Ratatouille

'Draco darling,' a low voice muttered into a lover's ear, 'what are you doing?'

Draco smirked, delighting in the warm hand on his stomach, curled around from the man behind him.

'Well, Harry, tonight, we feast on ratatouille.'

Harry sort of giggled, and began repeating the word 'ratatouille'. For several minutes. Then said it a few more times, just for fun.

'That sounds delicious! Ratatouille. Draco?’

'Yes, love?'

'What is ratatouille?'

Draco paused his work for a moment and turned around, placing an elegant hand on Harry’s cheek.

'Harry…mon amour…mon cheri...mon petit chouchou ! Cet un plat delicieux, un plat Francais, avec des vegetables saute.'

'Amour...that means love...and...Francais…okay...' Harry scrunched up his face, exaggerating his ignorance.

'I learned how to make it from Gilles, our chef. Back in the days of my youth…which are long passed, now…’ The blonde sighed dramatically, turning back to the tomatoes.

'Oh right, while I was burning bacon for fat muggles.'

Draco smiled and Harry laughed, as Draco went on chopping and cutting.

'You know Draco, I'm completely enchanted with your upbringing. It's just all so romantic and high-society!'

There was a slight pause, here, as both reflected, in different ways.

'Harry, would you like to learn something else, in French?'

'Er, Oui.'

'Foutez le camp!'

'Foutez le camp!'

'Very good, darling.' Harry was rewarded with a pat on the bum.

'So what does it mean?'

'Fuck off.'

Fin.

A/N: Ah, Ouais, I don’t really know why I wrote this, it was done in about three minutes, pour mon amie, spontaneously. Mais non, je ne regrette rien!