Pet Names, Private Names

Pet Names, Private Names.

...

The three couples had gathered around a circular table in the corner of the bar. Many of the other patrons had stared when the six had made their entry, thinking it queer that the witches and wizards wished to be served on this night. Not because they were underage (they weren't); not because it was quite late and they seemed quite sober (they intended to fix that); but because the young magical folk who'd entered the bar only moments before seemed to be avoiding the biggest Hogwarts' end of term bash - a soirée being held mostly in their honour - since the institution's inception (they were).

The two witches and four wizards had chosen the bar because it was out of the way, as well as being architecturally quaint and cosy - exactly the place they wished to wind down at before they took the final train home the next morning. Their animated conversation halted abruptly as a waiter approached the table with a parchment and quill following in his wake, intent on taking their orders.

'I'll have a glass of red wine, please,' the lone brunette of the group told the waiter from behind a worn copy of Macbeth.

'Very good, miss,' the waiter paused and turned to the girl's red-headed companion. 'And for you, sir?'

'Firewhiskey, for me,' he replied without hesitation.

The waiter nodded and proceeded counter-clockwise around the table of weary-looking youths, the charmed quill copying down their orders as soon as they were vocalised.

'Erm... Scotch on the rocks, I guess,' a round-faced blonde requested, her golden curls bouncing softly as she spoke. 'What?' she exclaimed, perplexed by her snickering companions.

'Quite the manly drink is all,' a lithe blonde explained from across the table. 'Considering Blaise insists that he wears the proverbial robes between you two...' His smirk was audible as he trailed off with a meaningful glance.

The blonde girl's olive-skinned companion ignored the comments, turning to the waiter instead with, 'I'll have a quadruple espresso. Very strong. If I still have a stomach lining when the cup's empty you'll be without tip, capisce?'

The waiter cast him a dubious glance.

'Don't worry, the caffeine won't kill him, though lack thereof might.' The pale blonde flashed him a wry smirk; turning to face the waiter, he continued, 'Bourbon, if you please. A double.'

'Lay off the aristocratic refinery for once, Draco.' The boy nestled beside him commented with an eye-roll. 'I'll have tequila, but they'll all end up drinking with me so give us some extra glasses with the bottle, please.'

If the waiter was at all surprised by the amount of alcohol the six young adults planned on consuming he hid it well. Then again, this was Hogsmeade; on the night of the Leaving Feast, no less. The waiter stopped the quill with a flick of his wrist and the drinks appeared on the table. His job finished, the waiter then exited, gliding gracefully towards the bar as his robes billowed behind him.

Their secluded table vacated, the students began to converse once more. All except one, that is.

'Honestly, Hermione, must you read all the time?' Draco Malfoy exclaimed in exasperation to the girl on his right, wrenching the Scottish Play from her hands as he did so, 'We just graduated, for Circes' sake! No more essays, no more potions, no more phoenix feather-wielding megalomaniac warlocks claiming to be Dark Lords - it's safe to leave the pages to their own devices for one night, I believe.'

'But I'm almost finished!' the ex-Gryffindor wailed indignantly.

'Love, it's sort of rude to read right now. You can read to your heart's content later.' Ron reminded her in a low voice, with a soft kiss to her right temple.

'For the record,' Hermione sighed, downing the last of her wine and reaching for Harry's tequila, 'It was merely a jest. I finished Kama Sutra earlier this afternoon, so I doubt either of us'll be reading anything for a while.'

Ron choked on his firewhiskey while his four friends howled at his lover's remark.

'All right, so you've already read Macbeth, Hermione. I take it you've read every book on the face of the planet, then?' Pansy Parkinson inquired as the laughter died down.

'No, she's not speaking in limerick - Ron must've gotten to her before she found the cursed books in the Restricted Section,' Blaise deadpanned before blowing the steam off his scalding brew.

'Thank you, Zabini, but I believe you forgot to mention your diary as one of the few tomes I've neglected to open.' Hermione grinned over her goblet.

'Besides, Draco's read almost as many books as Hermione - I think Blaise's diary even brings you even, right, Draco?' Harry said, grinning cheekily, grasping Draco's pale digits in his tanned own.

'Diaries, Potter, plural. But yes, Hermione and I are about even. Although I should like to read her lurid little sex tales, anyhow.' Draco nodded, leaning into Harry's touch.

'Speaking of sex tales,' Blaise enquired suddenly, 'Why, in the name of a random deity, did Snape put a lust potion on the NEWT exam?'

Ron snorted. 'He had a bet with McGonagall that Neville would either faint or break out in hives during the exam. He must have really wanted to win; it was pretty scary when Neville got the potion right.'

'No, it was scary when Neville tipped the cauldron and doused Snape on purpose.'

A discussion of their respective future careers then followed and was soon replaced by a comfortable, contemplative silence, until:

'Draco?' Hermione enquired suddenly, 'Why is it that you've been using our names since the middle of sixth year-'

'- when you switched sides and we saved all three of your arses-' Ron cut in cheekily.

'- but never Harry's?' Hermione finished, pointedly ignoring her boyfriend's comment.

'Firstly, I didn't switch sides. I chose a side. As for Potter,' Draco looked pensive for a moment and a variety of emotions flickered across his features but he said only, 'There are different types of names, Ronald.'

'Yeah, like pet names. Right, Tulip?' Blaise joked, turning to nip playfully at Pansy's left ear.

'Too right, Teeny-Bini,' Pansy retorted, annoyed by the play on her name.

Ron was obviously perplexed. 'I get pet names, but Draco calling Harry "Potter" isn't quite a pet name, is it?'

Hermione was thoughtful, 'No, but Draco's right. There are loads of different types of names: proper-given names, formal names, friendly names, nicknames, middle names, pet names, angry names, private names -'

'Angry names?' Blaise cut in dubiously.

'The names people use when someone's in trouble.' Pansy supplied, 'You know,' She raised her voice to imitate an irate mother, 'Pansy Aurora Parkinson! How many times must I tell you? Do not hex Professor Snap when his back is turned... et cetera, etc.'

'I remember that,' Draco chuckled, 'only Weaslette could top your Bat-Bogey.'

'Don't call her that,' Ron said absently.

'Face it, Ron, that's her official nickname.' Harry stated, mirroring his lover's smirk, 'Hell, even Ginny's come to terms with being "Weaselette" until the wedding - and probably even after that.'

Ron huffed irritably but his retort was silenced when Hermione began slowly tracing her fingers up his right thigh.

'Okay, enough about Weaselette. Since you're so interested, Ron, what's your pet name?' Pansy said, sounding remarkably sober. 'We're all drunk enough to forget anything incriminating by morning, anyway.'

'Well, I, uh...' Ron spluttered, going red with embarrassment.

The table's other occupants closed in on him like vultures eyeing a disemboweled mouse.

'Well, that blush is the reason I call him Pinky. Right, Ron?' Hermione cut in with relish. No one seemed surprised.

'Hermione, any names on your behalf?' Blaise chuckled. Hermione mumbled something no one else heard and took a large swallow from her glass.

'What's that? You'll have to speak up.' Draco encouraged her with a mischievous grin.

'Sugarpuss,' she squeaked in a small voice, the tips of her ears and nose turning pink with mortification.

The rest of the table howled with mirth. Draco looked put out, 'I was hoping for much worse.'

Harry nudged his lover with a reproachful glance and turned to his mortified friend, 'Sugarpuss is a lot better than most, Hermione.'

'How so?' Hermione moaned over her fourth tequila and leaned into Ron's arm, 'I doubt any of you even have pet names for each other - I wear a shrunken top on laundry day once and Ron labels me "sugarpuss" for life.'

'It was a sequined halter top, mind.' Ron added, 'And those trousers-'

'Shut up, Pinky,' Pansy cut in to save Hermione the effort of hiding under the table in embarrassment. 'Besides, Blaise here has a pet name that's worse by half.'

'Worse by five-sevenths, more like.' Blaise grumbled. Then, upon seeing four curious stares and a manic glint in Pansy's eye he gasped, 'You wouldn't!'

'Oh, I would.' Pansy forged on. 'Unless, there were certain assurances on your part.'

'Anything!' Blaise said, relieved.

'Good, then you won't mind wearing that gorgeous collar for a month.'

'Anything but that.' He moaned.

'Not unless you want it known that big, scary, pheromone infested, hunk of Italian Y-chromosome Zabini is called something decidedly effeminate.'

'Fine! Collar. Yes. Just stop.' Pansy eyed the caffeinated Italian with a calculating eye and nodded once.

'Come on, Pansy!' Draco whined, 'You can't tease us like that.'

'It can't be that, bad Blaise.' Ron added, eager for the information.

'It is.' Pansy stated simply while fighting back a chuckle, 'Isn't that right Snu-'

'NO!' Blaise yelped and attempted to silence Pansy by clamping his palm over her mouth. A brief struggle ensued.

'A sickle on Pansy for the win.' Ron snickered.

'Who would bet against Pansy? She's never lost.' Harry mused, his eyes glued to the comic wrestle.

'Besides, I think I know what it is.' Hermione said tonelessly after retrieving her neglected book.

'Come on, Zabini, don't let her top you like some Hufflepuff! Remember: you wear the robes!' Draco coached from the sidelines, 'Oi, Ron, two sickles she bites him to win.'

'I'll take that bet,' Ron nodded, 'She's a kicker, that one.'

Minutes later, Pansy won the battle after biting down rather hard on Blaise's right thumb. Ron groaned and fished in his pockets for spare coins.

'You can't win,' Pansy drawled and wiped her mouth theatrically, 'Snuggle muffin.'

The table's occupants howled with laughter. Blaise grabbed three of Hermione's shots and downed them without pausing for breath.

'Blaise, I thought you were a Slytherin!' Draco cried, all robe-wearing pretense forgotten, 'Where in bleeding, frozen hell did snuggle muffin come from?'

'He is a Slytherin, a particularly cuddly post-coital Slytherin.' Pansy said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'He likes to snuggle, and I'm too lazy to learn the Italian translation.' Draco looked vaguely nauseated.

'You're one to talk, Twinky.' Blaise cut in irritably.

Pansy merely shrugged off the comment like an old coat, as was the upper-class wizarding way, and turned to Harry, 'So do you have any names for the ol' moniker prude?'

Harry nodded slowly, 'Yeah, but I'm afraid my shagging privileges would be jeopardized if I chose to reveal such information.'

The table was shocked. Now they had to know; Blaise and Pansy's scuffle had been relatively lighthearted, but what could possibly be so bad that the sometimes self-proclaimed Adonis would threaten a total withdrawal of shagging privileges?

'What is it Draco? Something to do with fluffy bunnies?' Ron asked with a raised eyebrow.

'No. No, it's much worse than that, I'll bet. We all know how tetchy Draco gets after a day without sex, so it's gotta be bad.' Blaise surmised.

Harry remained notably silent while the rest of the table began guessing possible pet names for the Slytherin seeker, but his lips quirked upwards every once in a while when they began to get warm. Draco sat stoic throughout.

'Is it Lambchop?' Pansy asked.

'Something to do with Gryffindor? Red? Lion?' Blaise questioned.

Ron joined the fray, 'How about Snake-boy? Something in Parseltongue?'

'Master?' Blaise was calling every name that came to mind now. Or, rather, every name he'd ever wished to answer to.

'No, he wouldn't be ashamed of "Master," ego-maniac that he is.' Hermione said sensibly before falling into a thoughtful silence.

'Blondie?' Ron wondered.

'Rapunzel? Guinevere? Tinkerbell?' Blaise asked in spitfire as the caffeine began to usurp his rationality.

'Snuggle muffin, save your breath and let us think for a moment,' Pansy all but ordered the much taller and undoubtedly stronger Italian. Blaise complied reluctantly, muttering something about 'proverbial robes' under his breath.

Harry was noticeably uncomfortable as his friends turned to him for answers, while his lover fixed him with a stare that willed him not to snap.

'Harry, you know we'll just keep guessing.' Hermione began in her best now-this-won't-hurt-a-bit voice.

'Yes, best to get it over with, Draco.' Pansy smiled carnivorously

'Unless it's "snugglepuss", "sugarmuffin" or some other humiliating deritive, that is.'

Ron decided to take over for Blaise instead of allowing the group to fall completely silent, 'On to the Greek Gods then: Dasher, Dancer, Don- no, wait. Erm... Zeus, Ares, Posiedon, that guy from the muggle florist...'

'I know!' Hermione cut in suddenly, 'When I caught you two in Transfiguration lab on Christmas Eve-'

'Hermione, please-' Harry pleaded.

'And you were helping him put his shirt back on-'

'McGonagall's class? You kinky bastards.' Pansy murmured in awe, 'What is it, girl? No suspense, now.'

'You called him-' Draco fixed her with the 'Malfoy Mind-Melding Manipulation Gaze' in a last-ditch effort to maintain his dignity.

Harry was desperate, 'Be reasonable, Hermione - I'll pay you!'

'Petit chaton,' Hermione finished, congratulating her own memory.

'Huh?' Ron asked in bewilderment.

'Dammit Hermione, you're supposed to help your friends get laid, not cut them off entirely!' Harry groaned and firmly connected his forehead with the table.

'I dunno why you care so much, Draco, that sounds pretty classy.' Blaise offered.

'Petit chaton means "little kitten" in French.' Hermione supplied. Draco turned a rare shade of pink as the two other males guffawed loudly; he only paled to his original pallor once more when Harry began whispering quietly in his ear.

'Relax, Draco, it could be worse. You could be "sugarpuss," but instead you've got a classy French name...' Hermione began in a rare attempt at compassion, 'Come to think of it, I've always had the worst names.'

Draco snorted, 'How so? The Hufflepuffs called me The Slytherin Prince until I hexed Finch-Fletchely in sixth year.'

'Pft. A pseudo-royal title? I'm the know-it-all,' Hermione moaned over yet another shot of tequila.

'But you are,' Draco countered, 'You know it all... Try dealing with "Dray." How hideous.' He shuddered and leaned into the arm Harry's arm as it came to drape across his shoulders.

'Maybe, but "Herm" trumps "Dray" hands down. You could pass it off as a terrible play on your eye colour - "Herm" sounds like a species of crab. "Hermy" is even worse, and I won't even touch the "Mione" debacle.'

Taking Hermione's bait, Draco rose to the challenge, 'You want animals? Fine: Drake.'

'Drake means dragon in Old English, Draco,' Hermione countered sensibly; the rest of the table watched in quiet amusement at the ludicrous battle of wits.

'Yes, fine, but in modern English - you know, the language we most often converse in? - a drake refers to a mallard. I am not a duck. I hate ducks. I do not flap, quack, fly, shit on park lawns or have green plumage from the neck up.'

'Malfoy is a duck-ish name,' Ron mused.

'Sod off, Pinky.'

Hermione continued, 'What about Hermy-own? That was beyond bad.'

'No dice. Krum didn't speak fluent English and you found it endearing. Face it, I win.'

'You're happy you won an argument over who has the worst nicknames?' Harry sniggered.

'I'm going out with you, Potter; I take what I can get.'

'What about Harry? Is he really just "Potter," then?' Blaise asked.

Harry was notably silent.

'Is that true Draco? What about when you introduce him to people?'

'Well it's rare I have to introduce The Boy Who Lived, isn't it?' Draco drawled.

'What about in bed, Draco?'

'And the morning after?' Questions were coming rapid-fire from all four now. Harry remained speechless.

'Even when you're alone?'

'Well I doubt they're in bed in front of people very often, Ron.'

'Well they were obviously near public if they did it in the Transfiguration class.'

'There isn't a bed in the Transfiguration room.' Draco tried in vain to change the subject matter.

A decidedly Slytherin look appeared in Hermione's eye, 'Yes there was, I asked you which incantation you used to transfigure it. I'd never seen black silk from that spell before.'

'What about when he met your mother?'

'She tried to hex him for "deflowering her precious baby" before drawing up wedding plans, remember?'

'Oh... What about when you two came out?'

'Even in BED?' Ron was incredulous.

Harry said nothing but chewed his lip and started examining his finger nails as if they were the most interesting things in the world.

'Enough!' Draco began irritably, 'I refuse to answer such trivial and invasive questions. What Potter and I call each other is our bloody business and I won't have you lot questioning it. Names are just useless words, anyway.' Noticing his lover's discomfort Draco wrapped his arm reassuringly around Harry's waist, frowning when Harry stiffened almost imperceptibly and stayed uncharacteristically silent.

'All right, Draco.' Pansy soothed her oldest friend, 'We were just commenting that it's a bit odd you call your lover of eighteen months by his last name, regardless of the situation, but allow him to call you his petit chaton - however grudgingly - and refuse to see the significance and nuances in the different types of names. It isn't like you to be so callously imperceptive, Draco, that's all.'

'Yeah, since it doesn't bother you or Harry we'll say no more. We were just teasing.' Blaise said, ending the conversation, 'So, Hermione, tell me about this book of yours. I seem to remember page 164 appearing anatomically impossible.'

Hermione frowned in thought. 'You must have read a different edition. Page 164 is just about the heightened sensitivity in scar tissue.'

All eyes turned to Harry for confirmation; all eyes were met with enigmatic silence.

Ron scoffed, 'Scars are just useless lumps of tissue, there's no point in kissing them.'

'No point in kissing you either, through that line of thinking,' came Draco's retort.

Blaise signalled the waiter for another espresso and turned back to Hermione, 'Oh, I meant the one with the goat and the toothbrush...'

Much later, in the wee hours of the morning, the three couples were standing in the Great Hall and saying their goodbyes.

'Goodnight all, best of luck, happy hangovers, and hopefully no little additions to our group, eh?' Ron elbowed a still-silent Harry.

'Maybe in Pansy's case, Ronald,' Draco sniffed.

'How do you mean?'

'Well, Potter and I thankfully lack significant anatomy required to produce such "little additions," and I'm still doubtful that you have the ability to reproduce - environmental hazards, survival of the fittest, destruction of the impotent and all.'

'Sod off, Draco.'

'Glad to, Ron,' and, grabbing Harry's elbow, Draco left the remaining company with a mischievous wink and headed towards the dungeons.

Harry was very quiet and subdued for the walk. The silence wasn't lost on Draco, who - contrary to popular belief - wasn't particularly fond of his own voice. It wasn't until they had passed Snape's classroom, along with several not-so secret after-parties, however, that Draco spoke:

'Something bothering you, Potter?'

'No, just a headache.' He shrugged non-committally. 'Too much tequila, I guess.'

'Gryffindors are bad liars, Potter. You've been quiet since that stupid conversation about pet names, is that what it is?' Draco asked.

'No, I told you. Too much tequila is all.' Harry sighed. Draco knew that wasn't all, but declined to push the issue and the pair resumed walking down the corridor. They were at the entrance to the Slytherin common room when Harry spoke up.

'Draco?'

'Potter?'

Harry sighed, 'Is there something wrong with my name?'

He smirked wryly through the dim light, 'Congratulations, Potter, that has to be the most mind-bendingly random thing anyone has ever asked me.'

'Answer the question, Draco,' Harry ordered softly.

'No, Potter nothing is wrong with your name,' he answered swiftly. Then, muttered, 'That came the blue-fuck out of nowhere.'

'No it didn't. They're right. We've been together for a year and a half, known each other for almost eight, and never once have you called me by my name. Is there something wrong with it? With me?' Harry continued, becoming increasingly distressed, 'I mean, it's one of the few things I can't change - aside from the scar, and the messy hair, and the knobbly knees and...'

'Potter.' Draco sighed, Harry always got whiny and so - effeminate - with his plebeian worries when he was drunk.

'... I suppose I could get rid of the glasses, but Hermione nearly blinded me last time she tried the spell...'

'Potter.' Well, at least he's not a mean drunk. Draco smirked.

'...But I'm not going to grow anymore - I'll never be more than five-eleven. Plus, Rita Skeeter would need more than a memory charm to forget mentioning me every day...'

'Potter!'

'...And I'll always look anemic when I wear yellow...'

'HARRY!' Draco cried in exasperation. The sound of his name cut Harry off immediately.

'Potter, what brought this about? The conversation at the bar? That was all in good fun.'

'Was it?' Harry countered testily, 'You've never called your own lover by his first name! Er... well, you did just now, but other than that. Not in bed, not in the morning, not in front of other people, not even in your head, I'm guessing, never. It's like I'm some mistress you hide in a cupboard and never speak about.'

'What? Everyone knows about us - how is that like stashing you in a cupboard?'

'I know you better than anyone else, I've been with you more often than anyone else, I studied you like a mortal enemy for seven years... I can tell when you're avoiding something.'

'Just because I don't like saying your name?'

'So you are embarrassed.' Harry glowed pink with rage, 'I'll be going then, Draco.'

He made a move to turn and leave but Draco caught his elbow and forced him to maintain their trajectory towards the seventh year dormitory.

'Okay, first,' he hissed, 'quit being such a fucking Hufflepuff. You're worse than a first year caught wanking by Filch. Second, I am not embarrassed; I never said I was embarrassed. I have my reasons, and if you knew me so well you'd understand them. Don't go getting all teary-eyed with self-pity on me because I don't address you the same way everyone else does - names aren't that bloody important.'

'They are to me, and pretty much everyone else on the planet.' Harry glared, sobering slightly, 'So enlighten me, O, Great One: why is it that every single one of my friends, including Slytherins like Blaise and Pansy, call me by my name, yet you still can't call me Harry?'

They'd entered the (thankfully empty) room Draco shared with Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle now. 'You just answered your own question, Potter.' Seeing Harry's clueless expression he continued, 'Everyone calls you Harry - even Snape, now. To the lot of them, you're Harry, The Boy Who Lived. Harry, the poor little orphan boy who lost his parents, grew up with relatives who hated him and returned to our world only to become the youngest Seeker in a century and fight off Voldemort six times before defeating him. Harry, who did all this before he turned eighteen boy and has now taken 'sleeping with the enemy' to unheard of levels, in their mind, not to mention disappointing various mothers and daughters the world over.

'That's who you are to them; it's different with us. I don't know Harry. I know Potter, the half-blind Gryffindor who sleeps curled in a ball on the right side of the bed but gets out on the left, listens to muggle Music when he can't sleep and thinks the most disgusting thing in the world is the white film milk leaves on the inside of a glass... The only seeker to ever beat me in a match but still refuses to gloat; one of four people I've slept with more than once, the only one of which I haven't sincerely regretted afterwards and the only person on the face of the planet to call me something so potentially humiliating as petit chaton without having their bits hexed off, sautéed in butter and fed to the Squid.'

He finished his decidedly melodramatic speech and sat on the bed, awaiting Harry's response. Draco hated melodrama almost as much as he hated Valentine's Day; a hate which was only matched by his revulsion after Justin Finch-Fletchley spread several lies of a decidedly delicate nature when one of his lewd propositions was (dis)respectfully declined.

'So, you see, it's not so much the fact that I'm embarrassed to say your name, but that I rather like calling you "Potter" because, after eight years, Potter is still the only name that can get to you; get to you like I do. Potter gets into your head and under your skin whether we're duelling, laughing, fighting, fucking or just fooling around. Potter is my name for you - a private name - a name of a different sort.'

Harry sat on the bed beside Draco, his mouth stuck in an 'o' shape and seemingly stunned beyond speech. Draco wondered briefly if his melodrama wasn't enough, despite the fact that it had been a rare exhibition of painful honesty.

Any other doubts of such nature flew from his head mere nanoseconds after Harry had tackled him with crushing force, pinning him to the bed with and hurried 'I'm sorry,' and a drunken, happy, meeting of mouths.

Several moments of frantic kissing and seventeen fresh love bites later Draco had finally gained the upper hand. Raising himself off of Harry to undo the boy's belt, he spoke:

'Potter?'

Harry moaned in response.

'You still look inexcusably horrible in yellow.'

'Apologies, chaton.'

- Fin -