drug!fic. about 800 words. i started this with an actual, happy plotline in mind, but my fingers seemed to have thought differently by the end. done at the last possible minute, but i'm actually quite proud of this one.
pg-13 ish, for drug use, obviously.
“Okay, okay,” Harry laughed, pouring the last of the cookie crumbs into his mouth (most of them trickling down his shirt or into the carpet). “If you, Zacharias Smith,” he giggled again, “could take one girl from Hogwarts up the arse, who would it be?” he leaned across the coffee table and pillowed his face in his hands.
“Pansy Parkinson.” An almost immediate answer.
“Oh ho ho!” Harry smirked and fell backwards onto his elbows, grabbing the joint off of the ashtray on his way down.
“Mm, what ‘bout you?” Zacharias asked. The tips of his blond curls were sweaty and pressed around his face. His shirt and trousers had been shed long ago in the good spirit of being obliviously high.
“Draco Malfoy, of course.” They both laughed; Harry took a drag and sat up again. “No really?” his voice was rough and deep from the marijuana smoke. “Cho Chang. She may cry when she kisses you, but I bet she screams real nice for a strong cock.”
“We are officially out of food,” Zacharias pouted and kicked at an empty bag of crisps. Harry straddled him.
“Cook something, then.”
“Pssht.” Zacharias waved his hand through a particularly thick cloud of smoke.
“’m hungry,” Harry growled, nibbling on Zacharias’ neck.
Zacharias moaned, more of a very loud breath than anything, and arched his back. His bare chest pressed up against Harry’s black tee. “Oh my god, take this off.” He tugged at the tee as though it were suffocating Harry, and by his sudden panting and coughing it very well may have been.
“You’re much less trashed than I am. Go cook for me, slave boy.” Harry rolled off of Zacharias and sprawled onto the couch. He searched between the cushions and pillows for his lighter and another joint he was sure he’d hid there when Hermione Apparated in unexpectedly three days earlier.
“I am a GENIUS!”
Harry pulled himself up to look over the back of the couch and into the tiny kitchen. He was distracted momentarily by his left foot, which he’d thrown up on the back of the couch in a fit of masturbatory passion, but the bob of Zacharias’ curls as he walked around brought him back.
“Harry,” Zacharias was smiling that way. The same way he smiled after successfully accomplishing a new sex trick. The same way he smiled his last day of Hogwarts after pounding Draco three feet into the ground. It was the same smile he made when Hermione brought her and Ron’s first child—a baby girl—over for a visit, and Zacharias was the only one who could get her to stop crying.
“I have boiled water!”
“You know I love you,” Harry started, careful because Zacharias was still smiling that way, “but your chicken is blue.”
“Blueberry chicken, that’s right.” Zacharias took a bite, paused, and then opened his mouth, letting blue mush fall back onto his plate. He picked up a napkin and wiped his tongue.
Harry grabbed the recently found joint and lit it, leaning back into the couch and pushing his blue food onto the already littered floor. Papers leaned in stacks in all the corners, most of them bills warning them their appliances would be shut off if they didn’t pay up. Others were letters of concern, pink slips from jobs they hadn’t gone to in weeks, Muggle and Wizard newspapers.
There were cockroaches living in the cabinets in the kitchen, and in their bedroom was a creaky spring mattress on a plank of plywood. They didn’t need many clothes because they didn’t go out, and when they did it was for more marijuana and the occasional food staple. They’d pawned their school trunks and most of their memories for rent money. Their apartment windows were boarded up to keep the smoke from sneaking out, and the front door had nine locks.
The toilet was stopped and half full of vomit. They paid a young boy with AIDS from down the hall to empty it out into an old fish tank and dispose of however he chose once the smell got too much to stomach.
Harry had an infected gash on his shoulder from where he’d accidentally stabbed himself with a knife the first—and last—time they’d tried getting high and taking speed in one night.
Zacharias leaned back into Harry and took the joint from Harry’s lips. He took a long drag and coughed. They both ignored the yelling and pounding at the door and the dogs barking and scratching to get in.
“This,” Harry took it back and twirled it between his fingers, “this is all the food we need.”
spectacular's next five keywords: childhood fears, washing clothes, a plane crash, salt, "I'm not going anywhere."
oh, and kids? don't do drugs, yeah? :)