Chapter Text
Harry flips the notepad closed with a deep sigh. It’s muggy in the small shop and he can feel the beginnings of a headache brewing at his temples. They should have clocked off an hour ago, yet instead he’s stuck here trying desperately to maintain what Ron has dubbed his Serious Auror Face.
“The thing is, Mr. Bigglethorpe, I’m not sure that the cauldron really is in love with you.”
There’s a snort from behind him, one that’s quickly covered by a cough, and Harry steadfastly refuses to even glance back at where he knows Ron’s leaning against the counter of The Mortar & Pestle Apothecary.
Bertram Bigglethorpe blots at the corner of his eye with a garish handkerchief, wiping away the tears rolling down puffy pink cheeks. “It talks to me! It said I was the best stirrer they’d ever had the pleasure of meeting!”
This time, Ron’s sudden bark of a laugh is smothered by his palm.
Still, Harry keeps his expression blank. “Look, we’ve been through this before. The cauldron is enchanted with feedback charms to aid with potion making. It’s not aimed just at you. You can’t keep coming back into the shop.”
“But… we’ve got something special! We’re involved in a mutually respectful brewship!”
The laughter from behind him is unstoppable now, filling up the entire room. There’s a flurry of robes, an “I can’t, sorry, Harry,” rushed out between chortles, and the ringing of the bell above the door as Ron swiftly exits. The door slams behind him but it doesn’t do much to muffle his loud laughter from out on the street.
Harry bites down hard on his tongue, taking a few seconds to keep himself calm. “As I was saying, you’ve continuously visited the shop, despite warnings, and interfered with the potion manufacturing. I’m going to have to issue a Section 44B restraining order.”
Wailing louder than Harry could have ever thought possible over a copper cauldron, Bertram drops to his knees, grasping at the bottom of Harry’s scarlet Auror robes.
“I’m sorry, please. Don’t do this to us.”
It takes both Harry and the apothecary’s owner to prise Bertram off of Harry’s clothes and deposit him outside. After Bertram has finally trailed off down Diagon Alley, Harry turns to Ron.
“You absolute dickhead.”
From his position against the brick wall of the building, Ron doubles over with laughter. “Mate. Mate.”
“Bloody laughing like that. I nearly lost it in there.”
“I don’t know how you didn’t. Brewship, that was it for me.” Ron wipes at his eyes, broad smile still decorating his face. “Merlin, that was good.”
Harry pockets the notebook on the inside of his robes. “Just means more bloody paperwork though.”
Holding his hands to his heart, Ron feigns concern as he straightens up. “You know I’d love to fill it in for you, truly. But I’m afraid I only heard three quarters of the conversation. It just wouldn’t be correct procedure.”
“You’re hilarious,” Harry says flatly.
“Cheers.” He claps Harry on the shoulder. “Come on then, about clocking off time, isn’t it? I told Dean we’d meet him for a quick one at the Leaky.”
Harry hesitates, eyes flitting down the Alley in the opposite direction of the pub.
“No,” says Ron, face falling. He grabs Harry by the sleeve. “Please, no.”
“It’ll only take a minute…”
“Harry.”
“You go ahead if you like. I’ll catch up with you.”
Ron sighs, looking heavenwards for a beat. “Why don’t you just leave it?”
Harry tuts, already moving in the direction away from the pub. “Like I can do that. Then he’d win.”
Indeed, from the expression Draco Malfoy's wearing, one might assume he is, in fact, winning. He’s loitering outside the front of The Sweepery, grey eyes bright in the late afternoon sun. His crisp, white shirt has a fancy collar, all high-necked and edged in lace, and his deep plum coloured trousers fit him exceedingly well. Not that Harry’s gaze is drawn in that direction.
“Well, well, well,” Draco crows as he spots Harry and Ron striding over. “Look who can’t resist coming to visit.”
“Malfoy,” Harry replies coolly. He stops a few feet away, idly flicking his eyes across the front of the shop. “How about you save us both some time and just let me know which law violation I need to write you up for, hm?”
Draco folds his arms across his chest, the corner of his lip hitching as he levels Harry with a considered eye. “But then where’s the fun in that?”
“It’s more fun for me that way, let me tell you,” Ron mutters from just behind Harry’s shoulder.
Keeping his gaze on the shop front, Harry does a little walk to each side. Nothing looks amiss, but he knows by now that that doesn’t mean anything. Draco watches him the entire time, smirking.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually in full compliance,” Harry says, eyes narrowing.
Draco snorts. “That’s for a top Auror like you to find out, Potter.”
“Looks good to me,” Ron calls. He’s slouching down on one of the benches dotted along the cobblestones now, looking thoroughly miffed. “Time for that pint, I’d say.”
Harry ignores him. “I refuse to believe there isn’t at least one law you’re stretching.”
“I’m an upstanding member of the Diagon shop owners community, thank you very much. I pride myself in upholding the sacred laws of this place.”
“Even I know that’s not true,” Ron says.
Harry continues his inspection, looking carefully at every inch of the exterior. Last week it had been rule #61a, the use of illusion charms to make his window displays seem bigger, and the week before that it had been #77c, excessive spark or flame emission from a product demonstration. There is always something, and Harry knows it’s even more likely when everything seems suspiciously above board.
“I see you sorted out the colours on the signage.”
“Oh, yes,” Draco chirps. “Perfectly dull, just like yourself, Auror Potter.”
Harry resists the eye roll. Just. One last inspection and fine, maybe it does seem like everything is on the right side of the law. He turns to say this to Draco, when the door of the shop bangs open and Greg walks out, head down as he stares intently at a piece of paper clasped in his hand.
“Is this okay now? I’ve tweaked the font, made it stand out more.” Greg looks up and grinds to a halt at the sight of Harry standing there. Very quickly, the paper is whipped behind his back in his meaty palm. “Oh. Didn’t realise we had company.”
“What’s that, Greg?” Harry asks pointedly.
“Nothing.” The guilt written across Greg’s face says otherwise, and Harry steps forward with delight, already reaching.
Draco blocks his path with a small side-step. “Just a new promotional poster. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“Let me see.” Harry holds his hand out, waiting.
Greg looks down at Harry’s hand, and then back over at Draco. “Err—”
Draco glides out of the way with a small sigh, gesturing at Greg. “It’s okay. Hand it over to Auror Potter. I’m starting to think that his input on the new tagline would be ever so appreciated.”
Greg glances hesitantly between Draco and Harry one last time, before slowly unfolding the poster from behind his back. He pushes it at Harry and then slinks over to sit with Ron. They share a commiserating fist bump as Greg flops down.
Harry blinks down at the poster. His eyes widen. “What the hell, Malfoy!”
There’s an animated version of a teenage Harry flying on a broomstick with the pace of a very tired snail. He’s grinning, waving at an audience that can’t be seen, before very dramatically taking a tumble off the side and into the air. A small speech bubble pops up that reads “If only I’d bought a Comet 4000” as he flails through the sky, and when his falling body plummets off the bottom of the page, a bright green slogan jumps into view—The Boy Who Lived rides a Firebolt. You deserve better. The new Comet 4000, available at The Sweepery now!
“Well,” Draco shrugs. “What can I say? We needed something punchy.”
“This is in direct violation of rule 326F and you know it!” Harry shakes the poster at him. “Unauthorised use of public figures in advertising.”
Draco scoffs. “Don’t think so highly of yourself, Potter.”
Harry crumples the poster into a ball and pulls out his notebook. “I’m going to have to write you up for this.” Underneath the scribbling of Bertram Bigglethorpe’s misdemeanor he writes down Draco’s broken rule, punctuating it with a flourish and a wide smile at Draco himself. “Not such an upstanding citizen, are we?”
Draco steps forward. They are inches apart, close enough that Harry can see the spidery flutter of Draco’s eyelashes, and the pink hint of a flush on his cheekbones. That scent of his—warm spice forever mixed with the faint hint of broomstick polish—Harry holds himself back from inhaling deeply at Draco’s proximity.
“Sure,” Draco mutters, tongue edging over his teeth. Somehow he’s moved even closer. Harry’s hands flex on the notebook, itching to reach out. “Do it. Fine me. Write me up—”
“Merlin’s bloody beard,” comes Ron’s exasperated voice from the bench.
Harry startles, clearing his throat. He looks away from Draco’s intense gaze, shoving the notebook back in his pocket. “It’s Ministry protocol, you know that.” He holds up the crumpled poster. “And I’ll be keeping this for evidence.”
Draco moves away, smirking once again as he strides back to the door of his shop. “Pleasure as always, Auror Potter. Do pay us a visit again soon.” And then he’s gone, tight plum trousers carrying him back inside.
“Finally,” Ron says, heaving himself up. “Can we please go for that pint now?”
****
Harry stares at the ceiling, chest heaving, fingers clenching in the sheets. “Taking absolute liberties—fuck—using my image, you know—ah, yeah, there—you know you can’t do that.”
Draco pops his mouth from around Harry’s cock. Lips bee-stung, eyes hooded—he flicks his gaze up as Harry tilts his chin down at him. “What was that? My mouth is stuffed too full to make out whatever it is you’re whining about.”
Harry sits up on his elbows, frowning. “That makes no sense. I said—”
Draco runs his tongue up the entire length of Harry’s cock in one broad sweep.
“—fucking hell.” Harry has to bite down on his own tongue, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
“You said fucking hell? That’s not very professional of you, Auror Potter.”
“Piss off with all the Auror Potter stuff.”
Draco chuckles, tapping the weeping head of Harry’s dick against his lips. “You love it. Makes you feel all powerful.”
“Does not,” Harry grumbles, although it definitely does. “You’re just trying to make me look a twat.”
“Believe me, you’re quite capable of doing that all by yourself.”
Harry opens his mouth to bite back but Draco sucks him down, cutting his reply off into the type of moan that Harry would probably be embarrassed about making if it wasn’t for Draco literally sucking out every coherent thought. All he can do is drop his head back, blurry-eyed at the glossy pump of Draco’s mouth around him. He fights to keep his hips still as Draco runs his palms up Harry’s thighs.
It’s frustrating, really, how easily Draco can reduce Harry to a writhing mess. Every time Harry fools himself into thinking he’ll be able to hold back, to not be so affected by Draco Malfoy and his sinful fucking mouth and his sinful fucking body. But yet again, here they are, his resolve shot to smithereens after all of five minutes and an insistent tug of his trousers as Draco had pushed him back onto the mattress. Not that Harry should be surprised. He only came over to Draco’s house for one reason.
“I’m going to—Malfoy, please, I want to fuck you.”
Harry doesn’t wait for a response, hauling Draco over to press his front against the bed. Draco encourages him in the soft punch of breath, the sighed yes tumbling from his lips as he lifts his hips into the air. Spells are muttered—Harry would like nothing more than to prepare Draco the long way, if it wasn’t for Draco sending him to the edge so quickly—and Harry pushes two magically lubed fingers inside to test out the warm, wet slide. Draco pushes back against him on a groan, and Harry’s gripping his own cock, lining himself up, when Draco says, “Who said that picture was of you, anyway?”
Harry stutters, knees sliding on the sheets, gripping a hand at Draco’s hip. His head snaps up. “Of course it was me.”
“It didn’t say your name anywhere.”
Harry’s cock nudges against Draco’s pert arse. Draco shifts back again, as if he can will it inside with a small hitch of his body, but Harry holds him still with firm fingers around his hip bone. “It literally said The Boy Who Lived.”
Draco looks innocently over his shoulder. “Oh, is that you?”
Harry gapes at him. “Of course it’s me—”
“Well I’ve certainly never called you that ridiculous name.”
“It was a picture of a guy with black hair, glasses and a bloody lightning scar.”
“Greg’s got a good imagination.”
“Greg’s got a—” Harry pauses in his huff, his hips doing their own involuntary hitch forward, cock sliding in the crease of Draco’s arse. “I know what you’re doing, Malfoy.”
“I’m not doing anything except waiting very impatiently for you to stick your dick in my arse, Potter.”
So Harry does, and their moans finally share the same sentiment. Harry pauses for a second, relishing in the feeling of Draco’s body enveloping him, before completing a harsh thrust that sees Draco hitch up the mattress.
“You’re so annoying,” Harry breathes out. Another firm thrust, and Draco’s hand comes out to grab at the headboard for some purchase. “Just like to rile me up.”
“As if I think of you at all,” Draco gasps.
Harry leans over, smothering his back, hips working quicker and quicker. His lips nip at Draco’s throat, nose nudging in the delicate under-ear curve. “All you do is think about me, how you can piss me off with another rule break.”
“You being a—ah, fuck—a stickler for the rules is not my problem.”
“You are my problem,” Harry says, and then he can’t talk at all as Draco turns his head to catch his mouth, lips pressing hard against his. It’s messy and filthy, edging on the wrong side of painful as Harry fucks into him with relentless strokes. His hand moves around, gripping Draco’s cock, pumping in rhythm.
In no time at all Draco’s gasping into Harry’s mouth, eyes screwed shut, shuddering his way through his release. He coats Harry’s hand and the bedsheets, and it’s the feel of Draco’s whole body clenching around him that sees Harry make one last firm press and then come deep on an exhale.
Draco flops forward onto the bed, lying flat on his stomach. “Merlin,” he says, voice muffled in the duvet. “Don’t like it when I call you Auror Potter, my arse.”
“You never stop, do you?” Harry replies, sliding carefully out and then dropping to his back next to him.
“Oh, give over. You love being able to lord your authority over me. I see it inside your head when I use Legilimency on you.”
“Shut up, you’ve never used Legilimency on me.”
“Hm, but I bet it’s in there. Harry Potter’s sex dreams where everyone can only call him Sir.”
Harry rolls on his side to look at him. Draco’s got his head turned, already peeking, but he quickly averts his gaze. He’s glorious, milk-white skin flushed, a sheen of sweat licking along his spine. Harry reaches out, runs a finger over every bump of vertebrae. Draco shivers.
“Idiot,” Harry says softly.
Draco huffs, rolling away. He’s over the edge of the bed, waving a Cleaning Charm over himself and pulling on tight black boxers before Harry can blink. “Enough of your pillow talk, Potter. I’ve got places to be.”
Harry frowns, moving his hand about to try and locate his glasses. It’s dark in the room, night having fallen around them, and the only light comes from the watery glow of the streetlamp outside Draco’s townhouse. “You’re going out? What time is it?”
“Time you removed yourself from my bedroom.” Draco plucks up those silly burgundy trousers, hopping in one leg at a time. “I told Greg and Blaise I’d meet them at Theo’s.”
“Theo’s?” Harry finally plucks his glasses out from under the rumpled sheets, jamming them onto his face.
Draco’s flitting about, waving another Cleaning Charm over the bed and then buttoning his shirt, muttering under his breath as he looks at himself in the mirror above his chest of drawers. He rubs at a scarlet mark on his collarbone. “What am I supposed to do with this? Marking me like a vampire, for goodness sake.”
“Theo’s,” Harry tries again, voice carrying loudly across the room.
“Hm?” Draco blinks at him through his reflection, hitching the collar of his shirt high above the mark. “No need to shout, Potter. Are you going deaf as well as blind?”
“I didn’t know Theo was back.”
“Well, why would you?”
Harry shrugs, because there actually is no reason he’d know that Theo was back in London. Sure, he and Draco may be shagging semi-regularly, but it’s not like they actually talk much about their lives outside of Diagon Alley rule violations and snipey comments at the pub. He thinks back to his dinner with Pansy and Ginny the other evening, did they mention Theo visiting? Surely someone would’ve thought to mention Draco’s ex being back in the country?
“Potter?”
Harry’s too busy spiralling at the thought of that smarmy wanker Theo to realise Draco’s repeating his name, hands on hips at the foot of the bed. Harry lurches into reanimation, untangling himself from the duvet and clambering to his feet.
“How long is he back for?” Harry asks, bending over to grab his jeans from the floor. When he straightens back up Draco is pretending not to be watching him, and so Harry puts a foot in each leg very slowly, not even bothering to find his pants.
“He’s—er—” Draco swallows, eyes on the unhurried process of dark denim sliding up Harry’s thighs. “I’m not sure.”
“Right,” Harry says, delighted. He leaves the jeans unbuttoned, moving closer to Draco, reaching over and snagging his t-shirt from the end of the bed. Draco’s gaze follows the long stretch of his arms, the pull of fabric over Harry’s head, and then drops down once more as the material catches on Harry’s pebbled nipples. “Give him my regards, won’t you?”
Draco snorts, eyes rolling. He steps forwards and tugs Harry’s t-shirt down in one harsh movement before his fingers move to Harry’s jeans, rapid in how they slide the zip up and fasten the button closed. “Stop dick swinging, Auror Potter.” He gives a rough little tap to Harry’s cheek with the flat of his hand and then turns on his heel. “See yourself out, won’t you.”
Harry watches him go.
****
“The thing is,” Harry says, yanking the door open. “Is that I don’t even care about Theo bloody Nott.”
Ron eyes him warily, reaching out to hold the door as they both make their way into their shared office. “Right. Course.”
“So what if he’s back from France or Italy or wherever it was he crawled away to—”
“Austria,” Ron says helpfully.
“—So what if he’s back from Austria. Not like I care who Malfoy is meeting up with.”
“No, mate,” Ron says, sinking into his chair. “Doesn’t sound like it.”
“He can do whatever he wants. He can do whoever he wants. No business of mine where Malfoy’s sticking his dick.”
“Mm-hm,” Ron replies, using his wand to flick over two pieces of parchment from his desk to Harry’s. “Get these sent over, will you?”
It’s the code violations from yesterday, Bigglethorpe’s and Malfoy’s. Harry sighs and grabs his quill from the inkpot.
“It’s not like it would be a common courtesy or anything for him to tell me these things, instead of just dropping it in when I’ve barely even finished coming.”
“Lovely,” Ron says. “You know I really enjoy hearing all these incredibly personal details about Draco Malfoy.”
Harry scribbles Draco’s name down on the sheet with such force that his quill nib nearly snaps. “It would just be a decent thing to do.”
“Since when has Malfoy ever done anything decent?” Ron says. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised, to be honest.”
The paperwork is a blur in front of him. Harry jots down the infractions, barely focused, as the memory swims in his head of Draco pulling material up to hide a mark that Harry had put on his throat.
Maybe Theo had spotted it last night. Maybe he’d stood next to Draco at the Floo, fingers sliding under the collar to pull it taut, goodbye halted. Maybe he’d traced it with his own mouth, ran his tongue over the outline. Maybe Theo had asked who’d put it there, and maybe Draco had said no one important.
“I don’t know,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes, and he signs his name off on the penalties. A quick wave of his wand sends them off to zip through the air to the admin department. He tosses his quill back on the desk. “Maybe I thought he was different.”
“I think you’ve been brainwashed by too much shagging. George reckons that’s a real thing, y’know.”
“He’s not that good,” Harry replies, refusing to think about Draco’s wet mouth around his cock, or the heat of his body, shuddering and shaking.
Ron looks at him rather pityingly, pushing back to his feet. “Fancy a burger for lunch? Might cheer you up.”
“I don’t need cheering up. I’m fine.”
“Well, even so, quite fancy a Big Mac myself.”
“I should never have introduced you to McDonalds,” Harry says. “But yeah, alright.”
They’re walking near Trafalgar Square an hour later, Ron slurping loudly on his milkshake, when their badges vibrate suddenly on their chests. Harry tilts his to see Diagon Alley - The Sweepery flash across the back, and almost drops his chips on to the pavement.
“Shit,” he says, shoving them in the closest bin. “Something’s kicking off at Malfoy’s shop.”
Their Apparition whirls them on to Diagon in a split second, and it’s obvious there’s something going on from the swarms of people hurrying and laughing in the direction of The Sweepery. They round the corner in a hurry, until they clap eyes on something that makes them skid to a halt.
“What the actual fuck,” Ron says, eyes sweeping over the melee. “Oi, Greg! What’s going on?”
Harry hadn’t even noticed Greg pushing his way through the crowd, trying to usher people to keep walking down the alley as he passes out fliers. “New promotional posters,” he replies, refusing to even look Harry’s way.
Harry sighs and plucks one from his grasp, turning it over to check it's not the same ridiculous animation from the previous day.
It’s not, but it’s probably worse.
This time, it’s a cartoon version of an adult Harry swooping on a sparkling, souped-up broomstick. He’s wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned, and it billows in the breeze to show off sculpted, glistening muscles as he zips in and out of the frame. When he hovers in the middle of the page, cartoon-Harry does a suggestive little wink, and the words Harry Potter buys his Comet 4000 at The Sweepery explode above his head.
“I’m going to kill him,” Harry grits out, and then he’s striding through the crowd with all the authority he can muster. “Excuse me, Aurors coming through! Keep moving please!”
Ron’s encouraging people away as Harry arrives at the front of the shop. Draco is there, wand outstretched, entertaining the onlookers with a holographic version of poster-Harry floating in the air.
“Ah!” he calls, grin broad and bright. “And here he is! Come to buy a new broom, Auror Potter?”
“Malfoy, what the fuck is all of this?”
“Decided to change direction of the advertising campaign.” He flicks his wrist and holo-Harry dive bombs into the crowd, who ooh and ahh and laugh as they duck away.
Harry throws his hands up in the air, rapidly losing his last shred of patience. “You still can’t use me to advertise your bloody business.”
Draco directs the holographic to fly directly at Harry. “Who said it’s about you, anyway?”
“Don’t start that again.” Harry swats the image away and it turns sharply to fly over the roof of the shop instead. He brandishes the poster. “It says my actual name this time.”
“Well at least it paints you in a positive light.”
“You’ve got me shirtless!”
Draco’s eyes flick slowly over Harry’s robes. “Not quite.”
“I didn’t authorise this. It’s false advertising.”
Draco chews his bottom lip. “I suppose I was generous with the abdominals—”
“Not what I meant.” Harry digs inside his robes in a fury, yanking out the notebook. “You’ve broken so many violations you’ll be paying off fines for the rest of the year.”
Draco rolls his eyes, banishing the holographic with a wave of his wand. The remaining crowd gives a disappointed moan, and Draco starts to move towards Harry.
“It’s just a joke, Potter, no need to—”
But Harry doesn’t find out what he has no need to do, as no sooner has Draco taken a step forwards, he’s suddenly forced back as if he’s been shoved. A thrum of magic vibrates the air around them. Draco stumbles backwards on the cobblestones, looking wildly about. “What the—”
In a bright flash of violet light a scroll appears, unravelling itself above Draco’s head. Its corners turn in on itself, and it takes the shape of a mouth moving as it loudly proclaims, “Magical Restraining Order 44B, issued between Harry James Potter and Draco Lucius Malfoy, effective immediately. Enforcement via proximity repulsion, magical trace, and verbal restriction charms as needed. Duration, thirty days minimum.”
The parchment rolls itself up with a snap and disappears in another puff of purple.
Silence. Harry can feel his heartbeat in his throat.
Draco looks at him in pure shock, face blanching. “A fucking restraining order.”
“Wait, I didn’t—” Harry wheels about, searching out Ron in the gawking crowd. “This has to be some sort of prank.”
“Are you kidding me?” Draco’s waving his arms about wildly, hair falling over his forehead. “You couldn’t take a joke so you got a restraining order against me.”
“No,” Harry protests. The crowd parts, and Ron and Greg arrive next to him, identical concerned expressions on their faces.
“What‘s going on?” Ron asks, as Greg wanders over to stand next to Draco. “What are you shouting about?”
“Potter here took out a bloody restraining order,” Draco spits out.
Ron eyebrows fly up. “A restraining order?” He turns to Harry. “You bloody idiot, Harry. The cauldron.”
“I didn’t take anything out against Malfoy, I—” Harry stops, inhaling sharply as he realises what Ron just said. “Fuck. Bertram Bigglethorpe.”
“Who on Slytherin’s green earth is that?” Draco snaps. Greg puts a calming hand down on his shoulder, muttering something under his breath that Harry can’t make out.
“It’s the person who was meant to receive the restraining order from The Mortar & Pestle,” Ron says. “I’m guessing he’s been hit with a 326F citation instead. Harry must’ve mixed up the paperwork.”
Fuck, he’d been distracted, hadn’t he? Too busy spiralling over Draco’s catch up with Theo to concentrate on getting the forms correct. He hadn’t even checked them over before sending them off to admin, just filled them in blindly, mind full of Draco wrapped around another guy.
Draco scoffs loudly. “Of course he did! Woe betide Auror bloody Potter be capable of filling in a form correctly.”
“I can sort it,” Harry says quickly. “I’ll get it cancelled.”
“Mate, you know they’re impossible to break for everyone’s protection,” Ron says. “That’s why they’re binding for a certain amount of time. How long did yours say?”
“Thirty days,” Harry replies, staring very intently at Ron’s freckled face. He can’t look over at Draco.
“Oh,” Ron winces. “Well, it’s not too long, at least. A month is fine, right? It’ll go by in no time.”
“He’ll wish it was longer than a month when I finally get my hands on him,” Draco seethes. He unconsciously takes a step forward and the air pulses around them, immediately pushing Draco back again. “Fucking ouch,” he cries, rubbing his arms.
A purple flash, a new scroll. The warning echoes around the street. “Named persons on a restraining order are reminded to stay ten feet away from each other at all times. Three further infractions will incur an elevated response.”
Harry tosses the balled up poster in his fist at the scroll, but it disappears into thin air before contact can be made. It hits Draco’s shoulder instead, and his scowl deepens. “I don’t even want to know what an elevated response is.”
Harry’s not sure he wants to know either. He rubs at his eyes underneath his glasses. “I’ll get this sorted out, okay?”
“Whatever, Potter.” Draco’s voice is lemon-sharp as he turns away, storming back towards his shop. “Just stay away from me. It’s what you asked for, remember.”
The door slams shut behind him.