Title: Never Felt So Sweet
Beta: CleopatraIsMyName
Rating: T/PG-13
Challenge/Prompt: Written for the 5, 10, 20, 50, 70, 100 Fandoms Challenge, and the Quidditch League Competition, prompts used were... Genre: Noir-style; quote: "Never regret. If it's good, it's wonderful. If it's bad, it's experience." - Victoria Holt; optional prompts: audience and easier.
Disclaimer: This work of fiction is in no way connected to the author of Harry Potter, JK Rowling. Harry Potter is owned by her, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Light Harry-angsting, AU, EWE.
Pairings: Pre-Harry/Draco slash.
Summary: Harry doesn't want to go through with it. Draco, personally, thinks Harry is being a git.
When I had settled into my office, mere hours before, I hadn't been expecting much in the way of honest cases. Lately, the crime rates had been falling; maybe it was on account of the holidays, but I wouldn't know. As long as the cases kept coming on occasion, I was alright.
It was seven o'clock when he had appeared. He had come knocking on my office door. Now, in my years of work, I could recognize the subtle differences between knocks: some were urgent knocks, signifying a need for action; others were fan knocks, the overenthusiastic ones where the person on the other side of the door just wanted a chance to speak to me, or ask for an autograph. Those were the knocks I avoided at all times, taking precautions to not speak a word until they finally got disappointed and left. Then, there were the self-assured, confident knocks of reporters, just waiting for the chance to meet me and jot down notes for their awful articles.
These knocks were so alike, but so different from the usual. It was unquestionably confident, with a definite urgency to it – based on the amount of raps and pauses between each one – with a certain enthusiasm.
When I had muttered an affirmative on his entry, I couldn't help but look over his entire body once, sweeping from head to toe. He looked like a fallen angel, but I knew that beneath the fair complexion and lithe body, he could also be the devil incarnated, himself. His hair seemed even lighter than the last time I had seen it, a snowier blond than the silvery-blond it had once been. It curled around his ears, making it look even softer than downy fur, along with a certain luminous atmosphere about it.
His skin was like the finest of ice creams: silky and smooth. I vaguely mused whether it was as soft as it looked.
But those eyes were oh-so familiar, along with that aristocratic, pointed face. Those steel-grey orbs, I knew, could also hold a violent storm within their depths. It was something I had faced many times during my school years.
I straightened up in my seat and swept my hand in front of my desk and towards the seat. He didn't take it, instead choosing to rest his hands on the top of the chair and lean against it. I raised an eyebrow irritably, but made no comment on his choice. It was obviously just to irk me, if that smirk was anything to build upon.
"What can I do for you, Melbourne?" I questioned, cutting off my reminiscences. This was no time for nostalgia or a comparison of memories. The boy – no, definitely man – was obviously in need, and this was a serious business. I could hold back anything, as much as he could, if only for the sake of the job.
"Thomason," he drawled arrogantly. "As you may know, my family has been in the heirloom business for years." He paused there, as if to give me time to think that over. Of course, I am as good at my job as my memory is solid; I knew that the Melbournes had businesses related to architecture, Wizarding museums, and several ties to the Department of the Misuse of Magic Artefacts. Nodding my head, the blond continued:
"Now, you know about the newest addition to the Museum of Misfit Things?"
I nodded my head once, somehow eager to hear the case. Melbourne would've, no doubt, needed professional and discreet work done, if he was coming to me of all people.
The man paused, gritting his teeth. "Well, what hasn't been reported is that it was a family heirloom. My mother's, to be exact."
"The Stricklands?" I asked. Melbourne simply nodded, though he didn't seem to appreciate the interruption.
"As I way saying..." he cleared his throat, and continued. "Someone broke into the transferring station for the artefacts while it was being processed for the showcase.
"Now, Melbournes only need the best, and you," there was a subtle curl of his lip there, but I ignored it; we had long since moved on from the childish rivalry, "are said to be the best there is in the Private Investigation business."
I leaned back in my chair and thought over the implications of this offer. There would, no doubt, be problems between us. Even if I tried not to show it, Melbourne could probably sense the tenseness about me.
But the man was drop-dead gorgeous, and it would be a high-paying job; just enough to donate to many of the war orphanages anonymously.
Melbourne seemed to be getting a little nervous now, as he had started to tap his fingers restlessly against the back of the chair. I contemplated the offer before finally standing up from my seat and offering my hand.
The flaxen-haired man shook it tightly and discreetly wiped his hand on his trousers.
"Now, tell me more about this object..."
"Cut!" a voice called in the distance. Harry grunted in anger, turning towards the director.
"What is it?" he asked tiredly, running a hand over his face. "What could we have possibly done wrong this time?"
"I know the script says that you need to be entranced by Malfoy," Justin sighed long-sufferingly. "But you shouldn't just stare at him as if you're stupid every few words."
"How in the hell else should I act?" Harry jumped up from his seat, walking around the desk. "That's the only way it makes sense to me!"
"Potter," Malfoy placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "You need to calm down. I know it's hard staring at my gorgeous face for so long without losing yourself," Harry snorted at that comment, but Malfoy completely ignored it. "But you need to make it realistic."
Harry sighed and slumped his shoulders, "Bloody git… Fine, fine. I understand what you mean. Just give me a few minutes to look back over the script.
"Why did I even agree to help Justin with this play?"
"Because the m," Harry looked pointedly at him, making Draco completely change the word, "-agnificently controlling woman threatened you?"
Harry merely stared at the blond, and then shook his head. Malfoy always seemed to be able to find different ways of insulting his friends, even while getting scolded for doing that exact thing. Well, at least they weren't anything racist.
Malfoy strutted away, possibly to fix himself and preen in the mirror, vain git as he was. What Harry's character could find attractive in a man like him was beyond Harry. Gritting his teeth, the teen focussed on the script's contents, and just hoped that he would be able to get it right, soon.
By the time opening day arrived, Harry had been able to get through the opening scene without making a complete idiot of himself. However, there was another problem…
Harry didn't think he'd be able to go through the performance in front of a live audience, without losing his light lunch. Malfoy had gotten word of his stage fright, and the teen had laughed for a good half hour before telling the raven-haired teen to get over himself.
As wonderful as those words of encouragement were, Harry still had no confidence he'd be able to act without fainting.
A knock startled him out of his sulk, and Harry grunted a low, "Come in!"
To his surprise, Malfoy strolled inside the room and seated himself gracefully on the couch.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry asked, sprawled out on the couch opposite the other teen.
"As I have already said, Potter, you need to get over yourself," the blond started sternly. "This cannot be anything worse than standing in front of thousands of people and delivering a speech."
Harry cringed, "Yeah, but no one is going to judge my performance while I give a bloody speech. This is a play."
"What has you so fucking afraid?" Malfoy spat, arms crossed. When Harry opened his mouth to refute that statement, the blond rolled his eyes, "Yes, we all know you can be afraid, Potty. Save the hero complex for later."
"I'm not afraid of anything," Harry still said, outraged. "If anything, I just cannot stand being up on a stage."
"Oh?" the blond arched an eyebrow. Harry felt his face burn in embarrassment.
"Fine," he sighed. "During my second year of school, we were doing a class reading. I was called up, as the next person in line, and stumbled over a few of the words. The family didn't encourage me to learn, so it was especially hard to will myself.
"Anyway, when I stumbled over the words, my cousin Dudley made a rude comment, though he was out of class and out in the halls. Despite that fact, the closest person to the door heard it and repeated it to everyone. It had most of the children in the class laughing, and the teacher was unable to stop them from continuing on with the teasing for the rest of the year.
"Seriously, I just cannot go up on stage and humiliate myself, again."
Draco laughed mockingly, "Is that it? You fucking idiot. I've surely done worse to you before. Now, get off your cowardly arse, or I tell Granger you refused to get on with it."
"You wouldn't," Harry seethed, glaring daggers at the smug aristocrat. "You hate Hermione as much as you hate Ron and me."
"I will be willing to do so, if you only because you are a pathetic excuse of a Gryffindor. And adding to that, I don't hate you Potter, I just loath your entire existence. So, are you going to agree to my conditions, or are you scared?"
"You wish," Harry retorted, the phrase familiar on his tongue.
As was expected, Harry rose to the challenge and gave a well-done performance.
When the curtains were closed, and the cast had all bowed, Harry turned towards Draco.
"Well, Malfoy, I guess you were right," he grinned.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Potter," the blond crossed his arms and walked away. "It wasn't the act of the century."
Harry could've sworn he heard the petulant words, "It was well enough for an amateur, anyway," as well.
And, if he was honest with himself, Harry could admit that being on stage had never felt so sweet.
Author's Note:
I had trouble with this prompt, so I'm sorry if it wasn't written very well! Please review?