[hp] Witch Weekly's Top Ten Eligible Bachelors!
WW: So do you think your success with the Wizarding Wireless Network has raised your profile?
RL: Certainly, but it's not something I was aiming for when I took the job. I'm just happy there's more musical choice out there for young people.
WW: Any special young music fan in your life? You're seen in pretty glamorous company these days... will you be eligible for our list next year?
RL: (Mr Lupin laughs) As eligible as I have been the last three, I'm sure.
"Next year I'm buying you your own skates." Remus winces at the wrinkles in the hired boots that Harry puts down on the bench.
"You said that last year," Harry grins, crouching down in front of him. "Let me."
Remus tries not to think too much about Harry's proficiency at tieing knots and watches his fingers idly for a second, glancing up to see the rest of the eight o'clock session trickle out onto the ice. It's packed, but not as crazy as the afternoon sessions where small children run rampant. They'd come in the afternoon the first time, five years ago, but then Harry had discovered Somerset House opened the bar at seven and it was night sessions from then on.
"Tight enough?" Harry looks up at Remus through his eyelashes, all mischief.
Remus smiles darkly, straightening Harry's askew scarf. "Stop that, or I'll abandon you to the barrier when that glass of wine catches up with you." Harry tugs at the laces and finishes them off with a bow, standing to let Remus swing his legs over the bench to the ice side and stand up.
There's always a simple pleasure to be had watching Harry concentrate, his single-mindedness making him oblivious to Remus observing him, and Remus pauses at the rail while Harry ties up his skates and pulls on his gloves--Moroccan lambskin lined with merino, picked up in the souk in Fez, and Harry had laughed at the time and said he'd never wear them, but they're already fraying on the seams.
Remus has become used to feeling possessive.
"Come on," he says, holding out his hand to pull Harry to his feet. He's unsteady for a second, and clutches at Remus's coat, but then Remus feels the ghost of Harry's mouth on his cheek and laughs. "You're incorr--"
"--quicker than you," says Harry, scooting around Remus and out onto the ice.
WW: This is the lowest you've been on our list since you were seventeen, Mr Potter--
HP: I know! I think it's the wrinkles. Can you guys recommend anyone?
WW: You were abroad for most of this year. What was your favourite place?
HP: Libya, definitely. Travelling with a Bedouin caravan was bloody brilliant. And I can ride a camel now, too.
It only takes half the rink before Remus has caught up to him, tugging on the back of Harry's jacket and circling around to face him, skating backwards.
"Mind the amateurs," Harry says, as Remus glances briefly behind him. Harry is quite happy to bump a few teenagers out of their way. Remus isn't the naturally sporty type, but he has an incomparable finesse on the ice rink that Harry finds disarmingly attractive.
Hogging the remote control whenever the world champs are on Eurosport is not quite so attractive, but Harry has learned to indulge Remus's little quirk.
"How're you, then?" Remus turns back to skate beside Harry.
"That lunch was alright." Which was a complete understatement, of course; they'd gone to the the restaurant at the Tate Modern. A window table looking over the river to St Paul's, picture-perfect snow on the bridge, and the Loch Duart salmon was utterly mouthwatering.
"It'll be kebabs on the way home," Remus is deadpan.
Harry laughs. "You treat me so well." He glances at Remus and there's a moment, a frowning uncertainty, but then Remus smiles his lopsided grin and points down at the ice.
"Use the inside edge of your blades more," Remus says, leaning in a little, "you're not wiggling your arse about anymore."
"I thought I wasn't supposed to," Harry says as they part ways around a couple who are clambering up from a tumble.
"You're not," Remus says innocently. "Doesn't mean to say that's a good thing."
WW: Congratulations on making the Witch Weekly bachelor list, Mr Bukin.
YB: Thank you. It is very strange, but I am used to scorecards, no?
WW: You're very high profile in the Muggle sporting world. Do you find it difficult to keep your magical life separate?
YB: They think I am crazy Russian anyhow. And now here, in England, is easier to have small profile than America.
The English are so terrible at skating. It pains Yevgeny to watch them lumber around the rink, collapsing ungracefully every few steps. Draco at least can skate passably, even if he is not very fast.
But then, Yevgeny is not able to fly well, so they are matched again.
There are only four people (five, counting Draco, who is gliding idly, hands behind his back and deep in thought) on the rink that can actually skate. Yevgeny doesn't include himself, because he is at the bar, or he would be, if the queue was not like a breadline in his mother's Moscow. The two girls are very good, but they are annoying the crowd with their spins.
Then there is a tall man who is well-dressed and does not show off, but when he turns or speeds up Yevgeny can see he is very graceful. His shorter companion--Yevgeny cannot see him at present--is not so elegant but is supremely confident, and races around the rink on the outside with his scarf blowing behind him.
The rest of the crowd are, as Draco would say, rubbish.
Yevgeny reaches the front of the line and asks for a Guinness.
"Make that two," says a man who appears noisily next to him. Yevgeny glances and finds he is looking at the short and speedy black-haired man he was watching earlier.
"Fuck," the man says when he opens his wallet, fumbling for a second, and Yevgeny tilts his head with admiration when a piece of paper transforms into a ten pound note in the man's--he recognises him now--palm.
He has been in this country for long enough to recognise celebrities, but he knows how annoying it is to be approached when you just want to drink your beer, so he passes over his own money and raises his glass to Harry Potter without conversation.
Then Potter points at him with a stubby finger and a grin. "You're Bukin, aren't you?" he says quietly, which is nice because Yevgeny doesn't want to have to wear the silly hat to avoid being noticed by the obvichnii.
Yevgeny nods and holds out his hand. "Yevgeny, please."
"Harry Potter. Brilliant game against Canada in the Olympics. You lot were robbed, you know."
Yevgeny does know. He had come very close to hexing the Japanese referee, but a silver medal was better than an international incident. He shrugs. "Referees. You know how it is." Yevgeny doesn't follow the English wizarding obsession as closely as Draco does, but he knows Harry has had a number of well-publicised tantrums at umpires.
"Isn't this rink a little... amateur for you?" Harry asks. He has very green eyes. "Even I get annoyed, and I'm pants compared to you."
"Pants?" What does underwear have to do with skating?
Harry laughs. "Sorry. Crap. Bad. Rubbish."
"Ah." Yevgeny flicks his eyes over the rink, looking for Draco. He's slowing down to talk to someone, the tall man, and Yevgeny smiles when Draco manages a perfect bracket turn. He swivels back around to Harry. "You are not bad. You just need to use the inside--
"--edge of my blades more, right?" Harry says. "'s what Remus says."
"Is that your friend over there?" Yevgeny gestures to where Draco is standing, balancing on the back edges of his blades while rubbing the back of his neck. He and the tall man are deep in conversation.
"Over--yeah," Harry squints, swallowing his mouthful. When he puts his glass down Harry has a moustache of foam that he licks off with his tongue. "Dunno who he's talking to, though."
Yevgeny is unsure of the gossip in the wizarding community--regarding himself, at least. "That is my--friend," he says, "Draco."
"Malfoy!?" Harry splutters. "Draco Malfoy?"
"You know him?" Yevgeny would not be suprised. Everyone seems to know Draco. Yevgeny thinks that is just because they want a free dinner.
Harry is watching his friend and Draco intently, frowning. "In a manner of speaking. Yes. A long time ago." He turns back around to Yevgeny, a captivating bright smile on his face.
"Can I buy you another drink?"
WW: Mr Malfoy, your restaurant is full of celebrities every night. We at Witch Weekly can't get a table until February!
DM: It's remarkable. We've put mushy peas and tripe blancmange on the menu and still they turn up. I don't know how to get rid of them.
WW: You've been criticised for being a bad-tempered tyrant to your staff, yet our readers have voted you third in our poll. Do you think they see the softer side?
DM: I think your readers like a man who's in control, Lucy.
Dilettante.
Draco was still seething. He doesn't normally read reviews, especially Muggle reviews, and especially the Financial Times food critic, who was some jumped up twenty-two year old who had got the position through her family, and proceeded to accuse Draco of precisely the same thing.
Bitch.
He'd only found out about the total slating she'd done when he'd found the sous chef and his expeditor huddled over that ridiculous yellow rag, muttering darkly. He'd read the article, folded the section carefully, and shoved it on the nearest open flame. And left.
Skating calms him down. Yevgeny calms him down, all Slavic capability and strong thighs. The music is calming him down, too; most of the time it's horrific top twenty hits, but tonight the DJ is playing tunes more in keeping with the fairytale atmosphere.
Sinatra was fun, but Verdi is tremendous.
Draco skates backwards for a little while, keeping to the edge of the rink, watching Yevgeny make his way to the bar. The whole boyfriend thing is bizarre, but at least Yevgeny travels all the time with the team and doesn't complain tiresomely that Draco is always at the restaurant, which is--oh, hello. Draco spins around to get another view on his next pass, impressed with the neat crossover glide the tall bloke in the grey coat executes.
He smiles brilliantly when he passes him again, and gets an interested nod in return. It's a pretty safe bet that any good-looking man here without female company is gay. Straight men do not skate alone.
Draco speeds up.
Third time (he gets a wink this time) he realises the man looks familiar, and not just in the generic hot-older-bloke way that comes from cashmere turtlenecks and nice shoes. Nope. Really familiar.
Bugger it. Draco circles around and ignores the glares the plebs give him for skating in the wrong direction. The man had obviously been expecting Draco to turn around; he's slowed down and moved to the rail. Which is all to the good.
"Remus bloody Lupin," Draco says, shaking his hat-hair out of his eyes, "about the last person I'd expect to see on an ice-rink." He holds out his hand. "Compliments of the season."
Remus smiles, shaking Draco's hand. "And to you, Draco. I thought that was you--you're here with Yevgeny Bukin, aren't you? The hockey player?"
"He's having a drink." Draco nods towards the bar briefly, trying to reconcile this particular Remus Lupin with his former teacher, and failing miserably. except, not miserably. More like--yes, please.
Remus glances over as well, a tricky glint in his eyes, and stretches back against the rail, all long limbs and gentle diversion. "So's Harry. Sporting stamina is obviously not all it's cracked up to be."
"Potter?" Draco frowns. Obviously the gossip was true, which really is not fair. Still, it didn't do to be ungracious. "I must say hello, then." He tries not to sigh.
Remus laughs. "No need. I'm sure Harry would say something insulting, and then everyone's evening would be ruined."
They share an amused look that lasts until Draco drops his gaze. Very intense brown eyes. "Now why is it that you, Remus Lupin, media mogul, are know by name to Gordon Ramsay himself, yet I've never seen you at mine?"
Draco kicks himself mentally for being so obnoxious, but Remus was on Draco's list of A-Listers To Have. For the restaurant, of course.
"If it were possible to get a table without booking seven years in advance, I would have been!" Remus says. "I'm not organised enough for that kind of culinary commitment. Not that I'm averse, you understand." He regards Draco with a small quirk hovering around his mouth.
Fuck, but the man is attractive. Potter is a total bastard.
Draco rubs the back of his neck, tilts his head. Yevgeny is still over at the bar. Which is good. And bad.
"My mobile is on the back." He hands Remus a card. "Or send an owl. It's no problem."
"You're very kind," Remus says, slipping Draco's card inside his breast pocket and frowning over at the bar, where Yevgeny is talking animatedly to what Draco assumes is Potter's stunted form. The music changes. "Ah, it's Tony--"
"Bennett," Draco finishes, wondering where his cool went and if he can be arsed getting it back.
Remus looks Draco over approvingly. "I had a word with the DJ. Come with?" He pushes off from the rail, his hands outstretched in invitation.
Magically, it begins to snow.