every scrap of you (you left them all to me)

Chapter 3

𝄞 if i didn't know better, i'd think you were singing to me now 𝄞

*

tick tick tick

Three butterbeers, a bottle of wine and a lager for Ron.

The barman can barely hear him over the screeching singing of the elderly witch on her third round of karaoke for the evening. A Silencio charm would work wonders right now. It explains why the drinks here flow so freely.

"So you're dating now, then?" Pansy gives him a secretive smile before pursing her lips around the straw of her rum and coke. Her voice is raised over the music blaring from the stage. "Is he your boyfriend?"

"He's not—" Harry cuts himself off, wincing as the witch continues to sing off-key. He gathers the pints onto a tray. "We're not officially boyfriends."

Pansy shoots a knowing look, slurping up the last of her drink before sliding the empty glass towards the barman. "Not boyfriends, just residing at each other's houses every night, shagging relentlessly and head-over-heels infatuated with one another?"

"Infatuated is a strong word."

"In lu-u-rve, perhaps?" She grins. The room around them fills with half-hearted albeit thankful applause as the witch leaves the stage.

Harry takes a swig of beer and peers across at Draco, who's resting his arms on the chair back over at their table in jovial conversation with Ron and Hermione. Harry furthers his gaze across the venue. Warm hues of red and pink cast a sultry glow over the intimate space, emanating from vintage lamps and flickering candles on tables draped in velvet. The ambient sounds of murmured conversation, tinkling glasses and a tick tick tick float across the air while the soft croon of jazz fills the spaces between each performance.

He leaves the bar with Pansy following behind as they weave around the tables towards their friends. "We're not in love, okay?" he says, talking over his shoulder at her. "Just seeing how things go." She stops at his side upon their arrival at the table. "So don't make a big song and dance out of it, alright?"

Pansy, eyes twinkling with mischief—the same look he sees her daughter make—nods in the direction of the stage. "I don't think I'm the one who's going to make a song and dance about it."

As Harry turns in the direction of her eye-line, he sees Draco on the stage, readjusting the mic with a playful wave towards the audience. He steps back, the spotlight illuminating him against the deep red curtains. His shirt is extra baggy this evening, three buttons loose, exposing a hint of collarbone and milky skin, the sleeves rolled to his elbows before he raises an arm and drags his hand back through silken hair.

Harry gawks.

He stands transfixed, and though there's heat stirring in his groin at the sight of this gorgeous man taking the stage, his heart slams and his stomach swoops with dread. Nothing comes out of his gaping mouth. He knows Pansy is nudging him in the side, in his peripheral vision he can see that Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Merlin knows who else have all turned to look at him, but he can't stop staring.

The music bursts into life—the riff of bass and electric guitar, the steady pace of drums and saxophone, and Harry recognises the tune instantly: Mustang Sally.

But Draco, the deviant that he is, makes a little tweak to the lyrics. Cradling the mic in his palm and leaning into the stand, he sings. "Mustang Harry!" and the audience erupts, and Harry's face flames. "Guess you better slow that Mustang down!"