Malfoy’s eyes, fixed on Harry, glitter with malice, and Harry’s so braced for some comment about cuckolds or ginger abandonment or whatever else that he almost doesn’t process it when Malfoy says, in tones of deep delight, “Potter, what in the name of heaven is that?”
Harry blinks, and then follows Malfoy’s gaze down to the center of his own chest. To his absolute horror, one of their inter-office memos has affixed itself there, its neon green paper glowing faintly in the morning light. It must have attached itself to him while he was going through Malfoy’s accounts; Harry has no idea how he didn’t notice.
Malfoy leans over and plucks it from Harry’s shirt before Harry can even react. “‘Dear Harry,’” he reads, “‘please — ’ oh, this part is all in capitals ‘— DO NOT FORGET AGAIN to have Malfoy take you through the crime. It is — ’ capitals again ‘— THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF YOUR JOB, and I know it’s distracting that he’s Malfoy, but still. Don’t forget! Hermione says paperwork is 9/10ths of the law. Love, Ron.’” Malfoy closes his eyes and lets out a satisfied little sound before he opens them again, like he’s just downed a glass of lemonade on a hot day. “Potter, I must be straightforward with you: I may frame this. It is beautiful and it deserves a place on the walls of Wizarding history. Who knew Weasley had such poetry inside of him?”