The Luncheon
Draco locked his computer with a sigh. He was acting the sentimentalist. Father would be so disappointed.
But Draco had to admit to himself that, quick as the change had been, the last few weeks’ events had brought him firmly to Harry’s side of the matter. They were allies now in this twisted little war. And, if he was to admit it to himself--as Pansy had been begging him to do--he felt a certain pull toward Potter. Always had. Having all that intensity focused on him...it wasn’t half bad.
Was he about to do something selfish and indulgent? Certainly. But wasn’t that the Malfoy way, at any rate?
If he was going to cut Tom out of his life, who was there left to impress? Not his father. That ship had sailed. Not Potter--that was impossible. So, fuck it. Might as well get sozzled with his childhood enemy and indulge in the possibility of an unhealthy romantic liaison with him.
All of this he told himself as he walked to his favorite lunch place, just on the corner. He entered, inhaling the comforting scents of fresh bread and designer cocktails, and found that Potter was already waiting.
He looked deeply uncomfortable in his rumpled Primark shirt and lumpen gray sweater, hair going every which way, unstylish glasses smeared and crooked. And looking at him now, having been caught unawares-like, Draco was struck with a bone-deep desire to skip lunch and take Potter home to unwrap him.
Fuck, Draco thought to himself, I’m going to fucking fuck him, aren’t I? I’ll never hear the end of it from Pansy.
Potter smiled at seeing Draco, looking endearingly nervous, God damn him.
“I’m so relieved to be out of the office that I won’t even comment on how ridiculously posh this place is,” Potter said by way of greeting.
“Please don’t,” Draco said. “Come on, my table’s this way.”
“Shouldn’t we wait? For the…” Harry, apparently not knowing the word “maitre’d,” gestured vaguely, “so they’ll know we’re here?”
“It’s Thursday.” Draco sat down in his usual seat and gestured for Potter to join him.
“Er,” said Potter as he clumsily pulled out his seat and settled in, “What’s Thursday?”
“Today is,” said Draco with what he felt was incredible patience, “and this is where I eat on Thursdays.”
“Right.” Potter looked down. He was fiddling with his napkin. They had only just sat down--how was he already fiddling with his napkin?
Draco sighed. “Do try to relax. That was actually my intention in inviting you here. And don’t worry about embarrassing me here--they know me too well for that.”
“I wasn’t worried about embarrassing you,” said Potter, eyes flashing.
“There’s the spirit. There’s the Potter I know and loathe.”
“Do you?” Harry grinned a little, which was a massive improvement on his previous lost expression. “Loathe me so much you took me out to lunch, yeah?”
“Precisely,” said Draco crisply.
“You know,” said Potter, with the mock-casual tone Draco had come to fear in school, “a passing observer could mistake this for a date.”
“Whereas you and I know it’s nothing more than an act of friendly consolation.” At that point, Draco paused, because a waitress was approaching them.
“Hello,” said Draco. “This is Harry, an old school...chum? Let’s go with chum. Harry, this is Uba, the light of my life.”
Uba gave Harry a blinding smile, and Harry’s face took on the stunned look of a man who was suddenly recalling that he was bisexual. Draco was inwardly amused; Uba had that effect on most of his guests here, especially but not exclusively when they were attracted to women.
“Pleased to meet you, Harry. I’ve heard your name before.”
“No you haven’t,” said Draco quickly. “She’s just teasing.”
“Am I?”
Draco switched to Italian then, and while Uba continued to tease him--also in Italian--he kept an eye on Harry. Harry who, if his dazed expression was anything to go by, had a foreign language kink.
“You’re not telling me you’re not interested in him?” Uba was saying.
“I have a plan,” said Draco. “This is part of it.”
Uba glanced at Harry, taking in his ‘two-attractive-people-are-speaking-Italian-in-front-of-me’ face. “Ah, I see. This and drinks?”
“I think we’ll each have a French 75. I suspect champagne will go straight to his head.”
“Be careful with him,” Uba warned. “He’s adorable. I don’t want you to ruin him. I’ll date him myself if I have to.”
“What a noble sacrifice that would be,” said Draco.
“I’m a martyr,” Uba agreed. She flashed one last dazzling smile at Harry before going to put in the drink order.
“I knew, abstractly, that you spoke Italian…” said Harry, still somewhat stunned.
“That’s how she and I bonded. Her English is great, of course, but when she started working here she had just come over from Somalia. I realized she enjoyed speaking in one of her native languages, and I enjoyed the practice. She’s also been helping me with my Arabic.”
“Under all that,” said Harry, waving his hand vaguely at Draco’s face, “you’re rather soft.”
“You take that back.”
“Shan’t.”
They were looking at each other the way they had as children: challenging, sustained eye contact. Oh, Draco realized. Pansy may have been right.
“You were saying this might be mistaken for a date?”
“Ignore that,” said Harry, with a teasing light in his eyes. “Is Uba single?”
“Of course not.”
“Oh.”
“But she’s polyamorous.”
“Oh!”
“But she’s asexual.”
“Oh.”
“But I still like to make out,” said Uba, who was apparently standing right behind him.
“Oh,” said Harry, blushing profusely. Uba set the bread basket down on the table and left again.
“You guys were making fun of me,” said Harry.
“Yes,” Draco agreed, sipping his drink. “Everything we said was true, of course. But we were teasing.”
“You like to tease, don’t you?” Harry asked.
“So do you,” Draco pointed out.
~
After two hours of sustained flirting, light conversation not touching on the subject of Tom, and delicious food, Draco paid the check.
“Thank you,” Harry said to Uba, “everything was delicious.”
“I didn’t cook it,” she said, amused.
“Oh--I mean--” Harry was blushing again, and Draco could only applaud Uba’s inspired words. It was never a bad thing when Harry blushed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll pass on the compliment to the chef.”
“Thanks,” said Harry.
“I’ll see you next week, Draco. Be good.”
“Can’t promise anything,” he said. With a flourish, he signed the check, and stood.
“Shall we?”
“All right.” Harry followed him to the entrance, where Draco retrieved their coats. As Harry fumbled with his, Draco noticed him looking out the window.
“I can’t believe how dark it’s gotten,” said Harry. “It can’t be past four.”
“Winter’s a bastard,” said Draco, holding the door for him as they exited the restaurant. “Come to mine for a warm-up?”
“Draco--” Harry began, but cut himself off when Draco caught his wrist.
He stood very close. “Let me make this clear,” he said. “I have no fucking clue what this will mean tomorrow, but neither of us is well placed to predict the future at the moment. So I’ll just say that I want you, Harry, and that I can make you forget everything for a bit. That’s what I’m offering.”
Harry looked at Draco with those eyes that burned, with all the fire he had seen in him for years and wanted to have for his own. God, Harry burned so hot, and right now Draco needed him to burn everything away. He needed him to say yes.
“You know,” said Harry, “I believe you can.”
Draco felt a smile break onto his face. “There’s my driver now. Come along, Potter.”
Dobby came round to open the door for Draco, and very nearly squeaked in delight when he saw Harry.
“Master Harry Potter, sir, glad to see you well.”
“Hello, Mr. Dobbs,” said Harry with awkward but warm politeness.
“We’re going to mine, Dobby,” said Draco briskly, and climbed into the backseat. Harry followed, with a word of thanks to Dobby.
“Straight to your building, Master Draco?” asked Dobby when he was back in the driver’s seat.
“Yes, ta, Dobby,” said Draco, and put up the partition to avoid further chatter.
“That was rude,” Harry pointed out, though he didn’t seem too upset about the result.
“Dobby’s my employee,” said Draco.
“Still rude.”
Their conversation faded after that, and Draco found that they were staring at each other, shifting about but not quite touching, playing some strange, erotic game of chicken. Harry would place his hand near Draco’s, then draw it away when Draco’s fingers twitched. Draco would lean toward Harry, then, when Harry found himself drawn to lean in as well, Draco would suddenly see something interesting out the window.
It was like nothing Draco had ever done. It certainly had nothing in common with Tom’s brisk, direct seductions. And that alone, Draco thought, meant this was probably a good thing for both of them.
Draco hoped so. They hadn’t even kissed yet, but Draco already found himself hoping there would be a second time.
They were around the corner from Draco’s building when Harry snapped. Draco had brushed a fingertip lightly against the seam of Harry’s slacks, right at his hip, then abruptly turned away. Next thing he knew, he had a lapful of Harry Potter, bearing down on him, messy and smelling of coffee and pedestrian aftershave, champagne breath right in his face.
He wove his fingers into Draco’s hair so Draco couldn’t turn his head away, then kissed him.
Harry Potter never did anything by halves, and there was nothing tentative about this kiss. That was only right, Draco mused, after over a decade of foreplay. But such witticisms soon fled his mind, replaced by the onslaught of sensation that was Harry’s muscular weight, Harry’s hands clutching him, Harry’s tongue demanding free passage, Harry’s body grinding against him, almost pushing him, demanding a response.
Draco responded. He was so caught up in responding that it took him by surprise when the door opened, and Dobby squeaked at the sight before him. Harry tumbled out of the car, Draco after him, and Harry mumbled an embarrassed “thanks” to Dobby before they made a mad dash for the door. Then Harry muttered his thanks to the doorman as they entered the lobby, and then he just stared intensely at Draco while they waited for the elevator.
And while they were in the elevator. Though they were alone, they stood inches apart, staring. Harry was wide-eyed and panting, flushed, hair misbehaving more than usual, and Draco imagined he himself didn’t look much different. Two more floors, but it seemed like a thousand miles. Draco needed to have him.
The elevator doors opened, and they walked fast down the hall, and then found themselves racing. Draco was there first, of course, since Harry didn’t know the way without him, but Draco still somehow felt as if Harry had won. He put his key in the lock with a shaking hand, opened the door, and led Harry inside.
Then he closed the door behind them, and locked it again. He did not plan to open it for quite a while.