Work Text:
“They’re dicks.” Harry breathes out, awed.
He’s about fourteen times more enthused about coming to support Hermione, hosting the first exhibition in her brand-new gallery.
He elbows Ron, hard, making him pull his nose out of the gallery brochure. There’s a really good picture of Hermione in there, as the owner, but Ron needs to see this. “Ron. Ron.”
“Wotcher, Harry!” Ron rubs his stomach, exaggeratedly in Harry’s opinion. “You’ve got vicious sharp little elbows!”
Harry ignores him. “Ronald Bilius Weasley,” he states. “Look at all the dicks!” He does the expansive Vanna White gesture such a statement requires.
Ron gives him a queer look for a moment, before turning his attention to the exhibition.
He stares. “Look at all the dicks,” he whispers.
There are large dicks, small pricks, huge phalluses, thick cocks, ginormous knobs, and tiny tallywhackers. All colors, sizes, mediums. In clay, blown in glass, welded in scrap metal, ejaculating paint on canvases. Some have wiry bushes at the bases, some are nude, some are perching atop thick bollocks.
Even the appetizers are small sausages on toothpicks. It’s the best thing Harry’s ever seen.
“Hermione,” Harry catches up to her, where she’s very pleasantly greeting some newcomers. He bounces on his feet until they get drawn away to peer at a monster of a cock, erupting at least six feet from the floor and thick enough that Harry couldn’t wrap his arms around it. He makes a mental note to have Ron stand beside it later, to see who’s taller.
“You didn’t tell me this was an exhibition of cocks!” He announces, gleefully.
Hermione looks at him like he’s barmy. “They’re not cocks, Harry, how could you say that! They’re all artistic representations of humanity’s flight from death. Voldemort. I have to say that Tom’s really ahead of his time, thinking about the temporality of life and the struggle to prepare oneself for the finality of death.”
“Le petite mort, maybe,” Harry says gleefully. He ignores Hermione, tugs on her velvet sleeve. “You’ve got to introduce me. Is he hot? Is he gay? He’s got to be, with a sausage party like this. I need to meet him.”
Hermione tugs her sleeve from Harry’s grabby fingers. She leans in, “There’s no dicks!” She hisses. Ron looks at her dubiously, out of the corner of his eye.
Harry raises his eyebrows at her, then nonchalantly saunters up to a painting on the wall. He turns sideways, lines up, then insouciantly cups his hand in the region of his groin, like he’s holding his cock.
Hermione claps her hands over her cheeks. “They’re dicks.” She whispers. Her face goes red, redder, until it looks like she might actually qualify for a position as a traffic light.
Then she bursts out laughing, throwing her head back. “They’re dicks.” She covers her mouth. She grabs Ron’s arm, tugging at the sleeve of his button down. “They are actualfax dicks.” She’s laughing so much she’s snorting a little, and Ron, the good boyfriend, hides her from the rest of the room, so her customers can’t see as she breaks down in giggles.
Hermione wipes the corner of her eyes after a moment. “Oh, he got me good.” Hermione says. “Oh. Harry, Harry. You have to help me get him back.”
Harry lays both of his hands on Hermione’s shoulders. “It would be my genuine pleasure.”
***
“This is the artist!” Hermione introduces cheerily. “Tom Riddle. Tom, this is one of my dearest friends, Harry Potter.” Harry gives a cheeky little quarter-bow. “Harry is just so excited by your collection! He’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your work, if that’s alright.”
Tom looks Harry over, head to toe, and then goes back over twice. Harry just smiles gamely back. He knew the genius behind this collection had to be gay.
“I’d love to,” Tom finally purrs. “Shall we take a stroll around?”
***
Thus begins Harry’s pun assault.
“How difficult was it to manipulate such a hard wood?”
***
“Your work truly carries the seed of genius.”
***
“The way this penetrates the very mind—"
***
“This medium has a vaguely nautical feel, much like a seaman–”
***
“This piece really thrusts your concept to the forefront–”
***
“Fearsome, like a one-eyed monster. Nobody beware!–”
***
“–spouting forth your creativity.”
***
“Fabrication truly must have been a pickle–”
***
“Harry,” Tom pulls up, steps in front of Harry before he can pull up to the next mixed media cock. “Are you going to quit these atrocious puns any time soon?”
Harry smiles up at him, eyes nearly glowing with amusement. “I’m not gonna quit ‘til you admit they’re all dicks.”
Tom sighs. He takes a step closer, hooks Harry by the hips. “Yes Harry. They’re all dicks.” He raises one unfairly beautiful eyebrow, smiles slyly with the corner of his mouth. “Would you be interested in modeling for the next collection?”
“Hell yes.”