Chapter Text
The office of the CEO at Potter & Black Ltd. was exactly what one might expect from someone who'd saved the world and then gotten very, very good at high-end business acumen: all sleek lines, charmed glass walls, and a view of London that screamed money and moral ambiguity.
Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, and stared at the man seated across from him.
“Draco Malfoy,” he said, dragging out the syllables like he was savoring them. “Three years of executive assistant experience, glowing recommendations, impeccable punctuality, and you still decided to walk in here looking like a goddamn Bond villain in a waistcoat.”
Draco, ever the picture of aristocratic restraint, gave a faint smile. “I assure you, Mr. Potter, my wardrobe choices are purely professional.”
Harry’s eyes flicked down. Waistcoat. Slim-fitting trousers. A tie that clearly hated being a tie and wanted to be a noose. Cruel. Unnecessary. Tempting.
“Uh-huh,” Harry muttered, tapping a quill against his lips. “And what do you bring to this position that others don’t?”
Draco’s lashes fluttered ever so slightly. “Discretion. Efficiency. The ability to handle men with... difficult personalities.”
“Oh, you’ve heard about me.”
“No,” Draco replied smoothly. “I’ve met you.”
Harry smirked. “I see you still have that icy confidence thing going.”
“It’s mostly fear,” Draco said evenly. “Polished to a shine.”
Harry choked on a laugh. It was not dignified. He coughed, waved Draco off when he made to stand, and muttered, “Merlin, sit down. I’m not going to throw you out. Yet.”
He hadn’t meant to find this fun. He hadn’t meant to find Malfoy attractive. But here he was, mentally undressing his former school rival with all the subtlety of a teenager with a crush and a vivid imagination.
Draco folded his hands over one knee, calm and pristine. “If this is a test, Potter, I should mention I thrive under pressure.”
Harry tilted his head. “Do you? I’m tempted to see just how much.”
“Please do.” A pause. “Professionally speaking, of course.”
Harry stared at him. Draco blinked, innocently. Somewhere behind his placid expression was a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
Oh, this was going to be dangerous.
The enchanted quill hovering by Harry’s ear twitched, desperate to take notes, but even the magic in the room seemed flustered by Malfoy’s everything.
Harry cleared his throat. “Right. Well. You’ve got the experience. The references. The… face.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Face?”
“File,” Harry lied, unconvincingly. “The file. Obviously.”
Draco didn’t respond. He just looked at him. That maddening, composed, unbothered look that Harry remembered from sixth year—except back then, Malfoy hadn’t had cheekbones that could probably slice paper and a voice like velvet draped over a knife.
“You know,” Harry said slowly, “most applicants try to impress me. Brag about their achievements. Flash a few metaphorical galleons.”
“I could brag,” Draco said, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “But then you’d hire me for the wrong reasons.”
Harry’s brow lifted. “And what are the right reasons?”
Draco met his gaze, tone entirely pleasant. “That I make your life easier.”
Harry took a sip of his now-cold coffee just so he had something to do that wasn’t groaning aloud. He muttered, “You’re making it something, alright.”
Before Draco could reply, the office door thwacked open—courtesy of the building’s self opening door spell integration—revealing Harry’s current assistant, Brenda, an older witch with a bob, resting scowl, and the ability to file people into oblivion.
“Potter,” she snapped. “The report from Magical Investments is eating the break room sofa again.”
“Right. Yeah. Thanks, Brenda.” He turned to Draco. “Please excuse her. She’s... been with me since I thought neon dragon wallpaper was a good look.”
Draco, dry as a desert: “You’ve made bold choices.”
“I was twenty and traumatized.”
“I remember. You yelled at a mirror in the Three Broomsticks because it showed you with a moustache.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been keeping tabs.”
“Or you’re unforgettable.”
Harry might’ve blacked out for a second. The man just casually flirted like he was asking someone to pass the salt.
“Alright,” he said, standing so fast his chair rolled backward a little. “Let’s do a final test.”
Draco rose with a calm grace that was just offensive at this point. “Of course.”
Harry pointed to a stack of scrolls. “Organize these. Alphabetically. Then chronologically. Then set them on fire. I hate them.”
Draco quirked a brow. “Would you like them cursed for good measure?”
“I like your initiative.”
“And I like a job offer,” Draco replied, already turning toward the scrolls.
Harry watched him go—watched the way his shirt stretched just enough, the sway of his hips, the little smirk Draco wore like he knew Harry was watching.
Oh no.
He was doomed.