Title: More Than Meant To Be
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R (for future content)
Chapter Summary: The two "enemies" find themselves facing a compromise.
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling, I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs, and I've no intention of making profit of off any of this.
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.
Warnings: m/m slash _________________________________________________
Chapter four: Compromise
It was a small office, made even more so by the large desk that Harry sat behind, but that didn't stop Draco from pacing.
"If you'd put your real name," he muttered, "neither of us would have to deal with this."
Harry sighed. "Deal with what? We're both adults. We can work civilly together. It's not like it's forced, either. You can leave if you want, there are other jobs," he replied, tipping his chair back and following the blonde wizard with his eyes. Draco slowed to a stop, facing Harry, but said nothing.
"Look, the reason I didn't put my name was... well..." he faltered.
Draco shook his head. "I can see why. I'm just saying that you should have foreseen the possibility of someone you knew showing up."
"Look, Draco," Harry began, "Do you want the job or not? I understand if you'd rather not work with me, but I still don't see any problem with it."
Draco narrowed his eyes. Harry was leaning back in his chair, his frame loose and relaxed, and yet there was a tension running through the young man that belied his apparent nonchalance. Draco folded his arms. "You're not as calm about this as you're putting on," he said, reigning in the accusatory tone that wanted to come out.
Harry said nothing, but fine lines appeared around his mouth as muscles tensed there.
Draco looked around the undecorated office and glanced at the closed door leading back into the well-stocked kitchen. "There's nothing around here that even hints at the state the world is in," he mused, almost to himself. "No jars on the counter for donating to the relief funds, no newspaper articles on the walls, no memorials to fallen heroes." His silver eyes shot back to Harry's green gaze like lightening to a lonely tree. "You're hiding from the war," he said, very accusing this time.
The front legs of Harry's chair slammed back down onto the ground. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he stood and shouted. His suddenly white face made the scar on his forehead vivid once more. It caught Draco's eye, and he noticed its faint appearance.
Harry saw Draco still, his eyes fix – like so many eyes had done before – on the middle of his forehead. Draco's mouth went soft as he stared, a bemused look coming over the young man. His arm raised, and he reached out. Harry couldn't move.
Draco caught himself, and lowered his arm. He swallowed and returned his gaze to Harry's. "Why is it nearly gone?" he asked, and Harry marveled at his expression. It bordered on sadness. "I-I don't know," Harry said. Draco raised an eyebrow, and Harry looked away, running a hand absently through his disheveled hair. "I guess because it's over." His voice came out a hoarse whisper. He nearly collapsed back into his chair.
Draco seated himself on the corner of the desk. "You look so different," he said softly. "No glasses, almost no scar, in clothes that actually fit" – Harry smiled; his jeans and black t-shirt were nearly snug – "and so much older."
"And what about you?" Harry shot back. "Where's the arrogance, the disdain? Why didn't you turn on your heel the moment you saw me and march out with your nose in the air?" he demanded. "Why are you still here?"
Draco cocked his head to the side. "Because I've changed as much as you have. We're not children anymore. I'm looking for work for the same reason I suspect you've chosen to start a bakery: to make my own living in this world."
Harry looked away again, focusing on the grey of Draco's shirt. "Well, we can't live off of our dead family, can we." It was a statement, not a question.
The young man on the desk snorted. "Of course we can. We just won't. We may not consider the option, but it's still there."
Harry sighed. "Yeah, I guess." He opened a desk drawer and pulled a stuffed envelope from it. "Gringott's had to move my inheritance account to a bigger vault because people kept giving me money for killing – well, for ending it," he said with a swallow. "So I took out half of what was there before the war, donated the rest to those relief funds you mentioned, and made a new account under a new name."
Draco silently watched him fiddle with the envelope. Harry glanced up. "It was Gina's family's idea, the name. Harry Prescott. It's horrible, isn't it? Giving up my parents' name just to escape from people's misplaced gratitude."
"A pseudonym isn't giving anything up," Draco replied, "and people's gratitude is hardly misplaced."
Harry snorted. "A lucky kill does not a war win," he retorted.
Draco raised his eyebrow. "Neither does intuition luck make."
Harry opened his mouth to snap back, but a knock at the door interrupted him. The door opened, and a wild mop of brown hair poked around it.
"Hi," a voice squeaked, and the boy paused to clear his throat, continuing in a more normal manner. "Sorry, Harry, but Gina says 'stop trading wisdoms and finish your batch of scones'." A skinny arm appeared, and the boy brushed his bangs aside to look at Draco with light green eyes. "And hi, I'm Gerard. You can call me Gerry. Are you the new guy?" Gerry grinned at him, and Draco found it impossible not to smile back at the gawky teen.
"Yes," he replied firmly, "I am." He shot a challenging look at Harry, who rolled his eyes.
"Well." Harry stood, taking his apron from where he'd slung it across the chair and replacing it around his waist. "Now you know who's really the boss around here," he told Draco. "This is Gina's cousin, by the way, our informal bus boy and the last member of our staff, excepting yourself."
Draco nodded at the boy. "Pleased to meet you. I'll be managing these 'accounts' of yours," he said with a smirk, "so that they'll be worthy of the name at some point."
Gerry laughed. "I like him. Nice change from you, boss."
Harry swatted at the boy, and he ducked back into the kitchen.
"Well," Harry said, "the office next door is yours. I hope it's got everything you need." He started to leave, then paused. "If it doesn't, talk to Gina." And with that, Harry escaped to his baking.
Draco shook his head. "Gryffindors." He rose, collected the ledgers Gina had given him earlier, and went to start organizing the fledgling business.
It was awkward at first, but eventually Draco grew to enjoy the daily ritual of Apparating to the Square and putting in his hours at Potter's Pastries (he refused to acknowledge the fake name, although he did refrain from saying his version of the store name in front of other people, to his credit). He figured it was simply nice to get away from the echoingly empty manor. There were still things unspoken between them, but Harry refused to let the past be brought up. Despite that, the two managed to become at least comfortable around one another, even to the point of idle conversation and jokes. The weeks passed in a companionable silence, with the books soon balanced and organized. Everything was running smoothly enough that Draco extended his duties to helping in the main room during the busier days. It was perhaps deceptively simple to immerse himself in this simple part of life and ignore the shadows that haunted him. Draco wasn't one to examine a blessing, however.
Today seemed to be one of those busy days, if Harry's muttering as he wrestled things in and out of the oven and Gina's opposing good mood were any indicators (and they always were). Draco stretched. It was only ten- thirty; he'd been in for only a couple of hours, and everything was ready for the employee's checks to be made out tomorrow. He wandered out of his office's open door and leaned against the frame. Harry wore a long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his typical Muggle jeans, and a flour- and cinnamon-covered apron over it all. He was knuckle deep in a mound of dough and wore an unusually bad-tempered scowl on his face. Draco shook his head. He'd never understand why Harry chose not to wear robes.
Gina blew into the kitchen with a cheery smile in his direction, slapped an order on a counter near Harry, and twirled right back out again, singing something along the lines of "I've only got eyes for yooooooooou!". Harry's scowl deepened, and he glared at the now empty doorway. He spotted Draco and suddenly blushed brightly.
Draco gave him a puzzled smile. "Did I miss something?" he asked, lightly, staying where he was. He'd discovered it was only too easy to get flour on his grey robes.
Harry shook his head. "That woman is going to kill me," he muttered.
Draco laughed, shaking his head, and said, "A lone witch managing what hordes of Death Eaters couldn't?" just to watch Harry tighten up as he always did at the mention of the past. Draco had every intention of badgering the Wonder Boy (Harry hated Draco's nickname for him) into talking at some point.
To Draco's delight, Harry had little visible reaction to the jibe. He just snorted and muttered again. "She's definitely got her evil points."
This brought another laugh. "What'd she do this time?" Draco asked as Harry resumed his kneading of the dough.
"Oh, just decided that now that we've got everything nice and organized," he glared at Draco, as if it were his fault, "I've got more than enough time for a social life." The dough received a thorough pounding.
Draco smiled. "So go out with some nice girl to get the monster off your case."
To his surprise, Harry's motions faltered, and the boy went white. Harry swallowed and wiped his nose on his rolled-up sleeve, avoiding looking up at Draco. He murmured something.
Draco took a step closer, and Harry jumped. "What?"
"I said it's not that simple!" Harry repeated, loudly this time. "Look, I'm busy. Can we talk later?" He started molding the dough into cinnamon rolls on a pan, pausing to take a completed tray out of the oven when a timer went off.
Draco sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Who was he to bug the boss? He headed out to help Gina in the main room...
... Only to be greeted with a nearly empty shop. He paused, staring around. But all the fuss... he'd been sure the place was teeming. It was Tuesday, and early, but still. All that over the familiar argument of Harry's workaholism? He looked at Gina, who hummed as she rearranged the cookies set up on the counter as today's special. Draco reached over to grab one, biting into the still-moist goodie. Gina laughed, foregoing her usual token reprimand. He raised an eyebrow.
"Drake, dear, we've got to get Harry out," she said, putting her hands on her hips. Draco smiled at the nickname. He'd been surprised to find he didn't mind the endearment. She treated him like a little boy, and after meeting her mother he'd seen where the mothering instinct had come from. She continued. "Are you busy tonight? I was thinking we three could go out. There's a bar run by a witch a couple of blocks from here that's got a happy hour special going on tonight."
Draco chewed his cookie slowly. It was a daunting thought, much to his chagrin. He realized that even as he'd aided Gina's jibes about Harry's lack of fun, he himself had no social life to speak of. He worked; he went home; he went about the motions of straightening his family's affairs. What use would he be at a happy hour? He was never happy.
"Well?" Gina demanded. When Draco still didn't reply, but just stood there pensively eating his chocolate chip cookie, she threw up her hands in disgust. "You two deserve each other!" Draco raised his eyebrow calmly. Gina slid the last cookie onto the display. "I'm taking a break. Please think about tonight. Both of you could use it." She left the shop, the bell on the door ringing furiously.
Draco exchanged glances with Mr. Pennaman, who was in the shop every morning from the hours of ten to noon without fail, drinking mint tea and reading the Prophet. Draco had never talked to the man, but he seemed nice and kept to himself.
He finished his cookie and grabbed a mug from the cupboard behind him, tossing in a tea bag and pouring hot water from the pot on the counter. He replaced the glass pot, watching the mild red glow of the heating spell resume. He added honey and leaned on the counter while he stirred, letting the subtle peach scent waft over him.
Did he want to go tonight? It probably wouldn't be bad; he'd look downright amiable next to Harry in any social situation. He'd had enough social training to fake it, at least, although this would be markedly more casual than his family's dinner affairs. He sipped at his tea.
He'd go ahead and go. It was a witch-run place, so it wasn't like they were going to a Muggle bar.
Through the windows of the shop, Draco saw Gerry talking to a young girl from the magazine next door. Hmm. Might not be a bad idea to get an outsider's take on this argument.
When the girl left, with a lingering look that spoke of more than friendship between the two, Draco waved at Gerry.
The youth wore baggy hand-me-down robes in a faded blue, with patches on the elbows. Gina had mentioned, with a show of woeful shame, that it was more a fashion statement than anything else. His hair, more of a mess than even Harry's could ever have been, certainly was. The brown locks looked like a bowl cut gone fluffy, and Draco always had to bite back a grin at the sight of the boy.
"Wotcher, Draco. What's goin' on?" The slang was painful., but at least he was coherent, unlike some of the other teens that occasioned the Square.
"I was wondering if you knew what your cousin was bugging Harry about this time," Draco said casually, brushing an imaginary speck off of his sleeve.
"Well," Gerry pushed at his bangs ineffectually, "the same thing. 'Bout him needin' to get out more, 'n stuff."
"But it was different this time," Draco said, abandoning nonchalance with a frown. "Harry was furious, and Gina was downright gleeful. It was the same, in a way, but to an extreme."
Gerry shrugged but didn't meet Draco's eyes; he had to know something. With a narrowing of his eyes, Draco was about to lay into the youth with all his coercive powers when the boy's head snapped up, and he fired a question first.
"Do you like guys?" His spring green eyes were intense, and there was a serious depth to them.
The question caught Draco in the middle of launching his inquisition. The shock froze him to the spot.
Gerry exhaled, making his hair puff away from his face. "Look, I was just asking."
The stunned Draco blinked. Then blinked again. Why would that question come up?
He cleared his throat. "Look, Gerard. You're a nice kid, really," he managed, emphasizing the youthful title. "But... I... we... I mean, you can't think..." Draco waved his hands helplessly.
Gerry stared at him for a moment. Understanding dawned, and he hastily spoke, "No, no! I didn't mean you and me!" The youth blushed a bright red. "I just meant... in general..." He scuffed at the floor, looking down.
Draco paused. "Well... there've been some guys I've had." He stopped there. That sounded wrong... "Well, see, I never really thought in terms of gender. It was simply 'I liked a person, I went for them.' Male or female." Gerry was wide-eyed. Draco sighed and reached up to run a hand through his hair. "Why do you ask?"
Gerry gave a slow shrug. "I guess I was just... well, with all this talk about social lives..." He ran out of explanation.
Draco cocked his head to the side. "Do you?" he asked, and the youth's skin reddened once more.
"Yeah. But look, nevermind that I asked you. I guess I was just... I dunno," he finished lamely. "Look, I gotta go see Aunt Willa. Got something for me to do," he said, walking backwards as he spoke. His back hit the door, and he threw a hasty "See ya!" over his shoulder as he exited the bakery.
Draco exhaled gustily, sagging against the countertop. Suddenly a night out sounded like a really good idea... especially since drinks would be involved.
A thought occured to him, and he straightened suddenly, looking around. But the table previously occupied by Walt Pennaman was empty, and the clock read twelve-thirty. Draco breathed a sigh of relief. That was one conversation better had without witnesses.
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R (for future content)
Chapter Summary: The two "enemies" find themselves facing a compromise.
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling, I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs, and I've no intention of making profit of off any of this.
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.
Warnings: m/m slash _________________________________________________
Chapter four: Compromise
It was a small office, made even more so by the large desk that Harry sat behind, but that didn't stop Draco from pacing.
"If you'd put your real name," he muttered, "neither of us would have to deal with this."
Harry sighed. "Deal with what? We're both adults. We can work civilly together. It's not like it's forced, either. You can leave if you want, there are other jobs," he replied, tipping his chair back and following the blonde wizard with his eyes. Draco slowed to a stop, facing Harry, but said nothing.
"Look, the reason I didn't put my name was... well..." he faltered.
Draco shook his head. "I can see why. I'm just saying that you should have foreseen the possibility of someone you knew showing up."
"Look, Draco," Harry began, "Do you want the job or not? I understand if you'd rather not work with me, but I still don't see any problem with it."
Draco narrowed his eyes. Harry was leaning back in his chair, his frame loose and relaxed, and yet there was a tension running through the young man that belied his apparent nonchalance. Draco folded his arms. "You're not as calm about this as you're putting on," he said, reigning in the accusatory tone that wanted to come out.
Harry said nothing, but fine lines appeared around his mouth as muscles tensed there.
Draco looked around the undecorated office and glanced at the closed door leading back into the well-stocked kitchen. "There's nothing around here that even hints at the state the world is in," he mused, almost to himself. "No jars on the counter for donating to the relief funds, no newspaper articles on the walls, no memorials to fallen heroes." His silver eyes shot back to Harry's green gaze like lightening to a lonely tree. "You're hiding from the war," he said, very accusing this time.
The front legs of Harry's chair slammed back down onto the ground. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he stood and shouted. His suddenly white face made the scar on his forehead vivid once more. It caught Draco's eye, and he noticed its faint appearance.
Harry saw Draco still, his eyes fix – like so many eyes had done before – on the middle of his forehead. Draco's mouth went soft as he stared, a bemused look coming over the young man. His arm raised, and he reached out. Harry couldn't move.
Draco caught himself, and lowered his arm. He swallowed and returned his gaze to Harry's. "Why is it nearly gone?" he asked, and Harry marveled at his expression. It bordered on sadness. "I-I don't know," Harry said. Draco raised an eyebrow, and Harry looked away, running a hand absently through his disheveled hair. "I guess because it's over." His voice came out a hoarse whisper. He nearly collapsed back into his chair.
Draco seated himself on the corner of the desk. "You look so different," he said softly. "No glasses, almost no scar, in clothes that actually fit" – Harry smiled; his jeans and black t-shirt were nearly snug – "and so much older."
"And what about you?" Harry shot back. "Where's the arrogance, the disdain? Why didn't you turn on your heel the moment you saw me and march out with your nose in the air?" he demanded. "Why are you still here?"
Draco cocked his head to the side. "Because I've changed as much as you have. We're not children anymore. I'm looking for work for the same reason I suspect you've chosen to start a bakery: to make my own living in this world."
Harry looked away again, focusing on the grey of Draco's shirt. "Well, we can't live off of our dead family, can we." It was a statement, not a question.
The young man on the desk snorted. "Of course we can. We just won't. We may not consider the option, but it's still there."
Harry sighed. "Yeah, I guess." He opened a desk drawer and pulled a stuffed envelope from it. "Gringott's had to move my inheritance account to a bigger vault because people kept giving me money for killing – well, for ending it," he said with a swallow. "So I took out half of what was there before the war, donated the rest to those relief funds you mentioned, and made a new account under a new name."
Draco silently watched him fiddle with the envelope. Harry glanced up. "It was Gina's family's idea, the name. Harry Prescott. It's horrible, isn't it? Giving up my parents' name just to escape from people's misplaced gratitude."
"A pseudonym isn't giving anything up," Draco replied, "and people's gratitude is hardly misplaced."
Harry snorted. "A lucky kill does not a war win," he retorted.
Draco raised his eyebrow. "Neither does intuition luck make."
Harry opened his mouth to snap back, but a knock at the door interrupted him. The door opened, and a wild mop of brown hair poked around it.
"Hi," a voice squeaked, and the boy paused to clear his throat, continuing in a more normal manner. "Sorry, Harry, but Gina says 'stop trading wisdoms and finish your batch of scones'." A skinny arm appeared, and the boy brushed his bangs aside to look at Draco with light green eyes. "And hi, I'm Gerard. You can call me Gerry. Are you the new guy?" Gerry grinned at him, and Draco found it impossible not to smile back at the gawky teen.
"Yes," he replied firmly, "I am." He shot a challenging look at Harry, who rolled his eyes.
"Well." Harry stood, taking his apron from where he'd slung it across the chair and replacing it around his waist. "Now you know who's really the boss around here," he told Draco. "This is Gina's cousin, by the way, our informal bus boy and the last member of our staff, excepting yourself."
Draco nodded at the boy. "Pleased to meet you. I'll be managing these 'accounts' of yours," he said with a smirk, "so that they'll be worthy of the name at some point."
Gerry laughed. "I like him. Nice change from you, boss."
Harry swatted at the boy, and he ducked back into the kitchen.
"Well," Harry said, "the office next door is yours. I hope it's got everything you need." He started to leave, then paused. "If it doesn't, talk to Gina." And with that, Harry escaped to his baking.
Draco shook his head. "Gryffindors." He rose, collected the ledgers Gina had given him earlier, and went to start organizing the fledgling business.
It was awkward at first, but eventually Draco grew to enjoy the daily ritual of Apparating to the Square and putting in his hours at Potter's Pastries (he refused to acknowledge the fake name, although he did refrain from saying his version of the store name in front of other people, to his credit). He figured it was simply nice to get away from the echoingly empty manor. There were still things unspoken between them, but Harry refused to let the past be brought up. Despite that, the two managed to become at least comfortable around one another, even to the point of idle conversation and jokes. The weeks passed in a companionable silence, with the books soon balanced and organized. Everything was running smoothly enough that Draco extended his duties to helping in the main room during the busier days. It was perhaps deceptively simple to immerse himself in this simple part of life and ignore the shadows that haunted him. Draco wasn't one to examine a blessing, however.
Today seemed to be one of those busy days, if Harry's muttering as he wrestled things in and out of the oven and Gina's opposing good mood were any indicators (and they always were). Draco stretched. It was only ten- thirty; he'd been in for only a couple of hours, and everything was ready for the employee's checks to be made out tomorrow. He wandered out of his office's open door and leaned against the frame. Harry wore a long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his typical Muggle jeans, and a flour- and cinnamon-covered apron over it all. He was knuckle deep in a mound of dough and wore an unusually bad-tempered scowl on his face. Draco shook his head. He'd never understand why Harry chose not to wear robes.
Gina blew into the kitchen with a cheery smile in his direction, slapped an order on a counter near Harry, and twirled right back out again, singing something along the lines of "I've only got eyes for yooooooooou!". Harry's scowl deepened, and he glared at the now empty doorway. He spotted Draco and suddenly blushed brightly.
Draco gave him a puzzled smile. "Did I miss something?" he asked, lightly, staying where he was. He'd discovered it was only too easy to get flour on his grey robes.
Harry shook his head. "That woman is going to kill me," he muttered.
Draco laughed, shaking his head, and said, "A lone witch managing what hordes of Death Eaters couldn't?" just to watch Harry tighten up as he always did at the mention of the past. Draco had every intention of badgering the Wonder Boy (Harry hated Draco's nickname for him) into talking at some point.
To Draco's delight, Harry had little visible reaction to the jibe. He just snorted and muttered again. "She's definitely got her evil points."
This brought another laugh. "What'd she do this time?" Draco asked as Harry resumed his kneading of the dough.
"Oh, just decided that now that we've got everything nice and organized," he glared at Draco, as if it were his fault, "I've got more than enough time for a social life." The dough received a thorough pounding.
Draco smiled. "So go out with some nice girl to get the monster off your case."
To his surprise, Harry's motions faltered, and the boy went white. Harry swallowed and wiped his nose on his rolled-up sleeve, avoiding looking up at Draco. He murmured something.
Draco took a step closer, and Harry jumped. "What?"
"I said it's not that simple!" Harry repeated, loudly this time. "Look, I'm busy. Can we talk later?" He started molding the dough into cinnamon rolls on a pan, pausing to take a completed tray out of the oven when a timer went off.
Draco sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Who was he to bug the boss? He headed out to help Gina in the main room...
... Only to be greeted with a nearly empty shop. He paused, staring around. But all the fuss... he'd been sure the place was teeming. It was Tuesday, and early, but still. All that over the familiar argument of Harry's workaholism? He looked at Gina, who hummed as she rearranged the cookies set up on the counter as today's special. Draco reached over to grab one, biting into the still-moist goodie. Gina laughed, foregoing her usual token reprimand. He raised an eyebrow.
"Drake, dear, we've got to get Harry out," she said, putting her hands on her hips. Draco smiled at the nickname. He'd been surprised to find he didn't mind the endearment. She treated him like a little boy, and after meeting her mother he'd seen where the mothering instinct had come from. She continued. "Are you busy tonight? I was thinking we three could go out. There's a bar run by a witch a couple of blocks from here that's got a happy hour special going on tonight."
Draco chewed his cookie slowly. It was a daunting thought, much to his chagrin. He realized that even as he'd aided Gina's jibes about Harry's lack of fun, he himself had no social life to speak of. He worked; he went home; he went about the motions of straightening his family's affairs. What use would he be at a happy hour? He was never happy.
"Well?" Gina demanded. When Draco still didn't reply, but just stood there pensively eating his chocolate chip cookie, she threw up her hands in disgust. "You two deserve each other!" Draco raised his eyebrow calmly. Gina slid the last cookie onto the display. "I'm taking a break. Please think about tonight. Both of you could use it." She left the shop, the bell on the door ringing furiously.
Draco exchanged glances with Mr. Pennaman, who was in the shop every morning from the hours of ten to noon without fail, drinking mint tea and reading the Prophet. Draco had never talked to the man, but he seemed nice and kept to himself.
He finished his cookie and grabbed a mug from the cupboard behind him, tossing in a tea bag and pouring hot water from the pot on the counter. He replaced the glass pot, watching the mild red glow of the heating spell resume. He added honey and leaned on the counter while he stirred, letting the subtle peach scent waft over him.
Did he want to go tonight? It probably wouldn't be bad; he'd look downright amiable next to Harry in any social situation. He'd had enough social training to fake it, at least, although this would be markedly more casual than his family's dinner affairs. He sipped at his tea.
He'd go ahead and go. It was a witch-run place, so it wasn't like they were going to a Muggle bar.
Through the windows of the shop, Draco saw Gerry talking to a young girl from the magazine next door. Hmm. Might not be a bad idea to get an outsider's take on this argument.
When the girl left, with a lingering look that spoke of more than friendship between the two, Draco waved at Gerry.
The youth wore baggy hand-me-down robes in a faded blue, with patches on the elbows. Gina had mentioned, with a show of woeful shame, that it was more a fashion statement than anything else. His hair, more of a mess than even Harry's could ever have been, certainly was. The brown locks looked like a bowl cut gone fluffy, and Draco always had to bite back a grin at the sight of the boy.
"Wotcher, Draco. What's goin' on?" The slang was painful., but at least he was coherent, unlike some of the other teens that occasioned the Square.
"I was wondering if you knew what your cousin was bugging Harry about this time," Draco said casually, brushing an imaginary speck off of his sleeve.
"Well," Gerry pushed at his bangs ineffectually, "the same thing. 'Bout him needin' to get out more, 'n stuff."
"But it was different this time," Draco said, abandoning nonchalance with a frown. "Harry was furious, and Gina was downright gleeful. It was the same, in a way, but to an extreme."
Gerry shrugged but didn't meet Draco's eyes; he had to know something. With a narrowing of his eyes, Draco was about to lay into the youth with all his coercive powers when the boy's head snapped up, and he fired a question first.
"Do you like guys?" His spring green eyes were intense, and there was a serious depth to them.
The question caught Draco in the middle of launching his inquisition. The shock froze him to the spot.
Gerry exhaled, making his hair puff away from his face. "Look, I was just asking."
The stunned Draco blinked. Then blinked again. Why would that question come up?
He cleared his throat. "Look, Gerard. You're a nice kid, really," he managed, emphasizing the youthful title. "But... I... we... I mean, you can't think..." Draco waved his hands helplessly.
Gerry stared at him for a moment. Understanding dawned, and he hastily spoke, "No, no! I didn't mean you and me!" The youth blushed a bright red. "I just meant... in general..." He scuffed at the floor, looking down.
Draco paused. "Well... there've been some guys I've had." He stopped there. That sounded wrong... "Well, see, I never really thought in terms of gender. It was simply 'I liked a person, I went for them.' Male or female." Gerry was wide-eyed. Draco sighed and reached up to run a hand through his hair. "Why do you ask?"
Gerry gave a slow shrug. "I guess I was just... well, with all this talk about social lives..." He ran out of explanation.
Draco cocked his head to the side. "Do you?" he asked, and the youth's skin reddened once more.
"Yeah. But look, nevermind that I asked you. I guess I was just... I dunno," he finished lamely. "Look, I gotta go see Aunt Willa. Got something for me to do," he said, walking backwards as he spoke. His back hit the door, and he threw a hasty "See ya!" over his shoulder as he exited the bakery.
Draco exhaled gustily, sagging against the countertop. Suddenly a night out sounded like a really good idea... especially since drinks would be involved.
A thought occured to him, and he straightened suddenly, looking around. But the table previously occupied by Walt Pennaman was empty, and the clock read twelve-thirty. Draco breathed a sigh of relief. That was one conversation better had without witnesses.