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The Secret Ministry - Wemyss's Appalling Hobby:
From the Party Guilty of Committing 'Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn'
The Secret Ministry

For Our Noeon.

One cold, glacial, grey eye looked out – and, to Harry’s secret amusement, one unruly tuft of ice-blond hair poked through – from beneath duvet, quilt, comforter, and enough extra woollen blankets to have equipped Scott’s expedition in warmth and comfort.

‘Potter….’ Draco’s tone was as frigid as his glare – and as the weather without. He could see the red in Harry’s cheeks, the wind-and-snow-swept disarrangement of his sodden clothes, the hair impossibly yet further disarranged – and the general sparkle and exaltation that wild weather and frost always brought out in Harry.


‘Potter, it is as cold as Granger-as-was, as wet as Longbottom, and as thick as the Weasel, outside. You go play the fool in it if you like; I am staying right here.’

‘I’ve been out. A nice walk, a bit of a run, a look about the demesne –’

‘And if you at all think you are going to strip yourself and get in this bed and put your cold feet –’

Harry grinned, cheekily. ‘Not just yet. I’ve seen to the fire, and am now going to take a nice, hot, leisurely – oh, don’t perk up at that, you’re not invited. You stop right where you are.’

‘But, Harry –’

‘And then I shall mull some cider, and there’ll be cricket on the wireless.’

Draco looked, with some effort, even more outraged than he felt: it did, after all, work, sometimes.

‘Which,’ said Harry, coaxingly, ‘cider and cricket, we shall enjoy in the bed neither of us is leaving for a day or so. As the weather is so … dirty. You like dirty, don’t you.’

‘Oh.’ Draco carefully suppressed the excitement in his voice and countenance. Not even the weight of wool and down could wholly hide another bodily reaction. ‘I suppose that to be … acceptable.’

‘I thought so,’ said Harry, smugly, and went to find a flannel and his towel.

He could just hear, as he left the bedroom, Draco murmur, ‘I do so like dirty weather.’


    Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

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2 comments or Leave a comment
femmequixotic From: femmequixotic Date: January 14th, 2012 09:25 pm (UTC) (Link)
This is truly lovely. I'm terribly fond of this Draco of yours. :)
wemyss From: wemyss Date: January 15th, 2012 12:06 pm (UTC) (Link)

As are we all. Harry most of all.

Thank you, my dear.
2 comments or Leave a comment