What It Takes (Harry/Draco)

What It Takes

you know, I didn't really intend
to embrace you that long
but then again, I wasn't the only one
holding on

(Ani DiFranco)

- : : : -

Ron was late.

It wasn't like him. Harry was usually the late one; Ron would already be there with a scotch for each of them. He never failed to get out of the office as quickly as possible. Harry, on the other hand, would stay until the last minute, usually listening to Kingsley talk his ear off about excessive force not being the answer to everything, and how there was no way the Wizengamot would believe every one of his detainees had "resisted arrest".

He frowned when he showed up to find the corner they usually haunted empty. The pub was especially crowded tonight, bulging with the cast-off of a particularly spectacular World Cup. England had, against all odds, pulled a win over Bulgaria due to an unexpected and surely ultimately career-crushing blunder made by Viktor Krum.

Harry had half-expected to find Ron here, on top of a table and brandishing a pint, singing "Viktor Is Our King!"

"Well, well, what do you know?" a familiar voice drawled too close to his ear. Long arms draped over the back of the seat, pale hands dangling carelessly by his shoulder. "Famous Harry Potter can't even manage a date."

Oh, hell.

Harry didn't bother turning around. His eyes flickered up briefly, catching the edge of a sharp chin and an even sharper mouth. "Sod off, Malfoy."

"And with that sort of charm, small wonder."

Harry saw Malfoy more than was preferable-practically daily since Kingsley gave the prat a job with the Obliviators. Most of the Malfoys' money had been lost to fines filed by the Ministry after the war; Harry and Ron had often shared a laugh over the idea of Draco Malfoy realising he might actually have to work for a living. Malfoy had taken flack at the Ministry for the first few years, too; most people with the Dark Mark were in Azkaban. The rest were dead; Malfoy had been the only one granted a pardon.

Harry knew that for a fact. He had delivered it personally.

But Malfoy managed to take it all in stride, still strutting around the Ministry like he owned the place, arrogant and snide as ever. He also seemed to take perverse delight in turning up for Harry personally whenever Harry requested an Obliviator for a case.

But here, Harry was on his own time. He didn't have to put up with this, didn't have to rise to the bait.

Harry finally turned his head, shooting the blonde a sidelong glare. Malfoy was peering down his pointy nose at him, mouth twisted sharply at one side. He was keeping his hair a lot shorter these days but it was still longer than Harry's, one side tucked neatly behind an ear. He was dressed in simple albeit expensive-looking dark blue robes, and he was also alone.

"I don't see you occupied," Harry snapped.

So much for not rising to the bait.

But that's what Malfoy was good at, wasn't it? Malfoy was always the hook, line and sinker, the only person Harry knew who could drag him down to his level.

Even Voldemort hadn't managed that.

"I'm in the market," Malfoy informed him smugly, crossing his arms over the seat's backrest. He lifted a forearm up, balancing his chin on his open palm, fingers lightly cupping one side of his face. It was his left hand; his robes dropped back exposing the thin, white sleeve of his shirt beneath. Harry saw the shadow of the Mark through the fabric and glared at it.