Author's Notes: OK, so J.K. Rowling travels on a train and comes up with the original Harry Potter. I spend 21 hours on an airplane and come up with...this. Pure, unrepentant slash.
Acknowledgements to the many divas of the world including Sandra Bernhart, Sylvester and of course, J.K. Rowling.
A little after 10:00 on a warm summer evening, Harry Potter stood in front of a neon sign reading "The Excalibur Club." Pulling a scrap of parchment from his pocket, he double-checked the address Neville had given him. This was definitely the place, but Harry couldn't help but be surprised over the fact that Neville had sent him to a nightclub of ill repute.
"But after the day I've had, a drink might really hit the spot," reasoned Harry, and walked inside.
Instead of the mellow atmosphere of a place like the Leaky Cauldron, however, walking into the Excalibur was like walking into a wall of noise. A pulsating disco beat reverberated around Harry, and he could see a performer on stage. Pushing his way forward, Harry experienced his second shock of the evening when he realized the dancer was Neville Longbottom, clad in short, sparkling and figure-hugging gold robes and matching gold lame heels. An enormous blonde wig completed his ensemble and he was belting out the lyrics to "Mighty Real." Harry watched for a few minutes, noted that Neville had nice legs, then remembered Ron had also said he'd stop by to watch Neville's premier performance and shoved his way back to the bar.
Perched on a barstool, Harry ordered a drink and applauded enthusiastically when Neville's number ended. As the next performer took the stage, Harry noticed Dean Thomas headed his way. Harry hadn't seen Dean in almost two years, not since they'd left school. Apparently Neville wasn't the only one to have changed: Dean had become a burly young man, his black t-shirt stretched tightly across his well-defined pecs.
"Harry! Glad you made it!" Dean grinned at him and sat down. "So what do you think?"
Harry wasn't sure if Dean was referring to Neville's act or the bar in general. "Not bad," he said cautiously.
But Dean wasn't listening. Instead, he stood up again as Neville approached them. Dean gave Neville a welcoming kiss then placed one arm authoritatively around his waist. "You were fabulous!" he squealed, then turned back to Harry. "Wasn't he?"
"Yeah, great, really good," Harry replied. He'd never known Dean and Neville were so close.
"Thanks for coming tonight, Harry," said Neville, adjusting his bosom. "It really means a lot. I think I've finally found something I'm good at," he enthused.
"You're a natural," agreed Dean.
Neville glanced around. "Is Ron here?"
"Not yet. When do you go back on stage?"
"In just a few minutes. I'd better get backstage, but I wanted to come say hello." Neville scampered off.
"Want a closer seat?" asked Dean.
"No thanks. I'll keep an eye out for Ron."
"Okay." Dean waded through the increasing mass of people, leaving Harry alone at the bar.
"Need a top-up?" The bartender pointed to Harry's empty glass.
"Yeah, thanks." Harry looked around, but still no sign of Ron. It was unlike him to be so late, and tonight Harry particularly wanted to see him so he could analyze the demise of his latest relationship. For although Harry Potter was a legend in the wizarding world, having survived countless attempts on his life by the Dark Lord, he was decidedly unlucky in love. His latest girlfriend had dumped him over dinner and Harry was starting to wonder just how many times he could listen to a witch begin a conversation with 'it's not you, it's me.'
But Ron didn't turn up and Harry kept drinking until a florid-faced wizard dressed in baby blue seersucker robes approached him. He looked oddly familiar, but it wasn't until the man spoke that Harry remembered who he was: Gilderoy Lockheart.
"Harry Potter!" he shouted. "Of all the handsome young wizards I'm glad to see!" Despite the loud music, the entire club seemed to have become hushed as the patrons craned for a better look at Harry.
Lockheart swept over and motioned to a short, portly wizard with a dark moustache. "Clive! Here's your next cover of Wizard Rainbow Pages!"
The shorter man scurried over with a camera and quill. Lockheart continued speaking to Harry. "Can't say I'm surprised, of course. Ah, yes, I still reflect fondly on those many hours we spent together, addressing my fan mail. That was it, wasn't it?" Here he paused and gave Harry a knowing wink. "But you could have told me, at least!"
"Told you what?" Harry knew he'd had a fair amount to drink, but nothing Lockheart said made any sense.
"Tell me what!" repeated Lockheart, then turned to the crowd and rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. "All right, Clive, get ready to photograph Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile and -" he winked at Harry - "Its Sexiest Wizard Alive."
Harry shrank back as Lockheart made to place his arm around Harry and draw him into an embrace. "Really, I'd rather not -"
At that moment a muscular, young, blond man pulled the photographer aside and after a few tense words, both Clive and Lockheart backed off.
Harry slumped forward on the bar, head in his hands. He'd just been hit on by his old teacher. Could things get any worse?
Apparently they could. When Harry looked up he saw that his rescuer had been none other than Draco Malfoy.
"Close shave, eh Potter?" Malfoy leaned against the bar, cigarette in hand.
"I only came here to see Neville," Harry said wearily.
Draco glanced over at the stage. "Yes, he's not bad, if you like that sort of thing."
"What do you want?"
Draco feigned a hurt look. "Manners, Potter, manners. Here I do you a favor and that's all you can say to me?"
"Malfoy," said Harry between gritted teeth, "You never do anything merely out of the goodness of your own heart."
"For someone who's just been rescued from the clutches of that bloody chicken-hawk I'd think you could show a bit more gratitude." Malfoy took a deep drag, exhaled and turned his attention back to Harry. "What's a nice boy like you doing all alone on a Friday night?"
Harry groaned. "You sound like Mrs Weasley."
Malfoy grinned, stumped out his cigarette and said, "Trust me, Potter. Weasley's mum and I aren't talking about the same thing."
Giving up trying to make any sense of the evening, Harry just shook his head and sighed.
"C'mon. Let's get out of there." Malfoy shoved some Galleons at the bartender and tugged at Harry's sleeve.
"Where are we going?" asked Harry as he followed Malfoy outside.
"I want to show you something."
Malfoy took Harry far from Diagon Alley and deep into Muggle London. They paused outside a dark, windowless club bearing only a small sign reading "Salem's Lot."
"After you," said Malfoy, ushering Harry inside.
Unlike Excalibur, this club was completely dark, devoid of disco and without any visible patrons. A burly man at the desk greeted Malfoy then jerked his head at Harry. "Who's the geek?"
"He's with me." Draco placed a firm hand between Harry's shoulder blades, which Harry found oddly thrilling, and they descended a flight of stairs.
"What is this?" demanded Harry as he took in the sight of men in leather, men in handcuffs, men with whips.
"This is where I work." Draco proudly surveyed his surroundings.
"But . . .all these people - they're Muggles!"
"Yeah, I know."
"But you hate Muggles!"
Draco's pleased expression faded. "Yes, well, it's the only place I can work, the Muggle world."
Harry laughed. "Right. Only place Lucius Malfoy's son can get work is in a Muggle prison."
"This isn't a prison, Potter," hissed Malfoy. "Muggles pay lots of money for this."
Harry stopped laughing. "They pay for this?"
"And for me to teach them how. After Father disowned me I didn't have many options."
"Your father disowned you?" asked Harry slowly, then winced as a nearby man wielded a cat o'nine tails. "But why?"
"For someone who's supposedly the savior of the wizarding world you're awfully thick. Look at me!" Draco placed his hands on his well-whittled waist. "I'm a bloody pouf! Wouldn't marry Pansy Parkinson, wouldn't join the Death Eaters. Didn't sit too well with Father."
"But why this?"
Malfoy chuckled, a cold familiar sound Harry knew so well from their years at Hogwarts. "What else am I fit to do? The magical community is small, Potter. If I wasn't going to play by Father's rules there really was no place for me. None of your goody-two-shoes friends would have hired me. So now I work here." He shrugged. "After all my years with Father it seems quite natural."
Harry stared. "But Malfoy, if you've really rejected the Dark Arts, why come here? All you're doing is teaching people how to inflict pain."
Malfoy was silent for a moment. When he turned and spoke, his grey eyes shone brightly in the dungeon gloom. "No, Harry. It's not about pain. It's about testing your limits. It's about trust." He walked quickly away.
Harry darted up the stairs after him. "Hey! You called me Harry!" They were outside again and Harry pulled Malfoy around to face him. "You've never done that before."
"First time for everything, isn't there?" They stood staring at each other, Harry breathing hard from having run up all those stairs.
Finally a shadow of a smile crossed Malfoy's face. "C'mon, I'll take you home."
"I can get home on my own." Harry certainly wasn't going to admit to Draco Malfoy that everything seemed to be spinning slightly.
"Right. If I let you go like this you'll wind up with a drink-flying charge, and if you Apparate you're liable to splinch yourself. My place is nearby. I'll make you some coffee."
But instead of coffee, Harry found himself having a nightcap.
"What've you been drinking all night?" asked Draco, opening his liquor cabinet.
"Ogdens Old Firewhisky and water."
Malfoy grimaced. "Try this. It's single malt." He poured a bit of amber liquid into two glasses and handed one to Harry.
Draco settled himself across from Harry and regarded him intently. "Having a good night, Potter?"
"No!" Harry burst out. "This has been a terrible night. First my girlfriend dumps me and now I'm at your flat."
"I should take offense at that last remark, but considering the other one, I'll overlook it." He took a swallow of his own drink. "So what do you want to do about it?"
"About what?"
"About how you feel. What you want to do." Malfoy's eyes gleamed.
"What makes you think you know anything about what I want?" challenged Harry, meeting Malfoy's gaze.
Draco's eye contact remained unrelenting. "I've known ever since I took you out of that club. And I think you know it, too. Only question is have you got the guts to follow through?" He leaned forward until they were only inches apart. Harry could smell him - a mixture of sweat and smoke and the night.
"I'm going home," he said, standing up.
Malfoy rolled his eyes and gave Harry a sardonic smile. "Chicken," he whispered, then stood up and said, "The bed's down the hall. I'll take the couch. Just let me get a pillow and some blankets."
"You don't have to -" Harry began, then dashed after Mafloy into the bedroom.
Malfoy's bed was unmade and he turned from gathering up pillows at the sound of Harry's step. Still giving Harry that maddening smile, he said nothing.
Harry took a step closer and locked eyes with Malfoy. This was the second time in only a few minutes they'd been so close and the proximity made his heart race strangely. Malfoy had the flashy kind of looks Harry had always prevented himself from admiring until now. And really, he reminded himself, Malfoy wasn't such a bad person. Afterall, he had rescued Harry from Lockheart. Without further thought, Harry placed both hands on Malfoy's shoulders and kissed him hard on the mouth.
He tasted of beer and cigarettes, Harry noted, which he would normally find repulsive, but then again he wouldn't normally kiss Malfoy.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard. Draco's expression had become harder to read - he almost looked wondering, if he was capable of such an emotion. He stripped off his t-shirt, revealing a muscular upper body - complete with washboard abs - and met with no objection when he reached out for Harry's shirt.
Harry experienced a fleeting thought of insanity, but it all felt so good, as if something was impelling him to touch Draco. But it wasn't the Imperius Curse that made him kiss Draco again and again. His heart pounded and his whole body felt jittery and weak, even as he pressed hard against Malfoy. When his trousers hit the floor, Harry moaned and tumbled into the unmade bed.
"Where am I?" Harry blinked at the strange room. The bedclothes were all shoved to the bottom of the bed and a fetid odor seemed to emanate from the room.
Harry groped around the bedstand for his glasses. When he slid them on, the room came into sharper focus and the first thing he saw was a bottle of LubeMagic next to his watch, and an opened box of Patronus brand condoms. Shaken, Harry pulled off his glasses and stared at the ceiling. So it really had happened. Flashes of the night before - running his own bare leg down Malfoy's rough, muscular calf, the feel of Malfoy's mouth on him - came unbidden. Harry felt slightly nauseated, but he wasn't sure if this was from his encounter with Malfoy or drinking too much scotch.
"Breakfast, sunshine." Malfoy lounged in the doorway, clad only in a pair of Slytherin boxers and wielding a spatula in a suggestive manner. "Oh, are we a bit hungover this morning?" he continued in the same sarcastic tone. "Try this." He sent a bottle of Hangover-Be-Gone at Harry. "If I could sell that stuff to Muggles I'd be richer than my father."
Harry swallowed two capsules. He still felt tired but the nausea had gone and the room stopped spinning. "Do you mind?" he asked when Malfoy remained draped against the doorjam.
"So modest this morning! Fine, I'll be in the kitchen." When Malfoy had flounced away, Harry searched for his clothes. After pulling on his rumpled shirt and trousers, he reached again for his glasses and attempted to flatten his hair.
In the small kitchen, which was just as untidy as the bedroom, Malfoy had prepared two plates of scambled eggs. Harry noticed he had put on a t-shirt, and his eyes roamed around the area, taking in the piles of laundry adorning much of the furniture.
"Malfoy, you're a slob," he said, sitting down and beginning to pick at his food.
"I've never picked up after myself in my life. Why start now? I've got a client who does cleaning - I'm sure he'd love to come over and scrub my floors with a toothbrush," Malfoy replied, unperturbed by his disorganized decor.
After several minutes of silence, Harry spoke again. "So do you go to the Excalibur often?"
Draco finished chewing and swallowed. "Most nights, yeah. But I work evenings a lot, too." He held up a forkful of egg and said, "But I don't recall seeing you there before."
"That's because I've never been."
"Yeah, I guess you're not really the club type. Keep it at home, do you?"
Harry shook his head. Noticing his guest's shell-shocked expression, Malfoy put down his fork and said, "Don't tell me last night was your first time."
"What's it to you?"
Malfoy was staring as if Harry were a unique specimen. "What did you do in the Gryffindor dormitories all those years?" he demanded incredulously. "Sing the school song?" Shaking his head, he attacked his eggs again. "Even Hufflepuffs got more action than you lot."
"Shut up."
Malfoy perked up at the sound of irritation in Harry's voice. Narrowing his eyes he said, "Or did you get some after all? Did you and your beloved Weasley share nights of tender passion?"
"Shut up!" Harry jumped to his feet and glared across the table. "Leave Ron out of this."
Malfoy assumed an expression of obviously fake concern. "Oh dear. I've gone and put my foot in it again. Eat your breakfast."
"No thanks. I'm not hungry." Harry pushed in his chair and headed for the front door.
"You know where to find me!" called Malfoy through a mouthful of eggs, merrily waving his fork as Harry stomped out.
Once on the landing, Harry leaned against a wall. "What have I done?" he wondered. If only Ron had turned up last night none of this would have happened. Harry began to feel cross. Where had Ron been, anyway? He could've at least owled if he had to cancel. At least Ron would never know what he, Harry, had done last night. "Even if I have to put a memory charm on Malfoy," vowed Harry, and headed for home.
Harry returned to his flat to find the table littered with owls from Ron, each growing increasingly frantic. "Fine for him to worry," thought Harry grumpily. He'd just have a shower and shave, then reply.
As soon as Ron received Harry's owl, he Apparated right over. "Where have you been?" he demanded.
"Where have I been? You're the one who stood us up last night."
"Didn't you read your owls?" Ron gestured to the pile of parchment. "Something came up and I couldn't meet you. My message must have just missed you."
Harry shook his head. "Whatever. It doesn't matter."
Ron looked at his friend more carefully. "Blimey, Harry. You look terrible. Late night with -"
Harry cut him off. "Late night, yes, but not with her. She broke up with me over dinner."
"So you spent the night getting smashed with Neville?"
"Something like that, yeah." Harry crossed the room and took a seat. "What do you know about Dean and Neville?"
Ron looked taken aback. "What do you mean?" he stammered.
Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Replacing the glasses, he said, "That club where Neville performed - I think it's a gay bar."
Now Ron burst into laughter. "Reckon so? Yeah, they're gay, so what?"
"You knew?"
Ron looked uncomfortable again. "I had an idea, yeah."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Dunno. We only just got in touch with them again, right?"
Harry nodded. "Well, you missed an evening of Neville in gold lame."
"Sorry. So, about this witch -"
"It's nothing. We didn't date that long." Last night Harry had thought he wanted to talk about this girl with Ron. But after all that had happened, someone else was filling his thoughts right now. Someone blond and muscular and handsome . . . Harry pulled a cushion over his lap, propped his head in his hands and closed his eyes. "I think I need to lie down," he said to Ron.
Ron looked at Harry intently. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Fine, fine." Harry reclined on his sofa and waved Ron away. "I'll owl you later."
"Okay." Ron drew his wand and with a last, worried glance at Harry, Disapparated.