The mid-morning Sunday sun shone a fraction too brightly against Coquin’s immaculately white starched tablecloths for Draco’s taste. Sunday brunch at Coquin was the staple of any self-respecting gentleman – just as much as Saturday nights at Indigo were, and how the former hadn’t made allowances for its most lucrative clientele, Draco simply couldn’t tell. After all, the hungover beau monde are always the best tippers, and he should know he was here every week. The maître d’ – Yves, who was always just the right side of attentive – led him through the restaurant to where Pansy, the wench, was seated in the sun-filled conservatory. He ordered a Bloody Mary and an Americano, please and thank you, as he took his seat across the table.
“Where did you get to last night?” Pansy asked, eyes sharp over her Bellini, “Or perhaps the more prudent question is who did you get to last night?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember, you absolute slag.”
“So what if I don’t?” He picked up the menu and pretended to read, despite having ordered the same Eggs Benedict every single Sunday for the past three years.
“You do. You’re lying and doing a pretty piss-poor job of it while you're at it.”
“Am I fuck. Can we order?” He waved over a waiter, who was dismissed just as quickly with a single wave from Pansy.
“We’re waiting on our other guests.”
“Since when do we share brunch? This better not be another one of your fuck-of-the-months. They’re not welcome to Saturday afternoon tea and they’re sure as shit not welcome to Sunday brunch. Thanks Yves,” he took a sip of the Bloody Mary that had just been served. “Have some fucking decorum, Parks.”
“What’s got your knickers in a twist? Or were they not twisted enough? Was Mr Mysterious a little disappointing?” She waggled her pinkie suggestively. “Or did he do a runner before daybreak?”
He pointedly ignored the gesture and the questions, “If it’s not your current fuck-of-the-month, which particular gang of reprobates have you invited to ruin an otherwise perfectly civil brunch?”
“Just a friend from work.”
As he took another sip of his Bloody Mary, Potter and the Weaselette appeared at the table. The She-Weasel plonked herself down in the chair next to Pansy with a Wotcher.
“See,” Pansy said smugly, “a friend from work. Shame the same can’t be said about you two.”
Potter reluctantly took the chair next to Draco, “Pansy, Malfoy,” he said cordially.
With a glower at Pansy, the utter cow, he waved their waiter over, “Eggs Benedict and another one of these for me,” he points to the nearly empty Bloody Mary, “and don’t be shy with the Reyka.” He nods to Pansy, “She’ll have a plain egg white omelette.” He tunes out while the others shamble about the menu, only coming back to the group once the waiter has left and from the corner of his eye he saw Pansy fix her sights on Potter.
“So Harry, I can call you, Harry, yes?” she asked, sharply saccharine. “We’re all dying to know, how good a fuck is our dear Draco?”
Potter spluttered, water dripping from his mouth, the uncouth oaf. At least he had the decency to use his napkin rather than his sleeve. He righted himself with another sip of water and then, clear as day, bold as brass, said, “Fuckin’ fantastic, Parkinson. Thanks for asking.”
Draco aimed – and missed – a kick at her shins under the table.
“And just how drunk did you need to get him?”
“He hadn’t even finished his first glass of wine before I sucked him off in the toilet. Perfectly able to consent, if that’s what you were worried about.”
“How chivalrous, but you needn’t worry about that tosh. Draco here has been after your cock since you were what, fifteen, darling?”
“I loathe you,” Draco hissed across the table.
She blew him a kiss, “I was curious as to how much alcohol he needed to admit to it. How was he, Draco? Is the The Chosen One any good at sucking cock?”
“If his pussy eating skills are anything to go by, he’ll be a pro,” The She-Weasel said with a grin.
Draco emptied his Bloody Mary, “Perfectly adequate,” he conceded.
“Perfectly adequate,” Pansy mocked. “You’re going to sit next to the man you've been lusting over for nigh on a decade and tell him he gives ‘perfectly adequate’ blow jobs?”
“Leave him be, Parkinson,” Potter all but growled, “clearly your beef’s with me.”
Pansy gave a slight shake of her head, “Hush now, I’ll get back to you in a minute, Harry. Draco,” she turned full force to face him, “perfectly adequate?” One raised eyebrow disappeared under her fringe.
“Fine, it was good,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Now can we eat our brunch in silence and get the hell out of here so I never have to see you cunts again?”
The waiter paused, plates trembling infinitesimally.
“He doesn't mean you, you don't seem like a cunt,” The Weaselette said to the waiter. He didn't seem particularly convinced as he placed the dishes on the table and made a sharp get-away.
“Did he reciprocate, Harry?”
Harry swallowed a mouthful of maple blueberry pancakes before he replied, “Yes, blew me in my kitchen, if you must know. Followed by a rimming once we made it to the bedroom.”
“Indeed,” Pansy agreed. “So,” her voice turned ice cold, “why, after such an enjoyable evening, would you fuck and run? Pray tell, what precisely is it that made you so disgusted with my best friend that you disappeared in the middle of the night without so much as a by-your-leave? That you left him drinking himself into this state?”
“Don't.” Draco said, low.
Pansy continued unabated, “The correct way to fuck and run, Harry, is to thank your host and say 'This was great, we should do it again some time.' Or are you too ashamed to be seen sleeping with a Death–“
“Stop it, Pansy.” Draco slammed his fork to his plate with a clatter.
“He needs to hear–”
“It was me. He was a perfect gentleman, okay. Now if you'll excuse me.” He stood up from the table, dropping his napkin on his plate, “This was great, we should do it again some time.”
Yves hadn’t even had time to let the door shut following Draco’s exit before Potter was on his tail. As he strode down the street, Potter fell in step beside him, “Never really been one for euphemisms,” Potter said. Draco didn’t acknowledge him, but Potter continued regardless, “So when someone says they want to ‘do it again sometime,’ I kinda want to take them up on it. Especially when that someone is someone I’m actually growing to like, dramatic exits aside. So how about it? Brunch? Drinks? Both and then back to mine for a fuck?” Potter bashed Draco with his shoulder, “What’d you say? How’s that sound?”
Draco almost succeeded in fighting back a smile, “Perfectly adequate.”