Dizzy

Chapter Two

He met Potter at some posh restaurant - some posh MUGGLE restaurant - that Potter claimed would be better for a private chat. They were both very likely to be spotted anywhere in the Wizarding World, and that would be too distracting and too exposed for both of their tastes, but Draco really would have preferred somewhere that wasn’t so...well, muggle.

“You’ll love the food,” Harry said, tucking a hand at his waist and falling into his seat gracefully. Draco followed suit and trimly placed his napkin (a pink, insufferable deal) on his lap. “They have some of the most famous chefs working here, on the weekends. Try their cauliflower soup - it’s wonderful.”

Draco nodded amicably, but his concentration wasn’t entirely with Potter or the food he was sprawling about. He’d taken his car, since they were going to a muggle restaurant, and he’d been tailed the whole way by a black Buick with shaded windows. It ran like something out a bad cop show Draco had once seen, but he couldn’t help feeling uneasy. In his line of work, you had to be careful.

“Is anything wrong,” Harry had the irony of asking.

“No, nothing. I’m just tired. Stayed up late watching reruns of Spin City,” he joked. “But how are you doing,” Draco asked, scanning the wine list. He frowned at his choices and declined anything. Harry order a rum and coke; very accustomed of him.

“I’m doing fine, I suppose. Gringotts had another attempted break in - probably Death Eaters, as the papers will report - so I sent some squads out on that.”

“You’re a busy man,” Draco observed, sipping his ice water.

“I have been lately, yes, but that’s not what we’re here to talk about, is it?” Draco had to admire the brisk chipperness that stayed through Harry’s tone.

“No, its not. I believe the subject for discussion would be the offering of a job?”

“Very good.” Harry clinked Draco’s water glass with his rum and coke. “Have you thought about the offer much?”

This is where it got tricky, Draco thought, knowing everything he said would have to be pragmatic. He turned the cross of his ankles underneath the table to his other foot.

“I have, some,” he admitted. “But I want to know what exactly I’d be doing. I don’t want to turn into some lowly filer, you understand, Potter.”

“Harry. My name is Harry. We’ve moved past Hogwarts, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” He didn’t really agree, but had no plausible reasons to object. “So, what’ll it be, Harry?” The name’s assertion sounded offplace on his lips, and he took a sip of water to block the trace of oddness he felt.

“Like I said before, you’d be an...assessor, basically. A person of reference for the unversed to check with. You’d be working on high-security stuff; doing personal reports on known Eaters and working with the head Aurors.”

“So I’d be teaching and tracking Death Eaters,” Draco supplied. Harry shook his head just a little.

“Not just the Eaters, but a basis on all dark magic.” He paused. “Would you be up to that?”

Their waiter dropped a basket of bread off at their table, and Harry reached for a mini loaf, breaking it apart and smothering it with butter. Draco watched with interesting, noting this quirk as the first ‘normal’ bad habit Potter had.

“I think I might, Harry.” Draco’s brain twisted the thought of payroll. “What would my hours be? What’s my rate?”

Harry’s lips spread into a smile around his bread. He chewed thoughtfully, brushing a crumb off of his upper lip.

“Roughly Twenty-Four pounds per hour.” Draco tipped his head modestly.

“That’s generous.”

“It should be.” Harry forced a scowl. “I’d only beat your salary by about three pounds.”

Draco laughed.

“Playing rivals again, Harry? It seems old habits do die hard.”

Harry looked displeased by Draco’s jibe. His mouth turned down, and he rebuffed the entire comment by busying himself with the menus the waiter brought. Draco felt mildly disconcerted, and raised a hand to cradle his chin. He stared at the top of Harry’s head that could be seen over the menu.

“Is the carte du jour that much more interesting than me? Or have I done something to offend you?”

“Pas du tout,” Harry denied in rough French. He smiled again, placing the menu down and running a finger down the gold lettering of the restaurant name. “Are you ready to order?”

Draco waved a hand dismissively.

“That cauliflower soup you mentioned sounds great.”

Harry flagged down a waiter, the sleeve of his suit jacket driving up his wrist. Draco stared for a moment at his Rolex and then something caught his eye; a small, somewhat ragged scar lined on his wrist flashed when the Rolex slipped higher for a moment, but it was gone before he had time to contemplate on what it was. He tried to look closer and see if he might glimpse it again, but Harry had lowered his arm. He looked away before Potter noticed him staring.

So, are we a cutter, Potter, or was it some other mishap? A curse gone wrong, perhaps?

“Yes, I’ll have the venison stew - I think we’re in the mood for soups tonight, Draco - and he’ll have the cauliflower soup. Tiramisu to follow.”

The waiter scribbled the modest order down and darted off, reading to serve someone else.

“So, about the job. Will you take it?” Harry lapsed back into business man mode faster than Draco could blink.

"I suppose.” Draco shrugged casually. “I mean, I can always drop it if thinks don’t work, right?”

“Right,” Harry said hesitatingly. He looked pained, somehow.

“Fine. When would I begin?”

“As soon as possible.” Harry bit into the bread again, dabbing the butter away from the side of his mouth with a finger. “Probably Wednesday, if that’s not too much of a bother. We have a few unsolved and pressing things I’d like you to try and sort out, but if you can’t make it this week, I guess-”

“Wednesday is fine,” Draco interrupted, chomping an ice cube with his back teeth noisily. Harry took a turn and looked pleased.

The waiter brought them their meal, and they ate in silence.