Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Buffy characters are not mine.
A/N: Written for the Slashorific Fest 2018.
At Noon on Tuesday
"What's her name?"
Harry turned his head; a man was settling in on the barstool to his left. "Pardon?"
The stranger ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, its white-blond color catching Harry off-guard for a moment. "There's only one reason a man would look down at the bottom of his drink like it holds the answer to the universe," he said with a somber tone. "It means there's a woman involved."
The veil did nothing to hide her radiance. Her brown eyes—rounded and bright with joy—and her wide, dazzling smile were trained on the man waiting at the end of the long aisle.
Harry chuckled dryly as he shook the image out of his head. "Something like that," he murmured. He peered at his new companion, just now noticing his accent. "You're obviously not from around here," he mused.
The blond man arched an eyebrow. "Neither are you."
The door opened, admitting a young couple intertwined in each other's arms. The harsh noon sun lit the dim bar briefly, and a gust of hot Los Angeles air blew into the room before the door slammed shut.
Harry took a sip of his nearly-empty bottle of beer. There were only a few patrons in the bar at this time of day, scattered in the shadowy corners.
"Is she why you're here? Instead of…" The stranger tilted his head, squinting his eyes in Harry's direction. Harry shifted in his seat as the man's dark gaze focused on him. "…Berkshire?" he guessed.
Despite the fleeting sense of disquiet he felt under the man's scrutiny, Harry grinned. "Surrey," he corrected. "At least, that's where I grew up." He quirked the tail of an eyebrow as he speculated the stranger's origins from his accent: British, to be sure, but at times slipping into an American twang. An expat, perhaps. "I don't dare hazard a guess as to where you're from," he quipped.
The man angled his head down, turning against the overhead lights, which cast a shadow on his face. He put the mouth of his brown beer bottle up against his lips and tipped back the contents in one large gulp. After a moment, he replied, "I'm from everywhere." There was a depth to his tone, and Harry didn't doubt that this strange man had seen a lot of places.
Harry bit back a smile, wondering what this stranger might think if he knew about the magical world hidden in the crevices of his Muggle reality. "Then, I'm from nowhere," replied Harry. He took another swig of his drink.
"All right, Man from Nowhere," the stranger retorted. "Tell me about this girl that's got your knickers in a twist."
She was now in her new husband's arms, a soft smile gracing her features. They danced to the slow rhythm of their song. Her long hair, which fell to the small of her back, swayed like a hypnotizing pendulum. Small, white buds of flowers were weaved into her brown curls.
Harry blinked. He held up his bottle but found it light and empty of the bitter drink.
He raised a finger in the air. The bartender, who had been leaning over a newspaper at the end of the bar, lifted his eyes from the adverts. He ambled over and set a cool bottle of Budweiser in front of Harry before returning to his paper without a word.
Harry grabbed the bottle and took a long draft before speaking. "She's my best friend," he mumbled.
Her new husband leaned in and whispered something in her ear. The charming tinkle of her laughter flowed over the din of their guests in the large reception hall.
"She got married," Harry muttered, and even he could hear the bitterness in his voice.
The blond man hissed. "Ah, the ol' reliable 'Unrequited Love,'" he crooned. "Been there, done that, mate. Several times over, in fact, but the last time was a bitch." His eyebrows knit together. "The situation, I mean. Not the woman." He scoffed. "Although, I mean, sometimes…" He took another sip of his beer.
Harry snorted, following the stranger's example and taking a long pull of his own drink before slamming the bottle back down on the wooden surface. The sound rang through the room, but none of the other customers paid him any attention.
"Ah, don't be too down on yourself," the stranger said. "Plenty of fish and all that. You'll get over her soon enough."
Harry shook his head. His hand went up to his forehead. With two fingers, he traced his scar, a self-soothing habit from his childhood that he could never break. "No," he said with conviction.
The man blew out a sharp breath. "'Course you will. There's no woman in this world you can't get over after a few drinks and a good fuck."
"Thanks for standing up with us, Harry," Hermione whispered in his ear. She gave him a peck on the corner of his lips before pulling away from his embrace. Stepping back, she placed her hand on the black sleeve of a formal robe, her wedding ring reflecting the brilliant lights of the enormous chandelier. "It means a lot to both of us." She glanced up at her husband.
Her new husband smiled down at her before facing Harry. He held his palm out to shake Harry's hand.
Harry's heart raced as he stared at it, the friendly gesture hanging in the space between them.
"No," repeated Harry. "That is, it's not—not her that I have to get over."
"Potter?"
Harry lifted his gaze from the hand, following the line of the long arm and broad shoulder, all the way up to a pair of grey eyes.
There was a loaded pause; then, the stranger said, "Ah."
"All right, Potter?" Draco asked.
Despite his mouth being dry, Harry felt the need to swallow before he could move his head up and down. He took Draco's hand and clutched it briefly before letting his hand fall at his side.
"Stay out of trouble while I'm out on my honeymoon," Draco ordered. "I would hate to have to train a new partner when I get back."
Harry threw him a shaky grin. "If anything happens to me, I'll be sure to let Robards know you'd prefer Ron as my replacement."
Draco grunted. "Then you better not let anything happen to you," he said, his tone hard. He leaned forward, his eyes darting from side to side before asking in a lowered volume, "Heading to California tonight?"
Harry nodded. "As soon as I leave the reception."
The sides of Draco's lips angled down to a deep frown. "Are you sure you can handle the mission alone? I can ask Nott to assist you, he's in the Pacific Northwest, but his mission is wrapping up—"
"I'll be fine," Harry cut him off with a wave of an arm. "It's just a quick surveillance op. Nothing too strenuous. I'll be back at the office before you even hit the beach."
Draco's grey eyes crinkled in amusement. He took Hermione's waist and pulled her close. "Trust me, we won't be hitting the beach—or anywhere else outside of our suite—for at least a few days."
Hermione gave Draco a playful slap on the chest. "Oh, stop," she admonished, but she gave her husband a sly wink.
The couple sniggered quietly, merriment coming off them in waves. Standing in front of them, Harry huffed out a staccato of breaths, trying to stave off the panic rising in his chest and hoping it passed off as laughter.
Silence hung between Harry and the stranger as they simultaneously lifted their bottles up for a drink.
"Well," the man sighed. He placed his bottle on the cardboard coaster with a dull thud. "That's a bloody cock-up."
Harry laughed mirthlessly. "It really is."
"Why didn't you just, you know—" the stranger fluttered his fingers in the air, "steal him away?" The man looked at Harry out of the corner of his eye. "I mean, you're not—" the left side of his lips twitched, "—painful to look at, by any means."
Harry felt warmth flush his cheeks—and was unsure if it was due to the compliment or the alcohol. "Like I mentioned," Harry said as he shifted his eyes back to the bottle in front of him, "she's my best friend. Practically my sister." Beads of condensation flowed over the slope of the bottle's neck, rushing down the side. Fluid pooled at the base of the glass bottle. "I could never do that to her," he murmured.
The stranger remained silent, opting instead to empty his beer in one final swallow.
Harry swiveled his head at the sound and looked his companion over before realizing an oversight. "I never got your name."
The man half-turned in his seat, a smirk forming on his lips. "William," he answered.
Harry peered at him closer. There was something of the Old World in this man, with his aristocratic features: sharp, high-set cheekbones; a straight, narrow bridge of his nose; and lips that had been set in a pout throughout most of their conversation. And that hair, of course—Harry had only seen that shade of hair on a Malfoy. Yet, as the two of them sat in the dim bar at noon on a Tuesday, drinking from skinny brown bottles of this American poison, Harry couldn't quite bring himself to call this strangely beautiful man such a stodgy name.
"You don't look like a William," Harry admitted.
The man chuckled. "What do I look like then?"
His mind went through the options. Bill? Billy?—No. He surveyed the black leather jacket over the equally dark T-shirt, which was tight enough to hint at the hard muscles underneath. He wasn't a Bill or a Billy any more than he was a Mack or a Buddy.
Harry shook his head. "I don't know."
The stranger relented. "How about Spike?" he asked in a low tone. Harry had to lean over to catch his words. "Do you think I look like a Spike?"
With his slicked-back hair, the glint in his eye—which was just on the side of dangerous that made all the blood in Harry's head rush down to more urgent places—and that indolent, lop-sided smirk, he had to agree.
"Spike," Harry said, testing the name. The production of the sounds felt good on his lips and the back of his throat. He swallowed. "Yes. It works for you."
Spike tilted his head. "And what should I call you?"
He grinned as he went through his own monikers. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The Master of Death. But he settled on the one he liked best. "Just Harry."
Spike gave him a brief nod. "Just Harry," he murmured as he looked down at the bottle in Harry's hand. "How about I buy you another drink, and you can tell me more about this wanker who married your best friend instead of shacking up with you?"
"'Yes' to the drink," Harry replied, "but let's talk of anything but about the wanker who married my best friend instead of shacking up with me."
"Even better," said Spike with a devious grin. He waved to the bartender, and moments later, two newly-opened bottles slid across the bar.
They picked up their beers at the same time, their eyes never leaving each other as they brought the necks of their bottles together with a sharp clink.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!
Prompt: Song 4: All I Wanna Do by Sheryl Crowe