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[1.]
The line snaked out of the door of the coffee shop and down the road, past half a dozen boutiques, a specialist delicatessen, a bakery and a natural health shop that, judging from its window display, sold hideous, twisted vegetabley things that wouldn’t be out of place in a shop in the wizarding world.
Harry sighed, feeling very hard done by, and joined the end of the queue. He tried to look on the bright side. So what if this wasn’t what he’d call his ideal assignment? It was good to get out from behind his desk, and from the stack of paperwork that threatened his life more and more severely each time he entered his office. And … presumably there was no risk of death, or they’d have sent Ron, his Auror partner, with him.
Harry shoved his hand in his pocket, to check for his wand, and tried to remind himself that ‘lack of danger’ was a good thing, and not a very dull thing.
Right, he told himself. Bright side. Well, at least he’d get a cup of coffee out of the whole boring business.
The queue moved forward very slowly, and Harry shuffled along with it, cursing all coffee makers. He made do perfectly well with a jar of instant coffee – a Muggle magic that, now he was a working man, he’d never give up (you’d have to pry it from his cold, dead hands, in fact) – so why did all these idiots need to spend half their salaries on something they could make just as well in the comfort of their own homes?
Harry yawned, and then blinked, trying to clear his head. He was tired, and really he needed the coffee first, before he investigated the source of the strange magic taking place in the shop – at least, the presumed strange magic. Reports of Muggles going crazy for the coffee, waiting in line before the shop had even opened, had filtered through to the Auror office – it was evidently a slow week – and ‘lucky Harry’ had been the new Auror who’d drawn the short straw and been tasked with investigating the whole boring business.
The shop probably just made really good coffee, Harry thought in some despair as he shuffled a bit further along the road. It was a clear spring day, bright and almost warm, and yet a good three-quarters of the young men in the queue alongside him wore scarves. Harry gloomily suspected that they were wearing them for more complicated reasons than simply keeping their necks warm, and felt deeply out of place.
By the time he got actually inside the tiny shop – which was, Harry noted with no great surprise, called Just Like Home and packed so full of battered, cosy sofas that there was barely any space for the achingly hip patrons – he was almost ready to ask if they did an alcoholic coffee, despite it only being … He checked his watch. Ten thirty-five a.m. He’d been in the queue for almost twenty minutes.
The matter of the sheer amount of time he’d wasted in the street paled into insignificance, however, when Harry saw exactly who was serving the coffee behind the counter.
Harry made a noise that – he would later admit to Ron and Hermione – was a pretty good imitation of a kettle exploding on the hob.
Draco Malfoy, wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves sloppily rolled up, unbuttoned at the neck, his hair a stylish mess that undoubtedly owed hours of time in front of the mirror, turned from the customer in front of him and…
Smirked! The bastard smirked!
Harry didn’t know, exactly, how he would expect Draco Malfoy to act when caught in the act of serving coffee to Muggles, but this was certainly not it.
“What are you—!” he started, surging forward, and halted in embarrassed confusion when the couple of people still in front of him in the queue turned, with looks of extreme hatred on their faces, to apply justice to the Man Who Dared Attempt To Jump The Queue.
“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, almost to himself, and then turned his gaze from his shoes to the vision of madness in front of him, brewing up drinks.
Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy for months. The last time he’d seen him, Malfoy had been subdued and had offered possibly the least convincing, or heartfelt, apology in the world, before lapsing again into sulking silence. He’d been too thin, and his hair overlong, as if he couldn’t be bothered anymore.
It did seem a little peculiar that it was only now – now that he was working (working!) in a Muggle (Muggle!) shop – that he looked almost like the old, infuriatingly self-possessed Malfoy. The way he held himself was almost cockier than Harry had ever seen, the line of his neck proud and haughty as he … as he operated the coffee machine.
It was too peculiar to be true.
Harry remembered that he was there to do a job. Had Malfoy been cursed in some way? Was he, of all vile things, going to have to save Malfoy?
The customer in front of Harry moved away with his drink, taking a sip and making a noise that, if Harry didn’t know better, he would have thought came from someone in the throes of orgasm.
“Er, hello,” Harry said, finding himself face to face with Malfoy and also finding himself somewhat lost for words.
Malfoy rolled his eyes in a manner that was, somehow, more insulting than any actual insults could be, and tapped a finger on his chin. Then his lips moved, and Harry felt a wash of magic tingle over him, and he was just reaching for his wand when Malfoy laughed. At least, it was more of a laugh than a snort, but only just.
“Good god, Potter, you cannot be serious,” he said, reaching for a mug and then turning his back on Harry to rummage in a cupboard. He brought out a jar of instant coffee – Harry’s usual brand – and picked up a teaspoon, spooning out a large quantity of granules into the mug before pouring hot water on to them.
“I – what?” Harry said, feeling as if he’d lost the thread of the conversation somewhere. “What on earth are you up to, Malfoy?”
Malfoy looked at him as if he was an idiot – Harry had to admit he did feel a bit like one, right at that moment – and indicated, with a small movement of his head, that he was making coffee. “We don’t actually keep spirits here,” he added, stirring the coffee and adding a splash of cold water from the tap. “So you’ll have to have a virgin coffee, I’m afraid.”
“Right,” Harry said, automatically reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He stopped dead. “Wait, how did you know?” Then he held up a hand as Malfoy’s lips quirked into the most amazing mocking smile. “Seriously, Malfoy? This is how you spend your time these days? Doing coffee magic?”
Malfoy shrugged. It was a curiously graceful move. His smile turned feral. “And this is how you spend your time, oh saviour of all things? Investigating coffee shops?”
Harry flushed. “I can’t believe you’re doing magic on people to find out what sort of coffee they like to drink.”
“And I can’t believe that your dream cup of coffee is instant,” Malfoy countered.
It was a fair point, Harry conceded. “How much?” he asked.
Malfoy blinked at him.
“How much do I owe you?” Harry repeated, shaking his wallet. “I get expenses,” he added, in the face of Malfoy’s suddenly amused expression.
“On the house,” Malfoy said, waving Harry’s money away.
“You sure?” Harry said, feeling a little foolish, but also feeling the pressure of the hundred-mile queue outside the shop and the increasingly loud sighs of the woman behind him.
“Well, it’s not my house,” Malfoy said, and smiled, suddenly, with so much wicked humour that Harry … stepped aside and let the woman move up to the counter.
There wasn’t enough space for him to sit in the shop, even though he wanted to – he still wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t some sort of insane hallucination – so he pushed his way outside, the cardboard cup warming his fingers.
When he looked through the window, certain he’d spot Malfoy watching him from inside, all he could see was Malfoy laughing – laughing! – as he chatted with his current customer.
[2.]
Harry had complained loudly when the only punishment meted out to Malfoy for his coffee-related misdemeanours was a letter from the Ministry telling him off. The reasons given to him – that Malfoy had stopped working at the shop after Harry’s visit; that as no Muggles had seen him doing magic, and it was a very mild spell, his infraction was a minor one – seemed somehow lacking. This was Malfoy! Working in Muggle London! He was up to something, Harry knew, and the only question was what. Pleasing Muggles by serving them their favourite type of coffee was certainly NOT what was behind Malfoy’s actions.
So it was with grim satisfaction that Harry heard the report that Draco Malfoy had been spotted working in an exclusive cocktail bar in Muggle London and was apparently all but causing riots over the quality of his drinks. He was a little less pleased when it occurred to him that there was nothing in his wardrobe that would pass muster with the door staff, but happily he remembered that he had an invisibility cloak so he decided he’d just bung on his jeans and a shirt and shove the cloak over the top. It wasn’t like he wanted to hang out in the bar – just grab Malfoy, punch him on the nose, and haul him back to the Ministry for questioning.
Again, Harry was a little peeved that he wasn’t assigned an Auror partner for the job – even though Ron had expressed himself perfectly willing to join Harry, particularly in the punching part. Strangely enough, though, Ron’s enthusiasm in that area had counted against him, so Harry found himself once again in a strange, wealthy part of London, although this time there was more night-time and fewer people queuing.
It took him a while, in fact, to actually find the bar – it lacked certain essentials, like a door number, or a name. The only indication that was a bar, rather than a home, was a smart-suited gentleman standing outside, bulging with muscles, and a red cord across the doorway.
Harry began to consider if he’d need to do the limbo to get in the bar, and whether he could do that successfully whilst keeping all his limbs inside the cloak. The last thing he wanted to do was cause a panic – and panic people would if they saw disembodied limbs floating about. He suspected that this was going to be sort of place where the patrons wouldn’t be drunk – they’d just be crying about how expensive the drinks were.
Happily, however, a group of very well-heeled women turned up after he’d only been waiting for a few minutes, and he was able to slide in after them without too much trouble.
Once inside, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and then he looked about him. The bar was cavernous, and filled with tables. No one was sitting at the tables, however. Instead, a line of men and women – the sort of men and women who looked like they never had to queue for anything – snaked from the bar and around the tables.
“Do they not do table service here?” one of the women near Harry said in tones of disgust.
“They do,” her companion said, “but if you want a drink from their new barman, you have to go to the bar. He likes to look you in the eye and see what drink is your heart’s desire before he makes it for you.” She giggled.
Harry thought his heart’s desire right now was probably to kill Malfoy. Although before he killed him, he wanted to know what exactly Malfoy was up to. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering exactly why Malfoy had turned into the sort of man who wanted to mix perfect drinks for Muggles – that would surely kill him too, and where was the fun in that?
Harry managed to slide into the queue near the front and, with his fingers metaphorically crossed, shucked off the cloak.
“I say!” said a very posh voice. “Where did you spring from? You aren’t trying to push in, are you?”
“Er, no, I’ve been here all along,” Harry said weakly and considered casting a quick spell. But … that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? He was here to stop Malfoy from casting spells on Muggles, after all.
“Go to the back of the queue this instant, or I’ll call over security and have you thrown out,” the woman continued.
Harry thought he’d better do as she said, particularly given he was now hanging out in an exclusive bar in his jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days, so he mournfully trudged to the back of the queue, hoping beyond hope that the barman – he’d seen a flash of blonde – hadn’t seen that.
By the time he got to the head of the queue, he didn’t even want a drink. Unless it was Malfoy’s blood! But he didn’t especially want that, either. He wanted a nice cup of tea and a sit down. The loud music was giving him a headache, and the uncertainty of what Malfoy was doing was making him feel tetchy and on-edge.
“I see you dressed up for the evening,” Malfoy said, curling his lip in a manner that should have been disdainful, and yet was somehow … no, it was disdainful, all right.
“You’re at it again, Malfoy,” Harry said, folding his arms and trying to quell Malfoy with a look.
Malfoy refused to be quelled. Instead, the familiar wash of magic passed over Harry, and while Harry spluttered, Malfoy laughed, rolled his eyes and reached behind the bar for a mug and a teabag. “I’ve probably got a headache potion in my locker, if you like,” Malfoy said pleasantly as he flicked on the kettle. “I can get it for you while the kettle boils.”
“Yes, please, that would be— No, Malfoy,” Harry said, aware he was being side-tracked. “What are you up to?”
Malfoy eyed him. “Nothing?” he tried.
Harry tried to see if his cheeks were flushing, but the light was too low to be sure. “You’re making drinks for Muggles again, Malfoy,” he said.
“Well, yes,” Malfoy replied, as if that was perfectly normal and he, Harry, was crazy for pointing it out.
“Why?” Harry asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“Why not?” Malfoy said lightly. The kettle clicked, and he poured boiling water over the teabag. “Back in a tick.” He left Harry standing there, open mouthed, and disappeared behind a door, reappearing a minute or so later with a glass containing a blue, swirling liquid. “Here you go,” he said, and waited as Harry didn’t drink it.
“Aren’t you going to drink it?” Malfoy asked, raising an eyebrow, then fishing out the teabag from Harry’s mug of tea and splashing in some milk.
“Drink a potion you’ve given me?” Harry asked. “Are you mad?”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “You drank the coffee,” he said. And then he nodded towards the tea, which Harry had already taken a happy sip of. “And the tea.”
Harry felt like a bit of a knobber. “That’s different,” he said weakly.
“Is it?” Malfoy asked. He looked, of all things, actually offended, but before Harry could respond, he’d nodded his head at someone behind Harry.
To Harry’s dismay, he found his arms being held by the large, muscled, sharp-suited doorman he’d encountered earlier, and the tea and potion taken from him. The doorman appeared to have found a friend. Together, their aim seemed to be to pull Harry’s arms out – or, at least, to pull them towards the door, and so his body had, reluctantly, to follow.
When Harry looked back, from his perspective of the doorstep, he couldn’t see Malfoy at all through the crush of customers.
[3.]
“Malfoy, you have to admit this is getting a little strange,” Harry said when Malfoy approached his table, pad and pencil in hand, to take his order.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Malfoy said with heavy irony. He was wearing a typical Muggle waiter’s uniform – sharp black trousers, crisp white shirt, and a short white apron round his waist. The uniform did nothing to make him look less like Malfoy though. He oozed … something. Harry couldn’t think exactly what. It wasn’t charm, that was for sure. Right now, he was looking at Harry as if he resembled a turd.
“If you keep using magic on Muggles, you’ll keep seeing me!” Harry protested hotly. “Do you think I want to spend all my time trailing after you?”
Malfoy’s eyes glittered, and Harry swallowed hard, remembering a time – Merlin, it felt like so long ago – when that’s exactly what he’d done.
“Look, Malfoy,” Harry said, deciding he couldn’t cope with Malfoy continuing to look at him like that. “If you just tell me what you’re doing, I can leave you alone. The Ministry will overlook you using a little magic to make the lives of Muggles better if I speak up on your behalf, but …”
“But the saviour doesn’t think that’s what I’m doing?” Malfoy asked, tipping his head to one side and fixing Harry with a peculiarly penetrating stare.
Harry shifted in his chair. “It doesn’t seem very in character,” he said. “Go on, you have to admit it.”
“I don’t have to do anything other than take your order,” Malfoy said, raising his pencil as if he wished to stab Harry in the eye with it rather than write anything. “Well?”
“Aren’t you going to work your magic and read my mind?” Harry said, fidgeting.
“No,” Malfoy said, through gritted teeth.
“No?” Harry leaned forward. “Why not?”
Malfoy sniffed delicately. “Because you don’t deserve it,” he said.
Harry took a deep, stabilising breath. I will not kill Malfoy. I will not kill Malfoy. “I’ll have the steak, please,” he said. “And try not to spit in it,” he added when Malfoy moved away.
Malfoy didn’t say anything, but the line of his neck and back changed, as if he were suppressing a laugh.
When the food came – brought by another server, to Harry’s irritation – it was perfectly serviceable, and Harry tried very hard not to think that perhaps he should have ordered the lamb, after all.
[4.]
“This is getting ridiculous, Malfoy,” Harry said, after the intercom had buzzed and he’d been admitted into the hallowed sanctum of the most expensive of all of Savile Row’s tailors.
“What’s getting ridiculous?” Malfoy asked. “That you had to use magic to get an appointment to see me in my new job? I only joined a week ago, and there’s already a three-year waiting list, you know.”
Harry swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. It was … the fact he hadn’t had enough to drink that day. That was all. It certainly wasn’t how fucking fantastic Draco Malfoy looked in a three-piece Muggle suit. Like a wet dream brought to life.
Not that Harry had had any wet dreams about blokes in suits! And certainly wouldn’t in future. Absolutely not.
He swallowed again, his mouth now resembling the Sahara desert.
“Can I get you a glass of water, Potter?” Malfoy asked, making Harry leap and nearly knock over a tailor’s dummy.
Malfoy sniggered, much to Harry’s dismay. “Sit down, idiot, and I’ll get you a drink.”
Harry sat. And, when Malfoy handed him a glass, he drank.
“Not worried this one’s poisoned?” Malfoy asked when he’d drained it. The bitchy tone was back in his voice. “You have a curious lack of self-preservation for an Auror.”
“You’re not going to poison me,” Harry said firmly, handing the glass back. He didn’t like that he was sitting down while Malfoy was standing up – Malfoy’s slim waist kept drawing his eye, and that was almost more disturbing than the idea of Malfoy doing good amongst the Muggles.
“But I want to poison you,” Malfoy said, his voice husky.
Harry shivered. And then pulled himself together. “And I want to punch you in the face!” he said firmly.
Malfoy – to Harry’s surprise – actually laughed at that. A normal, non-sneery laugh, like a regular person who wasn’t the embodiment of pure evil might make. And then smiled! The fucker actually smiled! “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said. “Now, are you actually here for a suit, or have you come to clap me in irons and drag me to your—” He went a slightly purple colour. “I mean, to the Ministry’s dungeon?”
Harry’s insides did a very vigorous dance. He wished they wouldn’t. He frowned. “Are you using magic on Muggles again?”
Malfoy’s smile slipped a little. “Only the magic of my personality,” he said snidely.
“You’re definitely using magic then,” Harry said – only, he accidentally said it in a light-hearted way so that it came out like a joke rather than an insult. He felt surprised, and Malfoy looked equally surprised.
“Of course I’m using magic,” he said. “But only the sort of magic that a tailor in the wizarding world would use, so it barely counts.”
It was an interesting use of the phrase ‘barely counts’, but Harry supposed he had a point. A tiny one. A smidgeon of one.
“Since you’re here, I might as well make you a suit,” Draco said.
Harry wasn’t sure he liked the sudden glint in his eye.
“Kit off.”
Harry definitely didn’t like the glint in his eye. “I beg your pardon?”
Malfoy’s lips twitched. “If I’m going to measure you up properly, I need you in your underwear.”
“Oh do you?” Harry said with some heat.
“Yes,” Malfoy replied.
Which was why, five minutes later, Harry found himself standing very, very still as Malfoy slid a measuring tape up the inside of his leg.
And, a mere seven and a half minutes later, Harry found himself outside the shop, having dressed so quickly he’d nearly garrotted himself with his tie, after Malfoy’s warm, slender fingers, moving in an entirely professional way against his skin, had caused a reaction that Harry had never, ever thought he’d have in Malfoy’s company, of all people.
And what had made it all the worse had been that, instead of making a disgusted face, Malfoy had simply carried on measuring, turned his back while Harry dressed, and then turned back, looking rather like the crup that had got the cream, and suggested that Harry might like to pick his suit up some time next week.
[5.]
When the internet, according to the Ministry’s Muggle contacts, broke out into a froth over – of all things – a new pizza delivery company, and the most charming of delivery boys, the task of investigating was (of course) handed straight to Harry.
It seemed to Harry as if he’d become the go-to Auror for anything that could possibly involve Draco fucking Malfoy. In the last week, he’d investigated half a dozen reports of blonde Muggles being suspiciously good at stuff, and had found … blonde Muggles being good at stuff. And the worst thing about the whole sorry mess? Was that he’d felt disappointed, of all things, that these particular blondes weren’t Draco Malfoy.
And not just because if they weren’t Draco Malfoy, he couldn’t, in all conscience, shout at them.
It was, he supposed, his own fault. He hadn’t been back to pick up the suit that Malfoy had allegedly been making him, and when he’d finally changed his mind he’d called the shop, only to find that their new tailor had moved on. The man he’d spoken to had sounded incredibly irate about the fact, and so Harry hadn’t liked to ask if he knew where to.
Of all the things that Malfoy would have moved on to, though, Harry felt quite certain that it wouldn’t be to delivering pizzas. He tried, and failed, to imagine Malfoy on a Muggle scooter, holding a box of cheese and grease. Still, it was an assignment, and he had to do it – and his fridge was pretty empty, now he came to think of it, so having free pizza on the Aurors’ budget wasn’t exactly a hardship.
Harry went home feeling mildly more cheerful, stopping off at the phone box outside his house to order a large pepperoni pizza before going in, unwarding his doorway so that the Muggle delivery driver would be able to find it. (The first time he’d tried that, he’d worried that someone would notice, and make a fuss, but so far his neighbours had proved surprisingly unobservant.)
He pulled off his formal Auror robes, took the quickest of showers, and tugged on his nicest jeans and a soft, tight T-shirt in dark green that he thought made him look slightly more attractive than the other clean ones in his wardrobe.
He was aware, uncomfortably, that he was hoping – just a little bit – that Draco Malfoy would turn out to be the delivery boy, after all.
When the doorbell rang, his heart started pounding, and he had to wipe his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans before he went to answer it.
It wasn’t Malfoy.
Of course it wasn’t Malfoy, Harry told himself sternly, paying the young, blonde man and giving him a large tip. Why on earth would it have been Malfoy? He shut the door on the delivery boy and gave the box a dirty look. Suddenly, he didn’t feel that hungry any more, and he shoved it on a countertop in his kitchen, before pacing into his living room and slumping on the sofa.
The doorbell rang again, and Harry rolled his eyes, getting up with a groan and opening the door crossly. “What did you forget?” he said, and then his jaw dropped.
“You forgot your suit, you idiot,” Draco Malfoy said, wrinkling his nose. “Why does this whole area stink of warm grease?”
Harry shut his jaw. Then opened it again, ready to stammer out something – anything – that made him sound like less of an idiot. Then he saw it: the scooter, still parked outside his house. He narrowed his eyes and then leaned in close to sniff at Malfoy.
Instead of shying away, or punching Harry on the jaw, Malfoy stood still – but a pink, warm blush travelled up his neck and along his cheek.
“You smell like pizza,” Harry accused. He didn’t – but it was worth a shot.
“I do not!” Malfoy protested. But it was a weak protest, and after a mere ten seconds of Harry looking at him with both eyebrows raised (he’d never managed to raise just the one, no matter how hard he’d practiced in front of the mirror) he shrugged. “I deliver pizzas sometimes,” he said. “And suits,” he added. “And aren’t you going to ask me in? It’s very rude of you to keep a guest waiting on the doorstep.”
“I didn’t realise you were a guest,” Harry said, but he stepped back and let Malfoy – and his suit bag – in. Malfoy was wearing a suit himself, now he’d let the glamour drop, and his arse was a sight to behold. “I usually invite my guests, you know,” he added piteously, trying to drag his eyes away from the sight of Malfoy’s bum and look up to the back of his head. “They don’t generally turn up and invite themselves.”
Malfoy turned his head and smirked. “I brought you dinner,” he said. “Now take your clothes off.”
“I … what?” Harry said dumbly.
“To try on the suit,” Malfoy said. “Before you get pepperoni grease all over it, dumbo.”
“I … no, Malfoy,” Harry said firmly, taking the suit bag out of Malfoy’s hands and levitating it up the stairs and onto his bed, “I am not taking my clothes off before dinner.”
Malfoy’s eyes positively twinkled.
Harry felt himself turn, approximately, the shade of a tomato.
“Come and eat some pizza,” Harry said, in lieu of saying anything more stupid, leading the way into the kitchen before he realised that maybe inviting Malfoy in to eat dinner wasn’t the wisest of actions.
“OK,” Malfoy said, making it too late for Harry to protest. Not that he wanted to protest. Much.
They sat at the small table in the corner of Harry’s kitchen and munched. Malfoy, Harry thought, was very good at not getting grease on his chin. It was a skill that Harry wished he also had. He Accio-ed some paper towels and scrubbed at his face, while Malfoy looked on with some amusement.
“So why are you taking all these Muggle jobs?” Harry asked, feeling a bit put upon. But, despite that, for some reason he rose from his chair, went to a cabinet and got out some glasses, filling them with white wine from the fridge and offering one to Malfoy.
“Be honest,” Harry added.
“Oh,” Malfoy said, taking a pensive sip. “Really? You want me to be honest?”
“Yes!” Harry said emphatically.
Malfoy smiled slightly. Harry thought this was suspicious. “Are you sure?” Malfoy said.
“Oh, just get on with it, will you?” Harry grumbled. “Before we both expire of old age.”
Malfoy smirked a little at that – it wasn’t exactly a nice look, but it was very Malfoy, and Harry found that he liked it more than he should. “I did it to piss you off,” Malfoy said.
“You … what?” Harry said, putting his wine glass down.
Malfoy looked back at him, his grey eyes clear and his expression thoughtful. “I was bored,” he said. And then he grinned. It was possibly the wickedest grin Harry had ever seen, and Harry found himself shifting about on his chair as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I wanted to wind you up,” he clarified. “At first.”
“At first?” Harry repeated faintly. Suddenly, he felt an urgent need for alcohol, and he took a big glug of wine.
“Well, you were so polite in the way you were wound up,” Malfoy said, his voice smooth and sweet. “All that queuing! It was hilarious. So after that, I wanted to wind you up more.”
“Oh, cheers for that,” Harry said. “Thanks ever so!”
Malfoy was looking at him now in a way that made Harry feel very, very nervous.
“What—” Harry started. He stopped and cleared his throat. “What will you do now?”
Malfoy’s gaze intensified. “I think I might have found an even better way to get under your skin, chosen one.”
Harry couldn’t look away. Malfoy’s skin was lightly flushed, his eyes wide and his lips parted. “Yes?” he said, a little dumbly.
Malfoy looked down, and then – the absolute bastard – looked up again, very slowly, through lashes that were too long for a boy, surely.
Harry shifted again in his seat, feeling an uncomfortable pressure in his jeans.
“Well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” Malfoy said – suddenly cheerful – and he jumped up, stretched widely, and grinned at Harry, before closing the gap between them to press a quick, infuriatingly chaste, kiss to the side of his mouth. “I have pizzas to deliver, after all, right now. I’ll let myself out!”
And the fucking git only went and did just that, leaving Harry staring, in absolute amazement, at his shut front door.
It took him some minutes to pull himself together, and even longer to remember that Malfoy had brought the suit with him. Harry thought that, in the absence of anything better to do – and in the absence of any blonde pure-bloods to eviscerate – he might as well have a look at the sodding thing. So he made his way upstairs to his bedroom, where the suit lay on his bed.
He unzipped the bag, pulling the suit out. It was gorgeous, and – he realised uncomfortably – probably a little more expensive than his Auror expenses allowance would cover. But it wasn’t until he had it fully out of the bag that he noticed the crisp white square of paper folded between the waistcoat and jacket.
Next time, let me take your clothes off, moron, it said – impolitely.
Harry dropped the note, out of shock. This had the effect of turning it over.
And if that thought inspires wanking, please don’t do it near the suit – it’s handwash only.
Harry let out a huff of breath and grinned, despite himself. He was going to kill Malfoy. And he was going to do it very, very slowly. Perhaps, he thought, after a couple of dates, and a lot of sex, and maybe – he thought about it some more – a few decades of blissful cohabitation and mutual irritation.
Yes, he thought, his mouth widening into a smile so broad it almost hurt, that would probably be slow enough. Although, if there was a wizarding afterlife, as seemed likely, perhaps he could try and kill Malfoy a little more there too.
He put the suit back in the bag and zipped it up, hanging the bag up in his wardrobe. He’d try it on later. It crossed his mind to worry – just a little – what Malfoy’s next great career move might be, but he’d think about that in more detail later. Right now he had other – rather better – things to do.