HP and Revenge BT style

* * *

Harry Potter was enraged.

He paced the room, cursing and swearing loudly, kicking at various objects strewn on the floor in an aimless violent manner.

"Arrrgh!" he yelled, tearing at his hair which was sticking up in alarming corkscrews. "I hate hate hate Vernon Dursley!"

He grabbed his hat off the table and drop-kicked it across the room. It landed with a sad plop! on the sofa. Harry grabbed at chair and started to rock it roughly back and forth, barely controlling his temper. A vein throbbed on his temple.

"Harry, calm down," the room's other occupant drawled lazily.

Harry flung the chair aside and glared at the owner of the voice. Draco Malfoy, his boyfriend of seven years, was sprawled indecently on the sofa, twirling the hat in one hand and looking at him through a veil of bluish hashish smoke. He held out the joint to Harry who crossed the room and snatched it out of his fingers.

"Come sit here, and tell Uncle Draco what's upsetting you," said Draco, patting his lap.

Harry took a drag on the joint, exhaled through his nose, coughed and then vaulted onto Draco's lap. He attempted to curl into as small a ball as possible, which was quite an easy feat for someone who had stopped growing at five feet seven. "Mmmrffmffrrmm," he mumbled into Draco's chest.

Draco draped his arms across the other man's body possessively. Dealing with Harry's tantrums was not unlike dealing with an overgrown spoilt toddler. Only this one was a mean bastard with his wand, both literally and figuratively. "What did your Muggle relative do this time?" he asked his petulant partner.

At 23 Harry still had the occasional issues with his erstwhile relatives even though he had moved out of Number Four, Privet Drive years ago. Their mutual hatred had exploded into the incident where Harry had hexed his extremely obese cousin Dudley and his rat-faced pal Piers Polkiss the summer he graduated from Hogwarts for attempting to throw Harry's Firebolt Series 2 into the garbage compactor of the Little Whinging Sanitation Engineers' truck. Dudley sprouted a pig's snout and matching ears, and Piers Polkiss ended up with a twitchy rat's nose and whiskers.

Uncle Vernon had bellowed like an injured bull elephant, downed Harry with a flying tackle (which was no mean feat for a 180 kg man) and Aunt Petunia had whacked Harry on the head with a heavy Le Cruset pan when he attempted to stand up. Harry had further retaliated by throwing the Leg-locker curse and Hover Charm on Aunt Petunia, and a Shrinking Spell on Uncle Vernon, causing him to shrink to the size of a garden gnome, shrieking all the way.

Draco had Apparated in like a good cavalry just before the Improper Use of Magic Squad arrived at Number Four. He had whisked the absolutely livid Harry away to one of the Malfoy's holiday homes in the Orient, not before raiding a handsome sum from Lucius's vault at Gringotts. Harry had never gone back to Number Four, Privet Drive since.

Harry, reasonably calmed down, mumbled something cryptic. Draco raised an eyebrow questioningly as he ruffled Harry's messy hair.

"Uncle Vernon phoned out of the blue. He called me a cheap ungrateful faggot and, I quote : 'pray to the denizens of Hell that you and your sick unnatural boyfriend will both soon die of a cocktail of nasty homosexual disease.'" said Harry angrily.

"Ouch," said Draco, making a horrible face. "That's not nice."

"Not nice?!" yelled Harry, working himself up a second time. He rapped his knuckles on Draco's head. "Hello, is anybody home? Seems that my boyfriend has gone AWOL and left this bleached blond doppleganger in his place."

Draco grunted and shifted Harry on his lap. "Do you want me to deal with him for you, then?" he asked, halfway between annoyance and resignation. Tantrumish Harry sapped a lot of his magical energy.

Harry furrowed his brows in concentration. Draco could imagine the cogs in his brain mashing together, plotting crazily. He was suddenly aware that Harry was rubbing himself against Draco's body, a sure sign of the man's auto-reflexes kicking in when a particularly foul inspiration stuck him.

"No," said Harry with a mad glint in his eyes. "I have just thought of a plan how to pay him and another one of my enemies back in one foolproof swoop." He grinned evilly, his incisors gleaming in the light. He leant into Draco until they were nose to nose. "I will need your help. A wee bit," he said, batting his eyelashes coquettishly. "Will you help me?"

Draco smirked. "For you my sweet, anything."

* * *

The Plan, as Harry referred to it, was deceptively simple. Every couple of days, Harry would charm his voice and called Vernon Dursley number at odd hours. Vernon would answer and Harry would yell, "You are an arsehole!" and slammed the phone down.

After a month or so, and at the point when he felt that Vernon Dursley had gone beyond apoplectic, Harry decided the time was ripe to put Part II of the plan into action.

* * *

Marcus Flint, failed wizard with teeth extraordinaire, was the owner of a shady construction company which specialised in erecting buildings with magically enhanced substandard materials. He had ventured into the Muggle world after a period of hiding from a bunch of murderous Goblin Mafia who had threatened to rip his ribs out and wear it as a bonnet after Flint had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to swindle the Goblins of some unspecified amount of Galleons.

Flint & Co. erections had always been visually spectacular, but had a nasty habit of falling into mysterious disrepair within the first year. Flint would then send in specialists from another arm of his business empire to fix the problem, thus bringing in more revenue. His ingenious use of the Confundus Charm ensured that his clients never made the connection back to him.

By some twist of fate, Vernon Dursley had contracted Flin t& Co. to build the latest branch of Grunnings (his drill company). Harry was ecstatic when he learnt of this piece of amazing news. The image of Marcus Flint dressed as a Dementor, bent on making him fall of his broomstick back during Harry's third year was seared in his mind.

"Payback time," Harry gloated, grinning happily. "I'm going to get Flint real good. That sucker won't know what hit him." He looked lazily at one of the pseudo-Dementors who was busy sucking on his toes.

Draco hmmmed around a mouthful of toes. "How?" he said, sounding somewhat muffled.

"Get me Flint's number. I know you Slytherins still keep in touch," Harry ordered as he ran his free right foot along Draco's collarbone.

"Why?" said Draco, grabbing at his ankle. Harry clamped the toes of his right foot on Draco's left earlobe, tugging at the earring there. He eyed Draco narrowly.

"That bugger tried to get me killed back in third year, remember? Dressed up as a bloody Dementor," said Harry nastily.

Draco paled (if it was possible, considering he was extremely fair-skinned). "Er," he said, as he let go of Harry's ankle. It hit the bed with a dull thud. Harry was giving him a funny look. He hoped that Harry had partial amnesia and clean forgot that he was one of the pseudo-Dementors. Perhaps a surreptitiously placed Obliviate charm when Harry was asleep would fix that. Harry's unpredictable mood swings unnerved him sometimes. Not that he couldn't face Harry off in a wizard's duel if need be, but Harry enraged was in his element, and a dominant alpha-male at that too.

"Flint's number, sweetheart," purred Harry, changing tactics.

Draco Accio-ed his Palm Pilot and began a search for Marcus Flint's number. "Here," he said after a short while, turning the screen towards Harry. Harry grinned and took his impossibly tiny mobile and began dialing one handed, using the other to push Draco down onto his back.

After a couple rings a familiar guttural voice answered the phone and said, "Hello."

Harry quickly charmed his voice to sound eerily like Vernon Dursley and said, "Is this Marcus Flint of Flint & Co?"

"Yes, it is."

"Can you tell me where I your office is? I need to get a quotation from you."

"Sure, it's at 168 Balaclava Road, Surbiton. It's a green building and the sign's right out front. You can't miss it."

"When's a good time to catch you, Flint?" asked Harry earnestly.

"I'm there 10 to 6. Mondays to Saturdays."

"Listen, Flint, can I tell you something?"

"Sure..."

"Flint, you're an arsehole!" Harry yelled gleefully and slammed the phone down.

Draco stared at him open mouthed, in equal parts of admiration and shock. "Uh, sweet...you just called Marcus an arsehole," he stammered, as Harry chuckled and tossed the mobile aside. It clattered to the floor.

"I sure did," Harry replied smoothly, nuzzling and nipping at Draco's neck.

"Is that wise?" said Draco breathlessly. Harry's diversionary tactics were way too good. Draco squirmed and giggled as Harry tickled his armpits.

Harry paused midway of giving him a tongue bath and whispered in a low menacing tone, "Scared, Malfoy?"

Draco shook his head, still squirming madly.

"Don't worry your pretty head. He and his goons won't be able to track that call to me," said Harry confidently. "Now be a good boy and lie back and think of England."

* * *

Part III of The Plan kicked in quickly after that. Harry invented a spell which allowed him to speed dial Uncle Vernon and Marcus Flint at insanely odd hours and yell the same "You are an arsehole!" abuse repeatedly. He worked the spell so that he sounded like Vernon Dursley when he called Flint and vice versa.

At the end of the fortnight Vernon Dursley had threatened to castrate him and Flint came up with the colourful offer of death by impalement via a broomstick up the arse.

Harry crowed with unrestrained glee as he tackled Draco onto the kitchen floor. Draco banged his head on the parquet and winced at his obviously ecstatic boyfriend who was bouncing up and down on his chest. He wheezed and slapped Harry's bottom, trying to budge him off.

"Just wait and see, love. Here's the highlight of The Plan," said Harry, reaching for his mobile. First, he had his phone speed dial Vernon Dursley.

Uncle Vernon answered nicely, "Hello?"

Harry, charmed to sound like Flint yelled, "You're an arsehole!" but he didn't hang up.

"Are you still there?" said Uncle Vernon in a dangerous voice.

Harry replied cockily, "Yeah."

"Stop calling me."

"Make me."

"What's your name, pal?"

"Marcus Flint."

"Where do you live?" demanded Uncle Vernon.

"168 Balaclava Road, Surbiton. It's a green building and the sign's out front."

"I'm coming over right now, Flint. You'd better start saying your prayers."

"Yeah, like I'm really scared, arsehole!" taunted Harry and he hung up.

Draco covered his eyes in horror, as things began to click in place. Harry French kissed him while speed dialing Marcus Flint.

Flint answered, "Hello?"

"Hello, arsehole," greeted Harry, sounding like Uncle Vernon.

There was a short silence. Flint thundered, "If I ever find out who you are..."

"You'll what?"

"I'll rip your guts out with my bare hands."

"Well, it's your lucky day. Here's your chance. I'm coming over right now, arsehole," said Harry. And he hung up.

Draco propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Harry with growing respect. "Blimey, you are a genius! You're getting Flint and Dursley to kill each other."

Harry beamed and ruffled Draco's hair. "A couple more calls and then we'll go watch the fun," he said. He quickly called Surbiton's police and told then his name was Vernon Dursley and he was going over to 168 Balaclava Road to kill his gay lover. He then called the local tabloid office to report the same thing.

Satisfied with his work he rolled off Draco and extended his hand to help him up. They quickly grabbed their matching Firebolt Series 5 and flew to Surbiton.

* * *

Later that evening as they sat smoking hashish and drinking beer on their terrace Draco turned towards Harry.

"Blimey, I thought that only happened in Muggle action movies," said Draco, through a veil of bluish smoke.

Harry grinned and said, "Yeah, watching those two arseholes kicking the crap out of each other in front of a news crew and three squad cars was glorious satisfaction indeed."

"I'm being traitorous to Slytherin, but the look on Marcus's face was priceless when Dursley kicked him in the balls!"

"Hmm, for the good of the wizarding world, my sweet. We don't need Baby Flints." said Harry maliciously.

Draco grinned that grin at his boyfriend and climbed onto his lap. "That was truly inspired, Harry," he breathed sexily.

Harry stubbed out his joint and beamed up at Draco, moving his hands into the blond man's T-shirt.

"Revenge, Draco my love, is best served cold."

~ FIN ~

©zed adams 12-August 2002