"I’m not," Harry says, dead serious, looking Draco in the eye. He turns to stop a black-tie waiter with a raised finger, and Draco clocks the way the older man’s eyes rove over Harry’s body: the sharp lines of his collarbone, the just-visible flash of ribs and nipple under the wide cut arms of his loose tank. Draco frowns and stares at his fork as Harry charmingly fumbles his way through entry-level French to order himself a salad niçoise. 