Star Quality

Chapter 7

On Monday, Harry went to work. He tried not to think about Malfoy, told himself that Malfoy wasn't important right now, wasn't the point. He should be thinking about the spell, about how to undo it if the wand he'd ordered didn't work. Unfortunately, trying not to think about Malfoy meant that he ended up thinking about Malfoy, pretty much all day.

Parvati kept giving him odd looks, but the shop was rammed for almost the whole of his shift, so he managed to avoid her. He didn't particularly want to talk to her. She might try to probe him about his personal life, by means of asking if he'd had a nice weekend, and he might go mad and ask her the question he couldn't stop thinking about: if you'd listened to another guy wank, and knocked one out yourself while listening, was it OK to keep calling him by his surname? Or did that make them friends now? Harry had a strong feeling that wanking wasn't the same as friendship. And did he even want to be friends with Malfoy? What he wanted was to go home, back to the wizarding world. Back to his nice, simple straightforward life, where the only thing he had to worry about was vicious dark wizards trying to kill him. It was, he considered, far preferable to a world where he might conceivably, at some point, take off his trousers in front of Draco fucking Malfoy.

Harry wasn't sure if he was allowed to have his phone on him during his shift, even though Parvati had hers out constantly. She owned the shop, or as good as. Besides, he didn't even want to have it with him today. Then he'd know for sure whether Malfoy – Draco – Malfoy had sent him a text or not. He didn't know whether he wanted him to have or not. He told himself it didn't matter, was aware that wasn't true. He wanted Draco to have texted him, so they could have a proper conversation about reversing the spell, Harry told himself firmly, rather than one where Draco tried to distract him with embarrassing mind-fuckery. If, that was, it turned out he needed Draco's help. Which he wouldn't. He stuck his hands in his pocket and crossed all his fingers that he could fix his mistake by himself when the wand arrived. It was him who'd apparently torn reality – so surely he could mend it? All he needed to do was hang on till then, try not to lose his mind.

When Harry finished work, he refused a post-shift drink with Parvati and raced home to where his phone was. He checked it, to find a voicemail symbol, and then felt too nervous to listen to it. But that was stupid, he told himself, so he forced himself into it, and felt his heart sink when he heard Hermione speaking. "Have you tried buying a wand yet?" she said. "I had another thought, though. Can't you just – cast a spell that stops spells?" she suggested. "I mean, how did you cast the spell in the first place? Just revisit that scene and tell it to end. Call me," she ended, "if you want to discuss it further."

"I already tried that!" Harry told his phone. "It didn't fucking work!" But he supposed it wasn't Hermione's fault. It was a good enough idea.

Harry put the phone back down, feeling flat and disappointed. He told himself it was because he'd already tried Hermione's latest suggestion, but knew that he was lying to himself. Still, he thought – trying to cheer up, because he was being ridiculous – there was a good reason why Malfoy – Draco – hadn't been in touch, wasn't there? He was travelling to his venue, and doing whatever pop stars did at them. What did they do, Harry wondered. Check they didn't sound too dreadful, he supposed, and practise their dancing to make sure they weren't going to fall off the stage, that kind of thing. Draco would call after he'd finished his gig, Harry presumed. Providing he hadn't actually fallen off the stage.

^^^^^^

Draco – no, Malfoy, definitely Malfoy – didn't call him after his gig. So Harry didn't call him either, just went to bed, and slept badly.

^^^^^^

On Tuesday, Harry went to work. He was already sick to death of the monotony of it all, and he turned up in a towering bad mood. It was nothing to do with Malfoy, nothing at all. He was just fed up, and his new wand hadn't arrived yet, and even when it did, he had no expectation that it would actually work, and how the fuck was he meant to get home? He missed it fiercely. His job, his real house – the Muggle Grimmauld place just wasn't the same – his friends. How did Muggles cope? They coped fine, he thought, feeling a headache slot into place in his brain. It wasn't really the magic he missed, after all; it was everything else.