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“Those are not trousers,” Harry said.
Draco glanced down. “They are,” he said, relishing the pucelike shade Harry had gone. “They’re being sold as such in Muggle shops.”
“M—! You shop at Muggle shops?”
Draco preened, just a little. He deserved to. He had strolled out of the changing room, paid, and Apparated straight to his afternoon shift at Flick the Bean on Diagon. Harry had then come in for his regular coffee and promptly spilled it all over his front while he stared, agape, at Draco’s arse, beautifully framed in the most hideous traffic-stopping Chudley Cannons orange yoga pants he could find.
“Of course,” Draco said, and made sure to bend over for emphasis. Harry made a noise somewhere between a moan and a gurgle behind him.
Draco made a mental note to send Hermione Granger flowers for her helpful tip. It paid to have friends in high places.