"Pansy. Pansy. Pansy."
"What?"
"He's here again."
Pansy Parkinson sighs and shakes her head. "He's always here on Tuesday evenings. Thursdays, too. You know that, so why do you insist on telling me?" She and Draco are sitting at their usual table in the Tarnished Sickle, their favorite low-end bar at the edge of Diagon Alley. The he in question is Harry Potter, accompanied as always by Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. They've also got Neville Longbottom and Weasley's younger sister in tow, plus a man Draco hardly recognizes.
"Who's that who keeps touching him?" Draco asks before taking a long drag off his cigarette.
Pansy narrows her eyes. "That's Oliver Wood. He was the Gryffindor Quidditch captain. Fit, isn't he?"
"Not my type," Draco says dismissively, waving his hand at their waitress. She hurries over, and he orders another firewhiskey for himself and "something pink that tastes like candy" for Pansy. Because they're regulars, Cass, the waitress, takes this in stride and reports back to the bartender. Aloysius isn't Draco's favorite among them, but he makes decent enough mixes for Pansy and always gives Draco at least one free drink over the course of the night. On second thought, maybe Aloysius is his favorite. It's not his fault he's not as nice to look at as David. But then, David is very nice to look at.
"What the hell's on your mind?" Pansy asks.
"Who's your favorite bartender here? Actually, wait. I don't care. What Wood's doing to Potter is muchmore important." Wood's arm is snaked around Potter's shoulder, and he's whispering into Potter's ear. Potter looks highly uncomfortable, which would be funny if Draco weren't so angry. No matter how many different people make Harry Potter this kind of uncomfortable, it always makes Draco the same kind of angry, because only he should be allowed to make Potter squirm. It's what he does nearly every time they interact at the Ministry, where Draco's Junior Undersecretary in the Minister's office and Potter's next in line for Head Auror. And he doesn't do it with touching and whispering. He does it with ... cunning. And malice. Because he's never felt anything other than malice and contempt and pure, simple hatred for Potter.
Well, he thinks as Potter's irritatingly sparkly green eyes widen at something Wood's whispered. Lust, maybe. But not with any affection attached.
"I didn't know Wood was gay," Pansy muses. "Looks like he's doing a pretty good job of winding Potter up, though. Jealous?"
"I'm never jealous," says Draco. "It's unbecoming. I'm just ... concerned. Potter really needs to learn how to say no. And Wood's not gay, as far as I can remember. He's indiscriminant, just like Potter."
"You could teach him, you know. How to say no. Don't you have to coach him on things sometimes at work?" Work is a foreign concept to Pansy, who's engaged to an extremely wealthy, disarmingly handsome French pureblood. The marriage was arranged years before, around which time Pansy gave up on the idea of occupying her time with very much of anything at all.
"Not relationship things."
"But you could, right?"
"I think I might get called off. Kingsley quite likes Potter and probably wouldn't want his Golden Boy completely distracted by what would doubtless be a compelling lesson in how to say no to an overeager suitor." Draco pauses. "Or ... female admirer. Is there a word for a female suitor? Suitress? Suitette?"
"Hell if I know," says Pansy. "What you could do, though, is ask him out."
"No."
"But Draco—"
"We've been over this. I'm not interested in Potter."
"Then why do we talk about him every time we're at this bar, whether he's here or not?"
Draco watches as Potter unlatches Wood's arm from around his shoulders. There's an apologetic look on Potter's face as he scoots out of the booth and walks out of the bar. As he passes, Potter nods at Draco, saying, "Night, Malfoy."
"Night, Potter," Draco says softly. He turns to Pansy. "Because of course I'm actually interested in Potter. He's more than passably intelligent, he's gotten way better looking than he has any right to, he's damn good at what he does, and he forgave you, even though you were a thoughtless bint, and he forgave me, even though I was an unrepentant prick. But if I admitted that more often, we wouldn't have nearly as much fun as we do now, with me pretending I don't and you being on to me, would we?"
"Fair point," says Pansy. "Another round?"
"Always."