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
- 11
- 12
- 13
SUMMARY: Hermione and Tonks have engineered a special summer celebration. Life so rarely goes according to plan.

WARNINGS: flirtation, dancing, under-aged drinking, m/m kissing (finally, right?)

DISCLAIMERS: The Blue Iguana is a fantastic salsa club in my hometown of New York City. I've borrowed the name and nothing else.

The dance Harry describes as lead from the hips and thighs is bachata.

CONSCIENCE:

SEEKING FOR THE WRONG TEAM

Harry Potter stood before the large and ornate bathroom mirror, swearing up and down at his hair. No matter what he tried, it simply would not look decent. He had borrowed Hermione's hair gel and some Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. He'd used too much potion the first time and had to jump in the shower to get it all out. Shirtless and utterly frustrated, he was about to abandon the cause forever when there was a sharp knock on the door and an even sharper voice on the other side.

“Potter! What are you doing in there?! You're taking longer than a girl!” Malfoy was mocking him. This indiscretion would not stand. Without thinking, he yanked open the door.

Malfoy looked Harry once, twice, three times over, one delicate brow raised. His brows and lashes were just a few shades darker than his hair, offset by his pale skin and black tshirt. Smiling serenely, he brushed past Harry and into the bathroom with what sounded like “nice pecs.” Harry snatched his shirt from a hook on the wall and slammed the door.

“Can I help you?” Harry snapped.

“Yes, actually,” Malfoy smirked while examining his own immaculate reflection in the overlarge mirror. “You can put on a shirt and fix your hair—it looks wretched, Potter. What did you try to do? Make it lie flat?” Harry may or may not have actually growled in Malfoy's direction at this point. The blonde sighed at Harry's reflection behind his own pale, haughty one. “Well, you can't go out looking like that, so... this is the only time you'll hear me say this, Potter. Come here and bend over.”

“What?!” Harry exclaimed, his mind racing a mile a minute. He started to back away.

“Slytherin's balls, Wonder Boy!” Malfoy threw his hands to the sky, beseeching the great Salazar Slytherin to stop him before he did anything he might regret—like choking the life out of The Boy Who Loved To Be A Pain In Draco Malfoy's Arse. “I'm going to fix your hair. I'll need a comb. And you can leave that cheap hair tonic where you found it.” Harry stared at him. “Chop, chop, Gryffindor!” Harry threw the bottle of hair tonic at Malfoy's head.

“What do I have to bend over for, huh?” Harry asked pointedly, grabbing a comb and doing his best to saunter confidently over to Malfoy, who rolled his silvery eyes.

“So I can see your head,” Malfoy said simply, as though Harry were daft. “We're the same height, Potter. You could crouch and bend your knees if you like. I haven't got all night,” he sighed, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes again. He gestured politely. “Come here, my non-friend. Let me fix you.”

Harry took this final comment as a truce. He gave Malfoy a tight smile and bent his knees so that the top of his head was level with the other man's chin. Malfoy in turn took the comb from Harry's fingers and began vigorously attacking his unruly hair with both comb and bare hands, occasionally sprinkling water on his head that trickled down his neck and bare chest. There was an occasional “hold still, Potter.” At one point, Malfoy drew his wand and silently conjured a smear of tan paste, coating his fingers and then running them through Harry's hair starting at the back of his neck and working all the way up to his temples. After what felt like an eternity to Harry's burning thighs and calves but was probably less than two minutes, Malfoy announced that he was done. Harry put his glasses back on and looked in the mirror.

“Okay,” Harry said. His hair still looked messy and stuck up in places, but at least it appeared planned—maybe even artistic—instead of looking like he'd just woken up. There came an affronted spluttering from the Malfoy.

“'Okay?'” He mocked in indignation. “Okay?! Potter, I am a Vela-buggering miracle worker!” He held his arms out from his sides, posing as a canonized saint. “I made Harry sodding Potter look hot!” he proclaimed.

“Thanks,” Harry said sullenly, picking up his shirt. “You're a regular Martín de Porres, Malfoy.” He was about to pull the shirt over his head when Malfoy's face suddenly changed to a concerned expression. “What?” Harry pleaded. “What now?”

“You're not really wearing that shirt, are you, Potter?” Malfoy raised a theatrical brow. “Because,” and his voice dropped to a deathly-serious, Twilight Zone whisper, “it's positively hideous.” Harry growled, balling up the offending garment and throwing it at the prat. “I'm just being honest! As a devoted non-friend, I think it's my duty to tell you these things.”

“Fine!” Harry declared loudly. “I'll go shirtless! How's that?”

Malfoy cocked his head and appeared to be contemplating this idea. Harry could hear his blood hammering in his ears and realized that his hands were curling into fists, his rampaging energy begging to be channeled into something. Maybe Malfoy's smug face? He tried to relax. He and Malfoy were just starting to get on good terms again and he didn't want to blow it over something as stupid as his questionable wardrobe choices.

“Interesting idea, Scar Head,” the blonde said mischievously, reaching out a hand to touch Harry's bare shoulder, feeling his muscles in an appraising fashion. Harry looked him awkwardly in the eye. “We'll have to save that for a different sort of club.” Malfoy's cool hand slid slowly down Harry's shoulder, his thumb grazing nipple as he took a hold of Harry's upper arm. Harry felt a hot shiver dance down his spine. Malfoy smiled.

“Ready, yet?” Hermione's voice called from downstairs.

The boys broke contact immediately; Malfoy snatching up the offending shirt and moving toward the sink, Harry merely trying to look anywhere but at the body that had been inches from his own.

“C'mon, Boy,” Malfoy said after an uncomfortable moment of silence. “Let's go find you a decent shirt.”

- - -

Hermione, Ginny, Ron and Tonks were all gathered downstairs. Hermione was picking a piece of lint off of Ron's shoulder while the other three watched the upper floor, waiting for Harry and Malfoy to emerge from the bathroom. Ginny was losing her patience. If those two didn't get their butts in gear, she was going to go up there and give Harry a piece of her mind (and possibly her Bat Boggey Hex at this rate). She'd give Malfoy a piece of her mind as well, reformed house guest or not.

Just as she was about to draw her wand and head up the stairs the bathroom door was wrenched open. From the darkened bathroom emerged the sleek form of one immaculately dressed Draco Malfoy, dragging behind him none other than a very fit looking, shirtless Harry. Ginny couldn't help but gawk a little. She had a feeling Hermione and Tonks were doing much the same. All that Quidditch combined with good genes and Moody's combat training gave Harry a very nice form to look at. Even from the hallway, she could make out a dark trail of hair leading temptingly down his toned stomach. Ginny may or may not have been blushing.

“Harry!” Tonks called. “You're not even dressed yet!”

He's dressed plenty, Ginny thought. She might have seen a hint of his dark colored boxers peeking out from his denims.

“Fashion Emergency! Potter can't do anything, apparently,” Malfoy yelled back before tossing the partially clad Harry into his room. “Be ready in a jiffy!” With that, Malfoy slammed the door to his room and rounded on Harry.

“Did I just say 'jiffy?'” Malfoy asked in a small, frightened voice, back and hands pressed tensely to the bedroom door. He gave a little shudder and then dove for his wardrobe. He began comforting himself by throwing clothes everywhere.

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry said. “Mrs. Weasley rubs off on you after a while... Malfoy! Ya cunt,” Harry had just been hit in the face with something soft and white that smelled like... well, like Malfoy.

“Put that on,” the blonde commanded, folding his arms imperiously and glaring at Harry until he did so.

Harry looked down speculatively. “Er, I dunno if it fits right.” The shirt was fine in the waist but a trifle snug across his shoulders and chest, his frame being broader than Malfoy's. The white fabric for some reason made Harry feel exposed. Maybe it was how tight the shirt was; after all, he was accustomed to baggy, ill-fitting clothes. Or maybe it was the way Malfoy was looking at him—examining him again. His eyes were a very penetrating sort of grey.

“Nonsense,” the blonde responded a second later. “It looks better on you than it does on me, anyway! I don't have the pectorals for it,” Malfoy admitted gracefully. “And you, Boy, have spiffing pecs.” Malfoy smiled another little smile. A moment later he seemed to catch himself at it, shook his head, and made for the door. “We don't want to keep your friends waiting, Potter.” And he was bounding out of sight; by the sound of it, he took the stairs two at a time. Harry didn't have a chance to understand what was up with Malfoy, or a chance to say thank you.

- - -

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Ron exclaimed as the blonde appeared at long last, Harry trailing quietly behind him. “Are you wearing my sister's trousers?”

After elbowing Ron in the ribs discretely, Hermione paused to consider. Draco Malfoy's dark trousers were, in fact, skin tight—especially in the bum and crotch areas. They could well have been Ginny's if Hermione hadn't seen the pompous git purchase them with her own eyes. Malfoy seemed to notice the room's attention inadvertently drawn to his generous south country. He moved to change the subject.

“You ladies look lovely this evening,” Malfoy said with a polite nod. Hermione blushed—she was wearing the dress that Viktor bought her. Malfoy's nod let her know that her secret was safe with him, though the completely visible Dark Mark tattooed on his forearm told her otherwise. She was almost accustomed to visible Dark Mark. She caught herself as she was about to shiver and forced a smile instead.

“Yeah, very lovely,” Harry put in shyly. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting.”

“Well, let's get this over with,” Ron almost groaned.

“Don't be so enthusiastic, ickle Ronnie-kins,” Ginny said absently, grabbing her purse. “Someone might think you actually want to go.”

“Not too late to stay home,” Tonks admonished with a chuckle. Ron glanced warily at Malfoy.

“Nah,” he said guardedly. “I think I'll take my chances.”

- - -

“We have to go somewhere we won't be recognized,” Hermione said quietly as Harry paid the burly gentleman at the door. Tonks and Elphias Dodge had positioned themselves in a nearby coffee shop, ready and waiting should the artifact Hermione carried be activated. This way the young people had a bit of privacy but were still protected in case of emergency. Hermione and Ginny had everyone's wands hidden in their purses, transfigured into innocuous lipsticks and such. As Hermione suspected, they were searched upon entering the nightclub. It looked a little seedy, but the muggle newspaper had said it featured the best Latin dancing in town and was quite a feast for the eyes. She didn't expect the boys to dance much—it was more for her and Ginny. After her ugly break-up, Ginny needed to feel special and Hermione felt for her.

Ron and Malfoy looked especially confused as their pockets and backs were patted by two security guards, their twin expressions priceless. Malfoy threw the security people a dark look before stomping into the bar. Hermione raised a brow at Harry.

“He's not used to being touched,” Harry said quietly. “I think it makes him uncomfortable. He'll get over it.” Ginny and Ron cleared inspection and then they were off into the club.

The Blue Iguana was in the basement of a restaurant. They'd entered from the side of the building and passed through a long hall that ran along the back of the building. Through the big metal door, music thrummed. The bricks seemed to shake with the beat. Ron opened the door and they were struck by lights—pink, yellow, purple and red. A utilitarian railing separated the door's landing from the long, deep basement below where bodies moved fantastically to the rhythm. Harry didn't think he could dance like that if his life depended on it. At least there was a big bar on one side of the room.

Malfoy stood leaning against the railing, waiting for them, the lights blazing around his silhouette. The colors lingered in his hair, making him glow. Harry stepped up beside him as Hermione and Ginny dragged Ron down the stairs to the dance floor.

“There's a bar,” Harry shrugged. “Do you want a drink?”

Malfoy leaned until their shoulders touched but didn't look away from the sea of muggles. “I'm fine for now. Thank you, though. I think I'll just watch Weaselby make an arse of himself.” Malfoy chuckled softly in his throat. Harry looked out to see Ron's ginger head protesting as Gin and Hermione tried to get him to copy their steps so he could lead a dance. If Harry didn't keep his distance, he'd soon be put through his paces with no better result.

Walking down the stairs, he couldn't resist looking back at Malfoy. Lights played in his blonde hair and probably reflected in his eyes, too. How would that look? The man still leaned against the railing, looking out to the crowded room below. He didn't scan the space so much as his gaze moved from one couple to another, analyzing the steps of the dance and each man's style. His head bobbed to the music, long fingers tapping the metal rail under his hand. Harry would bet money that Malfoy could dance—and probably quite well. There didn't seem like much the man couldn't do; granted, he'd been trained from a young age to be a number of things—a pompous arse and a good dancer among them—and had probably been miserable most of the time, but at least he could do things like dance, play the piano and speak French. Harry hadn't had any of those opportunities.

He realized he was blocking the stairs gawping at Malfoy. He went to get himself a soda and then hung low at the end of the bar, doing his best to avoid eye contact. The last thing he needed was a pretty girl coming up to him and making small talk, asking him to dance. He was a sucker for pretty girls and it would be the Heather dilemma all over again. It was best to simply follow Malfoy's advice and stay away from muggle women for his own protection as much as theirs. He was happy enough watching his friends, the bass reverberating in his chest.

Soon he was flanked by two familiar bodies—Fred and George Weasley. Together, they lifted him from his stool and crushed him in a hug between them.

“Our other baby brother!” Fred shouted, mussing his hair.

“Oh, stop that! Can't you see someone made him up?” George said mock-sternly, slapping his brother's hand away from Harry's hair. “How've you been?”

“Fine,” Harry shrugged. “I saw you guys a few days ago.”

“I know! Why aren't you dancing?!” George said pleasantly, trying to grab hold of Harry's arms and drag him out to the dance floor.

“I can't dance like that,” Harry shrugged, tugging his hands away and hunching in his stool. “Can you?”

“Can't be that hard,” Fred observed the couples and bobbed his head to the beat as Malfoy had done. “One, two, three, one, two, three!” And he moved his feet in the same forward, shuffle, back, shuffle, as many of the people dancing. “Spin her 'round a bit, and you're done! See? Painless. You try.” Both twins attempted to seize Harry's arms then. He held up a pleading hand.

“Please. Really. I don't feel much like dancing.” Harry pointed across the room. “Look, there's Ron. Why don't you go help him? I think he'd appreciate it.”

“I think he needs it,” George smirked. “I'm off!” He clapped Harry on the shoulder before dancing his way off through the crowd, bumping his hips.

“You seem on edge, Harry,” Fred observed. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just have a lot on my mind.”

Fred nodded understandingly. Harry thought he was about to bugger off when his ginger brows went up and he gave a little squawk of surprise. Harry followed Fred's gaze and got a shock. Malfoy was being tugged into the lights by a tall woman in a skimpy, sequined top. She swiveled her hips knowingly before wrapping a languid arm around his neck and inserting herself in his personal space. A a sort-of slow song came on—the way the drums featured in this song was different than the other songs he'd heard so far. Malfoy's calm face watched the other dancers for a second before picking up the the basic step, pulling his partner so close that they touched from stomach to knees, his thigh tucked between hers, guiding her hips with his own. It was like sex standing up and Malfoy was apparently rather good at it.

“What's she think she's doing?” Fred asked from beside Harry.

“Huh?”

“Well, I mean, they play for the same team,” Fred said vaguely, thinking his meaning should be clear enough. He forgot he was talking to Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived... In A Cupboard. Fred saw Harry's look of confusion and expanded the analogy. “They shoot their quaffle through the same hoop.” Harry still wasn't following. “He's the bludger, where's the Beater, yeah?”

“Malfoy's not gay,” Harry said firmly, finally catching Fred's drift. His mouth gone, dry he sipped his drink.

“Not a poof—you serious?” Fred's mouth fell open. “But he's so...” He bent his wrist and waggled his hand exaggeratedly, like he was trying to dry fingernail polish or something.

“What, effeminate?” Harry rolled his eyes. “Not really. Just because he's not an oaf, you're calling him gay?”

“If the shoe fits,” Fred shrugged.

“He's not gay,” Harry repeated. “I know for a fact he likes both.”

“An equal opportunity seeker, then?” Fred joked. “I can see that. Malfoy's so greedy, he wouldn't make up his mind if he could have his cake and eat it, too.”

That made a certain amount of sense. Harry watched Malfoy lead the beautiful woman in a series of little turns. He seemed to direct her movements not with the arms wrapped around her body but with his hips and thighs, sliding her lithe body against his own, back and forth across his crotch and back and forth across the floor. She smiled, trailing fingers through his hair, her dark skin in sharp contrast to his white blonde locks turned shades of purple and pink in the swirling lights.

“I'm gonna go entertain Ginny,” Fred said. “She looks lonely. I'll catch you later, yeah? Maybe have a dance with Malfoy, try my luck.” Harry rolled his eyes as Fred bade him goodbye and disappeared into the swaying bodies.

Harry watched the dancing for a while. Malfoy's partner seemed to like him, clinging to him as each new song played. Fred and George teased Ron until he was red in the face before offering a few dancing pointers. Ginny laughed and swayed from side to side with a smiling Hermione. Eventually, Hermione spotted Malfoy and signaled him over with a wave. He dismissed himself from his partner and made his way to Hermione, offering her his pale hand with the tiniest of courtly bows. He held her a polite distance from his body, guiding her steps with their clasped hands. The blonde quickly had Hermione twirling and dipping her hips all over the place to a heart-pounding beat. Ginny stepped up to dance with Ron when Fred and George tired of teaching him. The twins quickly found partners and were shaking it goofily, much to the ladies' pleasure and delight. Malfoy worked his way closer the the knot of gingers and, with an expert twist, switched partners with Ron. Now Ron danced stepping on his girlfriend's feet and Malfoy had Harry's ex in his arms. In her high heeled shoes, Ginny was slightly taller than Malfoy. She looked straight across at him, her mouth a thin line. Malfoy turned his head to the side but kept his eyes on her in a sort of “go ahead and slap my face if you want to” gesture. Ginny took in Ron and Hermione's utter happiness for a moment before consenting to Malfoy's lead. He danced her in little turns, guiding her by her hands, arms and elbows. Once she figured out his rhythm, he lead what looked like pretty advanced steps to Harry; at least, it looked like what everyone else in the club was doing—quick steps, catches and undulations of the torso and hips. Malfoy did a quick little turn hmself, trailing Ginny's hands around his back before bringing them to slowly drape around his neck. Ginny actually closed her eyes once and smiled, forgetting who she was dancing with and just enjoying herself.

Ginny stepped away as the song ended and Malfoy was eagerly swept up by his earlier partner, the muggle woman's hands hands roaming his chest before locking behind his neck, dragging their bodies flush together. Malfoy's silver eyes met Harry's over the woman's shoulder. He smiled tightly, holding Harry's gaze in a sort of plea. Rescue me, Harry imagined those eyes saying. But that was ridiculous. Toward the end of the song, Malfoy danced his way to the end of the bar, the woman plastered to him as though by a Sticking Charm. She was not letting go of her prize. When he was still several yards off, Malfoy raised an arm to get Harry's attention.

“C'mon, Potter!” Malfoy called over the music, waving his arm impatiently. Harry just smiled weakly and shook his head. Malfoy was now able to make excuses to his bewitching partner and made his way over to Harry. “What?” Malfoy blurted, wiping at a thin sheen of sweat on his arms and forehead. “What noble cause is it this time?”

“It's not like that,” Harry said as quietly as he could and still be heard over the music. “I... I can't dance, really.” He shrugged. Malfoy laughed in his face; a short, clipping little laugh at the hopelessness of the boy hero.

“Is that supposed to be news?” Malfoy gave Harry a bracing look and sat down on a nearby stool. “Hate to tell you Wonder Boy, but I saw Patil drag you around the dance floor like a show monkey a few years back. And there were plenty of other witnesses. Secret's out, Potty.” He smiled a very goofy, playful, un-Malfoy-like smile. “Time to face the music!”

“But, I can't—”

“Fine!” Malfoy shoved him. Malfoy then stared at him incredulously, clearly expecting him to have fallen off his stool. “You're not even drunk?!” he asked in shock, haughty demeanor and dirty looks back in full swing.

“Well—”

“Two waters, four pints, six shots of Tequila!” Malfoy shouted down the bar. The bartender nodded once and set to work.

“That all for you?” Harry chuckled. He knew Malfoy's penchant for getting bombed and having a good time but wasn't sure that would be wise with all his Gryffindor mates. They might not understand Malfoy like Harry did. That was a peculiar thought.

“Only half,” Malfoy said, swiveling on his stool to watch the dancers. “And it's your shout.” Harry muttered to himself and pulled out his wallet. The bartender gave him the total and he balked.

“You're expensive,” Harry said mildly.

“It's the only way to be,” Draco replied, preening as Potter handed over the money for their drinks. Potter reached for one of the pints and Draco had the distinct pleasure of slapping his hand away. Potter looked incensed. “Don't touch. You'll spoil them.”

Potter rolled his big green doe eyes to the heavens, grunting, “Whatever, Malfoy.”

“Alright, listen up, lightweight. I'm only going to explain this once,” Draco chortled, making sure to poke Potter in the side to get his proper attention. “This is Tequila. I doubt you know what it is, even though you are a—” Draco carefully mouthed the word “muggle.” Potter's eyes watched his lips with barely concealed concern from behind his glasses. “Now lick your left hand.”

“What?! Why?” Potter demanded.

“Because this is Tequila and you're right handed,” Draco said matter-of-factly. “Look here, Potter. I'm licking my hand, too,” and he did, so Potter acquiesced. “Now put salt on it.” Draco unceremoniously—for a Malfoy—salted his hand and handed the shaker to Potter, who did likewise—without the flourishing or the arrogance. “On the count of three, you drink the Tequila as fast as you can, lick the salt off your hand, and slam the glass up side down on the bar. Then chase it with the water for now. Got it?” Draco mimed each action as though The Chosen One didn't speak English, just to be degrading.

“I think so...” Potter muttered darkly, hunching over the bar.

“Ready? Three!”

Draco was halfway through his tequila before Potter knew what hit him. He almost laughed and choked on his liquor. With the choking, Draco finished a good two seconds before the dark haired man.

“Not fair!” Potter protested, reaching for the cup of water in front of him.

“Oh, fine!” Draco agreed, taking a sip from his own cup and eying Potter sideways. “You count the next one, then.”

They tied. Even the bartender and the girl sitting two seats down said they tied. Malfoy sighed.

“Okay, new contest,” he declared. “Kamikazes.”

“Huh?” Harry hunched protectively over his first pint, trying his hardest to enjoy himself by ignoring Malfoy. Couldn't he go find a cute guy to grind on and leave Harry alone? Malfoy seemed determined to see that Harry enjoyed his evening—and Malfoy's definition of enjoyment involved getting thoroughly lashed.

“Stop that,” Malfoy ordered, hitting him again. “You look positively plebeian.” The girl two seats away laughed. “Kamikazes. Take that pint there, drop this shot in it, then drink—”

“As fast as I can,” Harry cut him off, picking up the shot and poisoning a perfectly good pint. “I'm starting to catch on to you, Malfoy.” Harry began to drink.

- - -

Harry had both elbows resting on the bar as he sipped at his second pint. Draco Malfoy wasn't nearly as annoying during drinking games; or, rather, after them. Harry was just realizing how much fun he was having when a pale hand came out of nowhere and shoved him hard. Harry nearly tipped off his stool and had to slap both hands on the bar to catch himself before he got them thrown out of the club. Malfoy roared his squealing, very real laugh.

“Yup! You're drunk enough!”

“Yer drunk tooooo,” Harry slurred, going back to his beer.

“True,” the blonde admitted easily, draining his pint with some grace intact. “Jus' not as shit faced as you.” He smiled. Another one of those slow songs with the drums came on and several girls in the crowd screamed. Apparently, this was a good one for the sex-standing-up dance.

“Let's go dance!” Malfoy declared. And Harry was being dragged onto the dance floor by his left arm, still trying to polish off the last of his pint with his right.

- - -

Ginny sat at the bar, alone at last. Fred and George were busy tonguing girls. Ron and Hermione danced, smiling happily at one another, Ron stepping on Hermione's feet. Ginny smiled, too. Hermione looked beautiful, Ron embarrassed, and they both radiated happiness as they swayed to the lively music. Gin realized that she was the only one of their group at the bar—everyone else was dancing. She watched the couples a bit more, nostalgic. Everyone in the club seemed happy... and completely oblivious to what was going on in a dark corner furthest from the bar. She had to squint.

Harry and Malfoy were getting along again.

Harry and Malfoy were dancing. Together. That slinky Latin dance.

She felt a muscle in her jaw twitch. She ordered a shot.

Harry was laughing, his back to Malfoy. The blonde guided Harry's hips with his own.

Malfoy was saying something in Harry's ear, his face half buried in Harry's dark, messy hair.

Harry closed his eyes, his lips parting as the sexiest little smile graced his handsome features.

Malfoy's lanky, Dark Marked arm snaked around Harry's waist, fingers splaying across the flimsy fabric covering his flat stomach. The shirt was so thin, you could see the shadowy outline of dark hair leading down Harry's front.

Harry leaned back, his body making contact with Malfoy's from shoulders to knees. They seemed to keep their balance by leaning against each other as they moved, hips rocking lazily with the steady drum beat.

Harry was very, very drunk. Malfoy seemed drunk, too; his movements were fuzzy but still elegant, graceful even. Men had no business being that graceful. She wondered where her shot was.

Harry pressed himself to Malfoy as they swayed.

Malfoy grabbed a hold of Harry's hand, twining their fingers together.

Harry's smile broadened, eyes still closed.

Harry bent his knees, dropping low. And Malfoy went with him, keeping their bodies snug, tightly pressed, needing the contact.

The only thing in the club grinding harder than the two men was Ginny's teeth.

Harry rose slowly, arching his back and resting his tousled head back against Malfoy's shoulder.

Malfoy circled his hips slowly, pushing Harry's arse nestled against his crotch, a pale hand gliding up Harry's neck to ruffle the hair at his temple, effectively knocking his glasses askew. The spectacles slid half way down his nose without his caring.

Harry took a step away.

Malfoy tugged Harry's hand still in his, pulling them face to face. He hauled Harry to a nearby wall, pushing him bodily against it. The swirling dance lights lit their bodies every few seconds, Harry's white shirt and Malfoy's pale hair captured in a different pattern of vibrant colors each time.

She downed her shot, spluttering and transfixed.

Harry's hands tangled in Malfoy's hair. Malfoy touching Harry, pale fingers running up and down his bare upper arms, curling around his arching back. Their faces pressed hotly together. Malfoy's tongue darting out to wet his parted lips. The deep flush in Harry's cheeks. Their legs crossed-about and winding together. Their chests heaving. Their breath coming in pulls. Their lips touching, meeting hotly. Again. And again. And again.
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Conscience