Chapter Text
Wednesday
“Puis-je vous aider?”
“Yes. I’m here for the committee meeting?” Harry repeats for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Ah, oui. You want the fifth floor, conference room seven.” Harry smiles his thanks and joins the morning rush of workers. This is his first time in the French Ministry and it's massive, all white marble floors and mahogany wood. If he wasn't in a rush, he’d take the time to look more closely at the details, compare it to back home.
But he can’t afford to be late to his first overseas meeting in his new job. He dashes into one of the lifts before the doors slide shut, smiling apologetically to the serious-faced witch he almost crashes into.
Technically your role will be catching transnational criminals, Potter, Craster had told him during his informal interview. But the biggest part of it will be convincing other countries to co-operate with you so you can do it. You’d be surprised how difficult it is. You’ll be more diplomat than auror.
In fact, his first real test has presented itself not in the form of international crime or precarious international relations, but the Quidditch World Cup, of all things.
After many failed bids in the last decade, England had finally been awarded the chance to host the next World Cup. The Sports and Games department had worked tirelessly for months to put forward a standout bid, and when the IQC had announced England as the next host nation, the celebrations had been wild.
But they had also been short lived. Concern around England’s ability to ensure public safety, given what happened the last time they hosted, meant a significant number of countries objected to the result, throwing the whole thing into uncertainty.
Several emotive meetings with Sports and Games, a flurry of correspondence with the IQC and Harry had managed to negotiate an agreement; England could host the World Cup as planned, provided the European Committee for Magical Law Enforcement and Co-operation is satisfied with England's proposals for tournament security and safety.
And this week, it’s Harry’s job to make sure they are. Failure is not an option.
The building gets stuffier the further into it Harry gets, his suit jacket uncomfortably warm as he traipses through the corridors of the fifth floor in search of conference room seven.
The large table in the centre of the room is over half full with delegates already. He exhales at the rise in temperature, the sun beating through the large windows making the room even hotter than the corridor.
"Name?" The man by the door barely looks up from his table of badges and binders.
“Potter,” Harry says quietly, accepting his name badge and a red folder.
At the sound of Harry's name, the man standing in front of him turns. He's tall, with smooth, dark skin - casually sophisticated in a beige linen suit, white t-shirt underneath. His eyes are warm behind square, wire rimmed glasses as he smiles at Harry.
“Mr Potter? I don't believe we’ve met before.” He speaks in perfect, accented English. A French accent, if Harry had to guess, as the man extends a hand towards him. “I’m Mathieu, Henri Casteau’s interpreter for the meeting.”
Henri Casteau is the French delegate and chair of the meeting, Harry recalls. He returns a polite smile, shifting his binder into his left hand so he can shake Mathieu’s. “Nice to meet you, Mathieu. Please, call me Harry.”
Mathieu’s smile widens. “So, are you ready for all the attention you’ll receive this week, Harry?” He gestures towards Harry’s binder. “It looks like it will be quite a spotlight on you.”
The binder contains the advance documentation for the meeting, most of which was provided by him.
Harry laughs wryly. “Luckily, I’m quite used to a spotlight.” He scans the table, just too far to be able to read the place names. “I don’t suppose you know where abouts I’m …?”
“Oh, yes. You’re there.” Mathieu points to the chair closest to them. A blonde man sits with his back to them in the seat next to Harry's, flicking through the documents. His other arm is draped casually over the back of his chair. The interpreter, Harry guesses.
He wears a pale grey linen shirt, sleeve rolled up to his forearm. His white blonde hair is sleek, a slight wave to it, ending at the nape of his neck. It's nice. In fact, there's something quite appealing about the man himself, the way he holds himself, somehow proper and casual all at once.
Harry blinks himself out of the thought, turning back to Mathieu with a smile. “But first, coffee. That way, right?” He points over to the refreshment table along the far wall.
Mathieu looks over and nods. “Oui. Henri’s ordered in the good stuff, I see.”
The man in grey doesn't glance up as Harry quickly deposits his folder and satchel onto the table with a distracted greeting before dashing off towards the coffee.
“Merlin's tits,” he mutters as he returns, setting his cup down. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and places it around his chair. “Can't they add cooling charms to these rooms? It's hotter than the devil's arsehole in here.”
The man snorts a laugh and Harry turns, extending a hand.
“I'm–”
“Good morning to you too, Potter.”
Harry's name dissolves on his tongue as he looks directly into the now older - and somehow a lot more attractive than Harry remembers it being - face of Draco Malfoy.
Harry leans back in shock at their proximity, snapping his outstretched hand back. “Malfoy? What the f–?”
Harry quickly recovers himself before he can finish his sentence. He exhales awkwardly, trying a smile, instead. “Sorry. I didn't, I mean… It's er, good to see you again, Malfoy.”
Malfoy is watching Harry, his eyes dropping to where Harry's offered hand was retracted. There's a sardonic twist to the little smile on his surprisingly nice face. Was he always this… symmetrical?
Malfoy looks away. “Now, we both know that's a lie, don't we?”
Harry frowns. It’s the posh voice he remembers from years back, but lower - carrying the experience of life in it Harry supposes - and a definite bitter edge to it now.
Harry sighs, cursing himself for his startled reaction, clearly setting them off on the wrong foot. Merlin. He did not foresee his first hurdle of the week being Draco bloody Malfoy of all things.
But Harry is here to placate. To be diplomatic. To ensure England gets the World Cup next summer. He absolutely does not have time to dick on with school boy feuds. He's nearly thirty for goodness sake. Malfoy must feel the same.
Harry shrugs, smiles and tries for a joke. “Okay, well maybe ‘good’ was a bit of a stretch.”
Malfoy hums, without looking at him. “Harry Potter getting his words wrong. Who'd have thought?”
Irritation prickles, more at Malfoy's bored drawl and refusal to look at Harry than his childish words. Over a decade since they'd last seen each other, but apparently it’s the same old shit. Harry rolls his eyes and turns to his own folder, grabbing his coffee. “Draco Malfoy. Still an arsehole. Who'd have thought?”
The coffee is excellent.
The seats around the table are filling as people take their seats.
“Are you familiar with how this works?” Malfoy sounds bored.
“Nope.” If Malfoy doesn't want friendliness, that's fine. Harry can do curt too.
“The delegates will speak in their native tongue throughout. I will simultaneously translate for you. If you're amenable, the usual practice is for me to spell my voice directly to your ear, which makes it easier for you to hear and causes less disturbance to other attendees. I assume that's all okay?”
Malfoy's tone is business-like as he flicks idly through his binder. Harry shifts slightly in his seat. It all makes sense, but, well. It's going to be strange, having to rely on Malfoy so much.
“Sure,” he replies smoothly. He sweeps his eyes around the room. Everyone seems to have an interpreter beside them too. “You speak all the languages here?”
“Yes. My Romanian is not as fluent as I’d like it to be, but it shouldn't be a problem for this. If there's any part I'm not one hundred percent on, I'll let you know. Anything else?”
Harry's reluctantly impressed. He's not stupid, himself. His childhood had not been one particularly conducive to learning, nor to fostering a love of learning anything other than how to stay alive.
But once he was out of childhood, away from hunger and adrenaline; beyond the constant surprises thrown at him by the magical world; away from the near constant peril of war and being hunted by a psychopath – once he'd finally had space to fucking breathe, in other words – Harry found he could learn and retain information just fine.
Languages, however? They are completely beyond him. He’s tried twice to take French and Spanish classes, dropping out each time in the first few weeks. He just can't grasp anything more than a few words or phrases before it all turns to gobbledegook.
He keeps his begrudging appreciation of Malfoy's skill to himself as he takes out his pens and a notebook from his satchel. “No, that's all fine.” He pauses. “Thanks,” he adds, determined to keep things cordial from his side.
He flips his notebook open and takes a last look over his notes. From the corner of his eye he watches Malfoy double take at Harry’s full page of chaotic shorthand scribbles, but ignores him as he rolls his sleeves up and casts a cooling charm over himself.
The meeting starts, and Harry nearly falls off his chair in shock as Malfoy's voice starts to pour soft and low in his ear. He hadn't even felt the spell.
“Welcome everyone to the biannual meeting of the European Committee for Magical Law Enforcement and Co-operation. You should all have received advance copies of the agenda and relevant documentation…”
It feels like Malfoy's mouth is at Harry's ear as he speaks, low and professional. As if Harry should be feeling the brush of Malfoy's lips on his earlobe, should be able to feel the warmth of his breath as well as the rich sound of his words slithering into his brain. Fucking hell, it's distracting.
Harry tenses his muscles to stop the shiver that threatens to spill over him. It's so weird. He grips his coffee mug for something to ground him, breathing deeply and focusing across the table on Casteau addressing everyone in French. He fixes his eyes on Casteau’s salt and pepper hair and impossibly deep chin dimple, carefully avoiding looking at Malfoy. And slowly but surely, he gets used to the low voice too close to his ear, enough to actually tune in to the proceedings.
“We have a list of apologies, all absent countries having indicated their agreement to whatever is decided at this meeting…”
Malfoy translates the list of countries. Of the sixteen members of the committee, Harry's unsurprised that only seven countries are in attendance. By all accounts, these meetings do tend to be rather tedious.
“You will be aware that this meeting has been extended to five working days instead of the initial three, due to the late addition to the agenda of England's successful bid to host the Quidditch World Cup.” A few eyes turn towards Harry at that and he acknowledges them with a small smile. “We hope you'll take the weekend in the middle to explore what a beautiful city we have here.”
As the meeting goes on, Harry can't help but admire the speed and apparent ease with which Malfoy interprets the languages around the room, never once stumbling over words. Every so often Harry glances sideways from his note-taking to see Malfoy doodling on his pad as he translates, arm blocking whatever he's drawing or writing from Harry's view.
At the first coffee break, Malfoy flips his binder shut and is up and out of his chair before he's even finished translating. “Coffee break for ten minutes,” he mutters and then he's heading for the door.
Harry grabs himself a strong cup of tea from the refreshment table, greeting a few delegates before returning to his seat to find Malfoy still hasn't returned. Malfoy’s binder sits on top of his open notebook, obscuring whatever he’d been scribbling all morning.
He shouldn't. He knows it's unprofessional, bloody rude in fact, but curiosity tugs at him like an impatient toddler. After a quick glance over his shoulder and a brief moment of indecision, he slides a pinky under the side of the binder and lifts it, slanting his eyes discreetly.
His eyebrows rise in surprise. Malfoy has sketched a series of hands in different positions. The largest of them sits in the middle of the page, a hand around a coffee mug, sketched in light, broad pencil strokes. And it's good. Well, to Harry's untrained eye it is, anyway; realistic and, well, quite beautiful actually. He lets the binder fall, not knowing what he was expecting but, not that.
A minute later, Malfoy drops down next to him, lazily flicking his wand at Harry's head without looking at him. Harry has to swallow his irritation at the sheer fucking rudeness of Malfoy casting a spell at him without warning again. He grits his teeth. He really needs to find a way to clear the air between them, because a week of this shit is not happening.
Casteau is speaking again, Malfoy's voice back in his ear.
“And so we move to the main item on our agenda; England, and the safety concerns for the World Cup. For those who haven’t met him yet, Mr Potter is here to present the measures England plan to implement to ensure public safety during the tournament. He will answer any specific questions or concerns as we go along, and will do so wearing a ridiculous fucking tie that looks like it came straight out of a Weasley establishment. Mr Potter?”
Harry blinks and takes a second to work out what just happened as the room goes quiet, the delegates around the table smiling expectantly at him.
Oh. What an absolute arsehole.
The garish England tie was a mistake, Harry will freely admit it. It had been thrust upon him by Marie, the formidable QWC campaign manager, who insisted all the delegates would be wearing similar ties depicting their respective countries. They were not.
All eyes are on Harry as he clears his throat and smiles at a few faces around the table. “Ah, thank you Monsieur Casteau. Please, everyone call me Harry.” He straightens his tie.
“I suppose firstly, I ought to apologise for my ridiculous tie.” There's a low ripple of laughter from around the table as he sweeps a hand down at himself. “Us English aren't exactly known for our fashion sense, are we?” Harry runs an awkward hand through his already mussed hair as there's another wave of laughter, the loudest coming from the Spanish delegate opposite.
Harry gives a self deprecating smile. “Come to think of it, I'm not sure what us English are known for. Sarcasm and bad food, perhaps?” Several people laugh genuinely at that.
“Ridiculous and badly dressed we might be. But if there's one thing we’re serious about, it’s Quidditch. And I'm hopeful that over the next few days I’ll convince you that there's no safer or better country to host the World Cup next summer than England.”
He's encouraged by the smiles around the table as the low buzz of interpreters translate his words, and he smiles to himself. Fuck you, Malfoy.
He spends the rest of the morning presenting statistics on stadium capacities, Portkeys and ticket sales. When he's interrupted with questions, Malfoy interprets them seamlessly into his ear without any further snidey additions, sketching lazily in his notebook.
“And now we'll break for lunch,” Malfoy is translating. “It's customary for lunch in France to be spent away from our workplace. We have taken the liberty of booking a table at L’Ambroisie for anyone here who would like to join us. We will reconvene at 2pm.”
Malfoy stands quickly and Harry stands with him, instinctively placing a hand on his arm before he can dart off again, determined to sort things out.
“Malfoy.”
Malfoy still has that look, bored and mocking, the slightest movement of an eyebrow the only thing conveying his question. Even looking like an arrogant dick, he’s irritatingly handsome.
Harry sighs, speaking low so no one else can hear. “Look, can we just cut the shit? You still dislike me, and that's fine. I get it.” Malfoy's eyebrow arches higher. “But we have to work together for the next week, and it will be much easier if we're not–” Harry pauses, wondering how to phrase it. “Being us.” Very diplomatic, considering Harry is not the problem here. “You know?”
Malfoy considers him with a slight tilt of his head, before heaving a sigh. He moves his arm out of Harry's grasp. “Okay. Yes, sure. Is that it?”
Harry nods warily, suspicious of his quick acquiescence. “So, we're good?” he asks slowly.
Malfoy gives him a tight smile. “We're great.”
Mathieu, Casteau’s interpreter, approaches them both and Harry watches with surprise as he presses his cheek to Malfoy's. Malfoy accepts easily, offering the other cheek.
“Draco,” Mathieu says, low in familiarity. “Are you coming to lunch?”
“Non, je dois rentrer chez moi.”
Mathieu nods in understanding. “Pierre?”
Malfoy nods, placing a hand on his arm. “Oui. À plus.” He’s already making for the door when he turns back to Harry and gives a tight nod. “Potter.”
Harry nods back, watching him as he hurries out.
Mathieu turns to Harry. “Are you coming to the restaurant?”
Harry nods, tucking his notebook into his satchel and grabbing his jacket. “You two friends?” Harry indicates towards the door.
“Me and Draco? Yes. We trained together, many years ago now. We've been friends ever since.” They begin to walk with the others. “And you? Do you know Draco from England?”
Harry reflects. “We went to school together, but I wouldn't say I know him. Not really, anyway.” Mathieu looks at him curiously as Harry struggles to think of how he'd describe his history with Malfoy. He smiles and shrugs. “It's a bit complicated.”
Mathieu’s voice is thoughtful as he nods. “Draco doesn't talk about England much. He’s never mentioned knowing you before.”
Harry laughs. “I can well believe that.”
Lunch is a trying affair as Harry's social stamina starts to flag. Between trying to negotiate a fully French menu and getting stuck discussing wizarding banking with Stefan - the Romanian delegate - he’s desperate for some peace before the afternoon's meeting. He makes his excuses as soon as he's eaten and returns to the Ministry, savouring the sunshine as he ambles back.
After making it through the various security checkpoints, there's still twenty minutes of their break left and Harry's reluctant to return to the stuffy meeting room until he absolutely has to.
He strolls aimlessly around the perimeter of the building, hands in his pockets. He's mentally running through the points he needs to present this afternoon when he looks up to see Malfoy leaning alone against the wall, smoking.
He stops short, readying to turn around when Malfoy spots him. He watches Malfoy’s eyes sweep over him with something that looks closer to curiosity than hostility. Harry lingers for a second, trapped in indecision as he looks longingly at Malfoy’s cigarette.
Fuck it. The cigarette wins.
Malfoy waits until Harry’s almost beside him to speak.
“When did you acquire charm, Potter?”
Harry smirks as he leans against the wall next to him. “Fuck off.”
Malfoy huffs a laugh. “That's more like it.”
They stand in silence for a moment before Harry indicates towards Malfoy's cigarette. “Any chance I can pinch one of those?”
Malfoy looks at him in surprise, but fishes his packet out of his pocket, flicking it open and offering it out.
“Pretty sure I undid any of this morning’s charm at lunch just now,” Harry says with a sigh as he takes one.
Malfoy flicks ash onto the ground, contemplating Harry's words. “Why, what did you do?”
Harry lights his cigarette wandlessly, enjoying the heady rush as he inhales. He waves his other hand dismissively. “Ah, you know. Schoolboy errors. Refused the offered wine and had a beer instead. Tried to change something on the menu. Used terrible French. Was very English, basically.” Malfoy snorts softly. “Do they always take such long lunches here?”
Malfoy nods once. “Yes. They don’t have any of that sandwich at your desk nonsense in France. Proper lunches only.” His voice is low and soft - pleasant, now it's lost its sarcastic edge. Harry watches as he exhales his smoke steadily, angled away from Harry. “It’s much more civilised, don’t you think?”
Harry hums and resists the urge to stare, forcing himself to look straight ahead as they smoke in silence.
“I’m going back in,” Malfoy says quietly after a couple of minutes, vanishing his cigarette.
Harry nods, lifting his hand. “Thanks for this.”
Malfoy nods back and Harry keeps his eyes on the flowerbeds, aware of Malfoy looking him over, but not giving in to the temptation to look back until he's walking away.
The afternoon goes quickly after that. Harry presents the exhaustive plans he’s devised with Sports and Games and the DMLE, from wand checkpoints, travel infrastructure to stadium staffing and crowd control.
He knows he’s doing well, can read how his answers are being received. He’s over prepared for this and anticipated all the questions so far. He answers with confidence, inserting jokes when appropriate, repeating himself with patience, referring to the documentation and leaving no room for doubts.
Malfoy interprets the delegates’ questions quickly and flawlessly into Harry’s ear. Every now and again, he watches Malfoy in his periphery, lazily sweeping his pencil around his notepad, apparently uninterested in Harry's presentation as he translates.
Towards the end of the day, Harry’s being drilled particularly enthusiastically by the Spanish delegate.
Harry had noticed the man glancing at him often during lunch, but they haven't met properly yet. He’s one of the youngest in the room, with soft brown eyes, rich, golden skin and an easy smile. His dark wavy hair is falling about his face as he looks from the paperwork to Harry, dynamic and interested as he asks yet another question.
Malfoy translates his Spanish smoothly. “You have supplied realistic numbers for predicted ticket sales, but it's unclear how you've estimated the numbers for ticketless fans. How can you be sure your plan for crowd control is sufficient without accurate estimates?”
Harry smiles at the man. “That's a good question. If you turn to page–” he spells his page to the one he needs. “Thirty four, you'll see a table with numbers I’ve extrapolated from data from the last five World Cups.”
He waits for everyone to find the page before continuing. Harry looks at each of the delegates around the table as he answers, explaining how he reached his estimates. When he turns back to the Spanish delegate, Harry notes that he's pointedly ignoring his binder and the statistics Harry is referring to. Instead he looks directly at Harry as his interpreter speaks at his side.
When Harry finishes, the man sits back with a smile, tapping his wand on the table.
“No me cuadran demasiado los números, Harry. Tal vez.” He clears his throat and looks away with a smile. “¿Los podríamos revisar mientras cenamos?”
There are a few titters around the table. Harry's confused. He has no idea what the man just said, or why it's funny, because Malfoy's simultaneous translation has paused.
“He's not convinced of your numbers,” Malfoy says after a couple of beats, and Harry immediately clocks the addition of pronouns, a change in his translation style. “He wants to discuss it with you further." Another pause. "Over dinner.”
Ah. Harry looks across the table at the man, who’s still smiling and holding Harry's gaze evenly as the rest of the table waits for Harry to reply. Harry smiles. Brazen bastard.
He clears his throat. “Ah. Sure. I’d be more than happy to go over them with you. At dinner.” Another few knowing laughs sound around the table as Antonio beams.
Casteau claps his hands together. “Excellent! À ce propos, permettez-moi de…”
“They're wrapping up for the day,” Malfoy mutters, needlessly, as the sound of binders snapping shut and people shifting in their seats has already begun.
Harry nods, scribbling a quick note to himself to grab some more up to date stats on portkey travel during previous World Cups.
“He wants to fuck you. In case that isn't clear to you.”
Harry halts his writing at the words, then starts again without looking up. “Yep. I got that, thanks.”
“Just checking.”
Harry finishes his note and sits back. He wonders if Malfoy thinks he's that much of an idiot that he didn't know he was being asked out. Or perhaps he has an issue with Harry accepting a dinner invitation from a man.
Before he can say anything further, there's a cough behind them, followed by a question in Spanish. They both stand, turning to face the Spanish delegate.
The man smiles at Harry, revealing straight white teeth as he extends a hand. “Sorry, my English is terrible,” he announces happily. “Antonio.”
His grip is warm and firm, their handshake lasting a beat longer than necessary. Harry smiles back.
“Harry. And your English is much better than my Spanish, trust me.”
Malfoy sighs, and Harry turns. “Have you met my interpreter, Mr Malfoy, before?”
“No. Mucho gusto.” Their handshake is much shorter. “Hablando de la cena. Me estaba preguntando si a Harry le gusta el marisco.”
Harry waits for Malfoy to translate the words. Malfoy looks at his nails. “He wants to know if you eat fish.”
“Ah,” Harry bites his lip and smiles apologetically at Antonio. “I'm afraid my goddaughter hounded me to become veggie last year. I'm fully converted now.”
Draco conveys Harry's words in Spanish, so effortlessly it’s both impressive and galling in equal measure. Antonio smiles and nods at Malfoy's words.
“Ah, muy bien. Un momento.” Antonio moves forward between them to the table, taking a pen out of his back pocket and leaning over to write something down. Harry discreetly runs his eye over the curve of Antonio's arse, shapely in his dark tailored trousers. He looks up to catch Malfoy doing the same.
Harry raises his brows. So, not an issue then. Malfoy notices Harry looking at him and a moment of understanding passes between them before Antonio interrupts. “¿Nos vemos allí a las siete y media?"
Antonio passes Harry a note with a name and address. Malfoy sounds put upon as he translates. “He'll meet you at the restaurant at eight.”
At eight o'clock exactly, Harry stops short outside the restaurant. He's surprised to be met with the smell of seafood, taking a moment to realise what's happened.
Then he is completely unsurprised. That fucking arsehole.
He spots Antonio through the window, sitting alone at a table with an almost finished glass of wine.
“Sorry, have you been waiting long?” Harry asks politely as he slides into the seat opposite, accepting a menu from the waiter.
Antonio's smile is tense. “Harry. I think you no come.”
Harry smiles back confusedly. “We said eight, yeah? Errr– huit?” He offers up eight fingers. Antonio's puzzled frown, seven fingers and broken English tells Harry all he needs to know. He apologises for his mistake and lateness, hiding his irritation. Fucking Malfoy.
Things go from bad to worse when Harry attempts, unsuccessfully, to order something from the menu to be adapted and served without fish.
The waiter looks at Harry like he just took a piss on his shoe. “Non. This ees a seafood restaurant. We serve seafood.” Antonio watches the whole exchange with a slightly bewildered expression.
Harry ends up ordering two side salads and leaves the restaurant dissatisfied and tipsy from the wine.
“Los demàs, this way,” Antonio motions down the busy street, lit up with bars and restaurants.
Their conversation through dinner had been nice enough, a lot of trading names of international quidditch players and miming. But the language barrier was proving quite difficult to break down. “Or. The hotel, this way?” He motions in the other direction.
Harry doesn’t miss the drop in the pitch of his voice, the pointed look on Antonio's face as he waits for Harry’s reply, and Harry’s cock gives an interested stir. Maybe. The language barrier definitely wouldn't be a problem for that. Harry points towards the bars. “Shall we have a drink first?”
They find the other delegates sitting outside a bar, their large, noisy table filled with wine bottles, scattered glasses and ashtrays. Harry spots Malfoy down at the end of the table, looking relaxed in a dark, long sleeved t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, cigarette in hand, leaning back in his chair chatting to Mathieu.
A break in their conversation allows Malfoy to glance over, his eyes alighting on Harry. His mouth curls slightly around his cigarette as he looks between Harry and Antonio, before he turns back to his conversation.
Gods, he’s galling. Harry takes a seat at the opposite end of the table. He wants to confront Malfoy about the mistranslations, or better yet, fire off a jinx at his arse.
But he's an adult and a fucking diplomat, and he is better than that - even if Malfoy is still as petty as he was at fourteen. Harry takes a deep breath and vows to ignore him instead.
After a day of talking, Harry’s content to sip his drink, soak up the atmosphere and listen to the chat around him. A few people try to draw him into conversation, but he politely cuts them short until they eventually give up. The music gets louder, spilling out to the patio as the alcohol flows and everyone relaxes into the night.
Harry accepts a cigarette from a middle aged interpreter to his right, making a note to buy himself a pack tomorrow. With his head now pleasantly woolly, it's becoming harder and harder to stick to his plan to ignore Malfoy. His wine-soothed brain is taking hold, his eyes wandering down to the other end of the table of their own accord.
The problem is, he looks good. Really good. Malfoy has looked handsome and relaxed all day, but there’s something different about him tonight. Soft cotton sleeves crinkled up, he chats easily with Mathieu and the others around him. He smiles softly, occasionally laughing or giving small, unconcerned shrugs, taking deep drags of his cigarettes and carefully exhaling away from the table with a seasoned twist of his mouth. He's quiet, but seems so assured of himself.
Harry’s mind drifts back to Hogwarts, to when he used to watch Malfoy across the hall, and he tries to chart the similarities and differences between then and now. It's tricky. He supposes Malfoy looks as artificially similar to his teenage self as anyone does at the age of thirty. His features are technically the same, yet so wholly different now they're not dominated by youthful arrogance or abject terror. Or perhaps they are exactly the same, but it’s Harry who’s seeing them differently?
Whatever the case, one fact remains certain; Malfoy is easily the most attractive man here. It's kind of annoying, actually, just how lovely he is to look at.
It's also annoying how studiously Malfoy ignores Harry, his eyes staying firmly over his side of the table, never once straying in Harry’s direction.
It shouldn't be a surprise, really. It is them after all. Their shared history was unpleasant even before the war. And even if Harry prefers to keep the past dead and buried, perhaps it's too much for Malfoy to get over.
No, it isn't surprising that Malfoy still dislikes him. But Harry finds himself aiming more than one regretful little sigh into his drink all the same. It's going to be a long week.
Harry decides to make this drink his last one. He takes a drag of his cigarette, looking around, not willing to admit to himself that he’s searching for Malfoy, whose seat has been empty for a while. He finally spots him through the full tables, standing at the bar with Mathieu.
Malfoy leans back on his elbows holding a tumbler of clear liquid in a relaxed grip. Mathieu has his arm thrown loosely around Malfoy’s shoulder. French rap blares loudly over the bar's speakers and Harry realises they aren’t talking, but rapping along to the song.
Mathieu is enthusiastic. Malfoy is much less exuberant but smiling as he joins in, rapping with him word for word in quickfire French.
Harry’s mouth goes dry. He might even stop breathing at the sight of Malfoy’s lips moving around the words with practised ease.
It must be a popular song, because at least half the people in the bar are shouting along to the chorus, but Harry doesn’t see them. All he sees is Malfoy, the way he doesn't miss a single word, even as he laughs.
He can't remember the last time he was so hungry to look at a person, to imprint every detail in his memory, unable to look away.
Thankfully the two men are too wrapped up in each other to notice Harry watching them. He smiles to himself, admiring their easy intimacy.
There's something about seeing Malfoy like this; relaxed, clever, rapping, smiling. It pushes something strange into Harry's chest.
He shakes his head. He's definitely had too much wine.
He realises belatedly that Antonio is speaking to him, holding a bottle towards him questioningly. Harry holds his glass out and nods his assent to the top up, trying, and failing, to keep his eyes from tracking back to Malfoy again.
He watches them until his cigarette burns down to the filter and he's in real danger of looking like an absolute stalker. He excuses himself to go to the loo, deciding that it really is time to leave.
He's washing his hands when Malfoy enters. Their eyes meet and they both seem to share a moment of wide-eyed indecision on how to greet one another. Malfoy recovers first, blinking into a small smile. “Potter. How was your dinner?”
Ah. Yes. Looking across the table through wine drunk eyes, Harry had almost forgotten that the fit bloke he’d been staring at all night is Malfoy. Malfoy, who deliberately sabotaged Harry's evening for his own amusement.
Harry rolls his eyes as he dries his hands on a paper towel and vanishes it with a wave. “You're a dick.”
Malfoy's lip quirks as he steps to walk past. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”
Harry moves to bar his way and Malfoy stops abruptly, eyebrows raising. He's slightly taller than Harry, but Harry is broader. He widens his stance as he blocks Malfoy's path.
“I thought we were good?”
Harry's satisfied to hear his voice is cool, even as his stomach jumps at their sudden proximity.
Malfoy cocks his head, eyeing Harry with interest, and Harry makes sure his face betrays nothing even as his skin prickles under the scrutiny. Malfoy sighs and glances around, gesturing with his hand.
“Look, Potter. We’re in a bathroom together and we're not trying to kill each other. I'd say that's pretty good for us, no?”
His eyes are back on Harry, a playful smile lifting the corner of his mouth, the flicker of a challenge on his face.
Harry begrudgingly returns his smile, glancing away before he smiles too much, and then back. “I suppose it’s a start.”
“A start?” Malfoy raises his eyebrows, mouth turning smug. “What more do you want from me, exactly? Undying fealty?”
He's being a sarky bastard, obviously, but his words do something to Harry. What more do you want? His eyes drop to Malfoy's teasing smile and wildly inappropriate images of shoving Malfoy against the wall fill his mind; of licking into Malfoy's clever mouth and pressing up against his lean body and–
The door opens, Mathieu almost bumping into Malfoy, breaking Harry from his thoughts.
“Pardon, is there a queue, or…?” His voice trails off as he looks between Harry and Malfoy. “Am I interrupting?”
Harry snaps his eyes from Malfoy to Mathieu. “No, not at all. I was just–” Harry gestures towards the door. He moves past Malfoy without looking at him, giving Mathieu a polite smile as he leaves, trying to rid his mind of images of kissing Malfoy.
By the time Malfoy is back at the table, everyone is finishing their drinks, readying to leave. Mathieu and some of the younger delegates talk animatedly about going to another bar. Mathieu turns to Malfoy. “Draco? You're coming, oui?”
Malfoy shakes his head. “Non, je dois rentrer.”
Mathieu laughs, flinging an arm around him with a drunken smile. “Ahh, back to Pierre,” he puts his other hand over Malfoy’s chest and turns to the others. “His true love.”
Malfoy smiles and elbows him off with muttered French, grabbing his jacket as Harry's gut twists sourly. Of course he has someone to go home to.
“And you, Harry? You'll come with us? The night is still young!”
He feels Malfoy's eyes on him. “Err, no. Thanks. I think I'll head off, too. Been a long day.”
Mathieu sighs exaggeratedly, shaking his head.
“Antonio! ¿Vienes?"
Antonio is finishing his drink. He puts his glass down and shakes his head, smiling and replying in rapid Spanish.
As they all move into the street, they sort themselves into groups of those staying out and those leaving. Some of them are doing the French pretend-kissing thing and Harry finds himself following suit, dutifully allowing people he's literally just met that day to press their cheek to his, pretending it isn't weird. Diplomacy and all that.
Two awkward air kisses in, a sudden panic starts to bubble inside him, because Malfoy is saying his goodbyes to the group as well, and looking far more comfortable with the whole hugging and kissing thing than he has any right to for a fucking Brit.
But just as they reach one another, Malfoy abruptly halts, apparently sharing Harry's uncertainty on how to navigate this situation.
Malfoy looks amused as they both stand awkwardly looking at each other, the others continuing around them.
“Harry?” Antonio's voice next to him interrupts his stand-off with Malfoy. “Hotel?”
Alcohol has loosened Antonio’s smile and worsened his English.
Harry only manages a half smile in return, exhausted from all the making nice today. “Oh. Er, yes. I'm coming.”
When he glances back at Malfoy, it's to a knowing look. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Potter.” He gives Harry a small smile as his eyes cut to Antonio.
A bizarre niggle of disappointment winds through Harry. “Er, yeah. Thanks. You too.”
Malfoy says something to Antonio in polite Spanish, switching languages effortlessly, and Harry really wishes it didn't impress him every single time.
With a final half wave, Malfoy walks off into the night. Harry watches him go, wondering what he's going back to. And who.
In the hotel lift, Antonio turns heated eyes and an unreserved, handsome smile on Harry. He steps close, his spicy, masculine scent inviting as he presses warm, drunk lips on Harry's.
It's what he'd expected, even hoped for earlier. But it takes Harry less than five seconds to realise he’s just not feeling it. His mouth is not returning Antonio's kiss, and he feels no inclination to. Not even the barest sizzle of arousal in his blood. He draws back, a gentle hand on Antonio's chest.
“Sorry.” Harry smiles apologetically and shakes his head. “This isn't going to happen.”
Antonio looks surprised, dark eyebrows rising. “No?” He reaches out and hooks a single finger into Harry's waistband, watching Harry's face. “You don't want?”
Harry gently removes Antonio’s hand, shaking his head again. “No. Let's keep things professional, yeah?”
Disappointment drifts across Antonio's face, and he frowns for a second before heaving a sigh and giving a bemused shrug. “Okay. Sure.”
Later, as he burrows into his comfortable mattress, Harry reflects on the day.
The meeting has been a success so far. He's made all the points he wanted to and is certain they’ve been accepted. It’s too early to tell, of course, but he's pretty sure he's made a good impression with the other delegates. Except Antonio, perhaps.
Harry doesn't know why he rejected Antonio. The man's nice looking and seems like good fun. Perfect for something casual. But it just hadn’t felt right. And though he can't quite put his finger on why, he follows his intuition with these things. Even if Malfoy hadn't sabotaged their dinner, he’s not sure it would have led to anything with Antonio, anyway.
Malfoy. Gods, that’s still a bit of a shock, the whole Malfoy thing. No one back home has heard from him in years, as far as Harry's aware. He was the last person Harry had expected to bump into, much less have to work with this week.
He’s obviously done well for himself. A good job, friends and a boyfriend called Pierre, apparently (he had checked– there’s no wedding ring on Malfoy's slender finger). Still an absolute arsehole, clearly, but a bloody attractive one.
He pictures Malfoy rapping with Mathieu, his quirking mouth moving around rapid French and a pulse of arousal stirs Harry's cock. If his eyelids weren’t so heavy, he’d definitely have a cheeky wank, thinking about Malfoy’s clever mouth.
But it's been a long day. Harry keeps his hand nestled under his pillow as he shifts to get comfortable, mind settling on the image of pink lips curling seductively around a cigarette as he drifts into a dreamless sleep.