If Harry and Draco went on The Dog House 🐾🦴
It would be Draco who insists that they adopt a dog in need of rehoming instead of purchasing one from a breeder.
He’d have learned about non-magical domestic animals during his court-mandated (and then self-motivated) Muggle studies and come across the idea of puppy mills. He’d never admit that the pictures had made him cry (they had), but he’d vocally swear off all pets immediately.
And the whole ‘purebred’ thing would be a little too close to ‘pure blood’ for Draco’s comfort, anyways.
Until Harry takes him to the Burrow for the first time after they start dating and he meets Cheese, George’s scruffy little Terrier cross, a rescue. Draco would be a paragon of proper manners and earnest repentance, and after he yes please’d and thank you’d and complimented his way through dinner, he would sequester himself in a quiet corner of the sitting room with Cheese on his lap and a small smile on his face.
And then Harry would go on assignment to The Netherlands, or somewhere, and Draco would be so afraid to be alone in big, empty Grimmauld Place that he’d spend the whole month at Pansy’s.
(To be fair, they’d still get the occasional threat against his life in the post, and even though Draco would laugh them off in the light of day, he couldn’t help but jump at every creak and groan of the old house after sundown.)
So when Harry gets back, he’d sit Draco down and suggest that maybe it’s time they look into getting a dog of their own. Maybe a German Shepherd, or a Mastiff, or a Doberman. Something big and mean looking that would help Draco feel safe. Here, look, he’d already gotten the phone numbers for a few breeders—
No! Draco would insist. There are too many dogs out there who are unwanted and in desperate need of a loving home, because maybe they’re a little too nervous, or in need of medical care, or have three legs or one eye or are deaf or blind. Or maybe they used to be aggressive but it’s not their fault that their humans didn’t know how to communicate with them, and maybe they were just trying to survive and they didn’t mean to bite anyone! No, he would not cry again.
So, the shelter it would be.
When the shelter employees ask them what sort of dog they’re looking for, Draco would blink back at them because he’d have just come for a dog, any dog, and how could he even answer that? But Harry would cut in and say that they’d prefer a large dog, not too old, the breed doesn’t matter. There’s no problem if the dog has medical needs, but they’d prefer one who could at least pretend to guard the house when it was empty.
And then Draco would cut in and emphasize that what they really need is a dog who likes to curl up on the end of the couch while he and Harry watch movies on the telly and play fetch and make dog-friends at the park, and sleep in the bed with—
Okay, not in the bed, Harry would say.
Theoretically in the bed. A bed. Someone’s bed. Draco would say with a roll of his eyes and a look at the shelter people like this git, eh?
The shelter employees would go away to look at all the available dogs, leaving Harry and Draco alone to bicker about whether or not the dog they hadn’t adopted yet, hadn’t even met yet, would be allowed in the kitchen.
(of course they would be, who are you, my Father?? Draco would say, which would make Harry scoff and frown, and then stare off into the distance).
And the shelter employees would come back and say that they’d found a dog that ticked all their boxes, and Draco would yelp. Actually squeal.
So they would walk hand-in-hand down the path to the little meeting pavilion, still bickering about table scraps, doggie sweaters, and names. Draco would refuse to call their new dog something banal like Spot, or Buddy, or Fido. Harry would rather die than have to call out something poncey and embarrassing like Princess, or Caligula, or Bernard.
But it would be Harry who looked up from the ground, his eyes shining, one hand full of treats and the other engaged in a spirited game of tug of war, and say this is the one.
And Draco would laugh and start to say something sarcastic and biting, I told you so, when Harry put on his most indulgent baby voice and informed the dog that he would be sleeping on his side of the bed. But then the dog would trip and flop over toward Draco, all wiggling tail and wagging tongue, and it suddenly wouldn’t matter who told who what, because yes, this is the one.
Weeks later, when the camera crew came round to Grimmauld to check how things were going, Harry and Draco would arrange themselves on the couch for the interview. Harry would sprawl out, relaxed and casual, while Draco would perch on the edge of the cushion, his hands clasped over his crossed knees. Did you bring her home with you? How has it been? the interviewer would ask. Would you like to see? Draco would respond.
Lu! Lulu! Lumos! Draco would call, and the dog would come tumbling into the room and leap up onto their laps, her whole body vibrating with the force of her joy. She was called Nancy, he’d say, but she wasn’t really a Nancy, was she? She’s our little light.
And Harry would pull the scruffy little dust bunny of a mutt into his arms and say she’s the love of our lives.
And Draco would cry. Right there, on national television for anyone to see.
If you don’t know already, The Dog House is a UK/Aus reality show (maybe others?) where people adopt rescue dogs. We’ve just got it streaming on my side of the pond, and I have been … inhaling it, if you need a good, cleansing cry this is the show for you 😩😩.