Tainted Love

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IRIS

There was music in the air. Piano, lovely and lilting, the perfect backdrop for a mature conversation over dinner. The buzz of the crowd -- light laughter, clinking glasses, hushed deals -- was almost a part of the overture.

Iris sat alone in the back of the restaurant. The door to her right swung open occasionally. Trays drifted through the air of their own accord, hovering above tables while drinks and food moved to their correct spot. Napkins swung into laps, securing themselves.

She wished she had brought a sweater with her, or kept her jacket instead of leaving it with the check at the door. She was wearing a new dress, black and simple. Its straps were small and its back was open. She could feel the velvet cover on the booth behind her.

James's side of the table was set, his menu ready for him to peruse. But he wasn't there. Iris had spent ten minutes waiting for him, staring at portraits of chefs on the wall, casually choosing favorites and people who she thought she'd be good friends with.

Whenever the kitchen door swung open, it brought with it the sound of laughter and the smell of grease and vegetables. It was enough to make Iris wish she had worked in a restaurant at some point or another instead of stubbornly goading after potions work.

Then she could've had easy fun at work, whipped people with dishrags and shoved food in her mouth when nobody was watching. Then she wouldn't have met Draco.

The front doors to the restaurant opened and James appeared, a sheepish smile taking over his face as they made eye contact. Iris smiled back, watching him with a shake of her head as he made his way down the aisle and swung into the seat across from her.

It was a circular booth. He swung into his seat, but pushed his glass and plate across the table and next to Iris. He moved around the booth until they were shoulder to shoulder.

It would've been polite of her to stand up when he walked up, she thought. It would've been polite of him to arrive on time. Iris was certain he was thinking of neither thing, not really. One would think belonging to the family he did would imbue a strict sense of manners, but James was surprisingly carefree.

Iris reminded herself that not every famous wizarding family was like the Malfoys. James grabbed his napkin and fork from across the table, dragging them to his new spot. He turned and grinned at her.

"Sorry I'm late," he acknowledged, drumming his fingers on the table. "I just cracked part of the book -- I was afraid to stop myself once I'd started. Thought I might lose all my ideas."

"That's fine," Iris smiled, hoping he wouldn't expand on the topic.

"Anyways, you look great." He leaned back from her, his eyes scanning her dress. "As always. How was work?"

"The usual," Iris said.

Retroactively, she felt guilty for hoping he wouldn't talk about his book. It was important to him -- she should care about it. He clearly cared about her life, her work. But then, she wasn't sure she wanted that, either. She didn't like answering vague questions about her days, especially not when all her days seemed the same.

She cared about James himself, so she excused herself from being interested in his day-to-day existence.

"So Ella what's-her-name's still being a bitch," James raised his eyebrows, grabbing a champagne bottle out of the air as it floated by their table.

Iris chuckled despite herself. James had a knack for remembering little things. The champagne tried to tug itself out of his hand and go to its rightful owner, but he held fast.