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Draco fucking hates Monthly Sunday Brunches with his father.
He has to wear a tie and laugh at Lucius’s god-awful Hank Hill impressions and order something bland and boring and All-fucking-American because that ugly asshole editor at the Huffington Post—who had gone to, like, a public school in fucking Ohio and live-Tweeted his most recent re-watch of The Cable Guy, like, come the fuck on—had decided putting lox on a goddamn bagel was culturally appropriative.
It’s half past ten and Draco can’t even get drunk.
And he couldn’t invite Hermione because they aren’t married yet and he couldn’t invite Theo because Theo’s mother is a Democrat and while he could theoretically have invited Blaise because of the whole minority voters thing, Blaise had been too busy, like, brooding about Daphne breaking up their weird little threesome, and he’d just thrown a box of Thin Mints at Draco’s head when he’d tried to, like, physically coerce him. Or whatever.
God.
He can’t even text Potter.
Not that he’s friends with Potter.
That would be stupid.
What the fucking fuck.
The only potential upside to the morning is that Snape might show up; shit always goes down when Snape shows up.
“Snape coming?” Draco sighs, finally deigning to speak as he drags the tines of his fork through a decorative swirl of freshly whipped butter.
“His name is Severus, Draco, and yes, he will be making an appearance,” Lucius replies, briefly glancing heavenward like Draco is the one at fault for how ridiculously fucking tiresome everything already is. “Sit up straight, please—Dobby will be taking candids today.”
“Dobby will be taking candids today,” Draco mimics, tossing his shoulders back with an exaggerated roll of his neck. “Is publicity even part of his job? Hermione said—”
“Hermione needs to stop harassing my aides and leaving pamphlets about health insurance underneath all their windshield wipers,” Lucius interjects snidely. “That girl is a menace.”
“Which girl?” a new voice suddenly drawls; Snape sniffs imperiously in Draco’s general direction before sliding into the seat next to Lucius. “Good morning, gentlemen. I apologize for my tardiness—I had a meeting scheduled with the elder Flint, and he insisted on a round of golf. Insipid man. No wonder Marcus can barely string a sentence together without wanting to punch it.”
Lucius hums, semi-fondly. “We were discussing Draco’s latest…distraction—the girl who thinks we should dissolve tax brackets and replace Mount Rushmore with a Stalin statue.”
“That isn’t what she said—” Draco snaps, just as their waitress approaches to take their order. “Yes, hi, I’ll have the eggs benedict—make sure the Canadian bacon is extra Canadian, will you?”
Lucius grimaces. “Denver omelet, please,” he says, flashing the poor girl a highly polished, long-suffering sort of smirk; his teeth look as if they were whitened with, like, gamma rays and nineteen gallons of bleach. “With the Wisconsin cheddar—and the California avocados. Nothing tastier than America on a plate, is there, ah, Cho?”
Cho’s answering smile is pained, and Snape’s expression almost immediately does something weird—if Draco didn’t know better, he’d think Snape was trying not to fucking laugh.
“Just a bagel for me,” Snape says, sounding unaffected. “With butter and lox.”
Lucius’s eyes widen, and he quickly claps Snape on the back, practically shouting, “Now, tell us about that new synagogue you’ve been going to, Severus—you said the rabbi has been very insightful, didn’t you?”
Snape doesn’t bother responding; he just calmly reaches for the mimosa carafe, pouring a generous amount into his empty water glass and ignoring Lucius’s high-pitched huff of dismay.
“So,” Draco starts, blandly. “Think there’ll be much of a scandal if I do a quickie Vegas wedding with Hermione? We were thinking an autumn elopement—”
Lucius drops his fork with an anticlimactic clatter of polished silver on soft-glazed porcelain. “Draco,” he hisses, lowering his voice and glaring furtively at the smear of strawberry-basil compote staining the outer edge of Draco’s bread plate. “I am preparing for an incredibly important election in a few months. I turned a blind eye to your—your Fight Club shenanigans with the Potter boy last year, but your behavior must be above reproach from here on out.”
“What’s that, Dad?” Draco retorts loudly, prodding at the delicate skin of his perfectly poached egg with the blunt point of his butter knife. “Women only care about engagement rings and abortions?”
Snape chokes on his mimosa, spraying champagne across the snowy linen tablecloth, but Lucius looks fucking livid.
“I see,” Lucius grits out, nostrils flaring as he visibly fights off a scowl; Draco hopes Dobby is fucking filming this. “I see. Well, Draco, you’re leaving me with very few options for the summer, aren’t you?”
Draco snorts. “What, am I grounded?”
“No, of course not. You’re a grown man—twenty-one next week, aren’t you? I can’t ground you.”
“Then what?”
Lucius smiles, slowly, and it’s unpleasant enough that Draco actually stops chewing his bite of English muffin. “You’re going to have a security detail this summer. To keep you out of trouble. Severus can recommend a few strapping young men for the job, I’m sure.”
Draco stares, nonplussed. “Snape only knows criminals. You can’t send criminals with me to fucking Maine.”
“Language, Draco,” Lucius tuts. “And you’ll find that I can do precisely whatever I want—I’m not the one who requires a babysitter, am I?”
Snape doesn’t say anything—again—but Draco notices his next sip of champagne is more like a gulp.