Winter 1998

Six months. It had only been six months since the Battle of Hogwarts, but, by the way his life seemed to be moving in fast forward, it felt more like days. One day he had been waking up in a drafty tent in the middle of the forest, and then, within the blink of an eye, he was thrust into the finest robes money could buy and forced in front of flashing cameras. It had taken him a while to get used to the unexpected fame he walked into at eleven, but this was much harder to acclimate to. His new assistant—Aurora—never left him alone. She was at Grimmauld Place by five a.m. and did not leave until close to ten p.m., which was precisely why he was out at nearly midnight on a Tuesday. He wanted to get away. He wanted to not be noticed, not be told where to go or what to do. He just wanted to fucking breathe.

Today was hard—actually, it was bloody brutal. Today he returned to Hogwarts for the first time since the War's end, and he had to break up with Ginny. They weren't supposed to date anyone, especially him. He was "Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, The Slayer of the Dark Lord, The Chosen One, England's Most Eligible Bachelor," all of which meant he absolutely could not date anyone. He had to appear available. According to Aurora, it sold more magazines, which meant more sponsor contracts, which meant more money. He hadn't been particularly bothered about ending things with her. Part of him had been wondering for weeks now if he had made a mistake by jumping back into a relationship with her so soon after the war's end. She was still finishing up her schooling, had potential Quidditch contracts on the horizon, and would likely have about as much time to spend with him as he did her post-graduation. Beyond the mounting reasons to end their relationship, there was also the fact that the spark between them was gone. Vanished. He didn't get the butterflies he used to when they touched their kisses felt hollow. Perhaps his interest in her had been amplified by the war. Not wanting to die alone made people do silly things.

She took the break-up well–thankfully. No tears. No begging him to reconsider. She said she understood and gave him a sympathetic smile and a hug before taking off to join Luna, who had been walking towards Hagrid's hut. But that wasn't what made it brutal. It was being back there, in a partially completed castle, with the memories of the bodies that littered the courtyard and the obvious destruction that they were trying to heal from. He caused it—inadvertently, sure, but he was still the bloody reason so many of his friends had died. Lavender, Fred, Dobby, Colin, Remus, and Tonks. They would all still be alive if it wasn't for him. There were more though. More he didn't know the names of. More students who risked everything to fight beside him. He didn't even bloody know them, but they still stood their ground, and now he never would. Walking across those grounds made him feel empty inside. Like there was no ounce of joy left inside those hallowed grounds. Like he should have been the one buried instead of all of them.

That was why he found himself walking down Knockturn Alley in the middle of the night. He couldn't go home. He didn't want to be alone—not when he felt like this. He couldn't see his friends. Hermione was in France on some mission, and Ron was busy. Ron was always busy lately, but he couldn't really blame him. He doubted that Ron was even made aware of his attempts at arranging a time they could get together. It wasn't like they were exactly managing their own social calendars anymore.

The crisp winter air bit against his cheeks as it flung slurries of snow into the air. Harry could barely make out the crunch of his boots as he moved down the alley. He wasn't sure what he was doing here, as despite the Ministry's efforts to clean up Knockturn Alley, it was still not a place he should be wandering in the middle of the night for there were far too many people who had sworn vendettas against him. He knew it was reckless, but at this point it didn't matter. He needed to do something with a little risk. He'd been cooped up for too long, under the Ministry's thumb for too long. He needed to stretch his wings a bit and maybe cause a little trouble in the process. What they didn't know didn't hurt them, right?

Harry fought his way through the cold winter night, winding his way up the alley until the frost covered sign of a white dragon came into view. The White Wyvern. He'd passed the establishment the small handful of times he'd come down this alley, but the draw of a drink was never as strong as it was tonight. He'd shied away from the more reputable establishments because they were typically crawling with reporters, but he doubted he would find a single Prophet employee inside here.

He moved briskly to the front door, shivering as a gust of wind swirled the frost at his feet and traveled up his thick winter robes. Stepping into the pub, Harry lifted his emerald eyes from the ground to scan the room. It was nearly empty, only a couple patrons hung around the back tables. Women—sex workers if he had to guess by their attire. A year ago he might have run out at the thought, but now he couldn't judge. Work had been scarce since Voldemort took control of the Ministry and even after his inevitable fall people needed money. Minister Shacklebolt couldn't just create jobs overnight, no matter how hard he tried. People were just trying to survive, using whatever means they had as their disposal. He used his fame while other used their bodies, and truth be told, it almost felt the same at the end of the day.

The bar top was empty, and the too-hard seats looked more inviting than the darkness-shrouded booths that lined the perimeter of the room. His heavy boots thumped softly against the old carpet, and he took the seat closest to the end of the bar, hoping to use the shadows as a means to hide away from prying eyes. When the barmaid approached, he dropped his eyes to the sticky countertop, and his right hand rose, fingers twisting into his dark hairline and tugging it hopelessly over the curved scar on his forehead.

"What'll it be?" the gruff witch barked. Her voice was raspy and thick, as if she'd smoked thousands of cigarettes in her years.

"Merlin's Bourbon," Harry mumbled the first brand that came to mind. He'd never actually drank the stuff, but he'd done a photoshoot for the brand two weeks prior and the logo popped to his mind almost instantly. It was hard to forget. The ancient looking wizard in a crooked hat with what appeared to be a badly drawn owl behind him.

The witch did not give him a second glance. Instead, she gave a small grunt before a foggy crystal tumbler was set roughly in front of him and the amber liquid was poured to the rim. Harry reached into the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew a handful of coins. Flicking through the sickles and knuts, he withdrew three large galleons, the gold coins shimmering in the soft lighting of the bar, and he set them on the grimey countertop before sliding them to the witch. "Keep them coming."

Harry wasted no time taking a large mouthful of liquor, letting the full-bodied smoky bourbon dance across his tongue, savoring the flavor before he swallowed. It was different than what he was used to, immensely different than the firewhiskey his Godfather had favored. Lifting the glass to eye level, Harry swiped his thumb over the cloudy surface, watching the light reflecting through it with a morbid curiosity. He hadn't thought about Sirius since moving into Grimmauld Place. His life was so damn chaotic he barely had time to think about himself. Harry wondered what Sirius would think of this new lifestyle he'd fallen into. Would he encourage him to enjoy the ride or be disappointed with the decisions he'd made?

While Harry's mind swirled with thoughts of lost loved ones, across the room hidden in the shadows sat a blond wizard who was battling his own demons. He'd come to frequent The White Wyvern since the war's end. Although the clientele of this establishment was not one his father shied away from associating with, Draco found the patrons to be less than appealing. Known criminals, opposers of the current Ministry administration, defenders of Dark Wizards, and those who gained their income from less than legal means: these were all people that he was supposed to stay away from per the terms of his parole. They were far from high society, and he most certainly made a point to avoid uttering a single word to them. He did not come to this pub for company, but rather for solitude. He was able to spend his time hidden amongst England's most deplorable and not have a second glance thrown his way. After all, he was rumored to be the boy who took down the Great Albus Dumbledore. His rapidly deteriorating public image was at least able to offer him some peace amongst society's worst.

He was midway through the bottle of Scotch he had purchased from the bar when Potter walked in. Harry-Fucking-Potter. The boy—no, man—that he had spent years hating for no other reason than his immediate fame. Harry did not have to try to keep friends, nor did he worry about how he looked in public. Harry was a legend from the time he was in nappies, and now the bloody fuck was plastered all over magazines and newspapers. Worse, the stupid git went to his sentencing hearing. He didn't speak on his behalf like that idiot friend of his—Granger— but the fact that he sat in the stands watching as he begged not to join his father in Azkaban was bad enough. Draco would never forget the look on Harry's face. The way his too-big emerald eyes shimmered in the artificial blue light of the room, making them look like endless pools of turquoise water. Pity? No—it wasn't pity. It was sympathy. Like Harry wanted to do nothing more than run down to the dais and defend him. Bloody Gryffindors and their god-complex.

Draco's fingers tapped idly against the side of his tumbler, watching Harry work his way through two glasses of whatever watered down excuse for liquor Greta was pouring. He could sense a familiar sort of misery exuding from him across the room, like he was trying to find answers in the bottom of the bottle. He knew that misery all too well, and most specifically, he knew that Harry would never be able to find what he was looking for. Part of him wanted to let Harry learn this lesson on his own, but knowing the type of environment they were in, he doubted it would be beneficial to allow Britain's most famous wizard to be taken advantage of in his favourite drinking spot.

Muttering a soft curse under his breath, Draco gathered both his bottle of scotch and tumbler before rising from the dark table. He manoeuvred through the empty room, black dragonhide loafers making no noise as he approached the wizard from behind, silver eyes flickering down the length of the bar towards a small collection of witches who lingered at a nearby table. They were watching Harry hungrily, like a bird of prey ready to strike. "Despite your best efforts at remaining invisible, sitting at the bloody bar isn't exactly discreet, Potter. But then again, espionage was never your forte, was it?"

Draco watched as the full force of those eyes turned on him, wide with shock and a twinge of something else he couldn't make out. Relief? Familiarity? Whatever it was, Draco tried not to dwell on the particulars as he leaned against the bar top and his arm brushed against Harry's, sending a jolt of electricity across his skin.

"Malfoy?" Harry's thick black eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle of his forehead as he stared at the blond for a moment, his brain not firing on all cylinders due to the three tumblers full of whiskey that he had just consumed. As their arms brushed, Harry's spine straightened. A sharp snap of magic running straight to the center of his chest kick started his heart. Gulping, Harry's eyes flickered down to look at where their skin still touched before glancing back up to Draco. What the hell type of reaction was that? It almost felt like—no. No. This was fucking Draco Malfoy. There was no bloody way he felt like that about him. He didn't even like blokes. Not like that at least.

"Very astute, Potter. I can see you've only become cleverer since Hogwarts," Draco drawled, molten silver eyes swirling with sharp amusement on the wizard's behalf. Glancing past Harry, he surveyed the room cautiously, noting the way the group of witches in the corner seemed to sink back into the darkness now that he'd come to rescue the Idiot-Boy-Who-Lived from the big bad demons that lurked in the shadows of this establishment. "What are you doing here, Potter? This isn't like the Hogs Head, you know. There are people in here who would love to have their wicked way with you."

Draco watched as Harry's Adam's apple traveled the length of his throat with an audible gulp. He doubted very much the boy wonder knew he was referring to actual danger as opposed to debauchery, but he wasn't going to correct him. This deer in headlights look he was currently wearing was almost appealing. It made him look vulnerable. Like he wasn't the saviour of the Wizarding World but rather just another person at the bar. The past between them was rocky, at best, but so much had changed since the the final battle and even more since either of them had graced the corridors of Hogwarts together. He was different now, still bitter and angry, but different.

When Harry made no response, Draco leaned closer to the wizard and lifted up his bottle of scotch. The sound of the glass bottle hitting the tumbler Harry clutched in his palm like a lifeline barely registered as he poured three fingers full for him. "Come on, let's get you in the shadows."

Harry watched as Draco pushed off the bar top with an air of confidence that straddled the line between impressive and arrogant. While part of him wanted to follow and see what the blond had to say, the other part was terrified. He had come here to be alone. To get away from people who knew him, to process how dramatically his life had changed in the past several months. Joining Draco was going to squash his plans of introspection, and beyond that, whatever that spark was between them was more than a little concerning. What the hell did it mean? Why did he experience it now? It was the liquor. It had to be the bloody liquor.

He waited until Draco was halfway across the room, watching him serpentine his way through the tables and chairs, before he looked back at the refilled drink in his hand. Lifting it to his nose, he took a tentative sniff to try to determine what lay inside. It was a different amber colour than the drink the barmaid had poured; the sheen to the liquid appeared less gold and more flat. Taking a tentative sip, his eyebrows lifted as the woody flavor burst to life. Swallowing down the decidedly earthy alcohol, he felt a bite at the back of his throat from the slow burn of it hitting his belly. Harry supposed he could join Draco for just one drink; after all, it was polite. And he could ask him what he'd poured him, right? Just one drink.

Sliding off the barstool, Harry found his footing on the old wooden floor before he began after Draco. The pair tucked themselves into the far corner of the bar in a small booth. From this vantage point, they could see whoever came in or left The White Wyvern, but it also meant they had to sit shoulder to shoulder as opposed to across from one another.

As Harry settled into the worn leather beside him, Draco refilled his own drink before setting the bottle between them. He curled both of his hands around the crystal tumbler, his thumbs swiping along the cut glass absentmindedly. "Are you going to answer my question or just leave me in a constant state of curiosity for the remainder of the evening?"

Harry glanced over to Draco, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. He'd been so focused on that strange new tingle of magic that he'd almost forgotten Draco had asked something earlier. "I wanted to go somewhere I wouldn't be recognized."

"That would be quite literally impossible."

"So I've realised," Harry replied in a breathy whisper before his eyes dropped down to stare at the drink between his own hands. He ran his index finger around the rim of the class idly, watching as the amber liquid inside reverberated the movements in soft ripples. "And you?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm enjoying the scenery." Draco swept his hand in front them sarcastically before he dropped it to the small space between their bodies on the cushion of the booth. His pinky and ring finger brushed against Harry's denim covered thigh, but even through the thick layers of clothing, he felt it again. The spark. It was duller than before but obviously still present. He watched Harry jump at the jolt of magic and shift away from his accidental brush before twisting in his seat so they could face one another more easily.

Harry would never have thought he might actually enjoy conversing with his childhood nemesis, but before he knew it, the one drink had turned two which lead into many more, and suddenly an empty bottle of scotch sat between the two wizards who were savoring the last sips in their glasses. Harry wasn't sure if it was because of the taste or simply because he didn't want the conversation to end. There was a magnetism about Draco that was drawing him in. It was indescribable. He'd spent years around this man before and had never felt anything like it, but to be fair, they had never been friendly before. Which begged the question why now? Why was Malfoy letting down his guard and allowing Harry a glimpse behind those carefully constructed walls. Why was he being so bloody nice? Better yet—why was he returning the sentiment?

"So no girlfriends, no public debauchery of any kind–" Draco's right hand swirled the latch remaining sip of scotch around his glass idly, stormy gray eyes watching the amber liquid dance around the crystal. "–sounds like fucking torture." He let out a breathy laugh, finally lifting his eyes to find Harry's, silently relishing the way Harry's already alcohol-flushed cheeks crimsoned just a bit more.

"Er… I mean I guess it's not ideal," Harry agreed, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip nervously. "But it wasn't exactly like I was doing—well, any of that before..." His voice trailed off, letting the acts Draco spoke of linger unspoken between them. His eyes dropped away from Malfoy's to look at the glass clasped between his hands when the wizard's trademark smirk spread wider across his lips, causing his own blush to deepen as he thought of how it would feel to have Draco's lips pressed against his own. Would they feel as soft as they looked? Would they cause the warmth that radiated across his skin every time they accidentally touched to amplify?

Draco set his glass down on the table, the noise of the crystal settling on the soft wood sounding louder than it should, but it seemed everything between them was amplified now. Cocking his head to the side as his gray eyes peered through the dim lighting, he watched what seemed like an internal battles of wills that waged war within the alcohol-fueled mind of the Boy Who Lived. "Well, you could always try your hand at it—out of the public eye, of course. I'd be more than happy to offer you my assistance should you feel the need to explore any lasciviousness that lurks beneath your boy-hero persona," Draco offered coolly, like one would offer to pick up milk from the grocers on their way home.

"Wh−at?" Harry coughed, choking on his own saliva as his head whipped up to look at Draco, emerald eyes wide beneath his round framed glasses. Maybe he'd misheard him. There was no bloody way Malfoy could have just said what he did. This was—no, absolutely not. He was being nice but—that? No. When Draco only laughed in response, the soft melody sent an involuntary shiver down Harry's spine. His mouth felt suddenly dry, and he quickly swallowed down the last bit of scotch in his glass, letting the smoky liquor mix into the fire that roared in the pit of his stomach.

Draco's hand dropped beneath the table, and he withdrew a long thin skeleton key from his trouser pocket, twisting the cold metal between his fingertips thoughtfully as he watched Harry's eyes flicker across his face, trying to read past the surface deep emotions that he let filter through the layer of apathy he normally wore. Leaning closer toward the wizard, he heard Harry's breath hitch as their shoulders brushed. Closer now than ever before, Draco kept leaning in until his mouth hovered centimeters away from Harry's ear. "You can run home and play into your public image, or you can join me upstairs—" His lips brushed against the shell of Harry's ear as he slipped the skeleton key into the front pocket of Harry's jeans. Draco felt him tremble under his gentle touch, and laying his hand on Harry's leg, he felt the thick muscle twitch in response as he brushed his fingers lightly across the inside of his thigh. "—should you feel so inclined."

Harry sat frozen, his eyes wide as a foreign heat flushed over his body as Draco's hot breath washed down across his neck, igniting goosebumps across the skin on his throat and shoulders. Emerald eyes fluttered closed as Draco's hand rested on his thigh, and before he could even process the words that Malfoy had purred into his ear like some sort of sex dragon, he felt the hand slide up to cup his cock through the jeans. Harry let out a noise between a squeak and a moan, every last ounce of air leaving his lungs when he felt those long, nimble fingers squeeze gently at his erect cock. He had been trying to hide this attraction for the better part of their conversation, but hiding it obviously did little good considering Malfoy was rubbing the heel of his hand across him as if assessing his length right in the middle of the bloody fucking bar room.

And just like that, the contact was gone, and the heat radiating from Malfoy that was warming the side of his body vanished. Harry's body lurched, leaning towards where Malfoy had been sitting as if to seek out the missing warmth. His eyes opened, and Harry remained still, watching as Draco collected his overcoat and draped it over his arm before moving across the room towards a single staircase that lead to the second floor of the pub and, he assumed,where the hotel rooms were. How could Malfoy walk away and act like the proposition he'd just whispered in his ear was nothing out of the ordinary? As much as Harry wanted tuck tail and run from this bloody pub to the safety of Grimmauld Place, there was something drawing him into following after the wizard. And perhaps that was the scariest part about it all.

Harry's eyes dropped to the table once Draco disappeared up the stairs, and he withdrew the key from his pocket. It felt like a millstone in his fingers: heavy and foreboding. If he were to accompany Draco upstairs, he was certain nothing good would follow, but if he didn't, he would spend the rest of eternity wondering what if. He'd never considered himself gay—seeing as he'd never felt like this about a bloke before—but suddenly the question wouldn't leave his mind. What if he was? What if he only thought those amorous feelings that stirred within him in his youth were for women? How would the wizarding world react? Better yet, how would he react?! But he couldn't be gay? He'd never felt like...that about a bloke before! Hell, he wasn't even sure if he felt like that about Malfoy! He had drank enough to incapacitate a small mountain troll—surely his ability to make coherent thought was compromised. That was the excuse he would use in morning if he still felt conflicted about this whole mess.

Harry's fingers curled tightly around the key as he pushed up from the table. He needed a night of freedom, a night of not following the bloody rules and just acting on impulse. It had been months since he'd broken any sort of rule, and while living without fearing for his life was a much welcomed result of Voldemort's defeat, he was beginning to feel a bit complacent with the normalcy of the day-to-day drivel. He had toyed around with becoming an Auror during fifth and sixth year, but it was made explicitly clear after the Battle of Hogwarts he was not going to be allowed into that line of work. No, the Ministry had bigger plans for him than "just catching dark wizards." Kingsley informed him his time fighting on behalf of the Wizarding World was done; he was going to go start a more diplomatic approach to helping secure peace.

He moved up the stairs two at a time, his trainers squeaking softly on the aged wood as he turned the key over in his palm so the engraved room number was in view. The hallway was even more dimly lit than the pub below, but even through the soft lighting he could make out the grime that lined the baseboards of the hallway. The wood held a thick layer of dirt, only the center of the hallway providing a path where shoe scuffs routinely disrupted the filth that settled on its surface. It was almost disarming to think that Malfoy would find himself in a hovel like this by choice.

He moved past the shabbily painted doors until he reached number four. Four—Harry's least favorite number in the world. Number four Privet Drive. The fourth triwizard contestant. Fourth year was when it all began—Voldemort's return. His skin prickled as the faded painted number glared at him from the door, an ominous sign. Nothing good ever came from this number; it should have been a clear sign for him to run away before anything further progressed. But the risk reward ratio seemed to be vastly skewed in his mind because all he could think about was Malfoy's hand on his thigh and the purring voice in his ear. The key slid into the slot with no resistance, and with a twist of the cold metal doorknob, Harry pushed his way inside Malfoy's rented room.

His heart pounded wildly beneath his chest like he'd just run a marathon. This was the furthest thing from what he was supposed to do be doing right now. Aurora would most definitely not approve, but he couldn't care less about playing by the rules. He wanted to figure out what this feeling was between him and Malfoy. He wanted to give in to spontaneity and figure out the bloody details later.

Draco was across the room leaning against a rickety table, his fingers working the buttons of his black oxford open. He hadn't bothered to glance up when Harry entered the room. He knew exactly who had walked in the moment he crossed the threshold; Harry's magical signature was like a bull in a china shop: loud, overwhelming, and very distinct. It was like every particle of magic that hung in the air between them ignited, and the once cold room was nearly instantly stiflingly hot.

Shrugging out of his oxford, Draco draped it over the back of the chair he stood next to, leaving him in just a crisp pair of black trousers and a gray undershirt that clung to his lithe frame. Gray eyes lifted to find Harry's, and without a single word, he held out his hand towards him, silently beckoning the raven-haired wizard to come further into the room to him.

He watched Harry hesitate, his fingers twisting around the skeleton key as he pulled it from the door before he moved the metal object back into the front pocket of his jeans.

"Come on, Potter." Draco's voice was soft, still the same purr from before. "I won't bite."

Harry's leaned back against the door, which closed behind him with an affirmative snap. The sound felt like the final nail in this coffin. He wasn't leaving. He wasn't going to run from this. Even here, feet apart in the shabby rented room, he could feel the sexual tension between them. He gulped, trying desperately to will his feet to move him towards the inviting wizard, but they were firmly planted to the ground.

Draco chuckled, his teeth plucking at the corner of his bottom lip. It was almost adorable—this whole deer in headlights look. Gryffindor courage brought this lion into his room, but it appeared he might need a little convincing to actively participate in this sort of release. Pushing off the table, Draco's hands dropped to the hem of his undershirt, and he peeled it over his head, revealing the lean muscles that lay beneath. He was far from athletic. The muscles he had once built during four seasons of Quidditch had long disappeared. There had been no time to practice or worry about his physique when he was just trying to stay alive, trying to stay hidden, out of view from a mad man who had tasked him with so much already. Now he was lean, wirey, like one of those street fighters his father would bet on four shops down the alley. Especially since marring the ivory expanse of his chest and abdomen lay the still-pink scar that the wizard he was approaching had given him. It started at his left collarbone and zig-zagged across his body, trisecting him like some sort of botched surgery patient.

He heard Harry inhale sharply, and before he could give the wizard a chance to change his mind, Draco was on him. His right hand found Harry's hip, his palm pressing against the sharp bone and urging him back into the soft wood of the door while his left hand planted itself against the door beside Harry's head. He leaned in, his chest pressing into the brunette wizard's, and in one fluid motion, his mouth found Harry's.

Almost instantly the magical energy between them cracked. Draco couldn't be sure if the noise he heard was in his mind or real, but the feeling they'd danced around all evening consumed them both. Years of repressed anger, spite, frustration, and lust mixed together until they formed a near violent maelstrom. Their kiss was fierce, both vying for control, but it was clear Draco would have the upper hand, as he was unwilling to allow Potter to over take him. His hand forged an unforgiving path across Harry's hips as he moved to touch the wizard's skin.

A zap of magic coursed through Harry's veins as soon as Malfoy's hands connected with the skin on his abdomen, the feeling of his nails scratching lightly along the sensitive skin until they brushed through the small smattering of black hair that lined his pecs. He inhaled sharply in response to the foreign magic, and his head tipped back against the door as he tried to catch his breath. This was more than he had expected. The overwhelming sensation, the franic need to have him touch him more, to figure out what this all bloody meant. Harry felt drunk, but not from the liquor that he had just consumed. No, the buzz from the alcohol evaporated the moment Malfoy's lips found his. This was new. It felt like power, raw energy that only grew each time they touched. He wanted more—he needed more.

It did not take long for Harry and Draco both to look themselves in the inferno of lust and magic that had swirled between them all night. Like gasoline to a fire, their mere proximity fans the flames and before long the silent thoughts and doubts they shared vanished. There was no room to think about the what if's or the complications. Instead, they spent the rest of the night focusing on the only thing that made absolute bloody sense in that moment. Finding release with each other in the most carnal ways possible.

When the early morning rays of light danced across Harry's face pulling him from his slumber, he half expected to find himself in the arms of a snarky blond. The last thing he remembered was drifting off to sleep listening to the steady thump of Malfoy's heart as he had tried to collect his thoughts. He had planned on telling him it was a one time thing, on thanking him for opening his eyes to a very confusing part of himself but stating that they obviously couldn't continue.

Instead, he found an empty bed and a folded up piece of parchment on the pillow that still smelt of Draco. Fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand, Harry pulled them on before snatching the note off the pillow. He felt an odd twinge of residual magic from last night pulse through him as he rolled onto his back, lifting the note into the light so he could read it.

Potter,

Duty called, and you looked far too comfortable to wake. Should you feel the need to explore your newfound deviation, I shall be at The Hag's Kiss in Manchester for the next three nights. Feel free to make yourself at home. Room 4 - perhaps it shall be our lucky number?

D. M.

Author's Note:

Beta: Ravenslight
Alpha: Disenchantedglow

Without either of these two ladies, this fic would be a hot mess and would never come about! Thank you all for the kind reviews, keep them coming. They help inspire me to write more! Come interact with me on tumblr ms-merlinblack .