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mini_festTitle: A Dinner for Two
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
susannah_wilde
Pairing(s): Draco/Albus Severus
Prompt: #53 from 2012. What lengths will Draco go to just to impress his young husband on their first xmas together??
Word Count: 1,658
Rating: PG
Contains: N/A
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you to my fantastic beta,smallbrownfrog. Also, thanks to hpfangirl71 for leaving a wonderful prompt and the mods for hosting this fest. Merry Christmas to the readers.
Summary: There are reasons why Malfoys don’t cook.
A Dinner for Two
Healer Malfoy is exhausted. St. Mungo’s is understaffed on Christmas Eve, where it seems that every child in England is admitted with a case of dragon pox. The minute he spots the blisters and red skin, he wants to bail, but as one of the few Healers who has the antibodies that protect him from the disease, he’s stuck in the paediatrics ward.
The worst is the persistent crying of children who latch onto their mother’s arms, making it difficult to diagnose their illness. He tries to be patient, but when the child squirms and bites his hand, leaving teeth marks deep enough to draw blood, he snaps. With an unapologetic smile at the mother, he heals his wound before he casts a mild form of Petrificus Totalus. With this reprieve, he quickly administers the potions, ignoring the hysterical mother who is yelling at his unethical practice. When he is satisfied that the child will recover, he tucks a lollipop in the child’s hand before releasing the spell. The mother grabs her child and searches for any hint of mistreatment, and when she looks up to thank him, he is already gone.
Later that evening he is finally dismissed with a command to enjoy his Christmas and to report back in three days. Without looking in the mirror, he knows he is less than perfect. The front of his lime green robes is a colourful mosaic of snot, spit, vomit, a fair amount of blood, tears, spilt potions, and an unidentifiable blue mark. He strips off his robe and incendios it before he can think too deeply about the amount of microorganisms it contains and enters the shower. The hot water that falls on his skin is pure bliss after a forty-eight hour shift. As he scrubs and soaps his skin, he forgoes his usual wank, intending to save that for later for his husband.
His husband. That thought never fails to put a smile on his face, even after three short months of marriage. He still can’t believe that the man accepted him- loved him -despite his family’s name and the animosity associated with it. Yet their relationship had started out with, curiously enough, a poisonous snake bite, a symbol of his Hogwarts house. They had come a long way from that initial meeting, survived many squabbles and arguments that were soothed over with amazing make-up sex.
And here they were, married, and about to celebrate their first Christmas together at one of the finest restaurants in Rome. He checks his reflection one last time and admires the early present, a malachite green robe with a silver fringe that conforms to the lines and contours of his body. Satisfied, he Floos home.
The Manor is silent, empty except for a sparsely decorated Christmas tree that stands in a corner. The tree had been done on a lark, when both had been extremely pissed and had needed liquid courage in order to explain their elopement to their respective families. Upon arriving at the Manor from the tense dinner where both of their mothers had cried, they had dragged in the first tree they had seen and promptly decorated it in order to bring some much needed cheer. The next morning, a weeping willow that sagged under the weight of too much green tinsel and strings of fairy lights and not enough branches, greeted them. The tree is far from perfect, but it is theirs.
He shivers, as he is brought to the present, rubbing his arms through the soft fabric as a house elf appears with a crack!
“Master Malfoy, sir, let Gummy be taking your coat. Would you be liking some tea?”
“No, Gummy. We should be catching a Portkey soon.” He walks through the door in the direction of the bedroom when the house elf stops him.
“Master’s in the kitchen. Gummy be calling him now.” The house elf is too busy bowing to notice the surprised look on his master’s face.
“No, I will go.” He dismisses the house elf with a nod of his head.
The kitchen door is ajar and when he peers inside, his eyes widen. On the enormous island table sits a disaster waiting to happen. Jars filled with spices and herbs such as oregano, paprika, parsley, and thyme are open and the contents spilled over, leaving a fine layer of dust in the air. Meanwhile, knives have been charmed to peel and cut vegetables. On the stove, pots are boiling, the contents almost threatening to overspill as spoons stir. On the counter, the finished courses are placed under a stasis charm, but it is a smaller pile that contains only desserts.
And right in the middle of all this organized chaos sits Draco Malfoy, his reading glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, glancing at an open book propped on the table. He wears one of Al’s white t-shirts with stains that rival Al’s Healer robes, and a pair of faded denims.
Draco takes a sip of the red wine straight from the bottle and as his head tilts back, he spots Al in the doorway. His eyes widen and he starts coughing, as the wine goes down the wrong way. Al already has his wand out when he reaches Draco, and he traces a gentle line from beneath his jaw down to his clavicle. “Breathe,” Al whispers, rubbing small circles down his husband’s back.
Draco’s eyes flutter closed as he inhales deeply several times before managing to say in a dry tone, “What are you doing here? I thought you’d still be at St. Mungo’s?”
Al conjures him a glass of water. “It’s a good thing I came home early. I’d rather not have to explain to my dad why I found my husband dead on the floor with his hand stuck inside a plucked chicken.”
Draco scowls and lifts the offending fowl onto the table, the concoction of lemon juice and melted butter with sage and rosemary dripping on his shirt. “I have a perfectly good explanation,” he says as he extracts his hand out with a disgusted look.
Al scourgifys his hand with a flick of his wand. “Go on then, let’s hear it.”
“I’m making you dinner.”
“Clearly, but why? We’ve had reservations for weeks.” Draco never cooks; he claims that he’s too busy and important to cook and that’s why they have their house elves, despite Aunt Hermione’s disapproval.
“I lied. We’ve never had reservations. I wanted to surprise you with a home cooked dinner, since it’s our first Christmas. I thought we’d spend it at home.”
“But it’s too much food! There’s no way we’d be able to eat that much!” He looks at the dishes that could each be served as a meal alone. He stops talking when he sees the opened brown coloured package, evidence of a familiar Christmas gift.
“Did Grandmother Weasley put you up to this?” Al says as he takes out his traditional grey Weasley jumper with a green A on the front. Draco’s is similar but with a green D. “Because I know she likes to have the entire family together during the holidays and if she’s somehow coerced you into hosting a dinner, then I can always Floo everyone and tell them to come back tomorrow.”
Draco snorts. “Give me some credit, Al.” Draco dips a brush into a yellow sauce and paints the surface of the chicken evenly. “I went over there and with my best manners, something that the Weasel seems to lack, politely asked your grandmother what your favorite dish is.”
“You went to the Burrow just for me?”
Touched by the gesture, Al stands behind Draco, wrapping his arms so that they clasp together in front of Draco’s stomach and leans to whisper in his ear, “You are amazing,” and presses into Draco’s arse just to show him exactly what he means. Draco bites back a moan but does open his legs wider to allow more access.
“I am amazing, but you are a peculiar eater, and I’m regretting this dinner now. You don’t do anything by halves.” Draco waves a hand over the pieces of plucked poultry that are waiting to be cooked. “What the fuck is a turducken?”
Al smiles. “It’s a chicken, stuffed inside a duck, tucked inside a turkey. So when you cook it, all the juices and flavors run together as the meat tenderizes. I haven’t had one since I was a child.”
“And you’ll likely never have one again if I can’t get this chicken to go inside that duck!” The boneless chicken, unable to enter the small opening despite Draco’s many efforts to shove it in, bounces off the table and hits Draco square in the chest, and falls onto the ground.
“That’s why no one will make it for me. It’s too much damn trouble,” Al says behind him.
Draco sighs loudly in a fit of frustration before he picks up his wand from the table and stops all the cooking charms. “I will take a nice hot bath and when I come out, we will go to any restaurant of your choice, even a Muggle one.”
“It’s Christmas Eve; every place will be full.”
“You can throw out the Potter name.” With that, Draco walks out of the room. Al starts to follow him to send a letter to his parents, when he spots the chicken still on the ground.
He kneels to pick up the chicken and some feathers that are scattered on the floor, when he notices that the bird is the wrong shape and size. “Draco, this isn’t a chicken,” he calls out.
Draco voice trails from the hallway as he goes to take a bath. “The Manor grounds don’t have any chickens so I had to improvise.”
In his hand Al holds a long, thin, white feather with a delicate lace pattern. “Draco, is this an albino peacock?”
Author:
susannah_wildePairing(s): Draco/Albus Severus
Prompt: #53 from 2012. What lengths will Draco go to just to impress his young husband on their first xmas together??
Word Count: 1,658
Rating: PG
Contains: N/A
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you to my fantastic beta,
smallbrownfrog. Also, thanks to hpfangirl71 for leaving a wonderful prompt and the mods for hosting this fest. Merry Christmas to the readers.Summary: There are reasons why Malfoys don’t cook.
Healer Malfoy is exhausted. St. Mungo’s is understaffed on Christmas Eve, where it seems that every child in England is admitted with a case of dragon pox. The minute he spots the blisters and red skin, he wants to bail, but as one of the few Healers who has the antibodies that protect him from the disease, he’s stuck in the paediatrics ward.
The worst is the persistent crying of children who latch onto their mother’s arms, making it difficult to diagnose their illness. He tries to be patient, but when the child squirms and bites his hand, leaving teeth marks deep enough to draw blood, he snaps. With an unapologetic smile at the mother, he heals his wound before he casts a mild form of Petrificus Totalus. With this reprieve, he quickly administers the potions, ignoring the hysterical mother who is yelling at his unethical practice. When he is satisfied that the child will recover, he tucks a lollipop in the child’s hand before releasing the spell. The mother grabs her child and searches for any hint of mistreatment, and when she looks up to thank him, he is already gone.
Later that evening he is finally dismissed with a command to enjoy his Christmas and to report back in three days. Without looking in the mirror, he knows he is less than perfect. The front of his lime green robes is a colourful mosaic of snot, spit, vomit, a fair amount of blood, tears, spilt potions, and an unidentifiable blue mark. He strips off his robe and incendios it before he can think too deeply about the amount of microorganisms it contains and enters the shower. The hot water that falls on his skin is pure bliss after a forty-eight hour shift. As he scrubs and soaps his skin, he forgoes his usual wank, intending to save that for later for his husband.
His husband. That thought never fails to put a smile on his face, even after three short months of marriage. He still can’t believe that the man accepted him- loved him -despite his family’s name and the animosity associated with it. Yet their relationship had started out with, curiously enough, a poisonous snake bite, a symbol of his Hogwarts house. They had come a long way from that initial meeting, survived many squabbles and arguments that were soothed over with amazing make-up sex.
And here they were, married, and about to celebrate their first Christmas together at one of the finest restaurants in Rome. He checks his reflection one last time and admires the early present, a malachite green robe with a silver fringe that conforms to the lines and contours of his body. Satisfied, he Floos home.
The Manor is silent, empty except for a sparsely decorated Christmas tree that stands in a corner. The tree had been done on a lark, when both had been extremely pissed and had needed liquid courage in order to explain their elopement to their respective families. Upon arriving at the Manor from the tense dinner where both of their mothers had cried, they had dragged in the first tree they had seen and promptly decorated it in order to bring some much needed cheer. The next morning, a weeping willow that sagged under the weight of too much green tinsel and strings of fairy lights and not enough branches, greeted them. The tree is far from perfect, but it is theirs.
He shivers, as he is brought to the present, rubbing his arms through the soft fabric as a house elf appears with a crack!
“Master Malfoy, sir, let Gummy be taking your coat. Would you be liking some tea?”
“No, Gummy. We should be catching a Portkey soon.” He walks through the door in the direction of the bedroom when the house elf stops him.
“Master’s in the kitchen. Gummy be calling him now.” The house elf is too busy bowing to notice the surprised look on his master’s face.
“No, I will go.” He dismisses the house elf with a nod of his head.
The kitchen door is ajar and when he peers inside, his eyes widen. On the enormous island table sits a disaster waiting to happen. Jars filled with spices and herbs such as oregano, paprika, parsley, and thyme are open and the contents spilled over, leaving a fine layer of dust in the air. Meanwhile, knives have been charmed to peel and cut vegetables. On the stove, pots are boiling, the contents almost threatening to overspill as spoons stir. On the counter, the finished courses are placed under a stasis charm, but it is a smaller pile that contains only desserts.
And right in the middle of all this organized chaos sits Draco Malfoy, his reading glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, glancing at an open book propped on the table. He wears one of Al’s white t-shirts with stains that rival Al’s Healer robes, and a pair of faded denims.
Draco takes a sip of the red wine straight from the bottle and as his head tilts back, he spots Al in the doorway. His eyes widen and he starts coughing, as the wine goes down the wrong way. Al already has his wand out when he reaches Draco, and he traces a gentle line from beneath his jaw down to his clavicle. “Breathe,” Al whispers, rubbing small circles down his husband’s back.
Draco’s eyes flutter closed as he inhales deeply several times before managing to say in a dry tone, “What are you doing here? I thought you’d still be at St. Mungo’s?”
Al conjures him a glass of water. “It’s a good thing I came home early. I’d rather not have to explain to my dad why I found my husband dead on the floor with his hand stuck inside a plucked chicken.”
Draco scowls and lifts the offending fowl onto the table, the concoction of lemon juice and melted butter with sage and rosemary dripping on his shirt. “I have a perfectly good explanation,” he says as he extracts his hand out with a disgusted look.
Al scourgifys his hand with a flick of his wand. “Go on then, let’s hear it.”
“I’m making you dinner.”
“Clearly, but why? We’ve had reservations for weeks.” Draco never cooks; he claims that he’s too busy and important to cook and that’s why they have their house elves, despite Aunt Hermione’s disapproval.
“I lied. We’ve never had reservations. I wanted to surprise you with a home cooked dinner, since it’s our first Christmas. I thought we’d spend it at home.”
“But it’s too much food! There’s no way we’d be able to eat that much!” He looks at the dishes that could each be served as a meal alone. He stops talking when he sees the opened brown coloured package, evidence of a familiar Christmas gift.
“Did Grandmother Weasley put you up to this?” Al says as he takes out his traditional grey Weasley jumper with a green A on the front. Draco’s is similar but with a green D. “Because I know she likes to have the entire family together during the holidays and if she’s somehow coerced you into hosting a dinner, then I can always Floo everyone and tell them to come back tomorrow.”
Draco snorts. “Give me some credit, Al.” Draco dips a brush into a yellow sauce and paints the surface of the chicken evenly. “I went over there and with my best manners, something that the Weasel seems to lack, politely asked your grandmother what your favorite dish is.”
“You went to the Burrow just for me?”
Touched by the gesture, Al stands behind Draco, wrapping his arms so that they clasp together in front of Draco’s stomach and leans to whisper in his ear, “You are amazing,” and presses into Draco’s arse just to show him exactly what he means. Draco bites back a moan but does open his legs wider to allow more access.
“I am amazing, but you are a peculiar eater, and I’m regretting this dinner now. You don’t do anything by halves.” Draco waves a hand over the pieces of plucked poultry that are waiting to be cooked. “What the fuck is a turducken?”
Al smiles. “It’s a chicken, stuffed inside a duck, tucked inside a turkey. So when you cook it, all the juices and flavors run together as the meat tenderizes. I haven’t had one since I was a child.”
“And you’ll likely never have one again if I can’t get this chicken to go inside that duck!” The boneless chicken, unable to enter the small opening despite Draco’s many efforts to shove it in, bounces off the table and hits Draco square in the chest, and falls onto the ground.
“That’s why no one will make it for me. It’s too much damn trouble,” Al says behind him.
Draco sighs loudly in a fit of frustration before he picks up his wand from the table and stops all the cooking charms. “I will take a nice hot bath and when I come out, we will go to any restaurant of your choice, even a Muggle one.”
“It’s Christmas Eve; every place will be full.”
“You can throw out the Potter name.” With that, Draco walks out of the room. Al starts to follow him to send a letter to his parents, when he spots the chicken still on the ground.
He kneels to pick up the chicken and some feathers that are scattered on the floor, when he notices that the bird is the wrong shape and size. “Draco, this isn’t a chicken,” he calls out.
Draco voice trails from the hallway as he goes to take a bath. “The Manor grounds don’t have any chickens so I had to improvise.”
In his hand Al holds a long, thin, white feather with a delicate lace pattern. “Draco, is this an albino peacock?”
