Dirty Talk (2/6)
I
PART II
Harry arrived at the shop the next morning considerably later than usual, and in a considerably worse mood. He had debated for and hour whether to bring two croissants or three. In the end he couldn’t bear the thought of fetching and carrying for Blaise Zabini, so he showed up empty-handed. No one was in the front, so he followed the sound of voices to Draco’s work room.
“- so common, Drake!” Zabini was saying in that affected continental accent of his. He was lounging carelessly on the bench among the various tools and instruments. Draco, in rolled-up shirtsleeves and a leather apron, hummed in assent without looking up from the pocket watch in his hands.
“By right you should be living in your ancestral manor, not some miniscule flat over a bloody shop.” He dismissed the assorted magical items in various states of disrepair with one graceful wave. As always, the dark man appeared purely decorative, with his outlandish costume and cultivated air of indifference. Harry braced himself for the smarmy tone Draco used when he was trying to get into (or had just gotten out of) someone’s pants.
“Blaise, if you insist on being prettily useless, please do it elsewhere. I’m busy at the moment.” He pried off the back of the watch and peered inside. Harry’s jaw hit the floor.
“So, take a break! I hardly know my way around the Alley anymore; I need you to be my faithful native guide.”
“I don’t expect you to understand this, but I’m working. That’s what all your ‘patrons’ are doing, when they aren’t busy fucking you against any available flat surface.”
“You wound me,” Zabini pouted. “I suppose I’ll just have to go amuse myself.” He hopped off the bench and stretched languidly. Halfway through, with his hands above his head and his back arched, he noticed Harry standing, stunned, just outside the doorway.
“Why, if it isn’t The Chosen One!”
Draco’s head jerked up, the magnifying charm on his goggles making his eyes look impossibly large. “Potter! What are you doing back here?”
“Oh!” Harry felt like he’d stepped back in time and intruded in Slytherin territory. “I, uh. Just came to see if you wanted some breakfast.”
Zabini dashed forward and took Harry’s arm with a firm grip. “You really are a hero! I am absolutely famished. Too bad Draco has so much work to do.”
Hurriedly rolling down his sleeves to hide the Dark Mark (as if Harry hadn’t seen the evidence from his trial), Draco made no comment. The silence grew awkward and Harry realized that he was being left to twist in the patchouli-scented wind. He couldn’t shake Zabini without looking like a total prat.
“Sure. I mean, okay.”
“Splendid, we have so much catching up to do!” Zabini steered him out the door without a backwards glance. Harry turned to insist Draco come along, but the other man refused to look up from his work.
Twenty minutes later, Harry came to the conclusion that Blaise Zabini was ridiculously boring. Sure, he was the hottest thing to come out of Hogwarts since … well, ever. And he had fantastic stories about his travels, most ending in a mad scramble for his clothes and a narrow escape from an angry spouse. But everything about him rang false, from his knowing looks to his rich, deep laugh. Harry spent the entire meal wondering what Draco saw in this man.
Oh, who the hell was he kidding?
“Listen, Zabini -”
“Please, call me Blaise.”
“Okay, um. Blaise -”
“Okay, Harry.” Zabini flashed a predatory smile.
He couldn’t take it one second longer. “Does Draco always talk to you like that?”
“Sorry? Like what?”
“You know…” Frank. Open. Genuine. “Rude.”
“Oh, that. He’s really a baby crup, once you get to know him. All snark and no bite.”
Harry bristled. He did know Draco, or had been getting know him. Plus, he thought Zabini’s assessment was pretty rich, coming from someone who spent most of the war years hiding out in Barcelona.
“Excuse me?!?” Oops, he’d said that last bit out loud.
“Er, I meant. That is … Draco, he. Says what’s on his mind, doesn’t he?”
“Hm, more or less.” Zabini slid his hand across the table. “Let’s not worry about Dr-”
“What do you mean, more or less?” Harry felt the sudden, terrible onset of clarity. He’d asked Draco to be honest and had given the same in return, but really it was just another layer of Slytherin guile. The only person who knew the real Draco was this careless pretty boy.
“Circe’s tits!” Zabini ducked out of the way as Harry’s water glass spontaneously exploded.
“Sorry.” Secretly, he hoped one of the shards got in his companion’s eye.
“Well, look at the time. Must dash, Draco and I are going flat hunting this afternoon.” Zabini said all of this in one breath, eyeing him warily. He then collected his cloak and fled the café.
Harry kept his seat, frozen with shock. It was a thousand times worse than he had thought. Zabini wasn’t visiting, he was moving back. Moving back and moving in. With Draco.
Continued in Part III
PART II
Harry arrived at the shop the next morning considerably later than usual, and in a considerably worse mood. He had debated for and hour whether to bring two croissants or three. In the end he couldn’t bear the thought of fetching and carrying for Blaise Zabini, so he showed up empty-handed. No one was in the front, so he followed the sound of voices to Draco’s work room.
“- so common, Drake!” Zabini was saying in that affected continental accent of his. He was lounging carelessly on the bench among the various tools and instruments. Draco, in rolled-up shirtsleeves and a leather apron, hummed in assent without looking up from the pocket watch in his hands.
“By right you should be living in your ancestral manor, not some miniscule flat over a bloody shop.” He dismissed the assorted magical items in various states of disrepair with one graceful wave. As always, the dark man appeared purely decorative, with his outlandish costume and cultivated air of indifference. Harry braced himself for the smarmy tone Draco used when he was trying to get into (or had just gotten out of) someone’s pants.
“Blaise, if you insist on being prettily useless, please do it elsewhere. I’m busy at the moment.” He pried off the back of the watch and peered inside. Harry’s jaw hit the floor.
“So, take a break! I hardly know my way around the Alley anymore; I need you to be my faithful native guide.”
“I don’t expect you to understand this, but I’m working. That’s what all your ‘patrons’ are doing, when they aren’t busy fucking you against any available flat surface.”
“You wound me,” Zabini pouted. “I suppose I’ll just have to go amuse myself.” He hopped off the bench and stretched languidly. Halfway through, with his hands above his head and his back arched, he noticed Harry standing, stunned, just outside the doorway.
“Why, if it isn’t The Chosen One!”
Draco’s head jerked up, the magnifying charm on his goggles making his eyes look impossibly large. “Potter! What are you doing back here?”
“Oh!” Harry felt like he’d stepped back in time and intruded in Slytherin territory. “I, uh. Just came to see if you wanted some breakfast.”
Zabini dashed forward and took Harry’s arm with a firm grip. “You really are a hero! I am absolutely famished. Too bad Draco has so much work to do.”
Hurriedly rolling down his sleeves to hide the Dark Mark (as if Harry hadn’t seen the evidence from his trial), Draco made no comment. The silence grew awkward and Harry realized that he was being left to twist in the patchouli-scented wind. He couldn’t shake Zabini without looking like a total prat.
“Sure. I mean, okay.”
“Splendid, we have so much catching up to do!” Zabini steered him out the door without a backwards glance. Harry turned to insist Draco come along, but the other man refused to look up from his work.
Twenty minutes later, Harry came to the conclusion that Blaise Zabini was ridiculously boring. Sure, he was the hottest thing to come out of Hogwarts since … well, ever. And he had fantastic stories about his travels, most ending in a mad scramble for his clothes and a narrow escape from an angry spouse. But everything about him rang false, from his knowing looks to his rich, deep laugh. Harry spent the entire meal wondering what Draco saw in this man.
Oh, who the hell was he kidding?
“Listen, Zabini -”
“Please, call me Blaise.”
“Okay, um. Blaise -”
“Okay, Harry.” Zabini flashed a predatory smile.
He couldn’t take it one second longer. “Does Draco always talk to you like that?”
“Sorry? Like what?”
“You know…” Frank. Open. Genuine. “Rude.”
“Oh, that. He’s really a baby crup, once you get to know him. All snark and no bite.”
Harry bristled. He did know Draco, or had been getting know him. Plus, he thought Zabini’s assessment was pretty rich, coming from someone who spent most of the war years hiding out in Barcelona.
“Excuse me?!?” Oops, he’d said that last bit out loud.
“Er, I meant. That is … Draco, he. Says what’s on his mind, doesn’t he?”
“Hm, more or less.” Zabini slid his hand across the table. “Let’s not worry about Dr-”
“What do you mean, more or less?” Harry felt the sudden, terrible onset of clarity. He’d asked Draco to be honest and had given the same in return, but really it was just another layer of Slytherin guile. The only person who knew the real Draco was this careless pretty boy.
“Circe’s tits!” Zabini ducked out of the way as Harry’s water glass spontaneously exploded.
“Sorry.” Secretly, he hoped one of the shards got in his companion’s eye.
“Well, look at the time. Must dash, Draco and I are going flat hunting this afternoon.” Zabini said all of this in one breath, eyeing him warily. He then collected his cloak and fled the café.
Harry kept his seat, frozen with shock. It was a thousand times worse than he had thought. Zabini wasn’t visiting, he was moving back. Moving back and moving in. With Draco.
Continued in Part III