Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Title: Foreign Charms
Pairing: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, Bill/Fleur
Wordcount: ~3,600
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: NON-MAGICAL AU, fluff, random-ness, NOT BETA'D
Summary: Harry Potter has never understood the charms of Nantes, but after a strange encounter at a bus stop, perhaps he's about to.
Author's Notes: THIS IS A NON-MAGICAL AU! And it's actually based on a true story (or at least the first part); something that happened to a friend of mine when she was studying in Nantes last year. I loved the story - it was adorable - so I thought I'd make a fic out of it. =D For amythystluna's birthday! Happy Birthday!
Harry grumbled, absentmindedly nudging a pebble by his boot and jamming his hands deep in the pockets of his black pea coat. A chill spring breeze ruffled his already unruly mop of onyx hair and he pouted from the involuntary shiver it caused.
"Bloody busses…never on time." He murmured to nobody in particular. The fact that the small, picturesque street – lined with centuries old flats and shops in whites and yellows – was fairly deserted only helped comfort him in this; at least people wouldn't think he was a nutter, talking to himself.
He might certainly appear so, though, he noted with an uncharacteristic mental cringe at the thought. He knew he looked a fright. Besides the pea coat (which had cost a small fortune and therefore was always cared after) his clothes were a mess; his dark gray fitted jeans were wrinkled, a bit more loose than normal, and had somehow become coated in a thin layer of miniscule white down feathers from Ron's aged comforter while his rumpled green button-down (though not visible) sported a flattering coffee stain reminiscent of a todger (complete with bollocks) right down the front. The thick, pointed end of a cream silk tie poked out of his left back pocket.
Add on a dark raise of stubble across his jaw, the sickly pallour of his skin and the dark rings under his vibrant green eyes (a bit bloodshot from wearing his contacts to bed) and he knew he probably wasn't fit to be seen in public.
He scrunched up his nose and sighed, kicking the pebble roughly which sent it clattering against the street.
"Maybe I should've just…" He shook his head, cutting himself off. The thought of having to watch Ron and Hermione in various stages of undress making kissy-faces at each other over breakfast made his stomach lurch uncomfortably. He'd just go back to the hotel, take a long, hot bath, order a bit of hot food up to his room with some strong painkillers then crash for the rest of the day.
He sighed again, his shoulders slumping, and then leaned foreword to get a better view of the bend in the street ahead. Empty. He shifted and pulled his hands out of his pockets, using his left to reveal an empty wrist on his right. The faded tan lines in the shape of a thick banded watch made him scowl. He forgot. He'd lost it sometime last night, probably between his 4th and 5th glass of bubbly.
"Bloody France. Bloody stag parties." He grumbled, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets once more, contemplating his chances of being able to locate a cab before the bus came. He shifted again, impatiently, and waved off the idea. The rustic city of Nantes, while undeniably beautiful, was utterly foreign to him. Despite the fact that he'd visited many times before to see Ron – who'd moved there two years prior on a study abroad programme, met the love of his life in the form of an intelligent, bushy-haired American and consequently never left – he was still quite lost when it came to public transportation, though slightly more comfortable with the bus system.
But knowing the bus schedule didn't mean he liked it there.
He'd been quite put-out after the gangly ginger boy – his best friend since Primary school – had told him that instead of returning to London he would be getting a flat in Nantes, with Hermione, to finish his education. He'd said nothing, though, not wanting to spoil the happiness that had changed Ron from an awkward, insecure man to one who positively beamed confidence because of his petulance and needy nature. He knew Ron would've scrapped the idea entirely if he'd really objected, and that was enough. He had asked why, though, since the two of them moving to London would have been probably just as feasible, and had pouted when his only response was a knowing smile and something along the lines of "Nantes has its charms, Harry, you'll see." Though two years had passed, he had yet to figure it out.
It had actually come as something of a shock when he'd received the wedding invitation – not from Ron and Hermione, but Ron's eldest brother Bill to a Nantes local named Fleur who he'd apparently met in a café six months prior when the Weasley Brood (there were 9 of them in total, including their parents) had gone to visit. He'd accepted without a second thought, though it was fairly short-notice. Being a fairly successful independent potter (though he preferred the term 'ceramic artist' since the jokes linking his name and profession were old and dull at this point) allowed him the freedom to set his own schedule and over the years he'd come to think of the Weasley's as family (save Percy who was somewhat of an arse); his own parents had died in a car crash when he was a baby and his Aunt and Uncle's family had never really warmed to him (they'd not approved of Harry's parents choice of career – going to children's parties to give magic shows would never hold the same weight in society as selling drills to oil companies – and Harry's own sexual preferences made them quite uncomfortable and so he'd been somewhat of a pariah in turn.) Knowing that Bill thought of him as a brother enough to ask him to be an usher was heartwarming. It would've been tragic for him to miss it.
He freed one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose in a desperate, but fruitless, attempt to ease his pounding headache.
A sudden noise to his left made him turn his head.
A man stood, not a stride away, tall and lean with sharp, aristocratic features and piercing gray eyes. He looked, to Harry, entirely too put-together for such a miserable morning – his dark, perfectly fitted clothes hung well on his lithe frame and accented his flawless pale skin; his platinum blonde hair (probably dyed he thought, though it absolutely suited him) was handsomely styled to frame his face. If Harry hadn't been so fucking hung over and annoyed he'd probably have made an embarrassing spectacle of himself by gawping. The man was gorgeous and he hadn't had a good shag for quite a while.
Harry made to turn back to the street when the man's low, smooth baritone stopped him though it was too quiet to hear. He leaned towards him a bit.
"Sorry?"
"Vous êtes très beau. Puis-jevous embrasser?"
Harry wrinkled his brow, frowning a little.
"Er…sorry…I don't, erm, I don't spe–"
He probably should have seen it coming, but was shocked into rigidity when it did – his heart stopping and restarting so quickly, slamming madly against his ribcage, he thought he might pass out.
He was being kissed.
Kissed. On the mouth. By a stranger.
Kissed on the mouth by a devilishly handsome man. A stranger. At a bus stop. Hungover. In France.
The man's lips were soft and warm and Harry could feel the heat of his breath, sweet from whatever he had eaten last, wash over his face. He smelled like mint and lavender and a heedy musk and before Harry could process what had happened he felt a gentle, playful nip to his bottom lip and the pressure was gone.
He blinked, still frozen, his headache numbed by the thoughts whirling through it at an alarming rate. He was quite aware that he should be reacting right now…but it was really not something he encountered on a day-to-day basis.
What was the appropriate thing to do in this situation? Should he be angry that his personal bubble had been thusly violated? Should he laugh at the ridiculousness of it? Should he be in awe at the ease in which this stranger had broken the rules of appropriate public behaviour? Should he sit down right on the curb? (So far this reaction was winning out against the others.) Should he ask his name? Should he listen to his screaming cock and grab the man, throwing him against the metal cage of the bus stop and let loose months of sexual frustration?
One thing he was certain of was that he probably shouldn't just stand there, jaw dropped, looking quite dim and idiotic.
A loud hissing noise and the rumbling of a large engine made him jerk with a start and his eyes widened in horror at the sight of the retreating bus. He turned to where the man had been standing. Gone.
"W-wa–" He shouted, though he made no move towards it. He sighed, scowling, his thoughts a tumbled mess. "Bloody France."
Of course Ron had had a good laugh when he'd told him about it the next day when they were getting dressed for the ceremony. He'd finally gotten back to the hotel an hour later, quite grumpy as to why his stomach felt as if it were fluttering instead of lurching like it bloody well should in his post-alcohol induced state. And now, standing on the last step leading to the baptistery of a large, gothic-style church, Harry could only gape at the veritable sea of pale, blonde, aristocratic men and women that had amassed in the left-hand pews. He knew Ron was probably just barely holding in a snicker at the look on his face. It was as if God were mocking him. Every bloody blonde in Nantes was probably in attendance!
But not the one who'd kissed him, of course.
Not the one he wanted.
He was aware that he was being ridiculous and childish – that there was a 99.9% chance that he'd never see the man ever again (because really, who could have such a serendipitous meeting in real life? He wasn't the protagonist of some bloody piece of crap romantic fiction) so wasting his time pondering the mystery of it all and (even more ridiculous) wishing he could return the sentiment times a billion was utterly foolish.
He sighed quietly and turned back to the ceremony, the dulcet tones of the minister only registering as a faint garbled buzz in the back of his mind.
He grinned and clapped along with the rest at the flushing, happy couple as they turned back towards the aisle after their first post-marital kiss and followed, after Ron, as they made their way towards the doors. He smiled and shook hands with the guests who flooded out of the building. He joked and laughed along with the rest of the ushers and the Best Man in the limo on the way to the reception hall which seemed stuffed to the brim with guests. He took his seat at the end of the head table and toasted when appropriate…though he hardly registered any of these things and seemed to be moving along on some twisted auto-pilot as his mind still refused to bloody shut the fuck up about the bus-stop-kiss.
After his 3rd glass of wine he finally felt a comfortable warmth in his belly and he sat back, watching couples dancing happily with a small smile. A quiet thump came from Ron's recently vacated chair on his right.
"Harry?"
He turned towards the voice, soft and familiar, and his smile didn't dissipate.
"Hey, Gin. You having fun?" she smiled and nodded, her ginger hair resting in gentle curls over her shoulders.
"You looked a bit bored, though, thought I'd come keep you company for a bit…maybe convince you to dance?" Ginny had had a crush on him once, when they were younger, but he knew that had changed now. It had taken her a while to accept his preferences for men, but then she'd started dating a bloke in Harry's year named Neville Longbottom 5 years before and her month-long silent treatment had ended almost instantly.
"Wouldn't that make your husband jealous?" he teased and she chuckled.
"No, he couldn't come anyway – the shop is too new to leave unsupervised right now so he had to stay at home. Come on, Harry, just one dance?" she pleaded playfully, pouting. He rolled his eyes.
"Fine. One dance."
"Good! Come on, then!" She grinned, grabbing his forearm and pulling him to his feet then leading them around the table to the allotted dance floor. They had to slow the closer they got, though. It seemed everyone had the same idea and the clusters of people crowding around the edges of the space made it difficult (especially for someone of Harry's height – he'd always been considered a bit short) to safely maneuver into a big enough place. He held Ginny's hand loosely as she pushed through, mostly staring at his feet so he wouldn't trip over himself or someone else or step on someone's foot.
Which his why it came as a complete shock when his hand was suddenly violently wrenched from Ginny's and he flew backward as a heavy weight slammed into his chest. He grunted, his head making a loud, almost sickening crack as it connected with the side of a stray chair. Silverware and dishes clattered noisily from the empty table beside them. He felt his glasses fly off somewhere to his left. His eyes shut as he winced and groaned, his head pounding; after a moment the pressure on top of him – a man, no doubt – made a gasping noise and he heard and felt him move away.
"Oh God, désolé! Je suis si désolé – I am so, so sorry!" He sat up slowly, eyes still closed, and grabbed at the back of his head, his features twisted into a grimace and his chin resting on his chest. He felt a hand rest gently on his shoulder and another on his back, keeping him steady. "Are you alright? That didn't sound good…I am so sorry…"
"Oh my God Harry, are you okay?" He heard Ginny ask worriedly.
"It's fine…I'm okay…" he mumbled, rubbing the tender bump and looking up while opening his eyes. The blurry shape of a lean, pale man in black crouched at his side. He heard him gasp.
"You…!"
He frowned, fumbling around behind him for his glasses. He saw a blurry redhead he assumed was Ginny stumble around him and a moment later his hands met cool metal frames.
"Here."
"Thanks, Gin." He said, replacing them at the bridge of his nose and blinking as his eyes adjusted. People had crowded around, whispering and looking at him with worried glances. The man had removed his hands but stayed crouched beside him so he turned.
And stared.
And blinked.
"Gin?" he asked, his voice sounding strangely hollow in his ears.
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm hallucinating."
It was him. It had to be him – tall, blonde, aristocratic, hair, mouth, skin, eyes…
"Oh fuck."
He wasn't quite sure which of them had said it, but he thought it was the other man. He frowned.
"Harry?" He heard Ron's concerned voice rise above the general buzzing and the strange rushing of his exploding pulse but he didn't look away – couldn't tear his gaze from the stranger's gunmetal eyes.
"Why did you –" he began, then paused.
The man's eyes widened and he grabbed Harry's arm tightly, though not roughly.
"Here, let me help you…come on, let's get that bump looked at." He said, and Harry could hear the hint of frantic nervousness in his tone but said nothing. Instead, he nodded and gave Ginny a look that (quite clearly) said "Stay Here!" and allowed himself to be lifted to his feet and pulled across the hall, dodging tables and chairs along the way.
They stormed down a short hallway and the man led him through a set of dark, wooden doors labeled 'Men's'.
"Here…let me see that."
Harry blinked then slowly turned around. He felt warm fingers brush hair away from his injured scalp gently and couldn't help but shiver at the touch.
"I…I'm sorry – this must hurt. Lets get you some ice –"
He dropped his hands and rushed towards the door. Panicking, Harry jerked foreword and grabbed his arm tightly.
"Wait! I er…" He could feel the man tense and he softened his tone. "Look, I'm not angry or anything just…confused. You are the one who…well…you know…right? I mean…I thought you were…are you…related to Fleur?"
The man's shoulders slumped, and he turned to face him but his eyes stay trained on his shoulder. The urinals. His hands…anywhere but his face.
"She's my cousin."
Harry frowned.
"I didn't…I didn't see you at the ceremony. I would have noticed."
"My mother fell ill the other day…I was caring for her during the service, until my father could get them a flight back to Bristol."
Harry's heart jumped; a grin lit up his face.
"You live in the UK, then?"
"Yes…in Bath…" there was an awkward pause – Harry's mind was racing. He let his hand drop to his side. This man, his gorgeous kissing stranger, he lived in Britain! Bath…that was only an hour and a half from Paddington station by train… Maybe he could – "Look, um…Harry, right? I'm really, very sorry about the other day. I don't…I don't normally do things like that, you know, you just looked so…" he gesticulated a little, making an exasperated grunt. His cheeks flushed. "Well, yeah…and I was sure you probably wouldn't even be interested because, well, lets face it – guys like you are either straight or taken or not looking for a serious relationship; they don't just wander about without a boyfriend or a girlfriend except if they're not looking for one, no matter how much I would love the opportunity, and I figured 'I'm in France', right? So I might as well go ahead, it's not like we would meet again, unless there was a ridiculously tiny chance you really were interested and when you responded in English I just froze and made it seem like I was French because my whole body was screaming at me to just take the chance even though I never ever do things like that and –"
"What's your name?"
The man jumped a little at the interruption, his wide eyes locking onto Harry's with a confused look.
"Huh? Oh, um…Draco. Draco Malfoy." He swallowed heavily and Harry's grin widened.
"Well Draco Malfoy, it was a pleasure to, erm…meet you the other day; I'm Harry Potter." He stuck out his hand and Draco took it hesitantly.
"You're not, erm…angry?"
He shook his head.
"Far from it, actually…I was thinking that maybe, well, maybe you would like to get together for a drink some time?" He felt his face turn beet red, despite the confidence in his voice and he shuffled his feet anxiously.
"You…you want to go out…with me? Don't you live…don't you live in Nantes?"
Harry shook his head, the back of his head throbbing a little at the jerky movement. "No, I er…I live in Surrey. In Sunbury. I'm only here for the wedding. Flying back to London tomorrow, actually…"
"And you don't…you really…?" He seemed almost breathless and Harry smiled.
"Yeah. I'm a ceramics artist, so I spend most of my time in the studio and I rarely date…but I think maybe I'd…like to try?"
Draco's eyes widened, lighting up and his face split into a shit-eating grin. "That would be…that would be great…I…" his grin disappeared slowly, his eyes flashing and his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. Harry swallowed, his heart pounding in his ears and chest. "Harry…may I erm…kiss you? Again? I – mmmf!"
This, Harry decided, this was paradise. It didn't matter they were in a smelly men's toilet, that he was suddenly losing his control, being pressed against a sharp metal towel dispenser and his right cuff seemed to have mysteriously gotten itself stuck on the corner of an overflowing rubbish bin – no. These things were absolutely nothing to the feeling of Draco's soft, damp lips pressed roughly, then softly, then roughly again against his and his minty, musky smell and the taste of raspberries and currants from the Chinon he drank. It was even better than the first, he thought, since now he was playing an active part.
He moaned softly as the blonde's tongue swept against his lips and teeth and mapped his mouth and hands began tentatively rubbing his sides and hips. He tugged his jacket free from the bin and wrapped it around Draco's hip, resting his hand on the small of the man's back – his other wrapped around his cheek.
Draco whimpered and ground his hips against Harry making him throw his head back against the wall with a gasp. He winced. The blonde pulled away suddenly, face flushed and panting.
"Oh…God, are you okay?" Draco breathed and Harry nodded, his eyes pinched shut.
"Er…maybe we should get that ice…"
"Ice…right…ice…they'll probably have some in the um…kitchen." He said, taking a deep breath and grasping Harry's hand gently, lacing their fingers together.
Suddenly, Harry began to chuckle.
"What? What is it?"
Harry shook his head, smiling. "Nothing…I was just thinking." He responded quietly and Draco squeezed his hand.
Ron was right, he thought. Nantes does have its charms…but fortunately he's not here permanently because it'll always be Britain for me.
Fin.