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It was just Harry’s luck that the only femme at the bar was Malfoy. In hindsight it made sense, cosmically, somehow, that the girl who bullied her mercilessly in her formative years turned out to be extremely beautiful, exactly Harry's type, and (evidently) gay. But it still caught her off guard when she caught a glimpse of white-blonde hair, and her head turned instinctively to land on Malfoy's long, pale form.
The other girl was standing by the bar, paper-white skin turned lavender by the purple spotlights, deep in conversation with a woman rocking triple denim and an ill-advised neckerchief. Malfoy's burgundy dress clung to her willowy figure, punctuated by strappy heels from a Muggle designer Harry recognized but could never name, even given a thousand tries, but she knew they made Malfoy's already long legs go on for miles. Years, even. Before Harry could tear her gaze away, the two made eye contact, Malfoy's big grey eyes going wide in recognition, and Harry had to abscond to the couches in the back of the pub to gather her thoughts.
She didn't have long.
It’s only a few minutes later that Malfoy's twiggy self plops down on the couch beside her, pink cheeks evident even in the purpley light. “Potter,” she sniffs, and Harry flounders for something, anything to say.
“Er... hi, Malfoy,” she settles on, lamely. "Been a while."
“Quite.”
There’s a moment where neither of them know what to say. “What are you doing here?” Malfoy eventually manages, and Harry snorts.
“I’m always here on Masc Monday,” she says a little more defensively than she means to. “I think a better question is what are you doing here? You know this is a dyke bar, right?” The way Malfoy wrinkles her nose makes Harry realise how sceptical she’d sounded, and she regrets it immediately. She chuckles nervously in hopes of relieving the tension. Smooth.
Malfoy lifts her chin, haughty but unoffended, and exposes the blush creeping up her long neck. “Yes, well..." she scoffs. "I’m... one of those.”
“One of what?”
Silence, again.
“One of... the word you just said.” Her eyes dart around the room, settling on dancing women, tracing neon letters spelling out the names of Muggle beers— anywhere but Harry’s face.
“Go on, say it,” Harry coaxes, but Malfoy just splutters. “Take your time.”
“I’m... lesbian,” Malfoy sniffs primly, nose in the air, face scarlet. “Is that really so surprising?”
Harry thinks back to the times Malfoy sneered at her secondhand Chuck Taylors, or her ratty flannel. "A bit, yeah," she admits with a shrug, and rests her arm on the back of the couch. "Sort of figured you were homophobic."
Malfoy tosses her hair over one shoulder and leans in ever so slightly. It's not that Harry’s arm is around her, really; she's just sitting in the seat that Harry's arm happens to be resting on the back of. Coincidental. Nevertheless, Harry's armpit is touching Malfoy's bare shoulder, and it’s the closest they've been since Hogwarts.
"Don't be ridiculous, Potter," Malfoy sneers, looking inordinately offended for someone who spent her teenage years variously trying to humiliate and murder a lesbian. "I've always supported... homosexuals," she insists. The word sounds strange in her plummy voice, and Harry can't stifle her snicker.
“So all the bullying me for dressing like a boy, that had...”
“... Nothing to do with you being lesbian, no,” Malfoy finishes, and the word comes out a little easier this time. “I bullied you because you dressed like a boy with dreadful fashion sense.” She avoids Harry’s eyes again, checking her manicured nails with the air of someone with moral high ground. “I mean, really, Potter? Sweater vests?”
Harry laughs, loud and warm and open. “It was a fashion statement!”
“A statement of what?” Malfoy’s voice jumps an octave. “That you’ve got cold arms?”
"Well, when you put it like that..." Harry smirks and takes a chance, letting her hand brush against Malfoy's bony shoulder. More silence. "So... what happened to k.d. lang over there?" she prods, thinking back to the denim-clad butch from earlier, and Malfoy scowls.
"She asked me who my ‘celebrity crush’ is,” she huffs, “and I said Margaret Thatcher.” Harry snorts in response, making Malfoy scowl harder. "What?” she hisses. “Isn't that a Muggle woman everyone fancies?"
"’Fraid not," Harry murmurs into the space near Malfoy’s temple and pulls her a little closer. Every hair on Malfoy’s arm is standing up, and Harry wonders if it’s just from the draughty air of the pub. "Might want to go with, like... Xena or something next time."
Malfoy hmms thoughtfully, her offence forgotten, and lets her eyes travel across Harry’s broad shoulder and down her forearm, taking it all in: the twin violets, the stag, the axe, the stick-and-poke. “‘It’s only life after all,’” Malfoy reads in a dreamy sort of voice. “What’s it mean?”
Harry intends to roll her eyes, say something sexy and aloof like, “It means I thought it was cool.” But there’s something about the feeling of Malfoy’s painted fingernail skimming her bicep, tracing the letters Ginny had carefully inked onto her tawny skin all those years ago, that makes Harry feel like she’d do anything to impress her.
“It’s just, like, my life philosophy, I guess,” she preens, grinning in a way that she hopes is charming but feels a little goofy. Jesus Christ, Harry. Get it together. It’s just a girl.
Except it’s the girl Harry had her first sex dream about, and said girl is nodding like she’s interested in the stupid thing Harry just said instead of taking the piss like she’d always done when Harry says something too sincere, too eager, and her hair is shiny in the spotlights, and–
“Do you want to get out of here?" Harry watches the words form on Malfoy's pink lips, and everything in her mind is screaming at her to say yes.
"I don't do that," Harry hears herself say.
"What?"
"Go home with girls I've just met." They haven't just met, of course, but she doesn't have to explain what she means: it's different, now, Malfoy knows.
A blonde eyebrow arches, and Malfoy smirks her little smirk, the one she's always done, except now there's a note of something daring in it, something that was never there before, but always could have been. "See you next Monday, then, Potter."