ofscarletwoman

Title: Late Programming
Author: Tarie
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for a drabble challenge I was having on my lj. Thanks to

nmalfoy for the prompt!

Floo, Draco decided, was the most undignified means of travel ever invented. For one thing, it got grime everywhere on his person. For another, it made his stomach churn – and the expensive, exquisite cuisine that made up Draco Malfoy’s diet was far too good to deign itself to churn about in his gullet as though it were a serving of pea soup from The Leaky Cauldron. Undignified. Completely undignified.

Undignified but the only means of traveling directly into Potter’s flat and thus Floo it was for the likes of Draco Malfoy. For some bizarre reason or another, Potter had forbid anyone from taking a Portkey or Apparating directly into his flat. Draco had thought to ask Potter once as to why he devised such a strange and inconvenient ban on acquiring access to his flat but then thought better of it. Questioning Potter about Things He Was Sensitive About was, as a rule, daft. Amusing, yes, but very daft. Unless Draco wanted Potter to pitch a wobbly more spectacular than Weasel (which he was prone to doing these days), he would not ask Potter such things. The last time he did, Draco had been hexed into a pen of Nifflers wearing an aluminium cloak. Why Potter had a pen of Nifflers and an aluminium cloak, Draco did not know. He made a mental note to divest the flat of said things posthaste.

He was late. Quite late, although it did not bother him one bit. A Malfoy came and went as he pleased and he never concurred when Potter told him to arrive at an appointed hour. Potter usually overlooked Draco’s silence on the matter and would always assume that Draco would show up when Potter told him. It was rather charming, Potter’s ignorance.

“Potter?” he inquired around a disdainful sneer as he brushed ash from his robe.

When Potter did not reply, Draco rolled his eyes. So it was going to be the silent treatment tonight, was it? Not for long.

A faint light from the kitchen caught his eye and Draco smirked. So that’s where he was, then.

Taking pains to be as silent as possible, Draco crept across the floor and stopped in the threshold. And there he was. Slumped over in a chair at the table, Potter’s head was resting on his arms and his shoulders slowly rose and fell with each inhalation and exhalation. In the corner near the rubbish bin, he could just make out a programme playing on the WWN.

Draco despised the WWN.

Waking up Potter could wait. Draco’s first priority was turning off that dreadful WWN drivel. Nearing the radio, he resisted the strong urge to toss the thing right out Potter’s window.

“I loathe this,” he muttered, leaning down to turn the devise off.

"He looked up at me, a beautiful devil with blue eyes, and offered me a smile as thin as the blade of a knife. 'Be careful out there. Hate to see something bad happen to a guy like you.' I knew then that wizards like him were a knut a--"

CLICK.

Off the programme went. Evening stories, Draco noted, were ridiculous things. They were sappy and cheesy and a waste of one’s time. He hoped that Potter had fallen asleep long ago before Warrington, Hit Wizard came on the network. Weasel was hooked on it and that was proof enough for Draco that the programme was bad and Potter should not be exposed to it.

At the precise moment the programme was turned off, Potter’s head shot off of the table. “Mrgfle.”

“Potter,” Draco said calmly, crossing to the table and taking the seat next to him, “WWN Programming is bad for you.”

Blinking blearily, Potter reached a hand out and poked Draco in the chest. “Not as bad as you are,” he returned around a yawn.

A slow smirk turned up Draco’s lips. “Yes, well, nothing could ever be as bad for you as I am.”

“You’re late,” Potter said moodily, apparently fully awake now.

“You’re whinging,” Draco retorted. “Happy Anniversary. Now stop whinging and start snogging.”