“Don’t.” Harry pulled him back into the booth.
“Help,” Draco cried. “I’m being molested!”
“I’ve thought about it,” Harry said.
“About molesting me?” Malfoy perked up.
“Will you shut up? I’ve been thinking, kind of, of doing kind of like Lockhart.”
“Help!” Malfoy struggled again. “I’m being molested by someone whose life’s aspiration is to be a madman. He might be mad already. In fact,” Malfoy continued conversationally, “You already are. You have a kind of crazed look about the whites of your eyes.”
“I do?”
“So,” Malfoy continued blithely, at last extricating himself in order to sit across from Harry again. “Another fan fallen victim to the charms of Gorgeous Gilderoy. Just tell me one thing. Was it the golden mane?”
“What? No. Ew. Gorgeous Gilderoy?”
“We can forget I said that,” Malfoy said hastily.
Harry released a noisy breath, running a hand through his hair. “What I meant was, he . . . did a lot of stuff. Saw a lot of places, did a lot of things. I guess he might’ve had jobs, but he moved around a lot. It wasn’t like he was an Auror or anything.”
“No, only a world famous author. You’re not going to write, are you? Help,” Malfoy began, with more panic than before, “I’m being molested by a writer.”
- The Way Down by lettered