not your typical annihilatrix (furiosity) wrote,
not your typical annihilatrix

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Fic: [HP] Those Who Are Alike Will Fight [Harry/Draco; PG-13]

This is objectively terrible. Sorry, Kara. orz

Title: Those Who Are Alike Will Fight
Author: furiosity
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Crack/Humour
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy
Pairing: Harry/Draco, well, sort of.
Warnings: Unapologetic toilet humour, dick jokes, inappropriate use of bodily fluids, obscured references to stuff, stolen gags, terrible plot devices.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: (666 x 4) + 36 = 2700 words
Summary: Draco's long-awaited day off is totally ruined. By "long-awaited" we of course mean "unexpected"; by "day off" we of course mean "forced leave of absence", and by "totally ruined" we of course mean "totally ruined". Oh, wait.
Beta: None. u_u
Note: A (really very quite) belated birthday gift for karaz, whose prompt was a H/D fic based on Gintama episode 48. Title is identical to Gintama chapter 75 (and similar to episode 48) for obvious reasons. Not a crossover, though! That's for later.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated. Though in this particular instance, I probably won't listen to you.

Those Who Are Alike Will Fight

"Yes, hello, thank you ever so much for contacting the Wizarding Help Desk," Draco Malfoy chirped into the disembodied-voice device.

The thing had a name -- telephone -- but it was far too foreign-sounding, not to mention of Muggle origin, so Draco refused to even think of it.

It was bad enough that his job required him to speak to Muggles for seven and a half hours a day (not including a thirty-minute lunch break that was usually spent wanking in the bathroom because Draco hadn't yet come up with a more constructive method of dealing with his helpless -- but clearly not impotent -- rage at having to work in this godforsaken office). Anyway, the last thing he was going to do was adopt Muggle vocabulary.

"Hello? Hello?" the device warbled. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, I do apologise; there seemed to have been a problem with the connection," Draco said, delivering the line with practised ease: during the six months of his employment at the Wizarding Help Desk he had become increasingly adept at tuning out the Muggles bleating into his ears and coming up with all sorts of excuses for the same.

It surprised him how complacent they were, and how much they didn't mind repeating themselves -- sometimes multiple times -- as long as the "connection" was at fault. Sometimes he thought that even if he told them that indeed he had been tuning them out on account of their being inferior creatures unworthy of hearing the sound of his voice, they'd still repeat their questions in those quasi-apologetic tones. Yes, I understand I'm an inferior being who cannot use magic; thank you for the reminder. Could you please tell me what my filthy Mudblood offspring will require on his or her first day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?

Or so Draco thought, at least -- he hadn't quite got up the courage to try his theory out. "Could you repeat the question, please?"

"Yes, my son's received a letter--"


Draco thrust the disembodied-voice-device at the nearby Pansy Parkinson and prepared to flee.

Before he could do so, however, the source of the bellow -- Angelina Johnson, also known around here as The Boss Lady -- stormed into the Wizarding Help Desk's cramped little office, barring the doorway. In one fist she clutched the Out of Order sign that Draco had hung on the bathroom stall where he took his "lunch" breaks.

"Well, shit," Draco said.

"You'd be in even more trouble if it were shit," Angelina snapped. "What in the blue hell possessed you to think it would be a great idea to monopolise a bathroom stall on Ministry property and decorate its door with your name and a shepherd's crook spelled out in your -- ahem -- bodily fluids?"

Pansy, who had in the meantime finished assisting the hapless Muggle in the disembodied-voice-device and gone back to being a living advert for Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, tittered. The acid-yellow bubble protruding from her mouth wavered and bobbed, but held its shape.

"It's not a shepherd's crook," Draco said. "It's half a heart. I wasn't finished, you see. I was making a work of art, and now you've ruined it."

"FLAB," Angelina said, glowering.

"How rude!" Draco screeched. "I'll have you know I haven't got an ounce of excess--"

"Not flab; F-L-A-B. Forced Leave of Absence, you Bastard. Now."

"That's FLOAYBN," Draco protested, but Angelina simply moved away from the doorway and pointed at it.

Draco sighed. "Fine," he said, trudging out. "It was nearly quitting time anyway. I suppose you'll want me on bathroom cleaning duty tomorrow."

"Oh, you'll be on bathroom cleaning duty for the rest of the quarter," Angelina said with a sweet smile. "But you're not allowed in the building until the day after tomorrow."

"What?" Draco skidded to a halt. "But we're supposed to get paid tomorrow! If I'm not here, I won't get paid until next month!"

"Maybe you can sell one of your other artworks," Angelina said, her smile positively angelic now. "With talent like that, who needs a lowly Ministry employee's salary?"


"And that's what happened," Draco said to the man at the counter.

"Best show me the colour of your coin, then," the man replied. "If you ain't gettin' paid, how you gonna pay for them bangers?"

"They are not bangers," Draco said, sliding a Galleon to him. "The Draco Malfoy Special is what I've ordered."

"Yeah, yeah," the man said as he counted out Draco's change. "Enjoy em while they're hot, eh?"

Not about to argue with sense, Draco tucked in.

"Ugh, do you mind eating that somewhere else? That's disgusting."

Draco glanced to his left and found Harry Potter sitting there, dressed in his Muggle best and looking like Draco had bitten into a Pygmy Puff instead of a Draco Malfoy Special.

"Look, Potter," he said through his mouthful of meat, "I know things ended badly between us, but you needn't be so jealous of a banger." He swallowed his food and added, "Though I must say its girth is far more impressive than yours, if you know what I mean."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Still practicing wishful thinking, I see. There are potions for that, you know."

Draco pierced a banger with his fork, sending fat drops of juice splattering onto the gleaming counter, stuck the end in his mouth and began to fellate it with a distracted air. Potter. Of all the people to run into on his day off!

"Lewd public behaviour is against the law, Malfoy," Potter growled. "I ought to call a Hit Wizard--"

"One order of the Harry Potter Special," the counter man interrupted, sliding a plate across.

Draco was so shocked he bit off the end of his banger. "What the hell is that? Are you a goat?"

"This," Potter replied, picking up his fork, "is the Harry Potter Special. One such as you would not understand."

"They're steamed green beans," the counter man replied. "The musical fruit."

Draco snorted. "Now I know that cloud of stench around you isn't in my imagination."

"For your information, they're rich in dietary fibre and folate -- both nutrients that improve magical ability," Potter said around a forkful of the green stuff. "Green beans have topped the list of Ministry-approved wizarding foods since the very first Minister for Magic."

"Yeah, well, the King of All Magic ate nothing but bangers all day, and he was the king, wasn't he?" Draco said, averting his eyes from the horrible sight of yet more beans disappearing into Potter's mouth.

"Who the hell was that? Someone from your dad's fake Magical History books, I bet."

Draco sniffed with indignation. "Leave Lucius Malfoy out of this."

"Oh yeah," Potter said, grinning. Bits of green stuck to his teeth. "I forgot -- you're not even Draco Malfoy any more, technically, since he disinherited you. That's why you spend your days answering the phones at the Wizarding Help Desk and defiling innocent bathroom walls."

"Really, Potter, that one about Lucius is wearing rather thin," Draco said, picking up another banger. "You've only tried to use it seventeen times since it happened, but you're so long-winded about it that it lacks any punch. Must be all that dietary fibre in your brain."

"Yeah, well, there's grease on your chin," Potter said with a glower. "Anyway, seriously, can't you get those to go? Your face is ruining my appetite."

"How did you even know about the bathroom incident?" Draco asked, ignoring him. "It just happened yesterday -- don't tell me you've enlisted the Boss Lady to report my every move to you."

"Ash if," Potter said, shovelling more goat-food into his mouth. "Ze whole Minishtry ish talkin' 'bout what a degenerate you arf."

"I don't want to hear that from a stalker," Draco said, but he brightened. All publicity was good publicity; when it was time for him to run for Minister, this little anecdote would guarantee him the under-18 male vote.

"How am I a stalker? I always eat lunch here," Potter said, nonplussed.

"Well, I eat dinner here, and dinner's more expensive than lunch so I'm more important," Draco countered.

"How does that work?"

"Never mind; I've lost my appetite." Draco climbed off the stool and stormed out.


Draco kicked an empty Ice Mice box along the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, wondering where to go next. He would have just stayed home like he did on weekends, but his landlady was having the place treated for Doxies.

He had thought about having a wander in Knockturn Alley, but the likelihood of getting mugged for all he was worth was too high, and right at that moment he was worth about seventeen Galleons, which were supposed to last him until next month.

"Stupid Boss Lady," he muttered, kicking the box again. His eyes lit on a gaudy sandwich board propped up against a shop front that had once belonged to Twilfit and Tatting's.


A discount! Draco loved discounts. He fished eleven Sickles out of his pocket and opened the rickety door.

The story turned out to be about three baby chicks sent to live with their mother because their dad was a cock. They lived in a hut by the railway, had hardly anything to eat, but had a great old time of it anyway.

Draco dabbed his eyes and sniffed loudly as the chick named Bob flapped its fuzzy yellow wings beside a train window, crying out warnings of a pile of dung a passing dragon had deposited on the tracks earlier. He always cried at puppet shows; there was something touching about the futility of trying to get anything accomplished when you were just a toy stuffed with cloth and animated by magic.

"Hey, you down there, stop your snivelling already," someone said from the row behind Draco. "I can't hear a thing they're saying from up here."

"Sorry," Draco said, turning around. "Pauline's gone to get Mr Firkin, but Bob is still trying to warn the passengers--"

He was looking at Potter.

"What the hell are YOU doing here?" they both shouted, drawing tsk!s and shhh!s and even a few get a room!s.

"Stop stalking me; what's wrong with you?" Draco hissed.

"Why don't you go suck off a pork sausage and stop stalking me?" Potter returned, beginning to rise from his seat.

"I was here first!" Draco said, also rising. "Besides, shouldn't you be at work saving the world instead of wasting all our tax money on watching stupid puppet shows? I bet you only came here because of the employee discount!"

Potter glowered. "What's wrong with using an employee discount? And if the show's so stupid, why are you crying?"

"Why don't you lads take it outside, whatever it is?" a grim-faced warlock called from a few rows down. "I'm sure it can't be that serious."

"This fellow here said he had a good time with your mum last night, so I'm teaching him a lesson," Draco said, pointing at Potter.

The warlock jumped out of his chair and began to approach them, swinging a fist. "Excuse me? My mother's been dead for seventeen years, you filthy necrophile!"

"How dare you, gentlemen, there are children in the audience!" a woman objected from the very back row.

"He called you fat!" Potter shouted and stabbed with his wand in Draco's direction.

"WHAT?" The lady -- built like three Quidditch Beaters -- abandoned her seat and began to make her ponderous way towards them.

"Oi, sit down!"

"This bloke said you smelled like elderberries!"

"How rude!"

"Shut up! I'll rip your hair out!"

"That's rich coming from a baldie!"

"What did you say?"

"YOU SILENT!" roared a voice so loud it made the clamour sound like the rustle of brown leaves on a windless night in November.

A giant walked into the auditorium, wielding a club and sporting an armband with "SEKURITIEZ" written on it in a childlike scrawl. It was Grawp, the so-called Tame Giant of the Forbidden Forest, who had recently moved to London amid much ballyhoo.


Ten minutes later, the show drew to a close.

"To think their dad had been a cockatrice all along!" everyone cried, sitting primly in their chairs and sniffing dutifully into their handkerchiefs.


How can I avoid Potter in a town where everyone knows who, where, and with whom everyone else is?

Draco pondered this question as he continued down Diagon Alley away from the puppet theatre, taking deliberately tiny steps because it was a very small town, not to mention a short stretch of road.

"Maybe I could go to a Muggle place. There are lots of them, so the chances of running into Potter are greatly diminished," he mumbled. "But no, since we both seem to think along the same lines, what if he decides to go to a Muggle place as well -- he'd probably go to one nearby, and I can't afford to take one of those smelly Muggle carriages to take me farther away. So instead of doing the reverse of what Potter is probably doing, maybe I should do the reverse of the reverse and go exactly where I feel like going because he will not go where he feels like going to avoid running into me -- wait, what is this, an essay?"

He looked across the street.

Mrs Pearidot's Health Spa beckoned.

Though it was on the expensive side, Draco had been a regular customer since moving out of Malfoy Manor, since his flat had no hot water and the landlady had no intentions to invest in a pair of elves to work the boiler.

I am sure Potter's got adequate bathing facilities at home, Draco thought to himself as he went inside.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting on a sauna bench staring morosely at the door. Potter sat a few feet away, looking equally gloomy.

"Leave," Draco said for the fifth time. "You're not even a member here; why the hell would you show up here, honestly?"

"Kreacher broke the boiler at home so I had to come here," Potter said. "Not that it's any of your business."

Another wizard got up from the bench with a sigh and headed for the door.

"I bet you can't even handle this place; it takes practice to build up an endurance to this much hot steam. Do yourself a favour and get out before you pass out," Draco advised benevolently.

The last of the occupants grunted something like "can't even enjoy a peaceful moment because of you idiots" and exited, leaving the two of them alone in the steam room.

"You wish I would pass out," Potter said. He got up and casually strolled towards the hot rocks in the far corner. "In fact, this isn't nearly hot enough for me." He splashed a ladleful of water on the rocks. More steam hissed through the already-misty air, obscuring Draco's vision even further.

"While you're there, be a good lad and add another two ladlefuls," he said to Potter. "You're right for once in your life; this isn't nearly hot enough."

"Do it yourself," Potter said. "I can handle three -- no, four more." He walked back to his seat with a triumphant smirk and sat down next to his towel (instead of on it).

"That'll leave a mark," Draco said with a snort, then got up and emptied the entire bucket of water onto the stones. The steam became so thick it was difficult to see the door, but he could still make out Potter, if barely.

"Come on, just leave already," Draco said in Potter's general direction. "You'll die, and they'll blame me even though it's not my fault you're pig-headed stubborn."

"You're talking to the bucket," Potter replied, his voice very far away. "If I leave it'll look like I listened to you, so I refuse."

"Suit yourself, but you'd better write a note before you die, absolving me of all blame."

Draco's vision was blurred, and it wasn't all because of the steam. He felt as though he were floating in one of those fluffy cotton-y clouds they had used at the puppet theatre -- no, not in one, through it; it would've been one of the most perfect moments in his life if only he didn't have to share it with Harry Potter -- huh? Another essay?



"Draco? Draco? Wake up!"

"Huh?" Draco sat up.

"Did you have a bad dream again?"

That voice. He knew that voice. "Mother?"

"You've really got to stop calling me that, you know," Harry said. "A man could develop a complex."
Tags: fic:character:hp:draco, fic:era:post-hogwarts, fic:fandom:hp, fic:genre:crack, fic:genre:humour, fic:genre:parody, fic:genre:ridiculous, fic:length:flash, fic:pairing:harry/draco, fic:post-dh, fic:pov:draco, fic:type:slash
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