Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
SUMMARY: Draco kissed Harry. This is the fall-out.

WARNINGS: muggle baiting, homophobia, smoking, under-age drinking, sexual content (m/f, implied m/m), blow job, casual encounter, implied rough sex

DISCLAIMERS:

- Heather is loosely based on the character Tippi from Roger Simpson's television series “Satisfaction.”

- The song mentioned is “Sparks” by Coldplay. The album Parachutes was released July of 2000.

- No slight or injury is intended on The Gladstone Arms, which is in fact a delightful little pub on Lant.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I had to pay homage to Scar Head The Blundering's first sexual encounter—sometimes I think it's a miracle he made it to penetrative intercourse! The hetero scene contained herein was first envisioned in a much colder light but, as I've been writing Harry, I've arrived at the realization that he is very much a fragile spirit and needs the affirmation not only of his physical attractiveness but of his own sensuality, feelings and desires. This scene took on a life of its own and I'm pretty happy with what ended up on the page. Sexual exploration is a huge topic and I'm trying to be as realistic as possible. Anal sex is like professional football—you don't go from the stands to the field. There's intramural, junior varsity, varsity. Baby steps. I promise you, Scar Head will get there.

CONSCIENCE:

THE FALL-OUT

He hadn't imagined it; this time, he'd seen it from an inch away. There was no denying it. Harry Potter, Golden Boy Chosen One, could actually cast an Unforgivable non-verbally. The only other person capable of such a thing was the Dark Lord himself. Draco was taken by a shudder so forceful he had to sit down in the nearest chair. Potter was a very strong wizard—and especially gifted in the Dark Arts. He did not want to think about the implications.

There was a knock at the door to break him from his thoughts. He had to clear his throat twice before his voice would come to him.

“Who is it?” He leveled his wand at the door for good measure.

“It's Hermione. I'd like to speak with you.” Draco rolled his eyes before giving a flick of his wand, opening the door to admit her. She stood with her hands on her hips, her bushy hair awry. It didn't look as though Weaselby had been pawing at her again because her clothing sat correctly on her frame.

“Won't you come in, Granger?” He asked calmly. She stepped across the threshold but kept her distance. Draco summoned another armchair and motioned her towards it. “Would you care for a brandy? Or sherry, perhaps?” She shook her head as she sat tentatively. Just as well. Draco could summon a weak sherry, at best. And at present he was very much distracted... by Potter. The warm, pleasant, deceptively spicy scent of him was in fact the perfect appetizer to his thick, kissable lips. And the metallic tang of blood had added something exotic and slightly forbidden. Potter tasted of debauchery and something that could only be called honeyed sin. Draco's mouth began to water involuntarily and he banished the thought. He summoned a bit of brandy instead and sipped at it, savoring the sweet little burn it left in its wake.

“Draco, what spell did Harry cast on you in that duel?”

The brandy attempted an exodus up and out Draco's nasal cavities. He coughed. “I beg your pardon, Granger?”

“You really won't call me 'Hermione?'”

“Of course not!” Draco scoffed, swirling his brandy while collecting his composure. “What is it with you people and Christian names? It's completely unnecessary.”

Granger sighed and fixed him with a long, forbearing look. “We use them because they happen to be our given names, the names we go by.”

“You do it out of affection,” Draco corrected.

“To a certain extent, yes,” Granger agreed begrudgingly. “You couldn't rightly call Pansy 'Parkinson' while snogging her, could you?”

“Rest assured, Granger, I did.”

“Are you saying you don't care enough to call her by her first name?”

“Well... yes. I suppose that's what it boils down to.” Draco could not believe the sudden turn their conversation had taken, but it was better than having to admit Potter had gotten the upper hand on him in a duel. Granger raised a dubious eyebrow, so he continued. “Sure, we had our fun in the broom shed third year but she knows I don't give two drops of garden gnome blood about her. I've shagged a lot of people—doesn't mean anything.”

“Well!” Granger pinkened considerably. She sat stiffly in her chair. “We view kissing—and the use of given names—a little differently.”

“Would that 'we' be muggles, Gryffindors, or just you lot?” Draco cut in. “Because Potter's practically a muggle, near as I can tell. Probably hasn't used Amortius Intentia his entire life.”

“What?” Granger's attention was almost diverted. It would be a dreadful amount of fun to inform her that was the spell used to prevent a woman getting pregnant from casual sex. “Never mind Harry growing up with a non-magical family. That has nothing to do with it. You kissed him, Draco.” She used his Christian name again. He rolled his eyes helplessly over the snifter's rim. “What was the spell he cast?”

“Suffice it to say a very nasty one, Granger. I don't think I'm at liberty to say. You'd best apply to Potter for that bit of information.” The statement peeved her to no end, visibly—she gripped the arms of the conjured chair and leaned forward aggressively.

“Then why did you kiss him?”

“Shock,” Draco said simply. He sipped his brandy.

“You expect me to believe you did that just to ruffle me and Ron?” she scoffed. “I may not know you very well, Draco, but I know when you have something up your sleeve!”

“Really, Granger. I did it to shock The Chosen One,” Draco replied evenly before she could urge her high horse to a canter. “He was very angry, as you saw. One perfectly innocent little kiss—no tongue—was enough to snap him out of it before he did anything he might regret. The curse he threw was a naughty one—but it was the only one, you see?” Draco smiled to himself as he went along. “It could have been much worse. You should be thanking me. The Chosen One needs to get his broom waxed like you wouldn't believe. He's wound tighter than a Gringott's vault.”

“He....” It took a moment for the witch in her to connect the dots of magical sexual reference. She'd never heard witches and wizards talk like that before. “Why would you say something like that?” she snapped. “Harry's a good person; he doesn't think that way.”

“You're saying... what, exactly?” Draco laughed softly. “That he's a romantic? He's a man with working parts, Granger. I'm sure he thinks that way. Rather often, recently single and all,” he mused.

“This is all very inappropriate,” Granger tittered, looking away.

“I can't manage to make polite conversation with you people to save my life,” Draco muttered. Granger's bushy head snapped up to stare him down, incredulous. “Potter's counting on me to make an effort but it's all bollocks. Can't talk about Quidditch, can't talk about sex. Politics is right out, so what's there to talk about? Seems a hopeless case.” He shrugged. Granger appeared stunned into silence, so Draco continued. “I don't exactly see you lot making an effort. Weaselby won't play chess anymore, his sister leaves the room automatically, and you—you are determined to teach me proper muggle manners. I'm not a muggle. Sorry Granger—won't happen. Not for a barrel of Compenti Omgressus.”

Draco watched curiosity slowly overwhelm Granger's features.

“Do I want to know what that is?” she asked.

“You'd say it's highly inappropriate,” Draco warned.

“Oh, tell me anyway,” she sighed, collapsing against the back of the chair, giving into the Slytherin's charms.

“Potion for a man to have multiple orgasms. You only need a couple drops to last the night.” Granger took it well. Her eyes only bugged out of her head a little. “You won't find it in Advanced Potion Making but I assure you it's perfectly legal. And delightful.”

- - -

Harry finished washing the blood off his chin; his scrubbed, dripping face stared back at him from the medicine cabinet above the sink. Malfoy had split his lip. Harry had split their fragile friendship and that was so much worse. Harry's head still rang, partly from the punch—Malfoy had a strong right arm—but mostly from the heated words they'd exchanged. Malfoy thought he had a complex about saving people? It was called being a good person and wanting to help others in need! And maybe he hadn't had the best time of it as a kid, but he didn't need attention or approval to validate his existence.

Malfoy thought he was scum. He was scum. He'd used an Unforgivable on Malfoy in the living room. The blonde made him crazy, made him see red, but that was no excuse to go hexing the git. Harry felt like shite. He was no better than Voldemort.

Ginny found him digging through the medicine cabinet seeking a salve for his busted lip. It bled profusely and he'd held a bit of toilet tissue to it as he rummaged around. She cleared her throat in the doorway to be sure he was aware of her presence.

“Harry?” she said quietly, arms folded across her stomach. “Would you like me to fix that for you?”

“Er, I, um,” he mumbled incoherently, still pushing things around the cabinet as an excuse not to look at her.

“Don't tell me you're gonna leave it?” Gin spluttered. Harry shrugged. Her tone became quite bracing. “Harry, it's Malfoy. He's not gonna see the damage to your face, feel bad and apologize, is he? He's gonna gloat. Not to mention that mum will flip if she sees you like this. Please, let me fix you up.”

Head down, Harry nodded glumly. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. Why would anyone electively run about with a split lip? To elicit sympathy, ya twat, a voice in his head mocked. A voice sounding suspiciously like Draco sodding Malfoy. Poor, precious baby Potter needs to be the center of attention. Fucking Christ, no wonder Malfoy had put Harry firmly in his place!

“Episkey.”

“Thanks, Gin,” Harry managed.

“What's bothering you, Harry?” she asked, stowing her wand. “I mean, is it what happened with Malfoy? Because Hermione told me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. He jumped up on the counter and sat, folding his hands in his lap, focusing his gaze on the wall in front of him to avoid looking at his ex.

“What was the hex you used?” She'd obviously asked the question without considering the implications—a hex that made a person kiss you? Harry snapped.

“Why? Wanna use it to get back with Dean? I hear Seamus is single, he might be more your type: follows orders, can't think for himself.”

“Whoa, Harry!” Ginny held her hands defensively before her and took a step back for good measure. “I was just being nosy. Merlin's beard! You're as narkie as Malfoy.”

Harry shot her a dirty look and she scuttled off. Harry was left with his twisty thoughts.

Okay, Malfoy had kissed him on the mouth and it had been entirely Harry's fault. He'd cast the Imperius Curse, knowing the only way Malfoy could break it was to concentrate on sex. Hell, he'd practically invited it! And in front of Ron and Hermione, too. What was his fucking problem?

Harry wasn't sure what to make of that kiss, having next to nothing to compare it to. He and Ginny had snogged enough at Hogwarts and there had been that one awful instance with Cho Chang back in fourth year, but he'd never kissed a bloke. Surely they were apples and oranges. Harry liked kissing Ginny well enough. He liked women—always had—therefore; being kissed by Malfoy should have made him want to vomit. The problem with that bit of logic stared at him from his denims. It had been at least ten minutes since Malfoy had... done that, and Harry was still aroused. Surely, that wasn't normal.

The kiss itself had been normal, he supposed. Malfoy's lips felt like a girl's lips. Lips were lips, right? They were unisex. Malfoy didn't keep a beard, so naturally his kiss would resemble a girl's. And they'd only kissed for a few seconds. It wasn't like Malfoy had tongued him or anything; that would be unforgivable! Usually, it took quite a bit of tonguing, heavy petting and general romping to rouse Harry's interest, as it were. Getting hard from one chaste little kiss was insane, unless... unless Malfoy used sex magic on him. That was the only plausible explanation. Because Malfoy's little “gift” wasn't going away.

Harry closed and locked the door, thinking he'd take care of himself quickly and then see what was on for dinner. He pulled off his shirt, loosened his belt and licked his freshly healed lips. Then he stopped dead. Sex magic, indeed; he could still taste Malfoy on his lips.

Right, then! Shower! Tension release as well as washing the Malfoy off him. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

~ * ~

Harry tossed and turned in his bed. It was a hot night—even with the windows thrown wide open and a strong Cooling Charm circling the room, it was stifling. Glasses off, he squinted at the digital clock on his bedside table. Half ten? That charming little Italian cafe by the underground would still be open. Maybe he could get a gelato or something. The idea of getting out of Grimmauld Place, even for ten minutes, was enough to have him scrambling for a shirt and trainers. He wormed into an old pair of cotton khakis; they were tight in the bum but the thought of jeans against his sweaty skin was beyond bearable. He tucked his wallet in his back pocket and secured his wand in the waistband of his pants so his tshirt would cover it well enough. Once wrapped in his Invisibility Cloak, he made for the front door. Technically, he wasn't supposed to leave the house. Harry crept down the stairs as silent as a mouse, praying Alastair Moody wasn't guarding the house tonight.

Harry wasn't the only one hell-bent on escape that night.

“Malfoy?” Harry whispered in shock.

Frozen in a half crouch at the sound of his name, Malfoy inched away from the front door like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Harry muttered once he reached the entry.

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy managed to sneer so softly he was barely audible. Harry found himself reading the man's lips in the darkness. “It's you.”

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” he repeated while disentangling himself from his cloak. Malfoy's eyes snapped to him when the falling cloak revealed his location. “I'm sneaking out for gelato. Just where are you headed?”

“Ice cream?” Malfoy mouthed. The laughter was written on his face; clearly, he thought Harry was all of five years old. He faced the door again and made to open it.

“You can't just walk out there!” Harry hissed, reaching out to stop the crazy blonde. “They almost always post a guard.”

“Potter, you live in Azkaban,” Malfoy gestured to the door, something decidedly unhinged lurking in his eyes. “Call me Sirius Black—I need out. Can you get me out?”

In response, Harry held up the cloak and waggled his eyebrows; silent, Malfoy nodded his agreement. Harry threw the cloak over them before they shuffled out the door.

It was slow going at first; Malfoy had never experienced the joys of cramming multiple people under the blasted cloak. They had to stay close together to prevent exposure and walking as such, Harry kept stepping on Malfoy's heels. Muffled “ooch”es, “ow”s and “sorry”s blended with the outdoor sounds as they emerged onto the stoop.

“Fuck,” Malfoy whispered, leaning back against his rescuer. Harry viewed the problem over Malfoy's shoulder. The stairs leading to the street were steep and narrow. Someone—undoubtedly Mrs. Weasley—had placed a few flower planters along one side of the step so there wasn't room for two to walk abreast. “What do we do?”

“I could piggy-back you,” Harry offered.

“No way,” Malfoy huffed. “I will not be carried like a girl.”

“Fine,” Harry retorted quickly, a brilliant scheme taking shape in his mind. “You can carry me.”

Malfoy grumbled something under his breath before hunching over to allow the dark haired boy to jump on his back. Harry locked his legs around Malfoy's waist and leaned down, making sure the Invisibility Cloak still touched the ground all the way around.

“Hey! Us being short is finally good for something!” Harry cackled as Malfoy picked a careful path down the stairs. Malfoy gripped the iron railing for balance but was vigilant to keep them both secure under the cloak. Combined with the muggy air and lack of breeze, it was positively stifling under the cloak. The things one did for gelato: the things one did for escape! Malfoy carried him, setting out for the cafe.

“I am not short, I'll have you know,” Malfoy sniffed. “I—and you by extension—am of typical English stature. It's those bloody yanks who make us look short!”

Conversation passed amiably for several blocks. Malfoy huffed, puffed and blustered while Harry chuckled along. Eventually Harry directed him toward an alley where they could remove the cloak and cast a few spells to determine if they were being followed. Malfoy leaned against a dumpster and braced his thighs, fanning himself while Harry cast the necessary magic. Attempting to hide himself in the alley, Malfoy's white blonde head only acted as a beacon against the dirty brick background. Harry shrunk the invisibility cloak enough to be folded and crammed into a pocket. Once assured that the coast was clear, they set off round the corner.

“Malfoy,” Harry said slowly. “I'm sure you weren't sluffing because you fancy gelati. What—” Harry stopped himself. He'd almost asked Malfoy what he wanted. Harry understood Malfoy's very intense problems with wanting. He had to think of another way to phrase the question before Malfoy thought he was barking. “What was the plan? Did you have an idea or... did you need something?”

As they passed under a streetlamp, Harry detected a blush creeping across Malfoy's cheeks. He had wanted something, wanted it enough to risk his safety.

“It's nothing,” the blonde muttered, kicking an empty cigarette pack down the pavement. He wouldn't meet Harry's gaze.

“Don't bullshit me, ya cunt,” Harry replied firmly. “It's bloody important if you'd let me aid in your escape.” That earned him a little smile. “So out with it. Maybe I can help.”

“Really, Potter. Gelato is fine. I don't care.”

“I don't believe you.” They'd reached the cafe. There were a few people inside despite the late hour. Harry had always wanted to stop here but never had the chance before now. He was getting his adventure, getting what he wanted. There was no reason not to placate Malfoy as well. Harry would do just about anything to keep the man happy, now they were past punch ups. When Malfoy reached for the shop door, Harry placed a hand on the glass to bar his entrance. “Just tell me what you want.”

Those words hung between them like a killer bee: Harry wasn't sure who would get the sting. After several agonizing heartbeats, Malfoy heaved a sigh that deflated his chest but not his regal bearing.

“I need to get drunk, Potter. And I need to get laid. There, are you happy now?” He gave a little snort and looked away, dejected. “I have needs.”

“Wanting or needing something doesn't make you weak,” Harry comforted, trying unsuccessfully to catch Malfoy's darting, uneasy gaze.

“Tell that to my father,” the blonde snapped without thinking.

Harry watched Malfoy pale; he, too, suffered from uncomfortable truths flying unbidden from the mouth. Harry sometimes felt like a fount of those.

“Malfoy... I'd like to buy you an ice cream, if that's alright.” Harry nearly groaned; it was possibly the dumbest thing he'd said in weeks. Anything to fill the post-revelation awkward silence.

“Thank you,” Malfoy managed with dignity intact. “I'd like that.” He allowed Harry to get the door for him.

Harry wasn't aware at first but as he and Malfoy approached the refrigerated ice cream counter, several faces followed them. Curious faces, disapproving faces. Harry was used to people looking at him all sorts of ways. Witches and wizards mooned over him for being The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One. When he was younger, muggle women often gazed at him with pity in their eyes—the underfed child in hand-me-down rags, purpling bruises marching up and down his arms. The muggles on Magnolia Crescent believed the Dursley's rubbish about St. Brutis' Academy and always skirted him like some kind of hardened criminal. That's what these looks were, now; fear, distaste, even loathing, rolled into a tightly coiled ball and lobbed mostly at Malfoy.

Harry observed the blonde leaning close to the case, intent upon picking a desert. He looked like your typical posh, handsome, upper-crust boarding school boy. His hair and face were clean, trousers pressed, linen shirtsleeves rolled up over his elbows. Sure he was just a bit sweaty—but it had been over 40 C all day, so everyone was dripping! If anything, Malfoy looked smart, pensive, pressing two thin fingers over his pink lips as he looked over the flavors.

Oh God. He was so used to Malfoy he hadn't noticed! The giant, Gothic-style tattoo on his pale forearm. The intricate pattern of white scars—mostly long cuts, the few scattered burn marks, and a puncture wound that had probably been a stab; self-inflicted, Harry knew, while under the Imperius Curse.

An man sitting in the corner and talking on his mobile shot Malfoy a very dirty look. An eight year old boy pointed, about to say something when his mother pushed at his arm and offered biscuits and treats if he would “ignore the bad men.” They thought Malfoy was a criminal. Malfoy in a gang? Laughable. Did they not see how scrawny he was?

“Go ahead and get two if you like,” Harry offered Malfoy, instinctively stepping closer.

“Sure, thanks,” Malfoy replied. His eyes didn't leave the display case as he continued in a voice so low only Harry could hear. “I don't know about these muggles, Scar Head. Have they gone round the bend? Why are they all staring?”

“My trousers are too tight.” Harry threw it out there, casual-like. “Look, Malfoy, how about we get these and run? I'll find you a seedy pub or something.”

“Really?” Malfoy looked over at him then, surprise plain in his eyes. They reflected the reddish brown walls with hints of gold. Harry smiled back, thinking it was too bad those eyes reflected what was outside instead of what was within.

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugged. They both returned their attention to the gelato selection. Harry immediately picked out his two flavors: a classic limone and a white chocolate with raspberry swirls. Malfoy couldn't make up his mind and wound up asking the woman behind the counter for a sample of the exotic-sounding cioccolato all’arancia. Malfoy's French-speaking tongue pronounced it perfectly.

“Grazie mille,” he thanked her before taking the sample. He took the most miniscule of bites—still not trusting muggle grub, apparently. A moment later his eyes fluttered closed in delight. He promptly ordered two scoops of it.

“You sure?” Harry joked.

“Quite,” he gave a quick nod. “Dark chocolate, candied oranges and rum. You really can't go wrong. Here!” The plastic spoon was shoved into Harry's mouth before he could protest. It really was quite good. When Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, Harry flushed. The blonde dragged the spoon from Harry's mouth and, without thinking, popped it back in his own and sucked as he waited.

The man with the cell phone was gaping at them now. His face had gone from mild distaste to utter disgust, his conversation forgotten as he glared at the boys. Harry vowed never to wear the tight khakis in public again. That man thought Harry was... thought Malfoy was his.... This made Harry think of something. He leaned close to Malfoy, forced to press bodily against the blonde's arm in order to speak quietly into his ear.

“Listen, Malfoy, er... about the pub later,” he spoke, doing his very best to remain casual. “Blokes or bints?” There was a solid, awkward pause where Malfoy should have responded. The seconds ticked by. “It's just—”

“Why?” Malfoy drawled, moving his hand to rest at Harry's hip. Their torsos came together in a casual half-hug. It was comfortable and really, really weird. Harry got the idea Malfoy was milking the moment. “You interested?”

Harry knew his face was going bright red and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Standing as they were, he probably looked like a love-sick puppy. Snuggling up to ruddy Malfoy. In a romantic little cafe. On a hot summer night. This was eighteen different shades of upsetting and wrong, wrong, wrong. If there weren't an itty bitty perverse corner of himself that took pleasure in causing innocent people discomfort in public places, he would have put a stop to Malfoy's ridiculousness. But as it was....

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, closing his eyes in an effort to keep his voice from cracking. It would take him a while to learn how to upset frumpy old codgers without breaking a sweat. “But you're really not my type. Now, if you put the tits back... then we'll talk.” That got him a lip-biting, sparkly-eyed chuckle. “Seriously, though. I don't care. Just... which do you want for tonight?”

“Why should it matter?” Malfoy sighed, pale fingers fussing with the rear belt loop of Harry's trousers.

“I told you, it doesn't matter. It's only that... well, blokes are a different sort of pub now, aren't they?”

“If you say so,” Malfoy trailed off.

The lady at the counter asked Harry what he'd like. Her dark eyes flickered between them, noting their posture, they way they leaned against each other, Malfoy's arm around him, Harry's blush. She favored him with an encouraging smile. When Harry turned back, Malfoy was looking decidedly away.

“Well?” Harry let the question hang between them. Judging by Malfoy's behavior, he was pretty sure what the answer would be. Randy straight blokes probably didn't stand this way with their straight mates. Randy bisexual blokes might.

“Would it be a bother?” Malfoy asked slowly, watching the woman scoop Harry's fruity gelato. The situation had slipped so drastically out of hand. Malfoy really needed to get laid so he could go back to being Malfoy. A less cuddly Malfoy. “No offense, but between your ex-bint, Granger and this afternoon, I'm rather put off women for now.”

“Oh, I get that,” Harry replied with honest understanding, which seemed to calm Malfoy a bit; besides; their gelati were about ready. And they looked delicious. “Look, why don't you grab this and I'll pay. I need to grab a newspaper before we go.”

He wormed out of Malfoy's arms and went back to the front door where the owners kept newspaper displays. After so many years of the Daily Prophet, it was nice to see a paper with no mention of himself or The Dark Lord, though he did miss the moving pictures. He quickly found what he was looking for—an ignored-looking stack emblazoned with a big purple triangle. This would have listings of gay bars in London. He picked one up and unfurled it as he walked back to the register. Hell, everyone in the cafe already thought he was gay. Let 'em stare if they wanted! It really made no difference to him.

When he met Malfoy at the register—the man already attacking his gelato with a fervor—an old bitty caught Harry's gaze with an angry one of her own. Harry maintained the impassioned contact as he pulled out his wallet and paid for their treats. He was about to usher Malfoy out of the shop when insanity struck him; brazen, he stuck his tongue out at the bigoted old bird. The woman tittered as Malfoy dragged him out.

“Saint Potter engages in muggle baiting?” Malfoy mock-gasped as soon as they were out of ear shot.

“Stuff it,” Harry laughed. He quickly scanned the paper: articles about new sex shops and an upcoming film festival, cryptic adverts that didn't appear to be written in any English he could decipher and, at the back, reviews of a few clubs and pubs. He skimmed over everything with “dance floor,” “disco lights” and the like. Towards the bottom there was a listing for a pleasant pub, not screamingly gay, with Cornish ale on tap. The fact it was practically on top of the Borough tube stop boded well for dragging Malfoy's sloshed arse home.

“Okay, I've got us a pub,” Harry announced, checking the location one last time before rolling up the paper and wedging it under his arm. He took his already melting gelato and they strolled to the underground.

- - -

The Gladstone Arms was a pleasant-looking little pub on Lant, just off Borough High Street. The dark wood edifice sat between industrial brick buildings with a car park and nondescript flats across the street. There was a small crowd inside the pub and the sound of live music—a guitar, bass, piano and singer—drifted out to the street whenever some loud young person stepped out for a cigarette. Harry was about to cross the street when Malfoy detained him by the elbow, his pointed face a blank, unreadable mask.

“You still have that cloak in your pocket, Potter?” he asked under his breath.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Give it here,” Malfoy held out a hand imperiously, starring directly ahead at the little crowd of smokers congregating outside the bar.

“No,” Harry said flatly.

“I want to borrow it.”

“No, Malfoy. Not with muggles around. It's too risky.”

“Oh, fuck, Potter,” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I only want to borrow it. I'm not dumb enough to put it on!”

“Alright, fine.” Harry had no idea why he'd just agreed to give Malfoy the cloak. It was a night of placating, he told himself; anything to get the git back to normal. Even if that involved getting him someone to hump. He eased the bundle out of his pocket and dropped it in Malfoy's hand. The blonde held the cloak under the light of a nearby streetlamp and examined it.

“What color would you say this is?” he asked suddenly, holding the cloth out for inspection.

“Silver, maybe gray?”

Malfoy spread the fabric out—it wasn't much larger than a diner napkin—and waved a hand over it, muttering an incantation. The cloak darkened a bit. He held it out for Harry's renewed inspection.

“Navy,” Harry observed.

“Good enough,” Malfoy sighed, carefully folding the cloak into a smaller square. He hesitated, thinking hard for a moment before tucking the cloak in his back left trouser pocket. He craned his neck, checking that the fabric poked visibly from the pocket.

Malfoy took off, sauntering right up to the door and waltzing in. He drew more than a few appreciative stares from the smoking loiterers. Harry had no choice but to follow nervously in the man's wake.

Inside the pub was crowded and noisy; the band had just finished a song and everyone hooted and clapped. Couples occupied most of the small tables, pints and plates of food spread before them. A sizable group of men close to his age occupied a set of squashy leather sofas set in a corner furthest from the bare area serving as a stage. The rich wood panels and red painted walls made the room cozy and intimate. The few fans scattered about did little to dispel the heat of so many bodies congregated together. Harry ruffled his hair with a sweaty palm as he followed Malfoy to the bar. They happened to find two empty stools at near the end of the bar, furthest from the stage.

Harry attempted to grab the overworked bartender's attention while Malfoy leaned against the bar, head resting in one slender hand, and pouted. Giving up on getting the barback's attention, he leaned close to the blonde.

“What's yer problem?” he slurred.

“Hmm?” Distracted, Malfoy turned to face him, a little grin lighting his eyes. Damn, they really reflected the red paint, making him look like a pompous Slytherin devil. He leaned in for Harry's ear and whispered conspiratorially. “What I wouldn't give for a cooling charm!”

“Right-o,” Harry smiled back, pulling away. “Drink?”

“Please,” the man sighed, his head returning to his hand. His other hand slowly caressed the wood of the bar, using a nearby napkin to wipe away a bit of spilled ale. Malfoy's eyes flicked up, lighting on the barkeep. As if pulled by a string, the man came running over. Fucking Malfoy. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd say Malfoy had just used magic. The Slytherin's obsession with power and manipulation wasn't limited to his family's wealth and fame; instantly, he had the muggle man eating out of his hand.

“What can I get you gentlemen?” the muggle asked, placing two fresh napkins before them. He gave Harry a quick up-and-down once over before returning his glowing attention to Malfoy.

“Double bourbon, rocks,” Malfoy said, not giving the man the satisfaction of eye contact. He busied himself with re-rolling his shirtsleeve. Harry watched the muggle's eyes roam appreciatively over Malfoy's forearms, noting the tattoo. It was kind of unavoidable, Harry thought. The Dark Mark had become a defining part of Malfoy, like his platinum hair and patented sneer. “Potter?”

“Er,” Harry scanned the list of ales on tap and had to smile. “Pint of Black Sheep, please.”

“Lightweight,” Malfoy scoffed, giving Harry a faux cold shoulder. Harry pushed him.

“Someone's gotta carry your arse home, Malfoy,” he shot back. The bartender gave Harry an approving little nod.

“That'll be six pounds fifty. Did you wanna start a tab?”

“Yes,” Malfoy answered dramatically. “I'm getting pissed tonight.” He shared a mischievous smirk with the handsome muggle.

It was going to be a long night. Harry slid a ten pound note across the bar.

“That'll get us started,” he muttered. The muggle accepted the money and started pulling Harry's ale. He placed it carefully before Harry, near to brimming.

“I'll be right back with that whiskey...” he raised an eyebrow at Malfoy, angling for his name.

“Draco,” the blonde supplied with a cool half-nod, his lashes fluttering closed for just a moment.

Oh God. Harry started drinking.

Almost immediately, a young man approached Malfoy from the nearest corner of the bar. No more than a day over twenty, the man was lanky with ginger hair and freckles; immediately, Harry knew this would not go well. He tried to shoo the man without Malfoy noticing; dopey grin and pint in hand, the ginger bloke only had eyes for Malfoy.

“Hey, there,” he said in a deep, Welsh-accented voice. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Malfoy's lips pressed together and for a split second he closed his eyes. The expression reminded Harry of Professor Snape every time Hermione raised her hand in Potions class, a sort of “Founding Fathers, why must you test my patience so?” grimace. Harry wouldn't have been surprised had Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a mighty sigh. As it was, he fixed the ginger with a patented Malfoy death glare.

“No,” he said shortly, gray eyes blazing.

“Wha', just like that?” the ginger bloke pressed. “Just 'piss off?'”

“Mm-hmm,” Malfoy confirmed as his bourbon arrived. The bartender set it before the Slytherin with a flourish. Harry kept his face stoically in his pint. Malfoy sipped his own drink.

“Well, fuck you!” the Welsh ginger exclaimed, stepping back and giving Malfoy a distasteful once-over.

“You wish,” Malfoy replied primly over the rim of his drink. “Now run along.”

The ginger didn't know when to quit. He turned to Harry, noticing him for the first time and realizing the two boys had come into the pub together.

“Is he always such a right pisser?” the man asked, jerking a thumb at Malfoy.

“Worse, actually,” Harry smiled. “I think he was being nice to you. I've seen him hand out facers for less.” The expression on the stranger's face melted to grim acceptance that he would not be getting into Malfoy's designer trousers now or ever. He slumped back to his friends who promptly and loudly took the mickey out of him.

Harry was about to say something when another man approached. This one was very confident, very handsome, and quite physically fit if his muscled arms and bull neck were anything to go by. He wore a white sleeveless shirt emblazoned with the orange crest of Blackpool Football Club. He was also graying at the temples, so probably in his mid to late thirties. Malfoy took a fortifying mouthful of bourbon as the older man sidled up beside him.

“I'd offer to buy you a drink,” he began, “but I see your mate here has already beaten me to it. I'm Markus,” he smiled, extending his hand. Malfoy took the hand but didn't return the smile. Malfoy's body remained angled toward the bar; it was the most obvious cut direct Harry had ever seen, but the man in the football shirt didn't give up. His eyes roved Malfoy's backside appreciatively, lingering on the bit of fabric in his back pocket. Malfoy snapped his fingers to get the man's attention.

“Oi,” he said sharply, pointing a finger at his own pale face. The older man simpered.

“I like a bit of a live wire,” he winked and leaned closer. Harry felt Malfoy tense, angry waves rolling off him. Harry downed another third of his pint and tried signaling for the next round.

“Really,” Malfoy said, his voice cold and skeptical. He met the burly man's gaze with a challenge.

“Yeah,” the man eyed Malfoy's arse again. His expression turned lewd. “Maybe we could see about moving that to the other side.”

Malfoy's jaw dropped as he fixed the man with an affronted, incredulous stare. Harry had no idea what was going on but he got the impression the man had either insulted Malfoy or implied something highly improper.

“Not gonna happen,” Malfoy said, quick and strong. “Sorry,” the corner of his mouth quirked for just a moment before he took another sip of his bourbon, the ice already beginning to melt.

“Oh, come off it,” the man pressed. He gave Malfoy a very pointed look. “Don't you know who I am, kid?”

“Don't know, don't care,” Malfoy drawled, all confidence.

“Listen here, you little punk—”

“The guy said no, Trewaller,” said a woman's voice. Harry jumped. She was short and, standing behind the wall of muscle that was Markus Trewaller, striker for Blackpool, Harry hadn't seen her. He decided she looked like Nymphadora Tonks; heart shaped face, button nose, and a shock of platinum blonde hair that went dark brown at the roots. Her hair was long and she wore it down with blunt bangs that nearly covered her eyes. Despite being short—shorter than Harry, even—she had piercings up and down her ears and looked tough as nails. Even the floral mini dress she wore didn't take away from her strength and confidence. “Now piss off or I'll tell Nate.”

Markus Trewaller looked positively sheepish. He cursed under his breath and scuttled outside for a smoke.

“Sorry 'bout him,” the blonde woman said to Malfoy. She included Harry with a little smile. “I wouldn't have interfered but he bugs the crap outta me.”

“Not a problem,” Malfoy replied. The woman collected two gin and tonics and a pint from the bartender and made her way back into the crowd. Curiosity overcame Harry and, draining his ale, he turned on his stool to face Malfoy.

“Did that guy... what he said, that was really inappropriate, right?”

Malfoy heaved a sigh and emptied his glass. Crunching on a piece of ice, he simply nodded.

The bar came down to a hush, people hurrying to take their seats. The room was arranged with the stage at the far end of the bar. Harry and Malfoy turned ninety degrees in their stools in order to watch the next set.

The singer was a tall bloke with shoulder-length brown hair that he wore pulled back in a pony tail like Bill Weasley. Unlike Bill, he had an oval face, small nose and really big, eerie green eyes. If he weren't so bloody tall Harry might say they were long-lost cousins or something. They probably weren't related, though, because this guy reeked of a kind of kinetic sexual energy. All the women in the pub—and many of the men—watched him droolingly. He strummed a few notes on his guitar, overlarge eyes scanning the room. He leaned to the side, whispering something to the pretty blond woman who had rescued Malfoy. She adjusted the strap of a big bass guitar slung over her shoulder. The strap was as pink as her instrument. She nodded, positioning one hand at the instrument's neck.

Harry didn't recognize the soft, pretty love song they started to play but the rest of the pub did because a cheer went up, drowning out part of the melody. Malfoy's bourbon was refilled and Harry felt the blonde turn and practically attack the liquor; he wasn't having the best of nights. When his glass was half drained, he returned his attention to the band. Harry's pint was refilled a moment later and put before him with a fresh napkin. He took a long draw before turning to watch the show.

The man with the long brown hair was a fair singer. His song had so many lilting high notes—Harry hadn't sung that high since he was eight, and he'd never sung that well! The man put so much emotion into the lyrics, things about “promises;” “I know I was wrong,” “my heart is yours” and “I won't let you down.” He closed his eyes, drawing out a series of delicate high notes and the pub whooped and clapped in admiration. When his green eyes opened, he was looking right down the bar at Malfoy.

“Yeah, I saw sparks,” he sang. “I saw sparks. And I saw sparks. Baby, I saw sparks.”

Several people turned in their seats, straining to see who the singer was crooning to. Malfoy snorted into his drink. Harry watched a deep flush wend its way up the blonde's cheeks. Harry drank heavily, trying to ignore the singer's “la la la”s. Mercifully, the song ended and the applause was tremendous. The singer wouldn't stop looking at Malfoy across the bar even as his band mates struck up the next tune. Finally, Malfoy held up his bourbon in a little toast of acknowledgment which made the brunette break out in an ear-to-ear grin.

This back and forth, the singer's frank stares and Malfoy's prim and distant acceptance, went on for the entirety of the set. Harry got himself another pint and nursed it over the next half hour. The last thing he needed was Malfoy having to carry him back to Grimmauld Place. Harry was glad when the band finished because it meant people would stop staring and Malfoy might quit shifting in his seat. Harry was wise enough to keep his mouth shut as the singer strode across the room, cutting a direct path to their end of the bar. The man stood there for a long moment, just looking at Malfoy and holding his amused, silvery-red gaze. Harry thought the singer's smile would break his face if it got any bigger.

“Hi,” he said at last, hands clasped nervously behind his back. “I'm Jack.”

“Draco.”

“Nice to meet you, Draco,” Jack blushed. “That's an unusual name you have. Is this seat taken?” he gestured to the stool beside Malfoy. The blonde just shook his head minutely, his eyes going back to his drink. He wrapped his long fingers around the glass, refusing to look at the handsome bloke now sitting beside him.

Why was Malfoy playing so fucking coy? How utterly un-Malfoy! Just two hours ago he'd practically been groping Harry and now, drop of a hat, he was shy? Rather than try to wrap his head around the situation, Harry took another gulp of ale. It really was excellent. And cheap. And excellent. Jack was looking at him, about to say something to him. Harry pulled his nose out of his pint. Jack looked at Harry but spoke to Malfoy.

“Draco, have I put you in a bad spot? Is this your boyfriend?”

“What?!” Harry squeaked. “No! No, no. Malfoy? No,” he shook his head vehemently.

“Forgive me,” Malfoy said smoothly. “This is Harry Potter, an old schoolmate of mine. He's been kind enough to put me up while I'm in town.” Jack's happy grin seemed cemented as he reached behind Malfoy to enthusiastically shake Harry's hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter.”

“Please, Harry,” he mumbled. “And likewise.”

“Harry, this is Heather Lightley,” Jack gestured and Harry spun around on his stool; the pretty blonde bass player stood beside him. “Heather, this is Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.”

“Pleasure,” she smiled. Harry thought he spotted the glint of a silver piercing in her tongue. “May I?” she indicated the vacant seat beside Harry.

“Sure,” he replied awkwardly. As she sat, Malfoy and Jack fell into easy conversation about where Malfoy was from, how long he was visiting and what parts of London he'd already seen—the shopping parts.

“I haven't seen you here before,” Heather said pleasantly.

“Yeah,” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't really get out much.”

“Oh, why's that?” Heather gave him a sympathetic look. “Cute guy like you should be out all the time.”

Harry nearly choked on his pint. He coughed.

“Sorry,” Heather said. “I'm told I can be rather blunt.”

“Oh, that's okay,” Harry smiled. “I like blunt. It's a really good thing, if you ask me. All the best people in my life have been the straight forward kind.” Sirius and Dumbledore. Harry lapsed into silence. He was startled when Heather put a hand on his shoulder.

“You alright?” she asked. “You look miserable.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry shrugged, picking up his ale. “My life's shite right now. And I'm really awkward, socially. I'm sorry.” He had no idea why he was apologizing but it felt like the right thing to say. Heather rolled her eyes.

“Well, chatting up women. That's unfamiliar territory, right?” She raised an eyebrow the same dark color as the roots of her hair. The contrast was really striking. Harry decided he liked it.

“How'd you know?” he stuttered, biting his lip.

“Well,” she said grandly, gesturing between him and Malfoy with her eyes. Her hazel eyes darted quickly to Harry's bum in his tight trousers and she suppressed a giggle.

“Oh my God,” Harry gasped, realization hitting him like a Bludger. “I'm never wearing these trousers in public again! Everything else was in the wash and I—I'm straight.” The more awkward and pained his voice became, the more Heather laughed. She reminded him of Luna Lovegood; her laugh was just musical, light and playful and utterly relaxed, like a little girl. “I swear it, really. Heather, you have to believe me!” She shook her head just to be conciliatory, still giggling away.

Harry turned to Malfoy to enlist his help.

“Malfoy, please,” he gasped awkwardly, pulling on the man's elbow, “tell Heather about Ginny.”

“How much I annoy her or how much she hates me?” Malfoy said evenly, one eyebrow arched over his cool eyes.

“No, that we just broke up,” Harry pleaded playfully.

“And about time, Wonder Boy,” Malfoy sniffed. He went back to his own conversation with a dignified air.

“So you see, I do like women,” Harry smiled ruefully. “I'm just bollocks at talking to them.”

“In that case, I think I need to buy you another ale,” Heather said, boldly meeting his eyes. The room seemed to spin.

“Blimey,” Harry muttered. “I hope Malfoy remembers the way home.” Heather laughed at that, signaling the bartender for a round on her.

“You two are roommates, then?” she asked, mirroring his position of both elbows on the bar and head resting in his palms. She quirked her head at him.

“Nah, Malfoy's just kipping at my place for a while,” Harry sighed, searching for the best way to explain their situation while giving as few details as possible—especially details about Malfoy. He caught snippets of Malfoy's polite conversation with Jack and borrowed what he needed to keep their stories straight. “His parents are crazy; really nutters, completely off the deep end. He put out an S.O.S. and I was the first responder. I have a house and people stay with me all the time, so it's really nothing.”

“Wow, you have a house? You can't be more than twenty,” Heather mused.

“Eighteen,” Harry lied. It was the drinking age for muggles.

“Shit!” she said appreciatively. “How do you have a house already?”

“My godfather died two years ago. He left it to me.”

“I'm so sorry,” Heather offered, her face gone soft and gentle with sympathy. “Were you really close?”

“He was like a father to me,” Harry said in a somber tone, leaning over his pint. “My parents died when I was a year old. So when...” Harry stopped himself. “Jesus, this is terrible stuff for a first conversation! How many pints have I had, three?” That stopped the beautiful girl from feeling sorry for him. It even got her laughing again. “So, Heather the lovely bass playing gal, where are you from?”

“Southampton,” she said between fits of laughter. Their conversation flowed quite smoothly after that: Westlife's popularity was serious pants and Noel Gallagher was a genius even if he was high most of the time. Heather seemed to find his awkwardness endearing if not maybe a little attractive and she kept offering to get him something stronger from the bar. It turned out the band drank for free. She claimed she was just trying to save him a few pounds on his quest to piss-all. He told her that was Malfoy's quest and he was just along for the ride. That cracked them both up. Harry looked around and realized Malfoy had left his stool. Harry spotted a tousled white blonde head making for the men's loo. Jack paused at Heather's side to give her a kiss on the cheek. She snorted and pushed him away, shouting to communicate over the song blaring from the nearby jukebox.

“Go, go!” she yelled, flinging her hands helplessly in the air. “I'll stall for you—ten minutes, okay?”

“Fifteen?” Jack begged, his eyes big and hands pressed together in supplication. “Twenty? Come on, you saw him! Pleeeeease?” he whined loudly.

“Fifteen,” Heather agreed. Jack kissed both her cheeks before racing after Malfoy.

“Um, where are they going?” Harry couldn't help but ask. That third pint had really loosened his brain. This fourth one waiting before him wasn't about to do him any good. He shrugged and went for it anyway.

“Poor thing, you really don't get out much, do you?” Heather chortled. Harry flushed in embarrassment. “If your friend's a romantic like Jack, they'll be necking in the alley by now.”

Much as Harry didn't want to think about Malfoy snogging Jack... Malfoy just didn't strike Harry as the romantic type and he said as much.

“Then they're probably fucking in the loo,” Heather shrugged. Harry shivered when his inebriated mind processed that one. “There I go, again—being too forward. I'm sure you didn't wanna know that about your mate.”

“No, I appreciate your being honest with me, I really do,” Harry found himself talking with his hands, leaning forward and taking one of Heather's cool hands in both his own, toying with the tips of her fingers. “It's just that, for years and years, Malfoy and I were enemies. We were rivals at school. We hated each other. Really, Heather,” he felt like saying her name emphasized his seriousness. “Sixth... sixth form, I nearly killed him in a fight. He was in hospital for days. And now we're having a go at the whole mates thing, he's quickly becoming very human to me, you know? He has all these worries and fears and needs—being sexual is just one of them. And him living with me, well, I'm responsible for him. It's just... it's a lot. I'm whinging. Am I making sense?”

“You're making perfect sense, Harry,” Heather comforted him, squeezing his hand and patting his forearm. “I think you care about others more than you care for yourself. Am I right?”

“Maybe a little,” Harry conceded. It felt good to have someone to talk to, someone wanting to hold his hand because he was Harry, not because he was Harry Potter, Wonder Boy. And someone who thought he was cute and kept buying him ales? Clearly The Gladstone Arms was a portal to heaven. Harry was happy to sit there and have Heather stroke his hands.

“Well, how many people are staying in your house?” she mused.

“Hermione, my best mate,” Harry listed, “and Ron, my other best mate. Ron's mum and sister, and sometimes his dad, too. They had a house fire a few months back and there are still repairs, you know how that is. Then Malfoy, of course. And my friend Viktor came from Bulgaria a few weeks ago.”

“Fuck, how big is your house?” Heather's eyes were wide.

“Um, it's big,” Harry shrugged.

“Potter, that's disgusting,” said a familiar, pompous drawl. “You know better than to speak that way to a lady; honestly, Granger would be ashamed.” Harry spun around to find Draco Malfoy looking no worse for having possibly shagged in a muggle bathroom. He looked exactly as he had when he'd left; except, perhaps his shirt was unbuttoned more than before. A burn mark on his chest was barely visible. And there was a fair bit more perspiration clinging to his face and throat. Malfoy resumed his seat and picked up what was now his bourbon and water. Harry spotted Jack picking up his electric guitar, hair loose and mussed. His lips looked bruised but his clothes weren't askew or any other tell-tales.

Harry leaned over into Malfoy's personal space. He smelled like sweat and outside.

“Well?” he said awkwardly. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Malfoy snapped. He took a deep breath and started again. “I'm fine, Wonder Boy. Jack's invited us back to his hotel for drinks after the show, if you're game.”

“Sure,” Harry nodded. Did that mean Jack and Malfoy hadn't done the deed yet? Were they going to? Wasn't that usually what a hotel invite implied? Harry's head swam. He looked at his fourth pint like it had sprouted horns.

“I'd better get my ass up there,” Heather said, slipping off her stool and smoothing her short dress over her backside. She placed a hand on Harry's knee and examined him closely. “You'll come to the hotel after?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Good,” she said. She leaned forward. Then they were kissing. It was really nice. She tasted like the gin and tonic she'd been drinking and her lips moved slowly, cool against his own. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, deepening the kiss. God damn it, this place was heaven.

The sound of a few experimental guitar chords finally separated them. Heather put a hand to the side of his face, swiping gently at his bottom lip made thick from snogging. He blinked very slowly, his gaze fixed on her wonderful pink lips.

“I'll catch you later, yeah?” she asked, tilting his face to meet her eyes.

“Yes,” Harry said, trying hard not to slur the simple word. Between the ale and the unexpected kiss, his brain was one hundred percent checked out. Heather swooped in for one last peck before fake-slapping his face. She was such a goof. He laughed silently and shook his head as she sauntered away, hips swaying to the little tune Jake strummed.

Harry faced Malfoy, unable to wipe the dopey grin from his face. He tried to bit his bottom lip but there was no sensation left; instead, he braced a hand on Malfoy's shoulder.

“Malfoy, I think you need to drink this,” he mumbled over the music, pointing to his half-drunk fourth ale.

“Saint Potter, did you let the tart get you shit-faced?” Malfoy asked incredulously.

Harry nodded, smiling. Then his face fell. “Heather's not a tart! She's a lovely woman,” he corrected.

“Excuse me,” Malfoy sneered in his best haughty voice. Harry just snorted at him. That seemed to take him down a peg or three. “Look, Wonder Boy, I'll cut you off. You've clearly had too much. But I need to explain something to you first.”

“No need to esplain anee-thing,” Harry mumbled, accepting a glass of water the bartender kindly delivered. “I know you and Jack... whatever. You don't owe me an esplination. Tha's your business.”

“That's not what I meant,” Malfoy cut him off. “This 'Lovely Heather' of yours. You need to understand that she will expect you to put out. You need to inform her that you are inexperienced,” Malfoy said all of this in a slow, matter of fact voice that made Harry very comfortable. He couldn't process a lecture.

“No esperience what-so-ever,” Harry muttered darkly. He almost went for the pint instead of the water, but better judgment won out.

“Yes, Wonder Boy. Boy!” He yelled over the music and Harry jerked to attention. “You must tell her, understand?” Malfoy tilted his head and focused on Harry with a frank, concerned stare. For a moment, Harry saw two Malfoys. He looked away, blinking. “She may not want to fuck you. She doesn't strike me as the type to endure a late-night bout of V.A.S.”

Harry's head snapped to stare at Malfoy: his eyeballs followed a second later. What a funny word, eyeballs. Like testicles you can see with.

“What's V.A.S.?”

Malfoy laughed, picking up Harry's pint and drinking deeply before answering. “Virgin Attachment Syndrome. Usually it's just girls, but you'd be the mopey, clingy sort, Gryffindor.”

“You're a bitch, Slytherin,” Harry fired back.

“No, sweetie,” Malfoy said in a sickeningly patient voice. “That's the right pocket. And I'm a left pocket boy, through and through. You'd do well to remember that.” And he drained the pint in a show of machismo. And Harry was impressed.

- - -

Harry managed to catch Jack outside having a cigarette after the last set. His voice had had a considerably more gravely edge after his rendezvous with Draco. Now Jack was smoking and having a chat with Eric, the band's keyboardist. Harry had settled his and Malfoy's substantial tab and wanted to catch the long-haired musician while Malfoy was in the loo.

“Jack, can I have a word?”

“Of course, man.” Jack turned to make his apologies to Eric. The man shrugged and said he should probably go and help Heather pack up, anyway. In short order, Harry was left in a pool of streetlamp light with Jack, the object of Malfoy's right-now affection. Or lust. Harry wasn't sure. But he knew what he needed to say to the man and he steeled his nerves.

“Look, Jack,” he began, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Malfoy's had a hard time of it. I dunno what he told you and it's not my place to go spilling his secrets, but you need to know. Those scars of his? They're real recent. And there are worse ones than what you see on his arms and stuff. That's the least of it,” Jack opened his mouth to speak but Harry held up a hand, begging his silence. “Malfoy got really fucked up, physically and mentally. He's always been a self-centered ponce and under any other circumstance I wouldn't encourage this, but... right now we all have to smile and nod and do whatever we can to make his life easier.”

“I understand,” Jack said quietly, dragging on his cigarette and not meeting Harry's eyes. “I saw the scars. They're mad.” Harry nodded. “The people who did that to him—they're rotting in jail, right?”

When Harry shook his head, Jack gasped. Anger filled his eerie green eyes. Good, Harry thought. He's a good man. He actually understands.

“That's why Malfoy's with me,” Harry explained, giving as few details as possible. “I'm part of an underground. We're able to protect him.”

“No offense, but you don't seem like much of a bodyguard,” Jack pointed out. “I mean, are you armed?” He flinched.

“Yes,” Harry replied. His wand was just as deadly as a gun. At least he hoped it was, otherwise what chance did he stand against Voldemort? “But I'm not drawing a weapon when I'm this ploughed. I have to stick close. Malfoy's no china doll—he can cover his arse just fine; but all the same, I gave him my word I would keep him safe. I don't give my word lightly”

“I respect that. And my room's next door to Heather's,” Jack said, giving Harry a wink. “I saw you two.”

“Yeah,” Harry blushed before redirecting. “Um, we're talking about Malfoy, though. If you can, don't mention his tattoo. That'll upset him a lot.”

“Okay,” Jack nodded, breathing the last of his cigarette before stubbing it out with the heel of his classy trainer.

“And don't mention that I told you any of this,” Harry rolled his eyes. “Malfoy's a testy little fucker. He's stubborn as hell. He needs his independence like you wouldn't believe.”

“I kinda figured that out already,” Jack said, pushing the butt around with his foot. “Don't worry, I'll make sure he has a good time. I—” Jack cast around and blushed a deep red from his neck to his ears. “I really like him. He's great.”

“Good,” Harry said, nodding curtly. The night air was really helping settle his head. He didn't feel quite as tossed now. “I'm glad he's decided to open up to someone. I know he's lonely.”

- - -

Harry learned quite a few things while walking to the hotel with Jack, Heather, Eric and Malfoy; for starters, they weren't the usual house band for The Gladstone Arms. They came into London three or four times a month when the regular band had scheduling conflicts. This was their last evening booked and tomorrow they headed back to Southampton. Eric worked for a mobile phone company, Jack managed a record store and Heather attended Uni studying psychology. Harry watched Malfoy walk along and nod, contemplating their muggle lives which must seem so foreign to him.

Harry wasn't sure how it happened but one moment he was standing on the deserted curb as Jack, Eric and Malfoy finished their cigarettes and the next he was alone in Heather's room while she occupied herself with female mysteries in the bathroom. Their hotel was really more of a guest house than anything else but they had splurged for private rooms with private baths. Everything seemed clean if a little under decorated. Harry could do without all the posh polishings so the simple surroundings were fine by him. A small portable radio played quietly from the bedside table. He sat on Heather's bed, which was comfortable. He just remembered to pull his wand from his pants and hide it under one of the pillows before she emerged from the bathroom.

She'd brushed her hair and washed the make up from her face. Without the dark stuff and sparkles lining her eyes, she looked younger. She'd also removed her jewelry, the chunky silver earrings and pearl necklace glittered back at him from the bathroom counter. She looked very beautiful as she walked up to him. With one hand, she swept her hair over to one shoulder and turned, showing him her back.

“Would you mind getting the zipper for me?”

Her flowery dress fell to the floor. The sight of her was just fantastic; silky black bra and red underthings that didn't cover much at all. And skin. Milky white, feather soft skin. Harry felt his palms sweat as she pressed closer, taking the hem of his tshirt in one hand and tugging it up to reveal his stomach, a few shades darker than her own.

“I want to see you,” she whispered. A second later Harry's shirt was off. He wasn't sure if he'd taken it off or if Heather simply did it for him and he didn't rightly care because she was kissing him, caressing his teeth with her slick little tongue, pressing him back against the bed. Harry managed to kick his trainers and toe off his dingy old socks. His underthings were so mundane compared with hers; hers, he could touch and look at all day long.

He was still drunk enough not to be self-conscious when she removed his glasses, when she wound her fingers through the coarse hair trailing down his stomach, when she licked a hot path up his neck that sent shivers down his spine.

“You've got a great body,” she simpered, grinding her hips teasingly, tauntingly against his. “You must work out.”

“Oh. Not really.” His brain was having difficulty forming coherent sentences when his body hissed and jerked the way it did.

“Play football, then?” she asked, gripping his biceps and planting his arms above his head. Her strong, nimble hands played his muscles like Harry Potter strings; like her bass guitar, he sang at every touch.

“Football? Yeah,” he mumbled.

“What position?” One of her hands traveled down his side, mapping every last sensitive place. His entire body was on fire as he found himself panting, out of breath.

“Second Striker,” he offered a position he'd always enjoyed back at muggle school. It was so hard to think with her hands on him, her lips hovering centimeters from his hot, clammy skin.

“You play at school?”

“Yeah,” he moaned against soft blonde hair. Heather's hand wrapped his hip and squeezed gently. The pressure it sent to his groin was mind-blowing.

“Bet you were a captain,” she smiled against his neck, expertly flicked his earlobe with her tongue. It set his hips to writhing something awful. He was clearly out of his league.

“House captain,” he gasped, “my last two years. Oh God, it's so hard to talk when you're doing that.” Her laughing breath danced down his neck. He never knew there was a path leading from his neck directly to his balls, but he damn well knew it now. He could feel every vein in his nether-regions as though his blood had been replaced with acid—Merlin, if that slow burn didn't feel fucking phenomenal!

“We don't have to talk,” she whispered, lowering herself completely onto his chest and wrapping arms and legs around him in a heady pile. She rolled so that they lay entangled on their sides, staring into one another's eyes. Gods, she was so beautiful.

“I, um, have to tell you something you might not like,” Harry managed to get out after several steadying breaths.

“Okay,” Heather pulled back in his arms. He thought that might help him focus until he saw the way gravity effected her breasts. They wanted to pop right out of her bra. He could see the faintest trace of darker skin, suggesting her nipple was just one deep breath away from his sight. The better half of his mind waged a lengthy battle with his frenzied hormones; eventually, his better side emerged the victor.

“I haven't done this before,” he admitted, eyes falling closed in shame.

“Hmm?” she hummed softly. “Had a fling? It's perfectly okay. I don't expect anything if that's what you're worried about. I'm a big girl, Harry. I can handle it.”

“I know that,” Harry replied, now even more embarrassed. “I'm not... I haven't done anything before. I'm a virgin.”

“Oh.”

The pressing silence was deadly. Harry didn't dare open his eyes and Heather didn't move in his arms, though he could feel her jaw working soundlessly against his arm.

“I'm sorry,” Harry whinged, distraught. “I know I should've said something earlier, I know that, I was just... really enjoying everything. I understand if you can't be bothered with a guy who hasn't the foggiest what he's doing.”

She shushed him with a gentle sound. It went right to his chest, hitching his breath in an almost sob and doubling the pace of his heart. She seemed to know exactly what was going on. Her cool hand found its way to his chest, settling in to stroke up and down his sternum at a slow, steady pace that eased his tension.

“Shh,” she repeated. “It's okay. It's okay, Harry.” Her hand was just as soothing as her words. “That must've felt pretty fast then, huh?” He nodded dumbly, biting his lip. A good part of the sensation was back in his limbs and he was thankful. He very much wanted to feel what was coming; that was, if Heather's previous illusions were still on the table. Or the bed, rather. “Why don't we just take it slow and you let me know if you're getting close, okay?”

“Sure,” he was able to open his eyes to meet her gaze. Thank God she was smiling happily at him.

“How far have you gotten?”

Oh, damn it all to hell! Harry flushed again.

“This far,” he sighed.

“Oh, dear,” was her reply.

“I've really bollocksed it up, haven't I?”

“No, no!” she laughed that very reassuring, happy laugh. It was softer because she was so close, and her breasts brushed against his chest. “I was just thinking. My first time, I didn't tell the person I was with and it's something I've always regretted. The experience could have been really different. I was thinking what I would have liked that person to say, what would have made me feel better back then.”

“That person?” Harry asked quietly.

“Well,” and Heather actually blushed. “My first time was with a girl. I'm bisexual.”

“Do you know what you might've liked her to say?” Harry prodded gingerly.

“Yeah, I think so,” she smiled then, brushing her fingertips over his forehead, his scar, and pushing his sweaty hair off his face. “The first thing is how far you feel comfortable going.”

“Er, all the way, I think.”

“Typical guy,” Heather rolled her eyes playfully. “And how much do you want to know about my body, how things work? Because it's very different for men and women.”

“I know,” Harry smiled weakly. “I'd like to know as much as possible if you'll show me.”

Heather was such a good teacher. She would say a few words and then let him explore and figure things out on his own. Preferably with his tongue. Before too long he had her naked and gasping, writhing and moaning happily under the power of his own two hands.

“Enough foreplay,” she insisted, her lips and breasts rubbed red from kissing and strong, insistent hands. Once he'd figured out what he was doing, Harry had not been shy about it; he'd been direct and firm, often inquiring how something felt or what would make it even better for her. Eventually he learned to go on the sounds she made, the little gasps, shivers and shrieks he elicited when tongue and teeth became involved. “Please let me show you my clit! You're a fast learner.”

“Come here, then,” Harry smiled, sitting up and pulling her into his lap. He'd gone down to his boxers but wasn't quite ready to fully join the action; for now, it was just about her.

“By the way,” she cooed, head tilted back at a crazy angle to nip at an exposed tendon in his neck. “No woman will require that much foreplay. Ever. I just wanted you to get the idea.”

“Sure,” he muttered, focused on scraping his teeth along her delicate collar bone and reveling in the heart-pounding moan it produced. For a woman who harped on about soft and gentle, soft and gentle, she'd responded awfully well to his forward advances. Her round backside pressed against his growing hardness.

“Okay, watch first,” she said, earning his full attention. God, he loved watching. “I'm going to show you what I like, then you join in, okay?” He nodded against her neck, wrapping both arms around her middle and squashing down her breasts with his forearms to afford himself a better view. He'd already been treated to a few damp slides across his thigh. He was prepared to have his eyes opened.

Her hand slid down, past the well-manicured thatch of hair—compared to my untamed Forbidden Forest, he thought with an apprehensive shudder—and she began to squirm, her body tensing and unfurling in a regular rhythm. The feel of her writhing against him was really something. He watched her fingers probe and roll like she was plucking at the strings of her bass. He could watch her all fucking day. He sat there, transfixed, drooling as she got closer and closer.

“Come on, then,” she simpered. She unwrapped his right hand from her torso, bringing his hand down to join her own. “I'm so close.”

“But I don't....”

“Shh,” she cooed, guiding his thick fingers over her, damp and smooth. She slid the tip of his finger inside her. Wow, wow, wow. He couldn't help the satisfied rumble shaking his chest. “Yeah, that's where you're gonna go. But not yet,” she said with a throaty laugh, drawing his fingers higher. “Here's what makes it fun for me.” She guided his forefinger in a tight, grinding circle over a tight little bump there. She shivered when he pressed harder, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.

“Oh!” she gasped, pressing her shoulders against his chest and digging her heels into the mattress. “That's almost too much!”

He backed off just a bit, returning to the lighter pressure she had shown him. She moaned and relaxed in his arms. It really wasn't very interesting though. He liked it when she tensed, when she hovered on the precipice between mind-blowing and sharp, stinging over-stimulation. What was wrong with too much, anyway?

He held her against him and pressed the way he really wanted to. Her whole body stiffened, hands gathering white sheets in two tight fists. She bit her lip and moaned, her head tossing from side to side.

“Still too much?” he teased.

“Yes, but...” she mumbled, semi-coherent. “Oh God! Oh God!” She shook, legs snapping together to trap his hand in the hot wetness of her. He continued to work his hand as she squirmed, squeaked, whined. He pressed his thighs against hers, holding her legs together as her body began to unfurl in release.

To her apparent shock, he kept right on going. He pressed harder, driving a finger into her and then two. Her hips bucked against his hand in a spasm. He had only the vaguest idea of what he was doing but it felt oh-so-right.

“Oh, Harry,” she moaned. “Too... too....” There she was, trying to tell him “too much” again. He wasn't hurting her, so he didn't back off. She sounded delirious, anyway. Flicking hard with his thumb got her shaking. Swirling the fingers inside got her moaning wildly, eyes closed and head thrown back against him. “Oh, Jesus fucking—oh God, Christ!”

Harry bit down on her shoulder, fighting the sudden urge to actually slap her down there. Some part of his reptilian brain told him it would make her feel good. He told that part it was mental and resisted with everything he was worth. Heather made a startled noise as his teeth raked against her flesh. She attempted to ride his hand with unbridled fury. He clamped his legs around hers to keep her from moving, to prevent her from squirming and ruining his plan. She screeched from behind clenched teeth and more wetness shot out, spraying his palm.

He fell sideways with her, cushioning her fall onto the mattress.

“Phew!” she managed between gasps.

“Wha'?” Harry mumbled, face buried in her sweet, sweat-tinged hair.

“I've only ever read about those!”

“Those? What'd I do?” Harry asked, apprehensive.

Heather craned her neck to look at him sideways. “Forced orgasm,” she explained, still short of breath. “Some people who are really experienced can make their partner come when the person is actively trying not to, usually by overstimulating them when they've just come to force a second involuntary orgasm—that's what you did. It's usually associated with sadomasochism.”

“Huh?” he squeaked.

“You, my dear Harry,” she smiled, “probably have a dominance fetish.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry spluttered, not knowing what else to say. “Is that bad?”

“Goodness, no!” she reassured him, pulling his arm tighter around her. She cuddled closer, her backside nestled tightly against his groin. “And don't let anyone tell you different! Fetishes are really healthy and normal. Everybody has them whether they admit it or not. But you should tell your partner about it, so they know.”

“Sorry,” Harry whispered, trying to hide in her long hair splayed out over the sheets.

“Oh, you didn't know!” she laughed softly, slapping his hip. “But now that we do.... I think it's time you got your cock in me.”

Harry froze, her soft hair clinging to his lips as he breathed.

“Yeah?” he managed. His voice was so deep it didn't even sound like himself. She nodded excitedly.

“Ready? You want to?”

“If you're ready...” Harry shrugged, loosening his hold so she could sit up.

“You really are a sweetheart, you know that?” she said lightly, trailing a warm hand down his chest before crawling away to get off the bed. “I just wanna put you in my case and bring you home.”

That made Harry chuckle. She retrieved a hair band from her purse, securing her hair in a loose knot at the back of her head. It drew his attention to her long, beautiful neck and the red marks his mouth had already left there. Hopefully he was about to make a few more.

“Lie on your back, Harry,” she said, putting a knee to the bed. “You've been so good. I want you to relax and enjoy it.”

At those words, his cock got so hard he thought he would explode right then and there. He needed to get the last of his clothes off. He needed release. It was like needing oxygen—there was absolutely no doubt in his mind what he needed to survive. Heather crouched over him on the bed and he watched her, petal-soft skin and silver piercings, pulling his boxers down. She tossed them aside with a feral grin before focusing on his throbbing anatomy.

“God fucking damn it,” she breathed.

“Wha'? Wha's wrong?” Harry panted, eyes flying to the ceiling.

“You're... really thick,” she let out the happiest laugh he'd heard all night. “Aren't I a lucky girl? The first to ride this.” She wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and he almost came right then.

“Gah!” he spluttered. “Gonna come!”

“Okay,” she said, pulling her hand away but resting her fingers on his upper thigh. “Let me grab the... hmm.” She froze on her knees between his legs, a little cellophane package in her hand. Harry realized it was a condom and his heart almost stopped. Heather gave him a rather bracing look. She looked worried, her teeth showing through an anxious smile that didn't reach her eyes this time. “Sweetie, I don't think this is gonna fit you.”

“Well, I mean, don't they stretch?” Harry pleaded.

Heather gave him a very well-meaning look. “Not that much.”

Harry never hated having magic. But right then the knowledge that his wand was a few feet away burned at him. He could just grab his wand, cast a quick Engorgio and proceed to lose his virginity to this absolutely beautiful and enchanting woman. Maybe he could do the charm non-verbally? That way she wouldn't know. He was already reaching under the pillow when his conscience stopped him.

Don't do magic in front of muggles, said the little voice in his head. It's against the law, for starts. And it would be wrong to use magic for your own gain. You're just going to have to bite the bullet this time.

“I could run to the chemist,” Harry offered. He'd willingly suffer the embarrassment of buying condoms. He'd suffered worse. And the reward would be well worth it.

“It's almost three in the morning, love,” she said with a frustrated sigh, tossing the little condom package aside. “Boots is closed.”

Harry gave her a really weird look. It took a minute for his brain to figure out she meant Boots Pharmacy, a chain of muggle stores. When he heard “Boots,” he'd thought of his Hogwarts schoolmate, Terry Boot, and that did some harm to his erection. Not like he'd need it anymore.

“I'm sorry, hun,” Heather said, misinterpreting the look he'd shot her. “I don't have sex without a condom.”

“I understand,” he said. It wasn't like he had any diseases to give her. She'd been the first person to touch him, for fuck's sake! But he didn't want to be a father yet, so a condom was absolutely necessary. He wondered what wizards used.

“Don't look so down,” Heather said softly, running a hand down his cheek. “I have another idea. Ever had a blow job?”

Blow jobs were bloody fantastic. Heather warned him not to buck his hips or she would choke, but compliance was difficult once she got going. His dick wanted to fuck. And her mouth was wet and warm, sucking at him while her hands fondled him everywhere at once. It was good and he was almost there.

He sort of... hung in the middle, hard but not feeling the tenseness in his gut which signaled the inevitable. It was like there was something missing and he couldn't remember what it was, like he'd been Obliviated and the memory of how to orgasm had been wiped from his brain. He was hard as a rock and Heather looked so good, bobbing up and down while making those humming noises of encouragement that wound his bollocks tighter every time. He wanted to come but his equipment just... wasn't. It had been at least fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Was that normal?

Heather pulled back, stroking his length with her hand and looking up from between his legs. From this angle, her breasts framed his cock and it was yet another hot sight to catalog.

“You getting close?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said with a wince.

“Don't force it,” she smiled and reached for his right hand fisted in the sheets. “Here. Why don't you show me what you usually do? I can get a better idea of what you like.”

Harry didn't trust his voice so he nodded dumbly, watching her bring his hand to his own shaft. He closed his eyes, wrapped his hand and gave a few experimental pumps. It was almost like he was back in bed at Grimmauld Place, wanking to stupid fantasies he'd invented from Dudley's dirty magazines he'd found hidden in the linen closet when he was fourteen. Summers hadn't been quite as bad after that. He worked himself, rocking into it until he was panting slightly. Then Heather joined him, her tongue plying the skin just below his balls. In another minute, she removed his hand to replace it with her own, picking up his rhythm and pressure. That was better but he didn't feel any closer to the edge.

He was getting frustrated. Heather was probably annoyed but—angel that she was—didn't show it. He watched her work his length, her mouth closing over the head and sucking powerfully. Gods, he needed to come and it just wasn't, wasn't....

A loud crack echoed through the small room. It took a second to place—not Apparition, not a house elf, but definitely magical. A Privacy Ward breaking down! Suddenly, he could hear noises; the steady thump, thump of a bed bouncing against a shared wall, an actual squeak of bed springs, and quiet moans of “ah” and “oh” every other second, seemingly in time with the bed's movement. Every other syllable was unintelligible due to the banging. Heather rolled her eyes but kept working Harry and he was thankful.

Then it happened. He heard Malfoy. He just... knew it was Malfoy. He knew how the man spoke, how he yelled when he was angry, how he howled when injured or cursed. He'd never heard Malfoy sound like this before: he was growling, the other voice whimpering. Malfoy sounded powerful, his voice crackling with rage and magic.

“Enculé! Tais toi et tu prenez, salop! Ferme ta Gueule!” Malfoy screamed the last bit, followed by the unmistakable sound of a slap.

Without warning, Harry shot his load. He'd never come so fast or so hard in his entire life. He moaned as his orgasm ripped through him, stomach tense and teeth gritted. He let the heat wash over him, knowing it would be over in a matter of seconds. Heather's wet mouthed coaxed more from him, pulled and prolonged until he was writhing and screaming. On the other side of the wall, Malfoy screamed too.

Everything went quiet after that. The bed stopped slamming against the wall and Heather sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yup,” she sighed, flopping down next to him. “You definitely have a fetish or two.”

Harry was speechless. She turned out the light.

- - -

Harry woke with a start, cold fear pumping through his veins. He'd dreamed of the Hall of Prophecy, the ghost-like wisps of Seers reaching out to him, whispering in tongues he couldn't understand no matter how hard he tried. His mother screamed from the next room but there were no doors in or out of the Hall. Shards from broken prophecies cut his hands and face as he ran. He woke in a cold sweat, unsure where he was. A warm hand pushed sweat-soaked hair off his forehead.

“You okay?” came a woman's sleepy voice from beside him.

The evening rushed back to him: Heather—he was in a hotel bed with Heather Lightly, bass player and Uni student from Southampton. His wand was hidden under the pillow and his clothes presumably strewn across the floor. Malfoy would be asleep in the next room. The little radio on the nightstand played “Behind Blue Eyes” by The Who. Harry wiped cold sweat from his face before rubbing at his eyes. His dreams were never a good omen. Sure, the mental link between himself and Voldemort had been cut off but the things his own mind conjured in the dark of night frightened him almost as much as any image sent from Tom Riddle to haunt or taunt him into submission. He gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists. “Harry?” Heather sounded worried.

“I'm fine,” he managed from behind his teeth. “Nightmare.”

“You sure you're alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry sat fully upright and shrugged. He didn't know where his glasses were and had to resist the temptation to Accio them. “What's the time?”

“Half six,” Heather yawned, touching the smalls of Harry's back before she rolled away onto her side. “You should get some sleep. You look shattered.”

Harry felt shattered. Curling back up in the warm bed and ignoring his problems sounded damn nice... but he couldn't forget Malfoy in the next room over. He had to sneak Malfoy and himself back into Grimmauld Place within the next two hours or they'd be busted. He had to wake Malfoy and brave the journey home—the Slytherin was going to be cranky beyond words. Harry groaned at the thought, dragging himself out of bed to look for his pants.

“Are you leaving?” Heather asked, sheet held over her front as she gazed at him across the bed.

“I'm sorry. I have to go,” Harry tugged on his underwear and began searching for his trousers. “Malfoy's not supposed to leave the house, even. He sort of snuck out and I followed him. I have to get him back before anyone notices he's gone or they might... take him away from me.” Harry froze with one leg in his khakis, knowing he'd said too much.

“What do you mean 'take him away?' I thought you two were mates.”

“We are; now, anyway,” Harry got both legs into the tight trousers and pulled, jumping once to get them over his derriere and then securing the zipper and catches before they could go anywhere. “Malfoy didn't exactly run away for the summer. He... has to stay with me for his own protection. He's not a danger,” Harry clarified quickly, hunting down his socks and trainers. “Malfoy's harmless, if a bit of a prat. But I'm responsible for him. And I can't have my superiors knowing I let him loose in London even for a night. I'd lose my job.” It was sort-of true; he'd lose his good standing with the Order, which if everything went according to plan would be his job for the next year—or however long it took to find the Horcruxes and destroy them all, including Voldemort himself.

Heather must have noticed the serious look on his face. She pursed her lips in a thin line and nodded. “I understand. I don't want you to risk your job, Harry. If you need to go....” Her gaze drifted to the door and then back to Harry on the edge of the bed, tying up his trainers in a hurry. “Can I at least give you my number? We could have a drink or something next time I'm in town,” she smiled conspiratorially. “And you could bring your little friend for Jack. I think they hit it off.”

Harry tried mightily not to flush at the word “hit.” The two had indeed hit something.

“I'd like that,” Harry smiled tightly. It probably looked a little fake but he didn't have much else to give. He was focused on getting Malfoy back home and covering their asses. “I can't make promises for Malfoy, though—he's stubborn as shit and a real wild-card.”

When Heather reached across the nightstand to retrieve her purse and write her telephone number, Harry slid his hand under the spare pillow, feeling about for his wand. He found it a split second before Heather turned to him with the slip of paper. With seeker reflexes, he hid his wand behind his back, tucking it into the waistband of his boxers like a gun.

“Do I want to know what was under the pillow?” she asked, quiet and serious. With pale skin and platinum hair, her glare was Malfoy-esque. Harry secured his wand before slipping his glasses from the nightstand onto his face.

“No.”

“Would you tell me if I asked?”

Harry couldn't bear to tell her no again, so he shook his head. It was still no, but a sad no. He retrieved his shirt from nearly under the bed, having to bend carefully so the curious blonde couldn't sneak a peak at his wand. He tugged the garment on and adjusted his glasses, ruffling his hair. It probably looked like he'd slept in a pig sty but he couldn't care less.

Heather waggled her slip of paper at him. He knelt on the bed and leaned forward to take it, giving her a little kiss on the cheek as their fingers met. He pulled the paper from her hand and put it in his pocket.

She smiled at that. “Goodbye, Harry.”

- - -

Harry knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again, slightly louder.

Still nothing.

If it were just Malfoy, he'd bang on the bloody door. As it was quarter of seven and he stood in a cramped guesthouse hallway, he settled for quiet knocking. He whispered the wizard's name twice, followed by the muggle's name, and still not a peep. They needed to get back. He hunched over the door handle to block himself from imaginary eyes. “Alohomora.”

The door knob turned in his palm and he crept into the dark room, closing the door with a soft click behind him. He breathed a little sigh of relief upon spotting Malfoy alone in the bed. Harry wasn't sure where the muggle Jack was and he didn't care. He needed to get Malfoy out.

The room's set-up was identical to Heather's with the exception of the little radio on the nightstand—that must have been Heather's. Malfoy lay sprawled on his back, the sheet mercifully draped to cover his lower half. As Harry inched closer, he noted a few mostly empty water bottles and a towel on the side table. The towel bore dark, streaked splotches; after closer inspection, Harry decided it was blood. What the hell had gone on, here? He examined Malfoy. The blonde looked fine. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked drawn and paler than usual, but Harry couldn't detect any injuries. He threw a locking spell at the door before sitting on the very edge of the bed. Malfoy hogged most of it. Jack had either gone out for a cigarette or gave up on sharing his bed with the blonde and opted for the quiet keyboardist, Eric, instead.

Get Malfoy out, he reminded himself. Now.

Enervating Malfoy would be quickest but might very well scare the living piss out of the twitchy ferret. So Harry woke him the old fashioned way with a hand to his shoulder and a good shake.

Malfoy groaned and tried to swat his hand away.

“Wake up,” Harry insisted. “Come on.”

Malfoy groaned again but turned his tousled platinum head in the direction of Harry's voice. That was a start.

“Time to wake up,” Harry pressed.

Malfoy's hand slithered up his arm, seeking out the front of his shirt and gathering it in his strong fist. Harry rolled his eyes. Malfoy was certainly a fighter when it came to his beauty sleep.

Instead of a battle, Harry found himself yanked forward to a set of parted, waiting lips.

Malfoy kissed him feverishly and with unrestrained passion. You'd think the blonde was still fucking, the way his lips opened hotly to grind, suck and lick, setting off sparks like Weasley's Wizard Wheezes fireworks. Harry had his astonished mouth probed by a thick, wonton tongue sliding across the roof of his mouth before vaulting off his front teeth, swiping messily at Harry's bottom lip before biting down fiercely. It all happened so fast! Malfoy was poised for another tongue thrust when he noticed his kissing partner's uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. Or any response at all, for that matter. Harry hadn't made so much as a squeak or a squawk, glued in place by surprise. Malfoy froze, slippery wet lips still pressed to Harry's. Malfoy inhaled deeply and then held that breath for a good twenty seconds before forcing it out his nose in a huff that held many emotions, pleasure no longer being one of them. He may have pulled his lips back with a damp little pop but he didn't release what was fast becoming a death grip on Harry's shirt.

“Potter,” he breathed. What, did Malfoy know him by smell, now?

“Correct.”

“I thought you were Jack.”

“Clearly.” Harry's lips still tingled and not necessarily in a good way. It felt like... magic. He glared at the blonde so fiercely that the other man released his shirt and scooted until his back hit the headboard. The blonde wore his practiced mask.

Malfoy had kissed him, thinking he was Jack. Malfoy had intended that kiss for Jack. Malfoy had been using magic on his muggle sex partner. Harry was so angry his vision began to waver.

“Where's your wand?” he growled, not sounding remotely like himself.

Malfoy drew his wand from a hiding spot between the mattress and box spring. A small portion of Harry's brain admitted it was better than under the pillow. The rest of his brain was fuming that Malfoy had performed wandless sex magic on an unsuspecting muggle, breaking about six different wizarding laws. He let his rage boil over into his eyes. Malfoy pressed himself flush with the headboard.

“Get dressed, Malfoy. We're leaving.” Harry got up and turned his back on the bed. Unfortunately there was a long mirror on the opposite wall in which he could still observe the Slytherin.

“How long until we're missed?” the blonde asked petulantly, going to wrap the sheet around his waist so he could stand. “I need a shower.” He ran a long, slender hand down his chest, testing his skin to prove his point. His expression might've made you think he was covered in dragon dung instead of... whatever he was actually covered in. Harry had no desire to look.

“Make due with a Cleaning Charm,” Harry snapped. “I'm leaving in two minutes. Accio Invisibility Cloak.”

That got Malfoy moving. He tented the sheet over his body and began pulling on clothes at random. The blonde discovered a pair of socks which weren't his and tossed them at Harry. In less than a minute Malfoy emerged, tucking his shirt tails into his trousers before doing up the fly with a flourish. Harry watched him sidestep to the nightstand, leaning over it pensively. First he took a half-full water bottle. Then a half-sheet of black laminated paper. He put the paper back. Then he lifted up a chain of neon blue cellophane wrappers, ripping it in half, folding both halves neatly and shoving one pile in his pocket. Harry knew exactly what those were, now. Malfoy didn't even blush. He collected these things mechanically as Harry watched his reflection in the mirror.

Before Harry could stop him, Malfoy had pulled his wand. He had an impossibly fast and yet liquid draw. He'd already swished and flicked a silent incantation by the time Harry spun about to protest. Like he'd seen Dumbledore and Slughorn do almost a year ago, the room began to tidy itself. Towels flew back to the bathroom, clothes folded and flew into a waiting suitcase, and the bed made itself—dark flecks scrubbing themselves out of the sheets. In seconds, the room was immaculate.

“Isn't that a tad suspicious?” Harry asked coldly, raising his eyebrows.

“Casse-toi, Mouffi,” Malfoy muttered darkly.

Harry focused his attention on Malfoy's Dark Mark before hissing, “Same to you, I'd imagine.”

Malfoy twitched. “Merde, don't just... do that. It's disturbing, Scar Head.”

“Why should it bother you?” Harry pressed. Perhaps Malfoy thought Prince Potter shouldn't have a dark side. How little he knew. “Jealous, salop?” Harry repeated a word he'd heard from the other side of the wall. It certainly had the desired result. Malfoy's face paled and his mouth opened twice before he could splutter.

“How did y—” comprehension dawned on his pale, exhausted face. “You heard.”

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed sourly. “Nice Privacy Ward. Too bad it broke. Magic in front of muggles: good thinking.” He was sleep-deprived and testy while Malfoy didn't have the energy to stand and fight back simultaneously. “Malfoy, I'm dropping it. Put your wand away and let's head back. We've got less than an hour before our bacon is fried.”

“D'accord,” Malfoy said without thinking, stowing his wand.

“Suppose that means you agree, yeah?”

“Suppose right, Potter,” Malfoy sighed, ruffling his very messy hair. “Let's head back. Must I crouch under that infernal cloak of yours?”

“I guess we can wait until we're off the underground,” Harry conceded. He unlocked the door magically and held out his hand for Malfoy to precede him.

They decided to lock the door because Jack's things were inside. The muggle would probably wonder how his fuckmate had escaped a locked room but then again, Malfoy was a weird enough bloke Harry suspected Jack would believe just about anything by now. They left the guesthouse with no sight of the man. There were plenty of cigarette butts in the urn outside, though. Harry shot Malfoy a sideways look but the blonde remained impassive, wearing his Malfoy mask even with bed hair and wrinkled clothes.

The tube station was pretty crowded with early-morning commuters. He and Malfoy were the recipients of many knowing stares. They were doing the walk of shame. Harry, at least, felt nothing to be ashamed of—except deceiving the Order, Ron and Hermione. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely noticed Malfoy's head droop onto his shoulder around Moorgate. He let the blonde slump against him for a few stops. He'd planned to get off at King's Cross and walk the twenty minutes home, but Malfoy truly wasn't having it. In the end, he piggy-backed the cranky Slytherin through King's Cross, transferring to the line that would drop them near St. James Gardens. He carried a sleeping Malfoy on his back from Euston. It was barely a five minute walk and Malfoy really wasn't that heavy.

Concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak, he crept back into Grimmauld Place—narrowly avoiding Mrs. Weasley in the hall. He deposited Malfoy in bed before tiptoeing to his own room, hoping to catch at least an hour of sleep before showering and preparing for the day. But that morning, sleep eluded him.

For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French Dialogue

Enculé! Tais toi et tu prenez, salop! Ferme ta Gueule! - Bastard/Faggot! Shut up and take it, bitch! Shut your fucking face (animal, non-human)!

Casse-toi, Mouffi! - Go fuck yourself, prick!

Merde – shit

salop – (m) bitch/whore/trash

D'accord – I agree/okay
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Conscience