Unprofessional Behaviour

Unprofessional Behaviour

Alumni of Slytherin House had become Crown ministers, world-renowned authors, valiant dragon-killers, and insane semi-immortal figures who terrorized the known world. As post-Slytherin professions went, bartender was rather low on the list. Still, Terence Higgs didn't mind it. In fact he quite enjoyed running the bar for his father. He met plenty of girls; he took afternoons off for Quidditch; and he had a free drink whenever he wanted one.

Terence didn't feel that he was setting his sights too low. Quite the opposite. Terence understood something about Slytherin that the rest of Britain was still struggling to work out. The truth was, being a Snake wasn't about cunning or ambitiousness or any of that rot. Sure, they all fed into it, but . . . The essence of being a Slytherin was never doing more work than necessary.

When you viewed the situation in that light, it all fell into place. The founders of Hogwarts hadn't meant to create a greenhouse for dictators; they just wanted to isolate the lazy students. And when you thought about it, lazy children had to go to Slytherin. Hufflepuff was for hard workers, and Gryffindor was for the mindless sorts that ran full tilt at problems until either the problems were solved or their thick heads were broken. Ravenclaws had a bit more potential, but they were invested in being smart, and they'd spend hours in the library or poking at disgusting brews merely to prove that they were more intellectual than their roommates. Slytherins, on the other hand, had the intelligence to understand what they actually wanted, and the inborn sense to stick with a good thing.

And tending bar was definitely a good thing. All Terence had to do was draw mug after mug of perfect chocolatey stout, and chat with people. Terence liked chatting with people, and they liked chatting with him.

Unfortunately, there were exceptions. And one of those exceptions was slumped at the bar right now, sloshed after about his third screwdriver (the girl! the mincing girl!) and blubbering about the failure of some love affair.

Terence had to admit that working the late shift on Valentine's Day had not necessarily been the best plan.

"An' then she said to me," said the drunk, "she said why was I bothering with candles? An' I said, well, I thought they were rather appropriate."

Appropriate. What sort of prick could pronounce ‘appropriate' when he was that hammered?

"An' she said, had I been lighting candles for Mr. Crouch, too? Was that why I hadn't even owled her for most of the year?"

"Another drink, sir?" suggested Terence hopefully. If he was going to endure this he wanted at the very least a significant infusion of cash.

"Nah," the drunk said. "I have to finish my story. See, I tol' her that I didn't need to owl her, she was always in my thoughts, an' she said she wanted something more than thoughts from her relationships"--

Sensible girl, thought Terence--

"An' then, I tol' her, I tol' her I loved her, an' she said . . ."

"You're sure you don't want anything else?"

"Certain, absholutely certain. She said"-- the drunk drew himself up and spoke very precisely-- "she informed me that Saying ‘I love you' makes a demand, but creates no obligations."

Terence revised his opinion of the girl's sense. She was clearly almost as much of a stuffed shirt as this blubbering idiot here.

Though he did have quite admirable posture, now that he was sitting up straight. Sadly, he was still blubbering.

"So I tol' her that I certainly felt an obligashun to her, an' a very pleasant one, an' then, she just stared at me an' left then, an', an' I came here."

Terence felt rather disappointed. He had been hoping that the scene forced upon his vicarious experience would have a more exciting ending. "You're done with your story, surely you want another drink now?"

"Sure, sure, anythin'. Nothing matters now."

Terence was feeling vindictive. He concocted a shot from coconut rum and brilliant blue Curaçao.

The man actually drank it. He didn't even wince at the color. How disgusting.

"Hey, tell me, don't I know you from somewhere?" the drunk demanded.

"Oh, probably. I'm Terence. Terence Higgs."

"Terence, this is stupid stuff
You eat your victuals fast enough . . ." the man recited.

"Excuse me?"

"Poetry. Lovely Muggle poetry. Learned it from my father."

Terence felt that he would not endure the night without significant fortification. He unearthed a Ramrod Special and struck off the lid.

"Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think!"

"What did you just say to me?" Terence demanded.

"Oh, sorry. So sorry. ‘S not me. ‘S Housman. Lovely intelligent Muggle poet. Deadly depressed. In love with a man."

Terence remembered who this person was. Percy Weasley. Percy Poncing Weasley, Muggle-loving son of Muggle-loving father. Head and shoulders up Dumbledore's arse.

"Yeah, Housman was in love with this athlete. Didn't care for him at all. Housman wrote poetry to him for years. Terribly romantic."

The Ramrod Special wasn't helping. Terence had an overpowering desire to torment Percy. "So, you like this poet type because he was in love with a man, huh?"

"An' the poetry, yeah. An' down in lovely muck I've lain . . . Lovely."

"Could you explain to me again why your girl dropped you?"

" 'Cause, 'cause . . ." Percy Weasley suddenly looked at Terence straight on. Those brown eyes actually had depths. Stunning. "You tryin' to tell me somethin'?"

"I believe I was suggesting that you're a fucking fairy."

"You, you-- " Percy had gone white. His hair looked like flame against his skin. "I don' see how you're any one to talk. Fred an' George told me about what you Slytherins did before your games."

"That was just ordinary team bonding! Experimentation!"

"It's not ordinary experimentashun when you're givin' a blow job to Adrian Pucey."

"It is so."

"Is not."

Terence took a long pull of his Ramrod Special. "Of course it is. How else can one tell one's girls what to do?"

Percy's eyes grew wide in his thin face. "You uncaring Slytherin bastard."

Pansy-boy had teeth. Terence was growing interested. "I'm not uncaring. I'm simply focussed. Something that you raving Gryffindors will never understand."

"I have more focus than you'll ever dream of, you skinny empty diluh-- dil- et-tante."

Terence made another horrendous coconut shot. With lemon, and ice, and an umbrella. "Focus on running your tongue around . . . What was his name . . . Crouch's arse?"

Percy spluttered and swept the shot off the bar, spraying ice and glass across the floor. "Impudent shwine!"

Percy had determined the correct fate for that vile drink. However, Terence had absolutely no intention of cleaning it up, and that meant he needed to extract vengeance. He stepped around the bar and gripped Percy's neck. "You are going to leave this place with a shining floor if I have to make you lick it up myself."

Percy grabbed Terence's wrist. His grip wasn't nearly as weak as Terence had expected. As Terence pondered this interesting information, he found himself falling slowly onto the floor.

"I have brothers," Percy slurred. "Brothers." His glasses had been knocked off.

Terence was flat on the floor, with Percy straddling him, surrounded by ice and shards of glass. He lay back and smiled.

Percy kissed him, slowly and methodically at first, then with growing force. Terence kissed back, cursing himself for the coconut rum.

"Tol' you that Adrian Pucey wasn't just experimentashun."

"Oh, I think this is definitely an experiment."

Without the glasses, Percy's eyes were massive, gigantic. They burned Terence's face. "You are going to take this sheriously."

Percy was so . . . So present. Terence never believed anything that thoroughly, even when he was utterly plastered. He brought his hand up slowly, to run along Percy's back.

"You are going to be mine," said Percy. "All mine. Say it!"

"Anything you please." If they shifted so-- just so-- Terence could reach his hand through the conveniently situated hole in Percy's robes and unbutton his trousers.

"No," said Percy. He bit, hard. "Say it. Now."

"A gentleman never denies a request." Percy was very nicely proportioned, Terence discovered. The tall, thin ones always surprised you.

Percy drew something hard and cold along Terence's neck. Glass, Terence realized. That had been glass. "Yes or no," Percy insisted.

Terence's eyes were filled with fire. Fiery red hair and hot red tears at the line of pain along his neck. He felt Percy trembling above his hand, and himself responding . . .

Why not, thought Terence. He'd never believed in anything before, he might as well start now. "Yes," he said.

And suddenly his robe was gone (Why didn't I ever learn that spell? Terence wondered) and his shirt was ripping apart, and Percy was biting his shoulder, and there was ice. He was burning and rising to meet him, and the kiss was long, so long, and then ice again and if he didn't come soon he was going to die.

A Slytherin survived everything-- but Terence Higgs was not entirely sure that he was going to survive Percy Weasley.

finis.