Draco Disapparated for his room in the penthouse suite that overlooked the northern garden on one side and the pool on the other. Blaise had been hounding him to give up his room so it could be leased to paying customers, but Draco refused to give up the space he'd come to think of as home. He certainly didn't consider that mausoleum of a mansion out in Wiltshire home anymore. And a flat in an ordinary building didn't sound like an idea he wanted to explore. Here in the Jumeaux Resort he could enter through the enchanted front doors and leave the noisy hustle and bustle of central London behind. He had access to an excellent dining room, poolside sunshine, and a luxurious spa whenever he wanted it. He had no intention of ever leaving.
In his wardrobe he found a freshly pressed suit, muggle-style with a necktie and everything. Another benefit of living at the resort: onsite laundry. He dressed quickly and touched up his closely trimmed platinum blond hair, and once he was certain that everything was perfect down to the slithering snake cufflinks, he went downstairs to finish prepping for their guests.
The kitchen was impeccable as usual. Draco wouldn't have it any other way, not as long as he was getting his meals from there. The chef addressed him with crisp respect and reviewed the week's menu with him. Then with the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, he checked the spa.
The resort's relaxation and beauty treatment centre was located in a long glassed-in room that was formerly a breezeway, which ran along the southern end of the property, opposite from his penthouse, bordered on the northern side by the tiled courtyard and pristine pool. Like the rest of the rooms all of the windows looked out onto the enchanted grounds, which were always lovely with clear skies and temperate weather. In reality the south-facing windows should have looked out over a concrete sidewalk and a four-lane roadway beyond. But guests of the Jumeaux Resort would never have to be troubled by such banality. For the duration of their stay it would appear as though they were on holiday in the French Riviera. Without the meddlesome need to leave the city, of course.
"Massage tables, check," Draco dragged his fingertips along the glove-soft leather of the cushioned furniture. "Mud baths, check. Leeches, check. Gold wraps, check. Steam rooms, check. Aesthetician station," he paused with a frown. "Blaise had better find someone for that. I'm not doing pedicures."
He was almost resentful of his skill and expertise in the spa area. He'd spent his youth resort-hopping with his family on holiday, and he'd learned more than he needed to know about all of the various pampering techniques demanded by the rich and famous. He'd done a stint as a masseuse at a wizard hotel in the British Virgin Islands after leaving school, simply to get away from his parents' legal problems and to establish a bit of his own independence. The work had been humbling but satisfying, although he hated dealing with clients who were as difficult as he probably had been in the past. People who shut up and let themselves be squeezed and stretched into relaxation were fine. Complaining sorts who were never satisfied with the level of service could go piss up a rope.
"Draco, the guests are arriving," Blaise's voice issued from the charmed lotus flower near the door.
He squared his shoulders, straightened his tie, turned with a click of his heels, and strode back into the main house to welcome their new arrivals.
Blaise was already waiting in the lobby, the enchanted luggage cart by his side. Thanks to various liberation movements over the last few years house elves were no longer allowed to be kept as unpaid labor, much to Draco's consternation. And although he had campaigned energetically to hire a fit young man to serve as porter, Blaise had refused. So enchanted luggage carts had to do.
"Any luck finding a girl?" Draco asked as he tucked himself between Blaise and and the cart. "Imagine if we replaced this wheeled monstrosity was a handsome young man with strong arms—"
"No," Blaise said. "We can't afford to lose any more staff."
Voices babbled outside, growing in volume as they drew nearer. They could hear the sound of rolling luggage, a necessary functionality when approaching the resort from the muggle entrance. Draco took a deep breath and settled his expression into the cool but pleasant smile that identified him as the business' owner.
The inlaid double doors swung open and eight working class men spilled into the lobby, their long overcoats wrinkled and threadbare, their bags worn and shapeless, their clothes uncoordinated and completely forgettable.
Ministry people, Draco sneered to himself. Earnest, hard working wizards who dedicated their lives to the legal machine of magical society in exchange for something that barely approached a living wage. The only word Draco could think of to describe them was daft.
He scanned the group once the doors were closed and they were no longer silhouetted against the outside sky. He noted the Head Auror seal on the cloak of the man in front, a handful of Auror seals, and— Oh Merlin—
"Zabini? Malfoy?"
Three sets of eyes blinked at them in dumbfounded recognition. Blaise and Draco blinked back. Blaise found his voice first.
"Good morning," he nodded to each in turn. "Longbottom, Weasley, Potter."
Draco's mouth went dry, like his throat was stuffed with cotton. Neville Longbottom's cloak bore the symbol of the Ministry Finance office. Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter both wore Auror insignias. Of course. There had been something in the paper about that a couple of years ago. But Draco had been freshly back from the islands and had tried his best not to notice or remember.
Longbottom stared at him from a slightly older dopey face than the young dopey face Draco remembered from school. Weasley's ginger hair had gotten longer in the back and his physique had filled in, no longer the awkward, lanky, puppy dog of his youth. And Potter, great Merlin, then there was Potter.
He'd updated his glasses frames, that was what Draco noticed first. They were smaller, although still round, but the rims were now a softly variegated tortoiseshell rather than thin wireframes. The effect was more mature, more confident, and frankly more attractive. His hair was trimmed close to his scalp on the sides and back, with a stylish thicket of messy black locks on top. He stared at Draco with wide eyes, which Draco knew would be brilliant green up close. He was content to stay back.
"Welcome to Jumeaux, gentlemen," Blaise spoke up. "Please accept a room fob from our porter. Lace one half around your luggage handle and keep the other one as a room key. The fob will give a tug when you reach your room, and its touch will release the lock on your door. If you have any valuables you'd like to keep particularly secure you may avail yourselves of the safe in the back office."
The Ministry folks chuckled and shuffled a bit. Of course they had nothing that valuable.
"The resort is at your service," Blaise continued. "Towels are available poolside, the dining room has posted hours but you may order service at any time. The spa is available at your request, although we are unexpectedly short-staffed, so please accept our apologies as we seek to satisfy your every need as best we can until we are staffed fully once again."
"The meeting room?" The man in the Head Auror insignia knitted his brow in concern.
"Yes sir, Mister Chelsey. Second floor, overlooking the pool, straight up these stairs," Blaise waved his hand to indicate the elegantly curving marble staircase that ascended to the floor above. "If you'll provide your meeting schedule we will ensure fresh beverages and food service will be available to your group."
"Much obliged," the Head Auror grunted. He turned to address his team. "Right, go find your rooms. First meeting is three o'clock, the day is yours until then."
"If you need anything, simply look for a lotus flower, found near most doorways," Blaise pointed one out on the wall. "Request myself by name, Blaise Zabini, or my partner, Draco Malfoy. You may also call the kitchen." He reached out to stop Neville from hefting his bag to his shoulder. "Please allow us."
"Oh. Right. Sorry," Neville dropped his bag like a cursed necklace—well that's a nice image, Draco—and smiled sheepishly at his coworkers. Then, as a group, they all ascended the stairs to find their rooms.
Blaise and Draco watched them go, and as soon as they were alone their eyes bugged out at each other and Blaise smacked Draco across the shoulder.
"What was that all about?" he hissed. "You didn't say a bloody word the whole time!"
"I'm sorry, I was a bit taken aback by the sudden appearance of Saint Potter and the Gryffindor Gang."
"No," Blaise snapped. "I will not listen to that school days rubbish. You pull yourself together and figure out how to put it behind you."
"It is behind me," Draco lied. "I was caught off guard. Something you could have easily avoided by telling me in advance."
"Even if I had known I wouldn't have thought to mention it because I live in the present."
Draco glared at him and stormed away with a harrumph. He stopped in the kitchen and ordered drink service to be made available poolside, then retreated to the office to hide so he wouldn't have to bump into his old school rivals.
"You're not spending the next four days in here," Blaise appeared in the doorway. "We have a problem."
"Already? Brilliant," Draco rubbed his face with his palm.
"One of the bags doesn't have a fob on it."
"So you don't know whose it is."
"Precisely."
"Fabulous news."
Just then the pink lotus flower next to the office door unfurled and a soft, feminine voice issued forth, "incoming message from room 205 for—"
"Um... Malfoy, I guess," a deep, masculine voice finished the page.
"Our bag owner, I presume," Draco said. He pushed himself to his feet and marched out to the lobby, then up the grand staircase with the abandoned time-worn leather satchel floating along behind him. He strode past the tall glass panes that lined the large meeting room and entered the guest lodging area on the south side of the building. Halfway down the hallway he tapped on the door of room 205.
The door flung open, startling Draco back a step. Wide green eyes—yes, brilliant up close—stared at him in surprise. Totally unjustified surprise, given that he'd paged Draco personally.
"Are you missing your bag?" Draco tried his best to keep his voice even and professional.
"What? Oh," Harry peered past him to the satchel in the hall. "I suppose I am. That's not why I called."
"How can I help you?" Through clenched teeth was professional, right?
"I can't figure out how to open the window," Harry pointed across the room. "I'd like some fresh air."
"They're not meant to be opened," Draco said flatly. "The view is charmed."
"What happens if I open it?"
"You see the rather busy roundabout outside," Draco waved impatiently at the satchel and pointed at the foot of the bed. The bag floated past him and touched down neatly on the duvet.
"Can I see?" Harry asked.
Of course he asked. Why wouldn't he ask Draco to enter his room? That would suit the awkwardness of the encounter nicely.
"It's not meant to—oh fine," Draco marched across the room, waved his wand to release the seal, and flung the left windowpane outward. On the right the glass showed a pleasant garden with well-kept shrubbery and flowering trees. On the left the open window revealed a gray sidewalk and a gray street and a gray roundabout and a gray sky. The clamour of the city pressed in on them with the discordant squawk of muggle life.
"Wow," Harry appeared at Draco's elbow and peered out through the open half, in spite of the fact that the view could have been enjoyed from anywhere in the room, thank you very much, Saint Potter.
"So you see why we recommend you spend your time poolside if you would like some fresh air," Draco swung the window shut and swished to re-seal it.
"Understandably so," Harry smiled in an odd way. Odd because it was a friendly way. Draco didn't like his attitude.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" He hated himself for being obligated to ask.
"I guess not," Harry watched him retreat to the door. "Do I owe you anything?"
Did he mean a tip? Was he mad? Since when did Draco Malfoy rely on tips? "We do not accept gratuities at Jumeaux," he said, stifling the more insulting response he wished he could utter instead. "If there is nothing else..."
"Malfoy," Harry reached out as though to stop Draco from leaving. "Um, how are you doing?"
Draco narrowed his eyes. What was he getting at, exactly? How are you doing? How. Are. You. Doing. What was the subtext? Was he implying that Draco should have been doing badly? Or that he had been doing badly and was now improved? Or maybe he meant—
"It's good to see you," Harry added with that inappropriately friendly smile again.
It's. Good. To. See. You. More code, Draco was sure of it.
"I'll see you around, I guess," Harry scratched his head and busied himself with his bag's contents.
Draco left without another word. Potter had always been a strange sort of boy. Maybe adulthood had made him stranger.