Flower Shop Boy | Drarry

Of Pansys & Malfoys

 Harry Potter and the Flower Shop Boy

Diagon Alley looks nice at this time of the evening, Harry thinks. Quiet, peaceful, snowy and filled with the silent hum of magic that encases both him and Pansy Parkinson in its warm embrace. Don't look so surprised; one must have seen it coming. Harry's a hero, plain and simple, and right now his biggest task is helping Pansy get gifts for Hermione. Something about a 1-year anniversary or something; Harry doesn't listen very often.

It's funny, really, Harry thought that the biggest of surprises were all over and done with back in his 7th year, sometime around when he somehow managed to die and then come back to life. Fun times, to be quite honest. Fun times.

"Do you think Hermione'll like chocolates?" Pansy's voice rings out clear and loud through Harry's thoughts and, with a jolt, he realises her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow has been dragging him towards a large shop front. There, sitting on a table decorated with different coloured fabric is a box of Charlie's Blooming Rose Chocolates™. The kind that blooms when given to someone you truly love. They seem nice enough, so Harry shrugs and nods.

Pansy glares at him, thin lips pressed into a tight line, her dark eyes sinking through to his soul. Harry decides he should backtrack.

"Um...she'll appreciate the magic gone into making them?" He tries instead. Harry knows he's stretching it, but he knows Hermione. The girl had a weird interest in things like that. Pansy hums, her free right hand coming up to tap her chin.

After a moment, just when Harry is contemplating feigning sickness and heading home - it really is far too cold to be outside - Pansy's delicate face breaks out into a pretty smile. "Yes, good idea Potter. I think if I couple these with those books on the Gringott's Banking system she wanted last week, as well as some of that sappy Muggle music you two are fond of, I'll be the best girlfriend ever." Pansy extracts her limbs from Harry's and blinks up at him, her short black hair swirling around her face with the slight breeze. "Wouldn't you agree, Potter?"

What was he supposed to say to that? Yes, Pansy, you will be the best girlfriend ever and I'm slightly jealous of Hermione because my last girlfriend was about two years ago and she's gone off to join some Quidditch team while I'm here slaving over Auror paperwork? Harry snorts quietly and sends a quick, reassuring smile down to Pansy.

"I'm sure you'll be considered amazing, Parkinson." And apparently, that's all the encouragement that the shorter woman needs, as she kisses him on the cheek and disappears into the shop with a breezy "thanks, darling, stay here or I'll hex your balls off."

Harry considers obeying - it is Pansy after all - the Slytherin doesn't joke around. But after a moment of stomping his feet and curling his arms around himself to stop his body from shutting down with the cold, Harry decides that if he stands outside the shop - Charlie's Chocolate Factory, the sign on the door reads - he'll have no more balls for Pansy to hex off.

So he decides to take a wander.

-

It takes Harry a while to realise he's been absentmindedly shuffling back and forth in front of a few select shops. They're all a pasty pink, sort of, with white trims and various titles. Things like Pastel Pastries - Yummy treats for all sweet teeth! Or Tina's Teddys! - Have a house colour? Tina's Teds will change accordingly!

It's all very disconcerting, far too cute and pretty for his taste, but Harry can't deny that the colours calm him down, and spread a sort of warmth that's short-lived and stops at his fingertips. He's just about to turn back around to pace for the umpteenth time when a shop at the end of the street catches his eye. It's a sort of mint colour, he concludes after staring at the pale green, yet Harry isn't quite sure why this strikes him as odd. Still, it's intriguing and beats waiting for Pansy, so he lets his feet carry him down towards the shop front...

Wait.

Harry doesn't believe the breezy, singing boy dancing around in Malfoy's Blooms - bitch what? - is really Draco Malfoy.

He refuses to believe it, really, because this Malfoy has a light dusting of freckles over his cheeks and nose, hell, this Malfoy has lips as delicate as the pink tulips littering the shop window...this Malfoy wears suede tunics and white shirts tucked into beige chinos and this Malfoy looks damn good. Harry wonders why no one bothered to tell him the git was back from his 2 year trip to Paris, or why the ex-Death Eater is prancing around in a Flower Shop.

It's all rather unnerving.

A small warning would've been nice, he concedes as his eyes rake over the other man, to be given some sort of heads up about this new shift in the universe.

And now that Harry's feet have gotten a taste for wandering, they can't seem to understand his protests as they drag him up the pastel blue steps. It's ridiculous, how little control Harry has of his body parts, and he tells himself that's why his whole body is on fire; and most importantly why his cheeks probably closely resemble a tomato.

His hands - still encased in their thick gloves - seem to have gotten the memo from his feet that today is ignore Harry Potter Day™, as they're up against the glass door, poised and ready to grasp the brass handle. He hates his limbs, he decides. He really does.

Yet that doesn't stop his body from stepping into the warm shop, and certainly doesn't stop him from flinching at the charming tinkly sounds the door makes as he opens it.