Chapter Text
Harry winces as the lights flash over his face. What was already angry music gets angrier, while the crowd shouts its approval.
He can’t believe anyone wants to dance to this shit. Post-war, the Weird Sisters have become increasingly more aggressive, their lyrics dripping bitterness that everyone who survived Voldemort—only to be faced with insidious bureaucratic obstacles after the fact—seems to taste in the back of their collective throats, Harry included. He supposes it makes sense, to dance to it. To throw one’s body into the rhythm of it to avoid hurtling oneself into an illegal potions habit (like Finch-Fletchley) or off the cliffs of Penwith (like poor Lavender Brown). This is objectively a better choice, less destructive, if much louder.
Harry drinks down his third Fiendfyre shot, grimacing at the way it snakes down his throat, but then humming with pleasure when it meets his stomach and warms him all over. He’s wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, thinking it’s about time he weaves his way back to his flat before he gets another Howler from Ron and Hermione about his bad habits. And that’s when he sees him.
Draco Malfoy writhes on the dancefloor like a wisp of smoke, his undulating body caught in sharp flashes that bisect his fluid movements, shining light on his face one moment—his eyes closed in something that looks like ecstasy—leaving him in the dark the next.
Harry blinks, his reactions slowed from the alcohol. If he had his wits about him, he’d have looked away in time. But the next moment, the light strikes Malfoy’s eyes, he opens them, and his gaze spears through Harry. He feels it like a hand, reaching into his chest cavity, squeezing the life out of his heart.
He doesn’t mean to stare, as Malfoy’s body moves slowly to the grinding guitar. It’s Malfoy’s eyes that hold him in place, his look at first almost gentle, like the fact that it’s Harry he’s looking at hasn’t quite registered. He sways, soft curls having slipped free from the bun he’s got perched high on the back of his head. The white-blond tendrils caress his cheekbones, his jaw, and Harry thinks that someone who’d been so hateful shouldn’t get to be beautiful.
He must be frowning, because now Malfoy mirrors the expression, and all of that soft sensuousness carves itself back into angular disdain. His dancing stops. Harry looks away, as though caught at something. He gets up off the barstool, but Malfoy comes over quickly, body pinging off the other dancers like a pinball, and he manages to block Harry before he makes for the door.
“What are you looking at, Potter?” The words are thick, hurled with carefully enunciated venom, and Harry realises Malfoy is very, very drunk. He’s had much more to drink than Harry has, and it’s a minor miracle he’s standing on his own two feet, much less able to dance.
“Nothing,” Harry says, wanting only to be home now. Coming out was a mistake. It’s always a mistake.
And apparently, this was the exact wrong thing to say, because Malfoy sneers at him. “That’s right, isn’t it, Potter? I’m nothing. I’m shit on the bottom of your fucking shoe. Just like old times.”
“That’s not—”
“Fuck you, you has-been, dried-up media darling. They don’t want you anymore, do they? They don’t want any of us. You’re down here with the scum, Potter.” He sways with the force of his words, poking Harry in the chest and stumbling backward when Harry doesn’t budge. But when Harry reaches out to steady him—it’s only reflex; it’s not kindness—Draco shoves his arm and then takes a swing at Harry’s face, which Harry easily dodges.
This only makes Malfoy angrier, and he tries again. When Harry ducks the second punch, cursing, “Bloody hell, you dick,” Malfoy whirls in a half circle, his eyes roll shut, and he passes out cold.
Harry, being the closest person to him and, again, acting on reflex, scoops Malfoy’s body from its dead faint, adopting an absurd bridal carry, with Malfoy slumped unconscious against his chest.
Merlin’s balls, what a fucked up night.
Harry looks around himself, bewildered.
“Was he… here with anyone?” he shouts, hoping he can pawn Malfoy off on Parkinson or Zabini or Goyle or whoever the fuck it is he hangs around with these days. But no-one comes to Harry’s aid or Malfoy’s rescue. Likely no-one hears him over the pounding of drums and the screaming of lyrics.
“Oi!” comes a shout behind him, and Harry turns, relieved, only to be confronted with a very weary-looking barkeep. “He comes in most Fridays. Alone,” the man adds, crushing Harry’s hopes.
Harry hikes Malfoy up a little higher against his body. “Do you happen to know where he lives?”
“I’m not a bloody social worker,” the barman says and then moves off to pull a pint.
One last look around the room confirms that no-one seems to give two shits that Malfoy fainted in his arms.
“Fuck,” Harry sighs, and begins making his way to the door, trying to keep Malfoy’s head nestled against his own chest so he doesn’t go lolling backward into the crowd to get concussed by an enthusiastic elbow. Malfoy makes a decent shield, actually, and they make it out into the temperate late Spring night without incident. Or without further incident, would be more accurate.
Harry breathes deeply of the fresh air, looks right and left down the pavement, and then sets off to the nearest Apparition point which sits on the edge between this small pocket of Wixen shops and bars and a sketchy east London Muggle neighbourhood with more broken streetlamps than working ones—the perfect place to hide the crackling magic of a disappearing wizard and his unconscious enemy.
Harry’s steps are quick and purposeful. He’d rather set Malfoy down sooner rather than later, but he doesn’t trust himself with a Side-Along without an Apparition point, not when he’s had as many drinks as he has. And though Malfoy was lithe and graceful on the dancefloor, he’s like a sack of wet Grindylows passed out like this and seems to have gained a couple of stone while unconscious. Not to mention it’s awkward in other ways. What if Malfoy wakes up, feels Harry carrying him, and decides to fight him anew. What if he voms all over Harry’s nice new t-shirt?
But as hastily as Harry makes his way to his destination (which is in the shady alley next to a closed Muggle dry cleaner called ‘Slappy’s Happy Clothes’ with a properly horrible clown face on the swinging sign) the sooner he realises he doesn’t know where to Apparate to. Or he does, but… he simply doesn’t want to.
He can’t show up to Ron and Hermione’s with a stinking drunk Malfoy; they’d kill Harry if he wakes the baby. He’s not setting foot near the Manor ever again, not that he’s even sure any Malfoys still live there anyway. And as has been established, he has no idea who Malfoy cavorts with anymore. Clearly there’s no-one he wants coming with him on nights out like this, which would be sad probably if Harry thought about it too much. He considers dropping him off at one of the many homeless shelters that popped up after the war for people who’d lost everything or everyone. He knows of a few nearby, but…
He looks down at Malfoy’s still face, his long lashes lying peacefully against the razor sharpness of his cheeks.
He could take him to Mungo’s, maybe try to get him dried out. Perhaps he has a problem, after all.
Malfoy makes a muffled sound against Harry’s body but otherwise shows no signs of returning to consciousness.
All Harry can think about is how heavy Malfoy is and how good his own bed is going to feel.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst decision Harry’s ever made… to take Draco Malfoy home?
“Fuck,” Harry says again. He looks this way and that, determining that they’re as alone as they’re going to get, then he Apparates.
***
Malfoy smells like spilled beer and not-quite-dried sweat, but there’s no way Harry’s going to try to get him into the shower. Once they land on the doorstep and Harry manoeuvers him into the small building, inside which is his studio flat, one of eight, it seems the best option is to just deposit him on the nearest piece of furniture and let him sleep it off.
Pushing into his own place, he murmurs a wandless, “Lumos,” which hovers in the far corner of the living room and lights the way for Harry to lay Malfoy on the sofa. Malfoy makes a slurred sound of protest but sinks dutifully into the cushions once he’s out of Harry’s arms.
Harry sighs, hands on his hips a moment, and then goes to fetch a blanket from the hallway cupboard, realising on the way there that Malfoy will wake with an ungodly thirst. He slings the blanket over his shoulder on the way to the kitchen. Once he sets a full glass plus a pitcher of water on the coffee table and tosses the blanket at Malfoy’s feet, he turns back to the kitchen to go grab a pot.
He puts his oldest and ugliest soup pot, the one with the broken handle, on the floor next to Malfoy’s head. Then he Summons a bottle of Sober-Up for good measure and sets that where Malfoy will see it easily if he wakes. Harry shakes out the blanket and lays it over him. He hesitates, biting his lip. Fatigue grabs him like gravity, and he sits on the edge of the coffee table, observing Malfoy in his sleep.
“What would have happened to you,” Harry asks softly, “if I hadn’t been there?”
He shudders to think. The clientele didn’t seem the type to lend a helping hand. Or maybe he’s not giving them enough credit. Maybe someone would have found him, picked him up, splashed water on his face, asked his name, his address. Or maybe Malfoy would have ended up drowning in his own puke right there under a hundred pounding feet and the sickening wheel of strobe lights.
Malfoy’s curled on his side now under the blanket, his fists up under his chin.
“You stupid shit,” Harry tells him. But as he watches Malfoy’s breath leave his lips, Harry’s only thinking about those Howlers. About his own friends begging him to come back to life and himself wondering what life they could possibly mean.
Harry scoots the bucket closer underneath Malfoy’s face. He gets up and goes to bed.
***
In the morning, there’s no sign of him. Harry hardly slept, wondering if Malfoy would be there when he woke up. He forced himself to stay in bed rather than go out and check every fifteen minutes. Eventually, Harry had fallen asleep, too exhausted to be kept up by his roving thoughts about Malfoy. And now… there’s an empty, clean pot right where Harry left it, and a kicked-away blanket, and that’s it. The potion is gone, leaving Harry to assume he drank it. He must have used the Floo, because Harry’s front door is locked from the inside, with all his wards still up.
Harry hopes he made it home okay. And then he remembers Malfoy taking two swings at him last night and shoves any and all compassion aside.
The work week goes by, with Harry showing up on time to Quality Quidditch on Monday and minding the shop for his six hour shift. Forty-six boxes arrive that day, so a lot of his time is spent in Receiving, inventorying the stuff, putting the merchandise on the shelves or in backstock. He sells two brooms that day and one Quaffle. Chandra comes in at 11, and Harry takes his lunch, walking down to the Leaky and ordering a cheese pasty and chips. Hermione tells him he needs to start eating healthier. He has salads every Tuesday and Thursday, so he’s not sure what the problem is, other than that he’s not doing what she wants.
After lunch he comes back and works until 2pm, sweeping the shop and the back before he leaves for the day. A little girl shopping for a new Bludger bat gawks at him as he works his broom under a shelf to get the dust bunnies hiding out there, and usually he ignores it—the staring—but this time he turns to her and gives a little wink. With his right eye. The one with the scar. She gasps, and he goes back to sweeping.
“Have a good one, Chandra!” he calls on his way out. She’ll be joined by Doug at 3pm, and then Doug will close the shop at nine and stay after to do the bookkeeping until ten.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, it won’t be Chandra but Levi. Doug, who owns the shop, always closes, except on Sundays when it’s Leann, so that Doug gets one night a week to have an evening with his partner, Fritz, who Harry rarely sees. Harry is off on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. He forgets who else works when he doesn’t.
Off and on throughout the week, he finds himself thinking about what Malfoy said. ”They don’t want you anymore, do they?”
As Harry wanders the shops and buys his groceries, peruses the new books at Flourish, as he gets a pint of mint chocolate chip at Fortescue’s on his way home, he feels eyes on him, but it’s not like before, like that first year after the war. It’s been three years now, and the flash of cameras has dwindled as well. Fewer and fewer stories run about him in the paps. It was a relief at first. And now it’s normal. He’s normal. Too normal, or too boring, to pay attention to.
Not boring enough for Ron and Hermione, who did all the things people expected of them. Year-long engagement. Garden wedding. New baby. He looks at them sometimes and it’s as though he’s peering out of a fish bowl, a thick wall of glass between them and water distorting the view. Like they’re breathing different air.
Friday comes, and after work Harry does his shopping for his weekend meals. He goes to the Muggle gym, powers through his workout, showers. He gets Chinese takeaway on his way home and eats it messily in front of the telly, checking the time every three or four bites, though he’s unsure what he’s checking it for. His night is his own. His weekend is too. There’s nowhere he has to be. But, food put away, dishes done, action film on, he finds himself… itchy, almost. Anxious maybe. He checks his watch again. Quarter to eleven.
He sighs, flicks off the telly, puts his trainers back on his feet, and leaves the flat.
He’s not doing it because of Malfoy. Harry goes out on Friday nights pretty often. It’s not unusual. He’s no stranger to a Saturday morning hangover. The press used to love it. Drunken Saviour Meets Parking Meter with Face, Adds Matching Scar Over Left Eye. That might have been his favourite headline, however inaccurate; his faceplant into the parking meter didn’t result in a scar at all. Merlin bless dittany and Luna’s quick thinking. But do that sort of thing often enough and the world loses interest. He’s not fucked up enough to sell papers anymore, and he’s not doing well enough either. He’s somewhere in the middle, living a very middle-ish life, which is apparently the worst thing he could be doing.
It’s not that he’s hoping to see Malfoy again. It’s just that, if Malfoy is in the bar, it’ll be more interesting than if he isn’t.
The band tonight is no-one Harry knows, and they’re less angry than they are… terrible. But Harry doesn’t mind it. He goes to the bar, starts with a pint, and he listens to the singer try to hit a high note and fail, and it’s sort of soothing in a ridiculous way. Harry appreciates the imperfection.
His pint’s not even halfway down when he spots him. Which comes as a strange sort of shock, as though Harry had considered it a longshot, despite being told by the barman that Malfoy’s in here nearly every Friday. He really doesn’t think there’s ever been a time when seeing Malfoy didn’t send a frisson of electricity through his body. Not at Hogwarts, not during the war, not through the trials afterward, not ever.
But it’s a new and altogether unpleasant jolt that this time Malfoy’s not dancing alone.
He’s abandoned the bun, and his long hair flows just past his shoulders, shining under the pink lights. He’s in a black sleeveless t-shirt that, once the light falls on it, Harry notices is see-through. His trousers are magenta and… Merlin, is that dragonhide? All of those details merge with the fact that Malfoy’s long, thin arms are draped over another man’s strong shoulders, and Harry’s entire body goes hot, then ice cold, then hot again, like he’s caught something, like he’s ill. He’s sick with what he’s seeing, and he couldn’t for the life of him explain why.
He leaves his unfinished pint on the bar, unable to tear his gaze off Malfoy and how he moves with his dance partner, slow and flirtatious. As Harry manoeuvres between bodies, Malfoy laughs at something the man has whispered in his ear. Harry’s hands make fists. Malfoy pauses the dance, but only to reach down to the table they’re swaying near, picking up a shot glass (from a line of them) and downing the clear contents. Then he flicks the glass up, snaps his fingers to Vanish it, and steps in close to the man’s body, tilting his head.
“Malfoy,” Harry barks, stopping the kiss before it starts, and Malfoy’s head whips around, his wide eyes finding Harry standing there like a dolt, fists clenched, rigid and inexplicably angry while people dance all around.
Malfoy’s pale cheeks bloom a colour beyond pink but not quite scarlet, yet his words don’t match this response. “Well, well,” he says, “if it isn’t Saint Potter.” He places his hand on the other man’s chest when he attempts to lean back in. Malfoy picks up another full shot glass. “I’m going to need a drink or ten for this.” He downs it then says, “Be a dear, will you, and go fetch my jacket? I’m not fond of this establishment’s patrons after all.”
The dance partner pushes past Harry with a frown and a growl, which leaves Malfoy glaring at him as though Harry’s done something unforgivable.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Harry shouts.
Malfoy huffs a laugh that sounds like the preface to an insult. “I’m supposed to thank you?” His eyes have gone wide with incredulity. He places his limp hand on his chest. “Oh, where have my manners got off to? Of course I’m grateful to the Saviour for letting me exchange a blow job for a night on his sofa. What a selfless hero you are!”
“Exchange… what?” Harry shakes his head, trying to get the words rolling around in it to make some sense. He feels drunk off half a pint, confused and off-balance.
Malfoy turns cold, blisteringly so. “Don’t insult me by playing stupid. I know you remember more than I do about that night, Potter. Was I good? Was I on my knees for it, or did you just straddle my face and start fucking? My memory’s a little fuzzy, and all I recall is the bad taste you left in my mouth.”
“What?” Harry’s heart is like a cannon going off in his chest. “We didn’t… I wouldn’t… Malfoy, nothing happened.”
Malfoy blinks, the slightest unease cracking through his fury. “Come off it, Potter.”
“I’m not… on it!” Harry shouts. “How could you think—? Malfoy, I didn’t fuck you. I wouldn’t have let you suck me off for all the money in England, you miserable twat!”
It’s as though he’s slapped him then. Malfoy jolts back, too surprised to be enraged for the moment. And then Harry watches as all that anger floods back in, and Malfoy’s jaw clenches, his cold eyes sparking with heat. He takes a menacing step toward Harry, into his personal space, and Harry holds his ground.
Malfoy’s sweet vodka exhale bathes his face when he hisses, “You too good to stick it in a Death Eater?” His gaze takes in Harry’s body, comes back up. “You afraid I’d bite it off? Or is it just that you’re a frigid closet case who holds his breath while he gives it to his girlfriend’s ginger cunt and then goes home to wank it over a fit Quidditch bloke in an old rag? Aren’t you the sad, horny, pathetic one… jerking it to the very man you’ll never be?”
The punch is pointed for all that it’s wild, catching Malfoy on the jaw and snapping not just his head but his whole body to the right. Malfoy rubs his face, gives a little laugh as he stands straight again. He’s bitten his own lip, and now he licks at the blood. Which is properly distracting enough that Harry doesn’t see the wand in his other hand until it’s hexing him.
“Son of a—” Harry grips his side where Malfoy’s magic sizzles like a fresh burn.
Malfoy shoves him then, and Harry staggers back. “Say it. Finish it. Call my mother a bitch and just hand me an excuse to Crucio you, you fuck.”
One more shove and Harry’s had it, taking Malfoy by the flimsy, see-through shirt, making fists in it, and running Malfoy backward until he hits the wall. Dimly, he’s aware that some of the other customers have noticed and seem pleased by the ruckus. But the band plays on in the background, and no-one’s stopping them, and Harry’s glad. It feels sickeningly good to have someone to fight. And Malfoy’s bloody asking for it.
“That’s it,” Malfoy says, pleased, his lip dripping blood down his chin now. “I told you,” he pants out. “I told you you were down in the muck. It feels good, doesn’t it, Potter?”
This close, he can feel Malfoy’s breath on his face and neck… can see the stormy flecks of silver in his grey eyes… can smell the heat coming off his body. He presses Malfoy against the wall harder. He wants to pull his wand so badly. Wants to slap the slick, blood-smeared smile from Malfoy’s face. His knuckles dig into Malfoy’s chest, and Harry wants. He moves to pin Malfoy there with his own body harder. Malfoy gasps, and in the next moment, his eyes light up.
“Oh, it does feel good then,” he says, pushing into the grind of Harry’s thigh, and Harry realises he’s almost fully erect against Malfoy’s hip.
Malfoy sparkles with told-you-so malice. His tongue flicks out and tastes his own blood, and before Harry can think—the last thing he wants to do is think—he launches forward and takes Malfoy’s salty lips beneath his own.
The first thing that registers is that it tastes good. Malfoy’s blood is hot, like metal, his tongue sharp with remembered vodka, his teeth clamping down on Harry’s bottom lip. Harry pins him tighter and licks into his open mouth, sealing them together. One of Malfoy’s hands goes into his hair and pulls, even as he groans and kisses Harry back, his other hand palming Harry’s arse and hauling him closer by it. And it feels fucking brilliant. Malfoy’s mouth, his hands, his body, his taunts and anger lingering in Harry’s mind as the kiss goes violent, so dirty and wrong and perfect.
“Oi!” comes a growly voice from behind him, a rude tap on his shoulder accompanying it. Harry shoos the hand away, not breaking the kiss. But then the hand’s back, and it pulls him off Malfoy hard, and before Harry knows what he’s doing, he’s throwing another punch, this time sinking his fist into Malfoy’s former dance partner’s eye.
“Oh fuck,” Malfoy laughs.
The man seems twice Harry’s size this close up, but now Harry’s wand is in his hand, and the Stunner he sends, though weak by his magic’s standards, puts the man sprawling onto his backside, skidding across the floor, and slamming into some barstools to shouts of, “Hey!” and “What the fuck, man?” He lies there, a surprised look stuck onto his face, as Harry turns back to a glimmering Malfoy.
“You going to fuck me right here, Potter? That will show him.”
Harry jerks Malfoy close and Apparates.
They land in a bathroom stall, the music from out in the club pounding through the walls. Malfoy’s on him quickly, pulling him into another rough, biting kiss as Harry works the shirt up Malfoy’s stomach. They part for Harry to pull it up his raised arms and off, dishevelling his hair. Malfoy comes at the new kiss tongue first, and Harry groans, cupping Malfoy’s cock through the leather of his trousers.
“You think I’m going to let you have me in this filthy loo?” Malfoy murmurs against Harry’s ear.
Harry grabs his crotch hard, wraps his other arm around Malfoy’s waist, and Apparates again.
The outside air feels good when they crack into the alley, and Harry works Malfoy’s trousers open, hands frantic to get at him. He hasn’t felt like this in ages.
He hasn’t felt like this ever.
He flips Malfoy’s front toward the brick wall, yanks his trousers down. Malfoy isn’t wearing any pants, and the knowledge licks fire up Harry’s neck. He fumbles with his own flies.
“Knew you wanted it,” Malfoy breathes. He waves a hand in the air, and when Harry goes to rut his naked prick against Malfoy’s crack, it’s wet and slick. He crowds Malfoy against the wall, thrusts between his arsecheeks, mad with it all. “You want them to see,” Malfoy taunts, even as he widens his stance as much as his trousers will allow. “Screw me for the paps, Potter. Let’s make headlines.”
And the idea that they might be seen—and by the press—was not something he’d considered. As mindless as he is with wanting to fuck (Draco Malfoy, Merlin help him), he growls at the interruption but hugs Malfoy’s body to his own and, one last time, Apparates.
He rips Malfoy through his own wards, and they land in his living room, the sudden quiet and privacy letting him hear his own ragged breath and Malfoy’s answering it.
Malfoy turns around—“Fucking hell, you’re mental”— kicks off his boots, his trousers, and Harry meets his gaze as he strips his own t-shirt off, letting it drop. Then he pushes his jeans down his hips, yanks Malfoy’s naked body close, and Malfoy’s feet come off the ground. He presses his back to the wall, Malfoy’s legs coming around him. It takes a couple of thrusts before he aims true and slides in. And then Malfoy’s eyes widen; a warm blush steals down his chest. Harry pushes into his arse, and Malfoy inhales sweetly, and then grips Harry’s shoulders, closes his eyes, pants out, “Oh God”—and they’re fucking.
Harry does it hard, taking him under the thighs and just going in him. Malfoy holds on for dear life, bouncing on his dick, making the most delicious sounds Harry has ever heard, and in between them, riling him up, “You like that pussy? You going to come inside it and then make me lick your dick clean?”
Harry goes faster, fucking Malfoy speechless, his pretty eyes rolling back. Harry’s sweating, straining, every muscle working, his mind on fire, body coiling tighter and tighter, and Malfoy feels so good, sounds so good.
“Shit, I’m coming,” Malfoy says as though surprised by this realisation. He gasps twice, mewls in Harry’s ear, and then his spunk splashes between them, warm and soft. It drips down Harry’s belly, down the line of hair there.
He holds Malfoy closer, holds him desperately, hips whipping. He buries a growl against Malfoy’s neck and comes inside him, banging both their bodies against the wall. A picture frame drops nearby, the glass shattering. The deep, low laugh from Malfoy’s tired body comes out punctuated by Harry’s last thrusts.
Slowly, he pulls out. Malfoy’s legs loosen, and Harry sets him gently on his feet again. He stays there a moment, panting, then he pulls his jeans up from where they’ve been around his thighs. Harry tucks his prick, still tingling and sensitive, into his pants, zips himself up, turning away.
He’s somewhat shellshocked by what he’s done… what he and Malfoy have done together. He wants to say something, should say something, but he hasn’t the faintest clue what.
Malfoy clears his throat behind him. “Have you got a shower, Potter?”
Harry licks his lips, swallows against a throat left dry by his heavy breathing. He glances Malfoy’s way. “Yeah, er… down the hall, on the left.”
“Fabulous,” Malfoy says flippantly, then picks up his trousers, boots, and socks and takes it all with him down the hall.
Harry can’t help but watch the twitch of his muscles as he walks, the provocative shift from hamstring to buttock, the flinch of dimple.
Malfoy disappears into the bathroom, and soon the shower comes on. Harry gets a tall glass of water from the kitchen, downing it and then refilling the glass. Belatedly, he gets a glass down for Malfoy too. He thinks about going into the bathroom, maybe getting in the shower with him. But that feels all wrong, too intimate, something a lover would do, and they’re not lovers.
While he’s standing there thinking these things, the shower turns off. His heart rate jumps up, knowing he’ll see Malfoy again soon. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, what he’ll say, when he does.
Malfoy comes out in the trousers, his chest bare because they left his shirt in the loo of the club. His hair’s shiny and damp, combed through with his fingers. Harry’s struck once again, and reluctantly, by how beautiful he is.
He’s about to gesture to the water on the counter when Malfoy flicks his hair back and asks, “Front door this way?”
Harry nods. “You can use the Floo, though, if you want. You did last time.”
“Last time,” Malfoy says with a soft sneer.
Harry sighs. “Nothing happened. You can’t possibly think that I’d—” He frowns as Malfoy stands there blushing. “I’d never take advantage like that.”
Malfoy looks at him, all that heat from before transmuted, the sex washed off of his body while Harry stands there stinking of it, thrumming with it. Malfoy looks at Harry like they’re strangers, but then he says, “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” as though this is a fault somehow.
Unsure what to say to that, Harry just looks at him from across the kitchen.
“See you around, Potter,” Malfoy says, passing him and foregoing the Floo, stalking imperiously out the front door and closing it loudly behind him.