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“He's staring again,” Draco said.
Ron glanced over. “He's browsing a product, mate.”
“No way he's actually looking at pygmy puff accessories,” Draco scoffed, but left well enough alone when Ron gave him a disbelieving look. Still, Draco felt Harry Potter's stare, and regretted putting his hair up in a bun that exposed the nape of his neck.
“Hi, Malfoy,” Potter said, putting down a pygmy puff-sized cardigan on the table.
Draco stared down at it. “Hi, Potter.” The cardigan had little bees embroidered on it. “Are you really getting this?”
“Er,” Potter said, infuriatingly, and reached for a pack of gum beside Draco. His hand nearly brushed against Draco's arm, and Draco held his breath unthinkingly. “This too, I think.” ‘This’ turned out to be a pack of W3’s patented chewing gum designed to leave chewers with a sense of contentment that lingered longer than the taste of crazyberry. It was also the product that ended up usurping a large portion of market share from Drooble’s Best.
Draco personally held the opinion that Potter didn’t need to feel any sort of lingering contentment. He was the public's Golden Boy, after all. The Prophet followed his every move and wrote articles praising the hue of his eyes, the sharp cut of his jaw beneath that scruffy beard, and his arms, thick enough to snap brooms in half. Not that Draco read or agreed with any of the articles. He just had a vested interest in staying up to date on the news.
“Fine,” Draco said. “But you are aware that I'm not a cashier. I'm just here on my lunch break.”
“Yeah, Harry,” Ron said. “We're here so Draco can stare at Barnaby's arse.” Barnaby was one of the new cashiers at W3, fresh out of Hogwarts, with a dream of flying for Puddlemere United one day. Draco had mentioned in passing that Barnaby was fit, which Ron had immediately eww'd at and then asked him so many questions Draco left work with a headache and a renewed sense of appreciation for Pansy, who was a friend who didn't ask quite so many questions about gay sex and how it worked.
“I'm not staring,” Draco protested half-heartedly, and sighed. “Fine. I suppose I am. But you are too, for the record.”
Ron was a fantastic colleague and a wicked cook to boot. Draco knew this. He also knew that Ron wouldn't know what discretion was if it turned up, stuck its tongue out at him, stripped naked, and did the cha-cha slide.
Potter glanced at the back of the store where Barnaby was retrieving more chocolates to restock the display with. “The short guy?”
“He's not much shorter than you are,” Draco said, feeling compelled to defend poor innocent Barnaby's height. “He's just very fit.”
“An arse you could set your watch to, you said,” Ron added helpfully.
Draco could strangle Ron. George would thank him and most likely give him a raise just for doing so. He was a fairly good boss, all things considered, his tendency to test new products on himself aside. He’d also started inviting Draco along to the weekly Weasley dinners at the Burrow, which Draco made a point of turning down if Potter was in attendance.
So far it had meant that he’d turned down all the invitations. Not that it stopped George.
“Thank you, Ronald,” Draco said, and resolutely refused to meet Potter's eye. The bell above the door jangled and Draco looked up to see Blaise saunter in, dragonhide jacket tossed carelessly over his shoulder, his trousers sitting dangerously low on his hips.
“Bloody hell,” Ron said. “Your best friend’s a slut.”
“Ron!” Potter chastised, but Draco noted that his gaze lingered on Blaise’s hip bones. The thought of it made Draco want to throw something at Blaise, which made absolutely no sense, because Blaise was his best friend and certifiably gorgeous.
Ron shrugged. “Hey, he’s not denying it.”
“No,” Blaise sighed dramatically. “I am a slut. Thank you, Ronald.” He leant over the counter suggestively, giving everyone a great view of his chest or his arse, depending on the angle they were standing at. Draco hoped that there were no children around.
“You’re welcome,” Ron said cheerfully, and Draco wanted to put his head in his hands.
“What do you want, Blaise?”
Blaise blinked innocently at him. “To take you out for lunch, of course. Pansy says you’ve become a dreadful bore since landing the job here.”
“I haven’t been a bore,” Draco said, protesting, despite knowing in his heart that it was true. “I’ve been responsible.” Sure, he’d turned down a couple drinks with Pansy, and had recently discovered the sheer joy of clambering into bed at 10. But it didn’t mean he was boring. It meant he was an adult holding down a perfectly serious job which paid him enough to buy hideously expensive clothing for each new season.
Blaise made a face. “It’s like I’m speaking to a Ravenclaw. What are you going to do next, lecture me on how I hold my wand?”
“Merlin forbid,” Draco muttered under his breath. He chanced a glance at Potter, who was watching him and Blaise like they were a close game of Quidditch. “Do stop staring at my best friend’s arse, Potter,” Draco snapped, just to make himself feel better about something.
Potter backed up with his hands in the air. “I wasn’t! I promise.”
“Am I your best friend?” Blaise asked flirtatiously.
“Are we going to get lunch?” Ron asked, checking his watch.
“Could someone please tell me where the line for the cashier is?” Someone asked from behind Blaise, hand raised politely over their eyes to block out the view of Blaise’s arse as they clutched at a Skiving Snackbox.
Draco flipped Blaise off, grabbed Ron, and stormed out into the street. “Let’s go to St. John,” he mumbled when Ron gave him a look. “I’m tired of my friends. Blaise won’t want offal so this is the only way to guarantee he won’t come along.”
“Oh,” Ron said. “If you’re tired of your friends, then I’m sure you won’t mind mine.” He jerked his head as Potter emerged from the store, hands noticeably devoid of any themed pygmy puff accessories. “Harry, want to grab lunch with us?”
“If Malfoy’s alright with it,” Potter said, giving Draco a lingering once-over that would have been a come-on if it had been from anyone else besides him. Draco composed himself and straightened his back automatically, cursing his father for imbuing him with a sense of pride in his appearance from an early age.
“Coo-ee, darlings,” Blaise called as he stepped out from the store. “Did someone say lunch?”
Draco despaired. “We’re going to St. John.”
“Perfect,” Blaise said. “I hear good things about their salt brisket.” They set off on a brisk walk, and while Ron and Potter strolled a little way ahead, Blaise linked arms with Draco cheerily and leant in to whisper. “Why is Potter looking at you like you’re a delicious little treacle tart?”
“He isn’t,” Draco said, wishing he’d made better friends in Hogwarts. Mother was right. The company one kept at boarding school would last a lifetime. “He always looks like that around me. Like he’s constipated.”
Blaise smirked. “Perhaps he wants something else up his arse.”
“I’m the wrong person for that,” Draco said. “Besides, he’s straight.”
Blaise made a great show of inspecting his nails. “Well, Draco, you wouldn’t know, but sources tell me that the great Harry Potter has been spotted at Room for Two.”
“No,” Draco said, aghast. “We stopped going there three months ago after that bartender gave me the wrong drink.”
“He didn’t give you the wrong drink,” Blaise said patiently. “He gave you the drink you wanted with an extra shot and his number along with it. You know, you are turning into a bit of an old maid. We’re young! We’re sexy!”
“We’re twenty-two,” Draco said. “I just set up a retirement account with Gringotts independent of the Malfoy Estate’s.”
Blaise let go of Draco’s arms and held him gently by the shoulders. “Believe me when I say this, duckie,” he said slowly, “you are not going to die without having another cock up your arse besides Zacharias Smith’s. I will make sure of it.”
“He didn't even actually get it in,” Draco admitted quietly, shamefaced. “He came before it happened.”
“Oi!” Ron called from down the street. “Stop making out! Lunch awaits!”
“We’d never make out,” Blaise yelled back. “We both like to take it up the arse. It just wouldn’t work!” People all around them turned to stare, including an elderly witch who tsk’d at them loudly from her seat outside Fortescue’s over her banana split sundae.
Draco wanted to sink into the ground. But Ron was right. Lunch awaited them. He had an appointment with roast bone marrow and parsley. He speedwalked right past Blaise, Ron, and Potter in the direction of the restaurant, and privately thanked his parents for both being above average height, which had endowed him with longer-than-average legs. The only person in their lunch crowd who could reasonably keep up without looking ridiculous was Ron.
But then there was a presence beside him.
“So,” Potter said. “About what Blaise said.”
Draco scoffed. “He didn’t say it as much as announce it to most of Diagon Alley.”
“Yes, that,” Potter agreed. For his acquiescence Draco slowed down so Potter’s legs didn’t look like a blur beside him. Not that he was even out of breath, the git. They walked in companionable silence for a minute, which Draco appreciated, until Potter started up again.
“Have you been seeing anyone?”
“No,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “I’m single.”
Potter seemed to get the message. “Me too,” he said, and coughed. “Do you think you could call me Harry instead of Potter?”
“Why?” Draco asked. “Your name is Potter.”
“It’s also Harry,” Potter said. Draco glanced at him. He hadn’t noticed it before this, but Potter had filled out fairly nicely. It was all that professional Quidditch, he groused to himself. In another world he too would have filled out nicely instead of being called svelte and willowy.
“Fine,” Draco said, in the interest of preserving his peace. He’d heard enough from Ron about Potter to know that, apparently, when he wanted something, he got it sooner rather than later through sheer perseverance. Which was, Draco reflected, handy when it came to pardoning former Death Eaters and pushing reforms that allowed for integration back into society. “Harry.”
He had known this, of course, but Harry had a fairly nice smile. It dimpled his right cheek and made his eyes shine. “There,” Harry said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Unlike someone I know,” Blaise said, breezing right past them.
There was silence for a second. “I’d like to apologise for him,” Draco said politely. “We think he was dropped on his head many times over as a child.”
Harry laughed. It was a nice laugh. Draco found himself wanting to laugh along, but settled instead for a smirk. Wouldn’t do to be too chummy with Harry Potter, after all.
“Blaise would get along with Ginny,” Harry observed. “They seem to have a way with words. Innuendos, I mean.”
“How is she?” Draco asked politely, all-too-aware of the fact that Harry and Ginny were exes. He was also privately aware that Pansy and Ginny had embarked on a no-strings-attached sort of arrangement in which they went to nice restaurants together, ate each other out, and steadfastly avoided talking about their feelings. Pansy alternated between walking on air and moping that she was Ginny Weasley’s little secret. Draco had long ago learned to hold his tongue instead of pointing out that Pansy was the one who had asked to keep it out of the press.
“Good, I think,” Harry said. “She’s been seeing someone, but won’t tell us who.”
“Mmm,” Draco said non-descriptively, planning to owl Pansy later with an exact transcript of their conversation. “I suppose famous Quidditch players have to be careful about revealing the identity of their date to the public.”
Beside him, Harry shrugged. “I wouldn’t be,” he said, and looked at Draco with a queer sort of intensity that made Draco want to curl his toes. “I’d want to show off my partner.”
“If you had one,” Draco helpfully supplied.
“Yes,” Harry said. “If I had one,” and they lapsed into silence as they neared the restaurant.
Later that night after owling Pansy, Draco laid on his bed and idly stroked his dildo, which had been inside him several times, but not tonight.
“He would show off, the prick,” he said to the dildo, which had no name. “Because he’s such a great show-offy sort of person. Stupid Golden Boy.”
Predictably, the dildo failed to respond. Draco patted it on the head gently and slid it back into the drawer before sinking back into his mound of pillows. He debated summoning one of the house-elves to ask for a mug of hot chocolate, but decided against it.
There was a rapping at the window. Pansy hardly ever responded this quickly. But it was not her owl, but a handsome snowy one that shook the letter off disdainfully and looked at Draco as if he was wasting her time by not responding immediately.
Had a nice lunch today. See you at the Burrow on Sunday? x Harry
Draco scowled at the note.
No, he wrote, and then nibbled on the end of his quill thoughtfully. He did so want to see Pansy and Ginny dance around each other in person. Draco cancelled out his ‘no’ as neatly as he could and wrote that he would be in attendance, and that Pansy would be coming with him.
He sent the owl back as quickly as he could, in case regret set in, and sank back into bed. Good deed for the day done, Draco drifted off to sleep, grinning at the thought of watching Pansy mope after Ginny in person. It would be perfect, he told himself. And then Pansy would get married and they would have box seats to every Harpies game for the rest of their lives.
And if the last thought on his mind before sleep was Harry Potter’s smile, at least his thoughts were his and his alone.