A/N: I know this is a really short chapter. But a lot's about to happen, and I needed some logical breaking points, or this collection of scenes would go on forever. Thanks for your patience!
With all the bodies milling in and out of the gallery, Harry's fairly certain they're violating some sort of Ministry fire code. But with the Ministry's top brass lounging about swilling champagne like it's going out of style, he's pretty sure a fine won't be forthcoming.
The opening of "Grimoires in Gesso" is in full swing. It seems everyone has crawled out of the woodwork to take a gander at what The Savior of the Wizarding World has been up to. The fruits of his labor are hanging on the gallery walls for all to see (and purchase, Millicent Bulstrode is quick to remind him). He smiles at the thought of Luna's pushy girlfriend, and his eye manages to find her quite easily in the crowded gallery, happily taking galleons off patrons. She shakes hands and nods with a smile, pocketing the velvet pouches with practiced ease. Her head darts up and catches Harry staring, and she makes a beeline for him. She approaches him with a friendly glare.
"Do you have any idea of the mountain of cash we'd be rolling in if you did commission work like I told you to?"
Millie sounds remarkably like Pansy, only less-polished and with a bit more spite. Harry sips his pumpkin juice and smiles warmly at her.
"Don't start this again, Millie," he says, knowing the request is futile.
"I'm serious, Potter," she hisses, leaning in to his side. He's only "Potter" when she's annoyed. She smells like Luna—wet clay, cherries, and coal fire. It wouldn't surprise him if they had one off in the supply closet before they opened the doors. Luna's fond of recreational sex in odd places, and is even fonder of telling everyone about it. She has absolutely no filter, and Millie has no fucks to give about it. They're actually quite charming together.
"So am I."
Millie's eyes narrow and her mouth opens, no doubt to revisit the long-winded, profanity-laden lecture about creating heirloom pieces, artist recognition, and her and Luna's future financial stability, but he cuts her off with a hand.
"I'll think about it, yeah? How's that?" Harry offers her a genuine smile, but her expression doesn't change. She's not fooled, the Slytherin.
"There's a reason you made me gallery manager," Millie reminds him with a poke to the shoulder.
Harry nods his head in agreement. "Yes. You've a hell of a head for business, you appreciate art, and you're the only one who can corral your girlfriend when she goes off on a weird-arse tangent like insisting on parading around the gallery naked so patrons can see her 'at her most creative state'."
Millie looks chagrined. "Look, I got a robe on her, didn't I? There should be a medal in that, I think. Daft bint," she adds with a soft smile.
Over her shoulder, Harry sees a shock of white-blond hair, and the tiny glimpse makes something catch in his chest. As the crowd flows around Draco, another face comes into view. It's not surprising—it's expected, really—and Harry's body reacts accordingly. With complete and perfect calm.
He takes his leave of Millie with a kiss to the cheek and an apology, but when she tracks his line of sight, she waves him off and disappears into the throng of people. Harry hands off his half-empty glass of pumpkin juice to a passing floating tray and adjusts the line of his Muggle suit with a quick jerk to the cuffs and a smooth hand over his tie.
Harry's singular focus is the artfully tousled head of platinum, gleaming underneath the gallery's house lights. It's fitting, because that chiseled profile is a work of fucking art, more beautiful that any sculpture ever created by man or magic.
It's as if everything just falls away in the wake of the calm that thrums through his body. The crowd, the light, the noise—everything—dissipates, and Harry glides forward like a shark seamlessly cutting its way through the ocean. The bodies part for him as he walks, because nothing can stand in his way.
He feels a little like a shark as he approaches—shiny gray suit and cunning smile that's all teeth and deadly confidence. He knows he's slick as fuck when he sidles up to Draco and slides an arm around Draco's waist like there's a waiting space shaped just like Harry's arm.
Harry leans in to press a kiss to Draco's cool cheek. "Darling," he says with utter adoration.
He waits for Draco to turn and return his smile before loftily shifting his attention to Draco's conversant. Harry doesn't bother to incline his head in greeting.
"Zabini."