Work Text:
Harry Potter prided himself on handling the absurd with a certain level of grace. He’d spent his formative years in a cupboard, survived Voldemort (multiple times), and navigated the unpredictable intricacies of the wizarding world. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for waking up on a quiet Sunday morning, shuffling into his kitchen, and being ambushed by Draco Malfoy lounging at the table, looking infuriatingly gorgeous in one of Harry’s t-shirts, holding a cup of tea, and posing the single most cursed question in human history.
“Is cum a soup or a beverage?”
Harry, still half-asleep, paused, mid sip of coffee. He was certain he had misheard.
“…What?”
Draco took a dainty sip of tea, looking completely unbothered. “It’s a simple question, Harry. A soup or a beverage?”
Harry set his mug down with great care. “No.”
Draco frowned. “No?”
“No. Whatever the hell this is, no. Take it back.”
Draco ignored him. “A beverage is something you drink, yes?”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Draco...”
“And soup,” Draco continued, utterly unfazed, “is a liquid that contains nutrients.” He folded his arms, smirking. “Therefore, it must be one or the other.”
Harry opened and closed his mouth. He ran a hand down his face. This was not how he imagined his Sunday morning going. He had pictured something normal—maybe dragging Draco back to bed, maybe making breakfast without existential debates about bodily fluids.
“It’s neither,” he said firmly.
Draco hummed, considering. “I don’t think that’s true. It’s liquid.”
“It really, really isn’t.”
Draco leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the delight of a man who lived to make Harry suffer. “So, you’re saying you don’t drink it?”
Harry made a pained noise. “Oh my Gods—”
Draco smirked. “I mean, I’ve seen you—”
Harry flung a tea towel at him. “Stop talking!”
Draco caught it, cackling.
Harry threw himself onto the table with a loud groan. “You are an absolute menace.”
Draco giggled. Giggled.
“I regret every single life decision that led me to this moment,” Harry muttered into the wood.
Draco stretched luxuriously, his shirt—Harry’s shirt—riding up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin. “And yet, you keep me around.”
Harry grumbled, lifting his head just enough to glare at him. “For reasons I no longer understand.”
Draco sipped his tea, leaning forward, silver eyes glinting. “Come now, Potter. You’re an Auror. Surely you can handle a little logical deduction.”
Harry refused. Absolutely not. He was not going to engage in this nonsense. He was an Auror, like Draco had said, a responsible adult. He was—damn it.
Draco was watching him with that insufferable smirk, and Harry knew. He knew that if he didn’t answer, Draco would find ways to bring it up at the most inopportune times.
Harry exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I answer this, will you shut up about it?”
Draco tapped a finger on his chin, considering. “For today.”
Harry groaned. “Fine. If I had to classify it—”
Draco waggled his eyebrows.
“—which I don’t—”
Draco hummed, unconvinced.
“—then I suppose it’s a beverage, but an absolutely revolting one that no one in their right mind would serve.” Harry finished flatly.
Draco looked, to Harry's annoyance, quite pleased. “Interesting.”
“Don’t.”
Draco tilted his head. “What?”
“Don’t make this a thing.”
Draco grinned and stood, stretching again just to be annoying. “Well, I suppose I’ll go shower. You’re welcome to join me. You know, in case you want to conduct further research.”
Harry groaned. “I hate you.”
Draco paused in the doorway, throwing him a wicked smirk. “You’re obsessed with me.”
Harry picked up the tea towel and launched it at him again. Draco dodged it effortlessly, blowing a kiss as he disappeared into the bathroom.
Harry had made peace with the fact that Draco Malfoy was a menace. It was a fundamental truth, like gravity or the fact that Ron would never shut up about the Cannons.
But three days later, as Harry walked into their flat after a long, long shift at the Ministry, and was just about to collapse on the couch, he was not expecting Draco to casually look up from his book and say,
“I still think it’s a soup.”
Harry stopped mid-motion, staring at him in abject horror. “No. Absolutely not.”
Draco hummed, flipping a page lazily. “It’s just that you were so quick to dismiss the soup classification, but if you really think about it…”
Harry threw himself onto the couch and covered his face with a pillow. “We are not still talking about this."
Draco nudged his thigh with a socked foot. “Oh, but we are.”
Harry groaned. “Draco. No.”
Draco ignored him entirely. “Think about it, Harry. Soup is a liquid. It contains… let’s say, ingredients—”
“Nope,” Harry said immediately.
“—and it is often served warm.”
Harry gaped at him. “Served to who, Draco?!”
Draco waved a hand. “That’s hardly the point.”
“That is entirely the point!”
Draco propped himself up on one elbow, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself. “So, you’re saying it’s a beverage?”
Harry groaned. “No! I’m saying it’s neither!”
Draco tsked, shaking his head. “No, no. That’s not how this works, Potter. If you refuse the soup classification, then by process of elimination, it must be a beverage.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “There is another option.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a goddamn biological function and not food at all—”
Draco sat up suddenly, pointing a finger at him. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong, Potter.”
“Oh, please, enlighten me,” Harry deadpanned.
Draco grinned. Grinned, like he was about to deliver some life-altering revelation. “Anything can be food if you try hard enough.”
Harry stared at him. “I am this close to breaking up with you.”
Draco ignored him. “Besides, it’s already seasoned.”
Harry blinked. “What.”
Draco licked his lips—fucking licked his lips—and said, “Salty.”
Harry made a disgusted noise, reaching blindly for something to throw.
“Ooh, and another point in favor of soup?”
“NO!”
Draco carried on like he hadn’t heard. “The consistency also changes depending on health and diet. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Harry made an undignified strangled sound. “I swear to Merlin, I will file for a magical restraining order.”
Draco gasped in mock horror. “Harry! How could you? You’d miss me terribly.”
Harry sat up and jabbed a finger at him. “You are so lucky you’re pretty.”
Draco smiled smugly. “I know.”
Harry groaned, slumping back against the couch. “Fine. Say it’s soup. I do not care.”
Draco beamed. “Wonderful!”
Harry side-eyed him. “…You’re enjoying this too much.”
Draco stretched luxuriously. “Oh, absolutely.”
Harry was considering grabbing his wand and hexing Draco just a little when Draco suddenly sat up, looking far too pleased with himself.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Draco said.
Harry exhaled. “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
Draco’s eyes glittered with mischief. “If it’s soup, then that makes you a chef.”
Harry blinked.
Stared.
Then:
“GET OUT!”
Draco cackled, launching himself off the couch before Harry could grab him.
“You’re laughing now,” Harry called after him. “But I know where you sleep!”
Draco’s voice floated from the hallway. “Yes, but I also know you’d never get rid of me. I’m delightful.”
Harry scrubbed his hands down his face, collapsing back onto the sofa, utterly done with life.
For a full five seconds, Harry simply stared at the empty hallway, betrayed by reality itself.
Then Draco grinned, slow and wicked, as he peeked back around the corner, as if he knew exactly how close Harry was to losing it.
And that was it.
Harry jumped up.
Draco yelped, actually yelped, and bolted, but Harry was faster. He lunged, chasing Draco through the sitting room, over the arm of the couch, dodging a chair as Draco cackled with unholy delight.
“Harry, wait—”
But Harry did not wait. He caught Draco, slammed him against the wall, and pinned him there, forearm braced beside Draco’s head, bodies flush, breath coming fast.
Draco gasped, blinking up at him, eyes dark and wide.
Harry exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to Draco’s mouth. “You love pushing me, don’t you?”
Draco’s lips curled. “It’s so easy.”
Harry growled low in his throat, pressing Draco harder against the wall. “You are so lucky I—”
“—love me?” Draco interrupted, smirking.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “I was going to say haven't hexed you yet.”
Draco hummed, tilting his head. “Mmm. But you do love me.”
Harry crushed their mouths together in response.
Draco gasped into the kiss, but Harry didn’t let him get a single word out. He kissed him deep, all frustration and pent-up hunger, fingers sliding into Draco’s hair, tugging just enough to make Draco whimper.
Draco’s hands clawed at Harry’s back, trying to regain control, but Harry did not let him. He pressed Draco harder against the wall, kissing him until Draco softened, until he melted into it, breathless and pliant beneath him.
Only when Draco was properly wrecked—lips swollen, eyes hazy—did Harry finally pull back, just enough to murmur against his mouth:
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
Draco, to his credit, tried to smirk. But his voice came out wrecked, breathless. “Make me.”
Harry growled, hoisting him up, wrapping Draco’s legs around his waist, and carried him straight to the couch.
Much, much later, as Draco lay sprawled bonelessly across Harry’s chest, thoroughly debauched and looking far too pleased with himself, he hummed contentedly and mumbled,
“So… does this mean you’ve finally settled on a classification?”
Harry exhaled sharply. “I am going to kill you.”
Draco grinned against his skin. “Mm. Wouldn’t recommend it. That would make you a chef and a murderer.”
Harry let out a long-suffering moan.
Draco, undeterred, trailed his fingers along Harry’s bare chest. “You have to admit, though,” he mused, “the consistency really is quite—”
Harry clamped a hand over his mouth. “Do not finish that sentence.”
Draco licked his palm.
Harry yanked his hand away with a noise of pure betrayal as Draco grinned up at him, utterly unrepentant.
“—viscous,” he finished sweetly.
With a frustrated groan, Harry rolled him off the couch. Draco yelped as he hit the floor, cackling the entire way down.