-1Title: Grind

Rating: M

Pairings: HPDM

Warnings: Slash, eroticism, sex. Not even close to most of the Potterverse cannon, but only because it is not relevant to most of the events of the story. Reads more like a Harry Potter meets Queer as Folk episode (set at club Babylon of course!) Technically post-DH, but pre-epilogue, which is altogether irrelevant.

Author's Notes: I have no ideas for continuing a plot line, but if anyone else does and would like me to, let me know. I've been told it's set up nicely enough for a sequel…

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Club Stov sat smugly in the center of Griffin Avenue like a fat, lazy spider. The smaller clubs on either side seemed intimidated by its multilevel majesty, which shone through its windows in the form of neon holographic conjurations that projected scenes from the dance floors, lounges, and concert stage onto the street. It was the most famed club on the Avenue, and reigned supreme in wizard club lore throughout Germany.

Harry Potter stared at it from across the street as he leaned against a lamppost. He was twenty-three years old. At the beginning of his sexual peak, he had made the inconvenient discovery that he was bisexual…at the very least, and in other ways, a possible sexual deviant. This discovery had temporarily shattered his former self-perception as the purest of the heroes of modern chivalry, and he had fled his mundane wizard life on a quest to pursue his desires while they took their natural course.

Though he was sure that, had he explained it in these terms, his friends would have understood, he had chosen rather to disappear mysteriously with only the slightest of intimations. He had the money, after all…

He arrived in Germany on a tip from some old Hogwarts acquaintances with whom he had not been close, but who seemed to him to be more worldly than others in their experiences and tastes. Stov-otherwise known as "Grind"-was a name that was thrown around in almost every crowd he'd been in since his liberation, and the wonderful thing about it was, of course, that it was far enough away from his English life that he would never have to worry about running into anyone-anyone who mattered, anyway-that he knew. It had been a very exciting thought at the time, for he had gotten so hot under the collar with almost no release that it had made him constantly sullen and moody.

"Sirius would have understood," he muttered. This was the mantra that he told himself whenever he felt guilty or uncertain.

The reason he was standing outside of Grind, and had not yet gone in, was because Grind represented a point of no return, a step in an irreversible direction once he made it. Grind was reputed to be a gay club, although it catered to mixed crowds as well. It was also reputed to have a "dungeon"; Harry was torn between which idea was the more nerve-racking. Though he'd kissed a few men, he had not had a gay conquest…yet.

"Oh well. Nothing for it. Either do it, or don't." He bounced off the lamppost and strode purposefully across the street. He felt the familiar sense of eyes watching him, but a moment later he was elated with pleasure. No one here knew, or cared, who he was…if they were watching him, it was because he looked good from where they stood. He had enjoyed rediscovering this indulgent feeling of vanity with each adventure, and the added excitement of finally standing at the hallowed grounds of the holy grail of club scenes gave him a pleasant tingle.

When he had crossed the cobbled street and stood outside, literally on the threshold of the club entrance, he paused again. The lighting inside seemed to be a flash of blues and greens and purples, and the thump-thump of amplified dance music pulsated under his feet. He felt tingly again, as if the vibration itself possessed its own magical power. In fact, he found himself wondering just how much of Grind's fame was owed to magical manipulation. One thing he had discovered since the beginning of his sexual exploration was that when it came to GLBT-etcetera, wizards and Muggles alike mingled in similar crowds in many areas of the world.

He had mused on this many times, wondering what that said about the bonds that truly brought people together. Then again, in some circles, it was said that people with "enhanced" sexual energy-"two-spirit" identities, for example-tended toward the magical forces in the world anyway. But that was something Harry never heard talked about in any of the "official" spokespersons of the English magical population, and he doubted he ever would. Overcoming prejudice toward different forms of power in different creatures seemed to be a constant struggle for witches and wizards, if the matter of the house elves alone were any indication.

The mystique of it all, however-the thought of all those bodies, magical, Muggle, and "other" all gyrating around in an ecstasy of celebration, all tuned into the same frequency, more or less-drew him into the club doors at last. He felt these thoughts, still so philosophical and prosaic in nature, slipping out of his mind as if into an invisible pensieve, to be replaced by the pure enjoyment of thinking nothing at all, but only feeling. The rhythm of the West African sampling to the Celtic chant was hypnotic. Here was a Mecca, Harry thought as he gazed around, his eyes glowing in the light show, of seekers of freedom.

The misty, glassy doors gave way; the giant male guardians of the temple gestured solemnly, bowing their shimmering horned and masked heads. Harry walked slowly past the bouncers as if in a dream, a brief thrill running up and down his limbs as the smell of cologne mixed with sweat wafted into his nostrils. Misty, artificial smoke (was it magical or mechanical?) slowly cleared in front of him, and he felt himself harden as his view broke upon the hundreds of elated, twisting bodies dancing in close proximity to each other as if in worship to an invisible spirit.

He stood there in adoration while it seemed that time stopped, until at last his admiration bubbled into desire. He wished to join them in veneration, but how? The ritual was unknown to him. No one had told him how to achieve the ecstasy, and it was becoming painfully clear, the longer he stood there, that pure desire was not enough.

"I don't know how to dance! What's more, I don't think I ever wanted to!"

Harry remembered speaking these words, half out of scorn, half fear, to Ron during his fourth year when the Yule ball loomed miserably over their heads. But this was so different! For the first time, as Harry watched the bodies all around him, intent upon each other, intent upon movement which became language, expressing one repetitious message (I want you, and I know you want me), the thought occurred to him that he might have been artistically deprived. It was a feeling of being found naked.

Nevertheless, Harry was determined, and awe was winning out over uncertainty. He strode through the crowd, openly admiring all. They seemed not to care anyway. Here, men danced with men and women with women, groups and all in every pairing imaginable, in every get-up that could be conceived in the brightest-or darkest-of European gothic fantasy. Occasionally, dark eyes met his and feasted on him with fierce intensity, but it seemed as if everyone here already had a partner. He explored the room, meaning to make his way from one end to another to see if there was a break in the crowd; somewhere at a bar or a wall where he could quietly watch and perhaps gather the courage to entice a partner for the evening. The thought excited and frightened him; though he had had some flirtatious experiences with other men, this night was meant to be a full, open exploration into any possibility that presented itself.

The song, which had seemed to go on forever, reached an end and there was a brief pause in the pulsing dance rhythm as synthesized melody improvised over the loud-speaker to prolong the mood of sexual intrigue. During that space, Harry was aware of himself standing in the middle of the floor, and felt that he was the most conspicuous person in the entire nachtklub. One or two men eyed him as if to try him out, but they were enticed away by more aggressive partners, or else, Harry mused, they saw the lack of aggression in his. I'm too nervous, he chided himself. Too self-conscious. I should just dance, whether anyone dances with me or not.

Even as he came to this conclusion, he felt frozen in his over-developed sense of dignity. Now he really envied those around him, and those in school who had had no problem making fools of themselves for the sake of a good time. I'd look a lot less stupid if I were willing to look a little stupid like everyone else, he told himself for the millionth time, as he had often done in similar situations. However, this time was different, and he knew it. For some reason he could not understand, everyone here looked good. Everyone seemed to be free. I'd better go find that wall.

He was about to traverse the middle of the floor when he stopped, an ice-cold stab of recognition piercing him. It couldn't be; it was impossible! But no less than ten feet ahead, in the middle of a small posse of male companions, a familiar face with white-blond hair was laughing and chattering away. Some of the guys surrounding Draco Malfoy-for it was none other-seemed to be trying to pull him into a slow dance for the next number. Malfoy was dressed with impeccable style; though he'd always seemed to pride himself on his appearance, Harry had always thought he looked rather stiff and prudish in their school days. Tonight, he-if it really was Malfoy-was wearing a light-colored shirt that flattered his slim physique with a snug fit and came down just to his thighs. His trousers were dark, and Harry was not certain whether or not they were jeans.

Probably spent a couple hundred Galleons on that ridiculous outfit, Harry thought wryly. It would be just like Malfoy. One thing, however, he could tell right away as Malfoy's face turned in his direction, and his gray eyes lighted upon his with surprise: his eyes were ever-so-lightly decorated with dark eyeliner, giving him both a somewhat effeminate and yet uncompromisingly masculine allure. I want you, and I know you want me. Malfoy smirked.

Harry's stomach sank. Malfoy was coming toward him, and with him, the whole group who had just been standing there openly expressing their hero worship. What is he doing here?! This was worse than just running into someone he knew; he could not honestly think of anyone he would least have wanted to encounter in his state of exploration. Even Ron would have been preferable, and that was saying something; no matter what, Ron was his friend. Ron would have kept his secrets, even if he never spoke to him again. I should have left when I had the opportunity, Harry thought, mentally kicking himself as he set his jaw with determined obstinance. Just the sight of Malfoy, grinning so knowingly at him, was enough to roil his blood. That, and the fact that this was his territory; he was damned if he was going to let Malfoy ruin it for him. As he made this resolution, Malfoy stopped a couple of feet in front of him, his friends looking at Harry with mingled interest and amusement. They don't know who I am, he realized.

"Well, well, well. Harry, Harry. I can honestly say you are the last person I ever expected to see here."

Harry glared at him, his heart pounding. At least he didn't say your last name, you know. Why not? Nothing Malfoy ever did was by accident. He was undoubtedly making the point that he held power over him, and relishing it every second. Harry was filled with a fresh, renewed hatred for Malfoy; but this time, he knew it was fueled, perhaps for once in his life, by jealousy. Huh, some calm, inner voice remarked with irony, this must be what he feels like all the time when he's hating you. It was almost funny.

"I could easily say the same. What are you doing here?"

Malfoy raised an indignant eyebrow, but he still grinned.

"What am I doing here? What does it look like I'm doing? Enjoying myself, having a good time in my home away from home. At least, I was. Honestly, Pot-I mean, Harry, I wonder if you can help me with a little problem I'm having. You're so good at solving mysteries. Tell me, if a person wants to, I dunno, get away from someone else who just doesn't seem to disappear, what does he have to do?"

"Get knocked off a broom. At least, that's what I'd suggest. I've heard it's helpful, anyway."

Malfoy's eyes seemed to crackle just the slightest bit at this remark, but he did not drop his smile. Instead, it broadened across his face as if he knew something Harry didn't. It made him angrier than ever.

The music was picking up again; a slow, house rhythm was undulating throughout the club, and with it the crowd reflected the beat in waves and twists like a million ribbons twirling in a breeze. Malfoy moved in closer, and Harry held his ground, adrenaline beginning to pump through him as his animal instincts took over. If Malfoy tried anything, he wouldn't need any magic-Malfoy leaned in, directing his words into Harry's ear. Harry felt the small puffs of breath on his temple as Malfoy spoke louder:

"So, Harry, all pleasantries aside, what brings you to Stov? It's a special place; you must know that. I can hardly imagine you're here by accident. Or is it, mere curiosity?" Malfoy's grin grew even broader, and he stepped close to Harry, chest to chest. He drew back his arm and swung it toward Harry-and Harry flinched, his fist clenching and ready to pull back into a punch. But he never got the chance, because what happened next shocked him into a full three seconds of paralysis. Malfoy draped his arm around Harry's neck, pulled them even closer together, and then began dancing…or that's what it seemed, though he could hardly process this idea before he reacted instinctively and slapped his arm away, pushing him back into his group in the process.

The entire group of men stared at him and then at Malfoy, whose mouth had dropped open into a small "O." Harry could feel his face flushing as the blood rushed loudly in his ears. He panted the slightest bit, even more furious than ever. How dare Malfoy try to humiliate him! In another second, he would regret ever setting eyes on Harry when he found himself face down with his teeth knocked out-Harry started forward in a rage-

"Whoa, whoa! Wait! What was that for?"

Malfoy was looking truly wounded, and this time it was Harry's turn to stare open-mouthed. Is he seriousHis expression must have said exactly that, and quite eloquently, because Malfoy's shock was turning back into a half grin of sorts. Malfoy approached again, but this time more cautiously.Something about the way he was looking at him; Harry's heart was still pounding as if ready for a fight, but there was a strange, unformed thought forming in the back of his mind that held him still. It was something in Malfoy's eyes, something about the way they fixed on his with a kind of curious interest that he'd never seen before, and then there were those dark, sparkling outlines around the lashes that suggested-

"What's your problem? Forget your club etiquette? Or didn't anyone ever teach it to you? In here, we leave the wands and the feuds-at least, the physical ones-outside. Inside, we dance."

His eyes were mesmerizing; before Harry knew it, Malfoy's arm was draped around his neck again, and he pulled himself to him, their foreheads nearly resting against one another. Harry's swirl of emotions, at this point, was so confused he could no longer tell if the adrenaline were from leftover anger or sexual arousal. He couldn't seem to breathe, or move, or make up his mind. He merely stared back into Malfoy's eyes, refusing to answer. How was it that Malfoy's expression was so cool in comparison?

"So, are we gonna dance, Potter? Or, are you finally out of your element?" Malfoy's body pressed the slightest bit against his, and Harry now felt heat spreading all through him. How could he possibly back down now? He continued to return Malfoy's gaze with a cold glare, but allowed him to coax him slowly into a swaying motion as the music built to a dull throb in which any further conversation would be impossible. Harry felt stiff with trepidation and was certain he looked awkward, but Malfoy was a surprisingly patient partner. He led them at a slower rhythm than the rest of the crowd-which included his friends, who had partnered up in the background-but Harry could feel his confidence, the way he communicated the rhythm through his own body as if a conductor, and he could not deny that he was impressed. No, envious. Why don't you call it what it is?

Then, as Harry picked up the motion and began to feel more comfortable, Malfoy began to move of his own accord. Without dropping the beat, his motions became more sinewy, fluid, sensual; Malfoy's body pulled forward and back, teasing against Harry's front. Harry felt himself grow even harder than ever, and suddenly he wished he could excuse himself to go catch his breath. He felt like everyone could see the tent in his pants, and all of them would soon be sharing in the great joke: The Boy Who Lives Falls Hard for Former School Rival. The Daily Prophet would have a hay day with a headline like that…

Malfoy swung around and switched positions; he orbited Harry and came back around, running his hands loosely along his chest, his waist, his back. All the time, whenever they faced each other, his gray eyes met Harry's and it seemed that they held secret laughter, and yet Harry felt that this laughter was not entirely at his expense. He clung to his anger, fueled with embarrassment, but despite himself he found that it subsided as he was hypnotized by Malfoy's attention. It seemed several hours had passed into the night, the music climactically building in intensity, seeping from one song to another, when Harry was struck with the thought that Malfoy had more than met his hopes for the evening. When he'd first entered Stov, he would have considered himself lucky to simply score a dance partner for even a few minutes. But Malfoy, who seemed to be a regular here as well as quite popular-it was like being in the Twilight Zone-had actually taken Harry, awkward and an outsider, and made him feel like the star of the dance floor.

In fact, a few times when Harry was able to tear his eyes away from Malfoy's winding, sensual movements, he noticed a few people stopping long enough to watch them for a few moments before returning to their own dance of bliss. Harry felt himself slipping, slipping under Malfoy's spell. He held his gray eyes with interest now, and, when Malfoy moved against him again, he slung his arm around Malfoy's waist, holding it firmly to his. Malfoy responded by pulling in tight, wrapping both arms around his neck, and slowing his dance to a sensual writhing against his thighs. That did it for Harry. He was lost in a delicious ocean of pleasure, wave after wave of arousal drugging him until he blinked, mystified, and shielded his eyes from the sudden intrusion of the house lights. The club was closing. It was four a.m. and much of the dance floor had emptied by now, except for a core group of dancers, many of whom seemed to have been watching he and Malfoy.

Malfoy's friends were waiting for him at the bar. They strode over to them across the dance floor, and Malfoy turned to meet them while Harry stood blinking in the light, bewildered by the sudden hint of chill in the air.

"You ready, Draco?"

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

Two of the party, both African or Middle Eastern-looking, were putting on their coats. One of them, whose hair hung in long dreadlocks down his back, handed Malfoy a waist-length, gray jacket of stylish leather. Harry watched him zip it up, warmed again by his new appreciation for his slim and well-shaped figure. Malfoy seemed to have filled out in the few years since they'd last seen each other. He wondered how he looked to Malfoy now. Did he find Harry similarly grown and smoldering with sexual energy? He wished and hoped so.

"Hey. Potter. You just going to stand there in the middle of the floor?"

"Wha?"

The group had already joined several other customers moving toward the door, kicking confetti and cigarette butts out of their way as they went, Malfoy was in the middle of his own group several feet away, but one of his companions, a younger-looking, dark-haired bloke with blue streaks and a nose ring was addressing him. So they knew who he was, now, or, at least, they knew his name. Did wizards in Germany know of Harry Potter? He was still standing and looking dumbly at the kid who had spoken when Draco turned around and looked back at him. Harry felt his heart leap up into his throat. He suddenly knew that though he'd never bring himself to ask of his own accord, he wanted very much to be invited to wherever they were going.

"Leaving, Harry?"

"Yeah. I 'spect so." He walked after them, catching up with Draco. It occurred to him that though the eye make-up was much more conspicuous in the fluorescent house lighting, he was not mistaken in noticing how attractive Draco had become.

"Leaving for good, or-"

"No, no…I'll be in the country for another week or so I expect."

"Ah. Good, good. Have lots to see I would think. Ever been to Germany before?"

They were out in the open now, standing on the street. The air was a little chilly because it was night, but otherwise the sky was clear and the fresh air felt wonderful after the night of dancing. Harry listened to the sound of the club doors clanging shut and the chains drawn across on the inside. The remaining patrons dispersed in either direction down the street, but Malfoy and his friends lingered, a couple of the boys lighting up cigarettes. The street was still well lit as a few pubs and diners remained opened.

"This is my first time, actually."

"Yeah? Like it?"

"Love it. How about you?"

"I've been here loads of times. One of my favorite places."

"Yeah? Cool, cool…" He wished they would invite him out with them for the evening. He thought of the dark hotel room that waited for him on the corner, and in spite of the wonderful time he'd had, was disappointed in himself to realize he'd not made any new friends to accompany him back to the hotel. Surely many of the patrons who had been at the club were staying the same building; why hadn't he made more of an effort to meet people? Then he thought of Draco, the way they'd danced as if no one else in the world existed, grinding against each other as if preparing for a primal mating ritual. The thought made him hot all over again, and even more as he marveled over the fact that this was his former enemy. Had anything really changed, he wondered, as he watched Malfoy gazing down the street, washed in lamplight?

Malfoy's friends finished their cigarettes, grinding the butts out with their heels. They started walking in the direction of Harry's room, so he fell into step with them, listening to their chatter-the boy with the nose ring had a remarkable accent that was simply delicious to hear-and occasionally making small talk with them. In five minutes, they'd reached his place. Harry stopped, trying to think of some way to keep the night from ending. Already, he anticipated the let down of not being able to repeat this experience again.

"So this where you're staying, Harry?" Draco was looking at him expectantly, his hands plunged into his jacket pockets.

"Yeah. You all staying around here?"

"Nah. We've got to head back, get Ralph home." He indicated the boy with the nose ring with a jerk of his head. "All the way on the other side of town."

"Got it. Well," Harry turned to leave, wishing he could read Draco's expression. Was he interested, or merely being polite? "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Yeah, I'm sure I will. You going back to Stov?"

"Yeah, probably. Tomorrow night, if possible."

"It's not open again until Tuesday. At least, not for our crowd. Mostly retro stuff, older people. But if you're still here by then, I'll probably see you there. I'm always at Stov one way or the other." He smiled, and Harry smiled back. Draco wanted to see him again too, then.

"All right. Well hopefully I'll see you then." And you'll dance with me, like you did tonight? Harry wished he could ask, but he thought somehow that the understanding was there, even though neither of them felt the need to say it.

"Yeah. I'll see you then. Have fun, Harry." Yes, I'll dance with you.

Malfoy continued down the street with his buddies, who all left him with "bis später" and a wave of the hand. Harry could hardly keep his inner glow from breaking into a bright smile on his face. Draco was going to dance with him again on Tuesday. It was as good as a date. But how, he wondered agonizingly as he showed the hotel staff his I.D., would he ever survive the wait until then?