Topgallant : HP : Reservations

Harry/Draco, for

zionsstarfish, who asked for any thing I liked to write about, but winked while doing it. 294 words. Reservations.

Draco Malfoy winks at him one night at the Auror Conference. They are sitting in a stuffy, overheated ballroom listening to Shacklebolt give the keynote speech. Harry is sitting in a folding chair on the stage behind him, trying his best not to wriggle too much because some idiot was too dumb to transfigure padded seating. In the center of the audience, at the center of the immaculate banquet tables where the Who’s Who of the Wizarding War are ranked by neat, sparkling placards, sits Draco Malfoy. His suit is too big for him and Harry is thinking spitefully that Malfoy had better stock up on the to-go boxes before he gets so anorexic the lobsters could have him for dinner, when Malfoy meets his eyes suddenly, and winks at him, slowly and deliberately.

Harry spends the rest of the speech staring at the gap between his ankles, and trying vainly to find any space in his mind where Malfoy’s leer won’t follow him.

Three days later the conference ends, and Malfoy is about to apparate out when Harry taps him on the shoulder. “You should eat something,” he says. “Go have dinner.”

Malfoy turns, eyebrows arching.. “With you?” he asks.

“No,” Harry says. “Just dinner.”

Malfoy smirks before vanishing beneath Harry’s grip. The imprint of his shoulder blades beneath Harry’s fingers mark everything Harry touches for a week.

When he shows up at Malfoy’s flat, his floor is filthy and his cupboard is bare. Malfoy is shirtless and untidy, and Harry wrinkles his nose but kisses him anyway.

Malfoy pushes him up against the wall and digs his bony wrists against Harry’s stomach. “Separate tables?” he whispers against Harry’s collarbone, and when his eyelashes flutter against Harry’s skin, Harry forgets to say yes.