AN: Again, since I have no beta readers at the moment, this is pretty awful. But I hope you'll bear with me and see it through, because it'll be funny along the way and fluffy at the end. Happy reading.

Edit 12/14/11: Chapter updated with beautifulness. Many, many, many thanks to the lovely Digitallace for her selfless beta work on my little abomination of a story here. Having her edit my stories is a dream come true. You, Ma'am, are a godsend.

I didn't care for dubstep. In fact, I still don't, even though it's more popular now than it was back then. But it flooded every club in London, so it wasn't easy to escape. Particularly when I was out every weekend at a different club, wondering if any place in town wasn't throbbing with ear-ringing bass and oddly smashed sound clips. It always felt shoved together in some haphazard construction of 'music.' I was disappointed, though.

At first, I just kept off the dance floor. I figured if I boycotted the genre, eventually they'd eventually start playing something worth grinding to. But apparently, the lack of my sweet arse on the floor wasn't cause enough to change the DJ's lineup. That's what I got for only attending Muggle clubs. I couldn't take the risk of dallying about in the Wizarding World. And, dammit, I needed my weekly outing lest someone face the wrath of my world-renowned conniption fits. Last person on the wrong end of one of those was Marcus Eorwick and he went home with his nose on his scrotum at the conclusion of that little outburst.

That evening was the last one I spent in silent protest. Just sitting at the bar and sucking on manhattans wasn't doing anything for my weekend catharsis. It had been a tough week. I was faced with a particularly bristling reminder from Mother that if I skived off another dinner party she would have to have words with me in person. Those weren't as easy to overlook as her letters were. Then there was frustrating delay of my most recent case (protecting my client from a Mrs. Juliet Hurthen and her wicked outcry against their Comatose Concoction—which did exactly as it warranted—demanding retribution for the fact that her husband wouldn't wake up when she screamed at him at ridiculous hours of the morning). And then the looming promise of my union to the young Astoria Greengrass, which was inevitably planned to be announced at our engagement party next spring.

All I knew was that Muggle booze was only going to get me so far. If I wanted to forget about all of it, I was going to need the help of a nameless, leather-wrapped cock rubbing against my arse to the pumping heatbeat of a sweaty, glittering nightclub.

You couldn't put a price on that kind of ecstasy.

So I put down my empty martini glass with my decision to get over my disdain of dubstep, since my desire for dick rather outweighed it, and pushed away from the bar, heading for the dance floor. I was in a place called Rehab that night. A Muggle gay club, one of my favorites because no one in my circles knew anything about it but it attracted some of the most beautiful men I've ever had the pleasure of writhing against. My club buddy had recommended the place to me. Never knew the bloke's name, but we often ran into each other on my weekend excursions. He had these nice green eyes, which is honestly the only thing I can remember about him now. Anyway, I went there at his suggestion since I always appreciated a broadening of my spectrum. And it became new favorite spot.

I easily made my way to the very center of the tangling bodies and settled right into my comfortable routine of rocking my hips with my hands in the air. No one had a face when I was dancing; I kept my eyes closed. But I liked feeling the smooth, hard heat of bodies pressed up against me and the wet whispers of onlookers in my ears when they complimented me on how lovely I was. But their reasons, their existences and lives outside of that didn't matter to me. My weekends were about me getting the love and attention I wanted, in the only way that made the endorphins stretch for hours. I hadn't even been out there for a minute and I already had someone sliding their fingers around my hips. I smiled and rolled my spine to slide my arse against him, happily gratified to feel the welcome rub of denim. His chest settled against my shoulders, much like how he easily matched the pattern of my grinding hips and I felt the tickle of damp lips against my earlobe. I forgot everything in that moment. It was so easy. I didn't have to think about anyone. Not my parents, my peers or anyone. They were all swallowed in the sweet smog of dry ice and their voices were lost in the never-ending rumble of electronic beats. In that moment, I was a god, being worshiped by the hands of a lovely nobody.

My nobody chuckled in my ear.

"You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself," he said to me. I kept smiling, a laugh humming through my throat.

"I certainly am." Hopefully, I thought, this one didn't want to actually have a conversation. If he could just stick to bumping his crotch against me and panting obscenities into my ears, this could work out like I wanted it to.

"Never pegged you to indulge in the Muggle club scene, Malfoy." That made me freeze, my eyes snapping open. I was back in hell again, with only the illusion of paradise around me. I swung around to look my captor in the face and was stunned into further silence. A silence he filled by saying, with a wicked smirk that I'd never seen on him before, "I did peg you for a poufter, though. Looks like Ron owes me a galleon on that one."

Harry fucking Potter—with his hands still on my hips, fingers underneath the silky, white cotton mesh of my shirt, his digits just so gentle against my bare skin—was positively glowing with his prize. He'd caught me, and he knew it. I had lost my composure so harsh and swiftly that it took me a moment to gather myself up again. But in that moment, I had enough sense to snag his wrists away from me and drag him off the floor and outside. I might've imagined him laughing behind me, but I was too busy formulating my interrogation to snap at him for it.

In the back alley behind the club, I slammed the thick metal door after flinging his arms away from me. Then, with my back straight and chin lifted, the generations-old Malfoy sneer on my lips, I spat at him.

"Out with it, Potter," I growled, steadily drawing my wand from where I kept it in my sleeve. "Go ahead. Give me your best excuse as to why I shouldn't hex your bollocks to your face right now and then Obliviate your brains to last Tuesday." Even when I pointed my wand in his direction, his expression didn't change. He just relaxed against the soggy brick wall behind him, sliding his hands into shallow pockets as he leered at me, all too amused. I clenched my teeth together in an effort to keep myself from jinxing him right then.

"Oh come on, Malfoy," he said, shrugging a bit. "We're at a Muggle club. Do you think I came here to find dirt on wizards I haven't seen in…." He paused and gave me a once-over. "Merlin, it's been five years, hasn't it?" The smile was a bit less twisted now and I subconsciously relaxed at the sudden shift in his tone.

Harry Potter had grown. Only by a few inches, but he was definitely taller than the last time I'd seen him. That was shortly after the final battle. He had been there at my family's trial, offering his testimony to keep us all out of Azkaban and in the proper social standing. I hadn't talked to him then, but shortly afterward my wand was owled to me with a note. It was penned in an untidy scrawl: a thank-you for letting him use it to defeat the Dark Lord. It was the same wand that I was steadily lowering, a bit more concerned with giving him a returning appraisal.

He still had the same unruly black hair that hid the scar on his forehead. The stupid looking specs had been replaced by these sleek-silver rimmed glasses, only making the shocking green eyes in his head stand out just the more. I was stuck there, in his penetrating gaze, for a moment, but the twitch of his thin-lipped smile brought me out of it.

Potter wore a button-down black shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his elbows, dark denims and a pair of black dragonhide boots. In the hazed, coppery glow of the street lamps, his sunned skin radiated, accented by a light sheen of sweat. My eyebrow quirked without my realizing, obviously willing to announce my approval of the Golden Boy's ensemble. Dear Merlin, he was looking fit.

"You mean to tell me," I began, folding my arms across my chest as I peered along at him, "that the Ministry's favorite Auror, posterboy for all that is righteous and upstanding, goes hopping gay bars to get his jollies? You're bent, then?"

Potter shrugged again, the grin on his stupid face more than happy to speak for him. He spoke anyway. "It's easy to keep a secret from the Wizarding world when you only let it out where no one knows your face." He winked. I felt the temperature shift; my cheeks became a bit hot.

I took a breath and shifted a bit where I stood before looking back into his eyes once again. It was a bit of a dangerous move, I realized too late, since those emerald orbs had some unearthly magic about them. Nothing on this planet could possibly be that green.

"So then," I began, "are you offering to keep my secret on the condition that I keep yours?" Either way, I wasn't worried. Even if he didn't value his arse enough to cover mine, I could Obliviate him if I needed. I was pretty decent at memory charms, all I need was him to turn his back and it'd be over in a second. Maybe Potter could guess at my plan—his eyes narrowed a bit—but he remained cordial.

"I gain nothing from disclosing whatever indulgent tendencies you have, Malfoy," he said. "But, yes, I'm going to keep your secret. It certainly would be nice if you'd offer the same courtesy." Potter's accompanying smile was a bit bitter. But, honestly, he had nothing to fear by me. Sure, I might've tossed around the idea of going straight to the press. I had no real motive for it, though.

Gone was the petty childhood rivalry, so I needed no vengeance. I might've been able to make a pretty knut off that particular bit of information. But I was rolling in it to begin with. Sharing would do nothing for my social standing; we were both at risk since I would have to explain what I was doing slumming around in a Muggle gay bar to see him there in the first place. And, no, I had no answer to that question for anyone in the Wizarding world.

I waved my hand dismissively. "Your orientation's of no interest to me, Potter, crooked or otherwise." I stowed my wand for good measure to communicate I meant no harm. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home. I've had enough for tonight. Good evening."

I turned then, shaking my head a bit as I exited the alleyway.

"Malfoy!"

I turned just a bit as the sound of my name hit my ears.

"Maybe I'll see you around sometime," Potter called from behind me. I didn't see his face, but I could hear a smile in his voice. My first reaction was to Disapparate right then and resolutely avoid every club in the West End. But then I merely sighed and lifted my hand in admonishment.

"Indeed," I said. And then I did go home.

I had a lovely townhouse in North Kensington, one that felt like more of a home to me than the Manor ever had been. I walked through its front door after Apparating to the porch and shut it behind me. I didn't bother turning on the lights as I wandered up the stairs, peeling clothes off as I went. Normally, I made an effort to diligently keep things tidy, but my life was stumbling forward faster than my brain could keep up with.

I crashed into my bed with a groan and pulled my duvet up around my shoulders, closing my eyes to try and fill my mind with darkness. I couldn't rid myself of a haunting shade of green, though. It lingered with me all through my dreams.

-To Be Continued-