in her voice. He turned to see Pansy Parkinson, looking quite like a cat that just ate pretty much everything in the house.
“What do you want, Parkinson?” he demanded as civilly as possible, making sure he was gripping his wand under the table.
“My, my, darling,” she answered, “You’ll have to try harder than that, if we’re to be honorary in-laws in the future.” Harry blinked at her, confused.
“Er. What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, Harry, Draco is my honorary…brother, shall we say? And you are soon to be his dearly beloved—”
“Excuse me?!”
“His boyfriend. His lover. His drooling sex slave. Whatever.” Pansy leaned nonchalantly on the table with one hand, while checking the purple-painted nails of the other.
“In-laws?” Harry worked out.
“Well, of course, darling. Draco is dreadfully possessive, so I’m sure once you’re his, you’ll really be his, and that, of course, means some sort of marriage-like relationship. Thus, in-laws. Honorary ones, of course, but in-laws nonetheless.”
“Er. I thought you were, you know, his girlfriend.”
Pansy laughed, with real humor, and Harry found himself wondering if all Slytherins were so strange and disturbed.
“Darling,” she told him, “Were, is the key part of that sentence. It was a long while back, and it was really just because our parents kept saying it would be such a good match. Draco is horribly sensitive to what his parents say, you know. Honestly, though, he’s bad at handling me as a lover, and I’d prefer a man who acts less like a girl than me, you know what I mean?”
The only thing that came to Harry’s mind was: “So…you broke up and he turned into a ponce?”
“Not quite, and I trust Pansy will stop spreading her venom around here,” interrupted Draco’s patrician voice. “Hello, Potter. Goodbye, Pansy.”
“But, Draco, darling, if I promise to be quiet, can I watch?”
“Goodbye, Pans.” Pansy pouted, but quickly obeyed.
“Before I go any further,” said Harry, his mental tap allowed to flow restricted amounts for the time being, “You are going to tell me what this is about. If it’s a prank, or a dare, or some sort of magical compulsion. If you’re doing it so you can tell everyone I’m a ponce. If you just think it’s amusing to strut around without a shirt. Whatever the reason, I’m going to hear it. Now.”
“Are you a ponce?” Draco asked curiously.
“Beside the point, now come on.” And then Draco was pouting, and Harry had to shut off the mental tap yet again to prevent the girly “he’s so adorable” thoughts from coming through.
“Fine. The thing is, I’m not sure if I’m a ponce.”
“Er. Go on.”
“So I decided to ask a bloke to go out with me to test it out.”
“Here?” Harry stopped himself before asking why not Madam Puddifoot’s, because he honestly had no desire to remind Draco and be dragged to the disproportionately girly place. Draco rolled his eyes.
“Well, I wasn’t about to take a bloke to Madam Puddifoot’s. Only girls like that place, and since the whole point of being a ponce is that we’re both blokes, I figured we may as well get ice cream, which is delicious, in a place that’s not blindingly pink and purple.”
“Er, suits me fine, I guess.” Draco beamed, and Harry was shocked to actually find it rather nice. “So…what about the rest of it? The, er, dress code violation at breakfast? Me?”
“Well, I couldn’t figure out who to ask, and Pansy said I should ask someone in school I think about a lot. And since I spend pretty much all of my time thinking about how to annoy you or being annoyed with you, I figured I should ask, um, well, you.”
Harry just stared. Apparently Slytherin logic really was that twisted. Draco forged ahead.
“And I told her you’d say no, so she said I shouldn’t give you a chance to say no, and then maybe your Gryffindor nobility would kick in and prevent you from standing me up. And she said looking sexy generally helps, so I let her dress me.”
“You did what?”
“I said, Pansy. Dressed. Me. Do you have some sort of hearing issue?”
“N-no, but…” He was quite torn between telling Draco to let Pansy dress him forever and feeling rather envious of the girl. Wait, envious might be the wrong word. Possibly more of, inordinately and unreasonably jealous?
“Anyway, you liked it, didn’t you?”
“Er,” said Harry. The conversation had reminded him that Draco had not changed since breakfast, and thus his chest was still open for public view from under his robe. The robe cut they had used since third year had a silver clasp that closed at a single point in the center of the chest, and left the rest of the robe flaring back. Draco’s sitting position had pulled the fabric of his robe taut, stretching the flaps wide and revealing the edge of his left pectoral. “Ngh,” Harry tried again, his mind treacherously calling up inappropriate images. Most of them involved licking and heated, almost battle-like snogging.
“You know, Potter, I rather enjoy bringing you to incoherency. I don’t think I ever managed by getting you angry. I think I could get used to this ponce thing.” Draco’s eyes followed Harry’s line of sight to his pale chest, and a smirk spread rapidly across Draco’s face. He shifted minutely, pulling the robe away to reveal the entire left side of his bare chest. “Interested, Potter? My mouth is up here.”
Harry’s gaze flew upward, but the second he saw Draco’s face, Harry knew he had made a terrible mistake. Draco was giving him the softest pleading eyes Harry had ever seen Draco use on anyone, and a fingertip was poised at his mouth. “Uh,” Harry replied coherently, thinking he really needed his brain right about now. Unfortunately, all the girly thoughts that he had stopped earlier were now all waiting at the mouth of the tap for the floodgates to open. Once Harry allowed his brain to function again, he was inundated by a nonstop wave of gushing soppiness, which seemed to make him find way too many things about Draco adorable.
And then, once the residual sop had cleared off, the mental faucet was flowing pure, unadulterated boy-hormones. At least, Harry figured, he was somewhat more coherent now and could get sweet revenge. He reached a hand over the table, and, just because he wanted to, swept his fingers over Draco’s revealed skin. Draco made a whimpering sort of noise, as if he were torn between liking it and being unsure of whether he should like it. Harry smirked.
“I think I could get used to this ponce thing as well.”
“Bo-oys!” a whiny girl’s voice interrupted. “If you’re going to be groping each other, don’t do it here, or we’ll all get kicked out.”
Pansy’s face appeared around the edge of the booth, followed quickly by Blaise’s. They looked as stern and didactic as Harry had ever seen them.
“Now, boys,” said Blaise, “While I think we’d both be huge fans of the show, this is a public venue, and I think you should order your ice cream and go back to the castle.” As an afterthought, he added, “You’re free to use our dorm, though.”
“No!” snapped Draco, “You’re both just giant perverts who want to watch!”
“I’d prefer you not use the dorm either,” Nott’s voice drifted calmly over from the other side of the Slytherin booth, “I would rather not have strange mental images when I go to bed, if you please.”
“Thank you, Nott!” Draco replied, grabbing Harry’s hand. “Let’s go, Harry! Ignore them. We’ll get our ice cream and go back and do whatever we want.”
“I think I like that idea,” Harry replied, smiling as he imagined Draco eating ice cream, and let himself be dragged away. Screw mental faucets, his was apparently really dirty anyway.
“What did I tell you?” Pansy shouted after them. “In-laws!”