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Even Better Raw	By : LauraDoll Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 1707 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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These characters belong to JK Rowling. Not me. I swear, I'll work on the formatting! Just give me time...

Chapter One: Tell me what you eat"

"I promise you'll like it. Just try it."
"No fucking way, Malfoy."
"It's a bloody delicacy, Potter! — just look at how beautiful this spread is," Draco continued on, gesturing in earnest to the black lacquered platter which squatted elegantly between them. "Each delightful piece, glistening in its perfect row, begging to be sucked and bitten and swallowed. Sushi is one of the finest things in life, and you'd have to be a waddling, unwashed, knuckle-dragging beast to pass it up the chance to at least try it."
Draco rarely minced words, as Harry had learned all too well in the last seven weeks.
Ever since that notorious September day, when they traded their legendary rivalry for a sudden and uneasy truce, Harry had spent a great deal of time studying the ways and workings of Draco Malfoy. Harry rarely missed an opportunity to poke and prod at Draco's psyche, daring the other boy to reveal some sign that there was, indeed, a humble, human soul lurking behind those cruel, grey eyes. However, bent on remaining true to himself, Draco flatly refused to give up little, if any, of his smug arrogance; in seven weeks, Harry had barely begun to unravel the tightly wound Draco Malfoy.
Seven weeks ago was September first, the day Harry and Draco began their sixth year.
Standing solemnly before Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape, Draco systematically rejected his father's teachings and denounced Voldemort. The reasons he gave were simple, painfully straightforward and decidedly lacked heroic overtones. Certainly, he reasoned, if Voldemort had failed, on more than occasion, to do away with a single, half-blooded child, then what chance did Draco have, following his father, lemming-like, over a cliff named Harry Potter? Draco Malfoy was no coward; he simply prided himself on not being, as he put it, "a consummate idiot."
A few of his Slytherin friends, if he could call that pack of drooling cretins "friends," now regarded Draco as a coward and a traitor. Many others regarded him with caution; he was a loose cannon, and a powerful one at that. Still, a handful of his housemates continued to associate with him, though guardedly now. Especially divided were Crabbe and Goyle; whereas Vincent Crabbe had spent the previous summer secretly studying the dark arts with his own father, Greg Goyle's father was dragged before the Ministry and imprisoned in Azkaban by mid-June, leaving Greg torn between his unwavering loyalty to Draco, or the comfort of other Slytherins whose parents had also been jailed that summer.
It was Albus Dumbledore who first suggested that Draco seek Harry's friendship, but Draco, as well as Professor Snape, balked at the idea. Soon, however, Draco found he had few friends left in Slytherin, and even fewer acquaintances that he could trust. Ravenclaws were witty, fascinating students, but were always far too busy with schoolwork for him. The Hufflepuffs were terrified of him, and the ones who weren't bored him to tears. That left the Gryffindors, and Dumbledore's original, horrifying suggestion. It was Draco's mum who finally talked him into allowing Dumbledore to set up a supervised meeting of the two. "He's a celebrity, darling," she had written to him in a letter attached to a heavy box of chocolate and pumpkin butter cupcakes. "It certainly wouldn't hurt to know a celebrity."
Draco winced at the sour feelings that memory gave him. His left arm twinged a bit, as it always did when he felt maudlin. It was as if Father could scold him from anywhere, making him feel small and worthless. "A celebrity," Mum had said. Draco's eyes wandered back to the boy across from him at the table. Still too thin, the shabby Muggle clothes beneath his wizard robes and all that damn black hair that won't stay put— why is celebrity status wasted on those so undeserving?
Harry's voice dragged Draco back to the present, to the Japanese restaurant, to the table where Harry Potter sat across from Draco Malfoy.
"Well then, you and your fancy-pants Pureblood society friends can keep this bloody foofy delicacy to yourselves." With that, he snatched his menu up and searched it frantically for something, well, cooked.
"Tsk, tsk, Potter! That's a cheap shot. Most Purebloods would never dream of touching Muggle food, let alone eating it. However, I am not like most Purebloods." Draco smiled, flashing teeth so white that they glowed ultraviolet under the blacklight that illuminated the stylishly cramped tatami room at the rear of the restaurant.
Harry peeked out over the top of his menu, returning Draco's smile with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, sometimes I forget that you've, you know, changed."
Draco dismissed him with an impatient wave of his hand. "Don't dwell, Potter. Sentimentality is so unfashionable. Try the tekka- maki."
"NO!"
"Come now, Harry, be a man, for a change." Draco sloshed his sake around in his saucer and took a deep drink of the hot, slightly bitter liquor before seizing a generous chunk of hamachi nigiri between his lithe, white fingers, popping it delicately into his hungry mouth.
Harry shuddered. He reviewed the afternoon in his mind to make sure he knew exactly how he ended up having dinner here, alone with Draco, in this excessively trendy Japanese restaurant in Soho. He recalled, vaguely, that the four of them (Harry, Ron, Hermione and Draco) had elected to visit London instead of Hogsmeade, just to loiter and shop and do the sorts of things that 16 year olds enjoy. Harry had suggested Muggle food, and Draco agreed only if it was something, "exotic and expensive, worthy of my discriminating palate." Heated bickering ensued, with Draco and Ron having to be dragged apart when it became clear that the two young men were preparing to settle things with wands instead of words. A very disappointed Hermione made it perfectly clear to Ron that he would be spending his evenings alone with magazines and Kleenex if he continued to act like a thug.
When Draco finally suggested sushi, the only Muggle food he claimed to tolerate, Ron was already dragging Hermione away, going on at length about food poisoning, stomach infections and intestinal parasites "as long as your freakin' arm."
"Let them go, Malfoy," said Harry, quietly. "Just as well, they've probably gone off to find an alley they can shag each other in."
So now Harry found himself alone with Malfoy, crossed-legged and hungry, in Bishonen!, a Japanese restaurant so trendy it seemed doomed to go out of style the second it opened its doors. Harry and Draco were awash in a sea of shiny black paint, flickering tea lights, and gold leaf, well, everything. From the looks of the establishment Harry half expected a young boy or girl to come up and offer him a hand job, or at the very least, a lap dance.
Harry glanced back to the dinner table, gazing at the artful yet alien dinner that Draco was all but forcing onto him. True, it looked pretty enough, he reasoned white and pink flesh, arranged with utmost care, so tender and moist, unspoiled by the ravages of heat or flame. What surprised Harry was its lack of odor. He thought raw fish would smell, well, bad. But sushi and sashimi had no fishy odor, no odor at all; rather, it simply glistened, invitingly, in the manner of living, vital tissue.
"It's beautiful and obscene at the same time," said Harry out loud, at last.
"I know," drawled Draco, leaning forward with his chopsticks and thrusting a jiggly piece of salmon into Harry's bespectacled face. "That's why I love it! Now try it, or I'll take you outside and hex you into something more unspeakable than you already are, you stubborn Gryffindor prat!"
"Malfoy, you are so unpleasant, you know that?" hissed Harry, plucking the salmon out of Draco's chopsticks and schlurping it into his mouth. He chewed it thoughtfully, as if his chewing prowess were being judged by a panel of experts. His face brightened. "Wow, — that wasn't bad at all."
"See?" scoffed Draco, waving his empty chopsticks triumphantly at Harry. "Now try to tell me that was so dreadful."
"I can't," replied Harry. "Because it wasn't. What's that?" asked Harry, pointing to what looked like a cluster of tiny, orange beads nestled in wafer thin seaweed.
"That's smelt roe- masago. It's like bubble wrap for your mouth."
Harry raised a suspicious eyebrow. "And what do you know about bubble wrap, Pureblood?"
"Well," said Draco, sheepishly, "Death Eaters need to ship things, too, sometimes. Things that owls cannot carry. Delicate things."
"Like what?"
"Like cauldrons, crystal goblets, DVD players."
"AH HA!" cried Harry. "So what other Muggle luxuries do you enjoy, Malfoy?" he exclaimed, grabbing a piece of eel with his chopsticks.
"Potter, really now. I don't consider bubble wrap a luxury. Now I bet Weasley does."
"Don't change the subject, Malfoy. And lay off Ron."
"Hmm. Muggle-stuffs that I've been privy to, besides DVD players, bubble wrap and sushi?" Harry watched intently as Draco lolled his head to the right, blond wisps of hair falling into his eyes as he pondered his answer.
"Excuse me," whispered their waiter, bowing as frantically as a house-elf before refilling their water glasses.
"Hold that thought, Malfoy," said Harry. "Miss, two Absolut martinis, please— and make his a double," he added, pointing slyly at Draco.
The waitress bowed again. "Certainly."
"Thanks." Harry tried to stretch his legs under the short table, only to have his foot collide with Draco's shin.
"Ow! What the bloody hell, Potter?" hissed Draco, rubbing his shin.
"Sorry. My leg fell asleep. why couldn't we get a normal table? With chairs and such?"
"It's part of the experience, Potter. Don't be such a philistine," he huffed, tossing Harry an admonishing look. "Speaking of being a philistine, what's a "martini?' And why is mine a double?"
"You'll see," quipped Harry, snatching a piece of fatty tuna with his fingers. Draco watched Harry's full, pink lips part, as his fingers guided the glossy, fatty meat over his nimble tongue.
"Hey, mind your manners, Potter! Use your chopsticks like a civilized wizard!" exclaimed Draco, draining the lukewarm remainder of his sake.
"You did it first, Malfoy. Now then, how much do you know about Muggles? I mean really? Here are our drinks. Thank you," said Harry to the waitress, who bowed so low Harry feared her head would connect with the corner of their table.
Draco took his martini in hand, twirling the stem of the glass in his thin white fingers. "What did you call this, again? A martina?"
"Martini," corrected Harry. "Absolut vodka with a whisper of vermouth, shaken gently with ice then strained and served with an olive." Harry raised his glass, waiting for Draco to follow suit. "A toast."
"To absent friends?"�finished Draco, snickering at a mental image of Hermione and Ron snogging salaciously in the back of a darkened theatre.
"Oh, bugger off, Malfoy. To unlikely alliances." Harry drank deeply from his martini, sucking the pale, green olive neatly into his mouth.
"Unlikely alliances?" snorted Draco. "What are we supposed to be, the Wonder Twins?"
"There you go, again, Malfoy! Hanna-Barbera cartoons! You're secretly a Muggle-fancier, aren't you?" said Harry, his green eyes sparkling with wicked glee. "In fact, I'm willing to bet you've got shiploads of Muggle paraphernalia hidden away somewhere."
"Look, Potter. This miserable planet is, after all, a Muggle's world" we can't all be Pureblooded all the time," sneered Draco.
"Drink your martini, Malfoy," scolded Harry.
"Alright already, Potter!" chirped Draco, smirking, welcoming the challenge that this outlandish Muggle drink presented to his sensitive palate. He raised his glass to his shell-pink lips and took a generous draught. Suddenly, an unexpected white-hot fire bathed his delicate tongue as the heady combination of vodka and vermouth burned its way past his teeth to his throat. Strong did not even begin to describe this drink.
"Gaak! Potter—"
"Malfoy?"
"This— this is awful!"
"Aw? Is it too much for widdle Dwaco Mowfoy's dainty Swiverin tongue?" cooed Harry, sipping his own martini.
"Look, Potter, if feeding me — this swill is some desperate, twisted cry for help, you're going about it all wrong. If you can't find a decent beverage in the Muggle-verse, just say so." Draco swirled his martini around, watching as the olive spun dizzily before settling back to the bottom. "And Jesus Tap-dancing Christ, why is this ghastly drink festooned with a bloody olive? Wait, I've got it," said Draco suddenly, "you're trying to kill me."
Harry shook his head slowly, allowing thick locks of jet black hair to fall into his face. "Sorry, old chap. Try again. Sip it slowly— or better yet, just eat the olive. It's an-"
"Potter, if you dare tell me that it's an acquired taste, so help me, I'll eat my Quidditch robes. I'm sure, at least, that they would taste better." Draco reached into his martini glass with two tentative fingers, deftly plucking the vodka-drenched olive from its bitter and chilly depths. Slowly, as if he were handling something unpleasant, he put the olive in his mouth. This time it was Draco's turn to chew thoughtfully. "— now, that was quite good. It was sour and salty."
"Smashing, Malfoy. Are you going to eat that?" asked Harry, pointing to a slab of mackerel.
"Be my guest. Say, what do you suppose Weasley and Emby are up to?" Draco delighted in engaging Harry in detailed speculation over the naughtier aspects Ron and Hermione's relationship, though he would sooner die than admit to such a tawdry hobby. It was almost as if he fed off of Harry's daily frustration of returning to his room only to find that same, dreaded necktie hung on the doorknob that signaled to everyone in Gryffindor that, indeed, Ron Weasley was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, getting laid with disturbing regularity. Draco's situation was no better than Harry's, really. Last year he'd finally come to the realization that Pansy Parkinson was as dumb as a box of hair, and uglier, too. Women were, of course— well— soft. And they smelled nice. But was that what he wanted in a lover? Better to live vicariously through Ron and Hermione, just as Harry had grown accustomed to doing, than place himself at the fickle mercy of the Almighty Ovary. It was, he decided again and again, just too risky.
"Hmmm, well, Considering the state we left them in, Ron's advances are probably getting a chilly reception at best. They probably settled for fish and chips before catching a movie. And must you call Hermione "Emby?'"
"She's said before that she doesn't mind," sniffed Draco. Since October he'd taken to calling Hermione "Emby," which was short for Mudblood. The only reason she claimed to tolerate it was that Draco always seemed to do it with a subtle respect and humor that puzzled Ron and Harry to no end.
"I know, but still. Anyway, I have no idea what they're up to now," said Harry, swirling his martini.
"Do you suppose they'll stay in London?"
"What, you mean, overnight?"
"No, Potter, I meant forever, trapped on the underground, forced to sing Muggle folk songs for stale crisps, what did you think I meant?" snapped Draco impatiently. He simply hated when he had to spell things out for poor, naïve Harry.
"Don't scowl, Malfoy, you'll wrinkle your prissy Slytherin face." Harry finished his martini, and indicated for Draco to do the same.
"Seriously, do you think they'll, you know, get a room?"
"A room— hmm." Harry pondered this for a moment.
"Potter, don't tell me you've never stayed overnight in London or Hogsmeade while at school."
"Well, not during the term. I stayed in Diagon Alley during summer holiday for a while once, several years ago. But never on a weekend. And never in, well, the Muggle part of London."
"Why not, Potter? You're seventeen."
"Sixteen, Malfoy."
"Sixteen, whatever. You're old enough to stay out on your own."
"I suppose I've never had a reason to, Malfoy. And why do you even care?"
"I wouldn't say "care,' Potter. I just cannot believe that for the last 6 years you've been living like a bloody nun in a convent! It explains an awful lot about you."
"I have not!" spat Harry. "It just never occurred to me."
"Well, that settles it. We're staying here in London tonight. We'll go out to a club, owl Hogwarts for a change of clothes, sleep till noon tomorrow, waste the day checking out Quidditch gear, drink, then have brunch Sunday morning before heading back to Hogwarts."
"But Malfoy! I can't do that— I need to go back and-"
"And what? Sit in the common room with Neville, Dean and Seamus playing Exploding Snap while Weasley is bumping uglies with Granger on your bed?"
Harry's mouth dropped open. "My bed? Why my bed? Do you really think— my bed?"
"Oh yes, Harry Potter. On. Your. Bed. Now do you want to sit around like a bloody wallflower, or do we get a room here in the city?"
Harry pondered this a moment before speaking. "How do you know they do it on my bed?"
"Because, brainiac, they do it on everyone's bed."
"Everyone's?"
"Everyone's. Even Neville's."
Harry stared at Draco for a moment, unblinking. Finally, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of pound notes that he'd traded some galleons for earlier in the day. Slapping them down on the table, he raised his head proudly, even though his thoughts were a bit fuzzy from the martini.
"Lead the way, Malfoy."
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