Chapter Text
“Merlin’s hairy balls, you’ll never believe who just walked in!”
Pansy cast a Muffliato over her shoulder as she grabbed Draco by his shirt front and dragged him across the serving counter. The pen in his apron pocket stabbed his chest, and he added it to the list of Things I Hate About Pansy Parkinson and prayed she stopped pulling before his crotch hit the edge of the counter.
“You’re pretty fucking strong for a—” Draco strangled out as he tried to twist her wrists out of his shirt.
“Don’t. Say. It.” Pansy released Draco, who slid down until his feet hit the floor. Pansy straightened her shirt (which hadn’t been mussed as she’d manhandled Draco) and pressed her hands down the front of her snug skirt. She checked behind her before she hissed, “Himself is here!”
Draco popped up on toes to see over Pansy’s shoulders. “Lucius? Is here? Where?” Nope. No. Uh uh. He did not need whatever drama that bastard was carrying around in his baggage.
Pansy pffft. “No. Himself. The Chosen One. He Who is Always Named.” She rolled her eyes. “Draco, get back up here.”
Draco dropped to a crouch behind the counter and motioned for Pansy to join him. She tiptoed to him, careful not to allow her heels to tap against the hardwood floors. She squatted next to him and whispered in his ear. “What the actual fuck are you doing down here, Draco?”
“You do realize you can speak as loud as you like since you used the Muffliato?” Draco’s words fell short of the usual crisp, tart snark. He felt the heat of embarrassment rising as he turned away from Pansy and pretended to riffle through the boxes of coffee on the shelves under the cash register. He wasn’t ready for this--hadn’t seen any of the Hogwarts Heroes since his trial. He’d avoided Potter after the acquittal, never thanked him for testifying. His words had kept Narcissa out of Azkaban. He’d even spoken kind lies about Draco when he’d never done anything to deserve them.
…Draco Malfoy never wanted to hurt Dumbledore…couldn’t bring himself to raise his wand…kept me safe…
Pansy pulled Draco from his thoughts when she lifted his elbow out of the rubbish bin, wet coffee grounds staining the elbow of his new Alexander McQueen. Fucking hell. This was Potter’s fault.
“It’s been ten years,” Pansy said, hauling Draco to his feet. “Face him. Bury the hatchet.”
Draco snatched his wand from the pencil can and cast a cleansing spell, knowing it wouldn’t really remove the stain. “What if I bury it in him?”
Pansy snickered as she walked away. “Like that’s what you want to bury in him.”
Draco sputtered as he removed his apron and threw it in a crumpled ball next to the espresso maker.
“Don’t deny it, darling,” she singsonged, the click click clack of her heels punctuating her sentence. “We all knew.”