Malfoy swirls his half-empty drink and leans against the bar. His back is stiff, ice cubes clinking in his whiskey tumbler.
No one's talking to him, and why would they? This is a charity ball hosted by the Ministry for war victims. It's nothing short of audacious for an ex-Death Eater to show up in their midst, but that's exactly what Malfoy had done. The deadly silence upon his entrance had quickly been followed by complete disregard.
Harry isn't listening to Ginny and Hermione talking. He's watching Malfoy. What was he thinking, coming here?
If Malfoy notices him looking, he doesn't show it. He tilts the glass again.
“Harry?”
He looks down at Ginny's face, freckles faded behind soft beige powder. She's smiling. “I'll go outside with Hermione, if you don't mind.” The women share a look, then Hermione gives him that new-found, peaceful expression and puts one hand on her belly. Harry smiles back. He knows the baby drives his best friend away from crowds at the moment.
“Sure,” he says. “I'll be somewhere here.”
As they're leaving, Harry turns back to the bar. Malfoy is still standing there, drink in hand. He finishes it and Harry observes the barman consequently serving other people. Malfoy doesn't say anything, just throws a few coins onto the tablecloth.
“How dare he,” someone stage-whispers. Harry looks around as if it was about him, sees an elderly woman in a wheelchair, sees a child with wide eyes at her side. There's so much foreign magic in the room, some stunted, some yet undiscovered. Hostility engulfs him.
Harry pretends to look for someone and walks closer, just a little closer, to the bar. Malfoy's toying with his coins, stretching as if he needed the extra height; he doesn't. He's still tall and thin, like at sixteen. His body is youthful, but the way he carries it isn't. That steel-grey suit of his surely cost a fortune, and Harry wonders how he afforded it despite war reparations.
“Mr. Potter, sir!” someone adresses Harry and he turns, shakes hands, puts on his professional smile. It's getting easier, but it's still no fun.
When he turns back, the bar is empty but for Malfoy.
Harry holds his breath as Malfoy signals and the waiter finally gives in. That casual movement of Malfoy's hand – it opens something in Harry. Something hidden, like a secret passage to a secret chamber. He feels young and restless as Malfoy lowers his hand and the cuff doesn't slip back over his wrist.
It's a white and slender wrist, framed by cuff-links glinting in the light of a thousand magical candles. Malfoy's skin almost blurs with his crisp white shirt.
Somewhere in the back of the room, the band picks up playing. Sparse applause. Malfoy doesn't turn his head but merely pushes the coins left and right in front of him. Sinews move under his skin, dance across the flesh of his hand. Across his wrist.
“One galleon,” says the waiter. It's more than he charges everyone else, but Harry isn't surprised, and it seems like Malfoy isn't either as he pays. He takes the drink with his right hand – palm facing Harry – and puts it down in front of him.
Harry turns around. Ginny and Hermione haven't returned yet.
He steps up to the bar and stands next to Malfoy, just as closely as he thinks is appropriate. “Malfoy,” he says, because he has to say something.
Malfoy's not even looking at him. “Potter,” he replies, indifferently. But Harry knows his voice, its tremors. “Not watched your fill yet?”
“What are you talking about?” Harry's mouth is dry and he signals the waiter. He doesn't have to wait for long and orders a pint, heat rising to his face. At his side, Malfoy is taking a long and slow sip.
When it becomes apparent that Malfoy isn't going to speak again, Harry looks at him. “Why did you come?”
Fill: "Cuff-links" (1,750 words, something R-rated) - pt. 1
*** *** ***
Cuff-links
Malfoy swirls his half-empty drink and leans against the bar. His back is stiff, ice cubes clinking in his whiskey tumbler.
No one's talking to him, and why would they? This is a charity ball hosted by the Ministry for war victims. It's nothing short of audacious for an ex-Death Eater to show up in their midst, but that's exactly what Malfoy had done. The deadly silence upon his entrance had quickly been followed by complete disregard.
Harry isn't listening to Ginny and Hermione talking. He's watching Malfoy. What was he thinking, coming here?
If Malfoy notices him looking, he doesn't show it. He tilts the glass again.
“Harry?”
He looks down at Ginny's face, freckles faded behind soft beige powder. She's smiling. “I'll go outside with Hermione, if you don't mind.” The women share a look, then Hermione gives him that new-found, peaceful expression and puts one hand on her belly. Harry smiles back. He knows the baby drives his best friend away from crowds at the moment.
“Sure,” he says. “I'll be somewhere here.”
As they're leaving, Harry turns back to the bar. Malfoy is still standing there, drink in hand. He finishes it and Harry observes the barman consequently serving other people. Malfoy doesn't say anything, just throws a few coins onto the tablecloth.
“How dare he,” someone stage-whispers. Harry looks around as if it was about him, sees an elderly woman in a wheelchair, sees a child with wide eyes at her side. There's so much foreign magic in the room, some stunted, some yet undiscovered. Hostility engulfs him.
Harry pretends to look for someone and walks closer, just a little closer, to the bar. Malfoy's toying with his coins, stretching as if he needed the extra height; he doesn't. He's still tall and thin, like at sixteen. His body is youthful, but the way he carries it isn't. That steel-grey suit of his surely cost a fortune, and Harry wonders how he afforded it despite war reparations.
“Mr. Potter, sir!” someone adresses Harry and he turns, shakes hands, puts on his professional smile. It's getting easier, but it's still no fun.
When he turns back, the bar is empty but for Malfoy.
Harry holds his breath as Malfoy signals and the waiter finally gives in. That casual movement of Malfoy's hand – it opens something in Harry. Something hidden, like a secret passage to a secret chamber. He feels young and restless as Malfoy lowers his hand and the cuff doesn't slip back over his wrist.
It's a white and slender wrist, framed by cuff-links glinting in the light of a thousand magical candles. Malfoy's skin almost blurs with his crisp white shirt.
Somewhere in the back of the room, the band picks up playing. Sparse applause. Malfoy doesn't turn his head but merely pushes the coins left and right in front of him. Sinews move under his skin, dance across the flesh of his hand. Across his wrist.
“One galleon,” says the waiter. It's more than he charges everyone else, but Harry isn't surprised, and it seems like Malfoy isn't either as he pays. He takes the drink with his right hand – palm facing Harry – and puts it down in front of him.
Harry turns around. Ginny and Hermione haven't returned yet.
He steps up to the bar and stands next to Malfoy, just as closely as he thinks is appropriate. “Malfoy,” he says, because he has to say something.
Malfoy's not even looking at him. “Potter,” he replies, indifferently. But Harry knows his voice, its tremors. “Not watched your fill yet?”
“What are you talking about?” Harry's mouth is dry and he signals the waiter. He doesn't have to wait for long and orders a pint, heat rising to his face. At his side, Malfoy is taking a long and slow sip.
When it becomes apparent that Malfoy isn't going to speak again, Harry looks at him. “Why did you come?”