#harrydraco

Lone figure in front of wall-length windows, Draco Malfoy turned when Harry entered his office. Grey eyes searched the air near his head—to the left, to the right, above—yet not directly at his face. 

“Hermione?” Malfoy asked, lowering his gaze, examining the paperwork in his hands. 

“Harry,” he corrected. 

Malfoy looked at him, mouth flat, eyebrow raised. He turned his shoulders and stepped in Harry’s direction, setting the paperwork on his desk, folding an arm behind his back. 

“Over the years, Hermione has grown like a benign tumour in my brain that I’ve come to count on. If removed, the displacement of brain tissue could lead to herniation—in which case, I might die,” Malfoy said calmly, continuing his slow pace forward. “However, if the object to replace the Hermione-sized tumour is an adequate size, I might avoid a midline shift, but only under the circumstance that its substitute is a perfect fit. Based on the colour or your trousers, the horrendous sight of your hair, and the tea stain on your collar that you would have noticed straight away had you managed to look in the mirror before you left the cave that you call a house—I’m inclined to believe that I need to brace myself for death at the very obvious lack of Hermione Granger at your side.” 

Malfoy had come so close that Harry felt the urge to crane his neck back in order to look up at him properly, but instead kept his back straight, his gaze on Malfoy’s shoulder. 

“I’ll ask again,” Malfoy said, placing both hands behind his back. “Hermione?” 

Harry cleared his throat, took a bracing breath. 

“She’s in hospital,” Harry said. “Went into early labour last night—she’ll be on maternity leave for the next few months.” 

“How early? Not pre-term?” Malfoy asked, and Harry glanced up, seeing a crease between his brows. 

“No, just a week,” Harry said, and Malfoy raised his fingers to his chin, turning away, his other hand curled behind his back as he paced toward his window again. 

“It’s unavoidable, then,” Malfoy murmured. “I did wonder why she was dragging around that strange boy last week, but thought it was some kind of work experience…” 

“Er, that was me,” Harry said, and Malfoy waved his hand dismissively. 

“When did you say she’d be back? Next week?” 

“January. She told you all of this when she introduced me last Monday.” 

“How am I to listen to everything she says?” Malfoy muttered. 

“She also wrote it in a memo. It’s there, on your desk,” Harry said, pointing to it with his pen. 

Malfoy waved his hand again, sighing. 

“Well, this is supremely inconvenient,” Malfoy murmured. “Your trousers are awful. What is that, vomit colour?” 

Harry looked down, stuck out a leg. 

“The tag said khaki.” 

“They’re terrible. Go find something from Stefano Ricci—even Tom Ford would do. Just don’t let me see those dreadful things again.” 

“Er…would TK Maxx be alright? I’ll get something black.” 

Malfoy’s shoulders raised, and he turned, his mouth pinched. 

“TK Maxx?” He asked, voice raising. “Don’t you dare try to use your company card at such a revolting place as that. Surely, the plastic would melt on contact with the card reader.” 

“Company card? I haven’t got one.” 

Malfoy groaned loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Must I do everything around here?” he asked, going toward his desk, searching through a drawer and pulling out an envelope. 

He turned it and Harry saw his name on the front as Malfoy slipped a finger underneath the seal flap and pulled out two credit cards and a sheet of paper. 

“Ah, my little brain tumour,” Malfoy sighed, the corner of his mouth lifting, and then flattening when his eyes caught on Harry’s trousers again. “Go. Now. I can’t stand to look at you.” 

He held out the envelope and Harry went forward to take it, tucking it in his pocket. 

“You have three meetings this morning and then lunch—it’s all on your schedule,” Harry said, reading his notes quickly. 

“Yes, yes, I know—get out. Buy at least three trousers, five shirts, two belts, two pairs of shoes, and two suits for functions. Navy and black only, no grey. It will wash you out. Monochrome shirts only. And ties—don’t forget ties. Nothing plaid, plaid makes me nauseous. No houndstooth, either—if I even glimpse houndstooth from the corner of my eye, I get an instant migraine and am miserable for days.” 

Harry scribbled it all down as quickly as he could, struggling to spell ‘houndstooth’, and wondered what it even was. 

“Right now?” Harry asked.

“And those glasses? Are you certain about those? Get a watch, too—something classic like Rolex or Cartier.”

“I’ve already got a watch,” Harry said, and Malfoy tutted, his eyes full of pity as he considered the watch fastened to Harry’s wrist. 

“A cheap watch cheapens the whole outfit, and if you look cheap, then I will, too.”

“Do I have—er—a price limit? This will cost…hundreds of thousands, I can’t even imagine.” 

Malfoy put his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowing, and Harry took a step back. 

“You’ve already insulted me just with your clothes and your face. Now you want to do it with your words, too?” 

“I—” 

“Go! I can feel the purchase value of my stocks dropping the longer you stand here in those absurd trousers.” 

Harry set down the printed version of Malfoy’s schedule and left, pausing as he shut the door to take out the envelope Hermione had left for him in Malfoy’s desk. He found the two credit cards with his name on them, as well as a document with instructions on how to submit his receipts for approval to the finance department.