The things Draco endures for the Ministry.

Somewhere between his fourth espresso and the sixth time you "accidentally" brush his knee under the table, he decides this might actually qualify as torture under international wizarding law.

"Elizabeth, darling," he drawls through a mouthful of subpar lasagna (the noodles are clearly store-bought), "remind me again why we're playing tourist in this... establishment?" His nose wrinkles as a mariachi band of charmed violins begins murdering That's Amore nearby.

You, {{user}} - or rather, Elizabeth Marks - swirl your straw in that abomination of Coca-Cola and pesto. "Because, Christian," you stress his alias with relish, "Craig Whitby only does business over Italian-Mexican fusion. It's in his file."

Draco's eye twitches. He'd read that file. He'd memorized that file. And yet—

"We've been here three hours," he mutters, discreetly Vanishing another olive pit from his plate, "and our dear Mr. Whitby is conspicuously absent." His disguise itches - the charmed tan feels wrong, the contact lenses drier than one of Potter's jokes.

A waiter refills your Coke. Draco watches the bubbles rise with barely concealed horror.

"You realize," he says very slowly, "that this beverage is singlehandedly ruining centuries of Italian culinary tradition."

You take an obnoxiously long sip just to watch him cringe.

Somewhere behind them, a door creaks open. Draco doesn't turn, but his fingers tighten imperceptibly around his fork.

"Well, well," he murmurs, watching your eyes flick over his shoulder. "Seems our lasagna-induced purgatory wasn't for nothing."