The Sleeping Beauty Curse

Chapter 16

Draco folded his arms. "Mother and Father have asked me to go for lunch."

"All right," Harry said slowly, still not seeing the issue. So they weren't technically meant to spend time that far apart, but presumably Draco's parents could slum it in a London restaurant or something, rather than their stately pile in Wiltshire, couldn't they?

Draco seemed to be waiting for something, and as he waited, a terrible suspicion dawned on Harry. Draco . . . didn't want him to go with him, did he? Bloody hell. There was no way he'd want Harry to go with him. Harry hated Lucius, could barely tolerate Narcissa, and the reverse was equally true. It would be the worst lunch in the history of forever.

Still. "Do you want me to go with you?" Harry asked, because he was a glutton for punishment, obviously.

Draco raised his head; he'd been staring at the chequerboard floor, as if there was a secret message written on the black and white tiles. "Yes," he said. "Yes, please."

Oh, bloody hell, Harry thought again. And then remembered he was going to be late. "See you later, then," he said, and before he thought about it too hard, he leaned forward and brushed a very light kiss on Draco's cheek.

Draco's hand snapped up to touch his cheek as soon as Harry had moved away, as if he couldn't quite believe what had happened. Harry wasn't quite sure he could believe what had happened. Had he caught some sort of affectionate, mushy plague, or something? "Ah, sorry!" he said quickly, half-regretting making his feelings so plain, and then turned to leave before he could make things worse.

The sight, however, stayed with him all day: the look in Draco's eyes as he'd held his hand to his cheek, after Harry had kissed him. It had been almost one of fear.

^^^^^^

The only positive thing about Draco's birthday lunch with his horrible parents, Harry reflected afterwards, was that it hadn't taken place in Malfoy Manor. Instead, they'd hosted it in one of the swankiest, most stuck-up wizarding fine dining restaurants in Muggle London. Except, they hadn't hosted it, had they? Harry wasn't sure the name of 'Malfoy' would get a reservation at all these days, unless the one that preceded it was 'Draco'. Lucius had booked the table at the last minute in Harry's name. Harry never, ever capitalised on his name to get small, pathetic concessions like this. But now, because of Lucius Malfoy, it seemed he did.

Because his name was on the booking, it appeared to have been public knowledge that he'd be there, and at what time. As soon as he and Draco had arrived at the restaurant, the press were popping up to take their photos, and once inside and seated at a table near the window, plenty of flashbulbs had gone off too. Harry wished he'd worn a slightly grubbier robe, rather than the smart one Draco had lain out for him that morning. If he had to appear in photos with Lucius Malfoy – and it appeared that he did – Harry wanted to look as rough as possible, he thought.

To add insult to injury, the menu had all been in French. Harry didn't speak French. He'd ended up with plates of unidentifiable things he didn't fancy, which looked animal in origin but not ones he recognised. Happily, though, this ruse had backfired on Lucius, because Draco had simply shared his own food with Harry, pushing his plate towards him without a word.

Not that Harry had felt very hungry. Lucius had held forth for a while on two fascinating topics: on the incompetence of the Auror department in general, and on the incompetence of the Aurors in particular. They couldn't catch Draco's poisoner, Lucius pointed out. And then he also helpfully pointed out that Harry was an Auror. Narcissa joined in occasionally, to add that it wasn't Harry's fault he was an idiot, although she said it in a charming, polite tone that almost hid the fact she was insulting him.