WARNING: this chapter contains scenes and depictions of sexual relations. If you're not keen on reading that kind of thing... yeah, don't :)
Chapter 10
Draco didn't like people.
Or, more correctly, he didn't like most people. Generally, his dislike arose from the fact that they didn't like him first. Witches and wizards seemed to smell his Malfoy heritage upon any encounter, lips curling and noses wrinkling before they more often than not spat in disgust, or loathing, or the shadow of prolonged grief that had no other target. He'd been a Death Eater, and no amount of concealment charms over the Dark Mark on his forearm could erase the darkness of his past.
But Muggles didn't like him either. As though in empathetic hatred with the witches and wizards scattered in their midst, they shunned him, whether deliberately or not. It didn't help that Draco knew he wasn't a friendly person, that he didn't assist in initiating any form of friendship, and that he knew he was good at his job. That skill in itself was always a deterrent, too; people didn't like being one-upped. They certainly didn't like missing out on a golden opportunity because a no-name slipped in before them and grabbed it from their greedy hands.
Since the interview with Harry Potter had been announced – for it had been an announcement, with all of the grandeur and hype that a Saviour and celebrity elicited – Harry had appeared in the papers almost as much as the magazines he modelled for. Draco had known it, had seen and heard whispers of it in the weeks leading up to further announcements, and the murmurs of wonder and excitement as to who would be chosen to not only drag the real truth of Harry's life story out but also to photograph him at their own whims were paradoxically deafening. Draco wasn't deeply immersed in the photographing community, and spent as much time as he could in the dark rooms at Building Eight when his attendance in the studio was required, but even he'd felt the buzz quivering in the air like static.
How quickly excitement had flipped into barely suppressed fury.
Readying himself in the studio, the company of only his two designated crewman that he'd barely bothered to learn the names of in dutiful attendance, Draco felt the tension that always gripped him slowly, incrementally easing from his shoulders. Even walking through Syren was a minefield of dodging glares and hisses of hatred. Since that first intervention, Harry had stepped in with his amicable smile and gently raised hand on several more occasions, but that didn't mean the outright threats and physical violence didn't cease.
It was never anything particularly noteworthy. An elbow to the chest to wind him, a fist hooked into the gut just hard enough to bruise, or a jab to the kidneys that didn't quite manage even that much but still induced a brief influx of nausea. Sadly, Draco was becoming used to it. He was finding he actually missed Paris for the significant lack of such attacks; there was something to be said for working overseas.
One such bruise was still discomforting him from barely days ago. As Draco dropped to a squat, he couldn't quite withhold a grunt for the protest of muscles in his lower belly. He ignored the glance his assistant Dawley gave him and instead set about firmly affixing his attention on his camera as he unpacked it from its case.
Only to glance up reflexively as Harry entered the room.
How he knew it was Harry even before he lifted his gaze, Draco didn't know. He couldn't have said, couldn't have explained it, and yet he knew. Whether it was a magical instinct – for he'd heard of such triggers before – or something else entirely, each time Harry was in the room Draco couldn't help but look at him.
It wasn't because he was gorgeous, though he was, and Draco didn't even pretend anymore that he wasn't far too attentive to the way his jeans hugged to his legs and his arse. It was impossible to overlook the perfect fit of the loose cardigan hooked over his shoulders or the throat of his shirt that exposed just a little more skin than was likely intended for most street-wearers.
It wasn't because Harry had the seemingly naïve ability to draw the eye of everyone in the room either, though he did that, too. Whether for how he stood, or smiled, or simply because of who he was to so many of the Wizarding world, he captured attention like a spotlight was trained upon him.
It wasn't because he made a clatter of noise upon entry. Not because he announced himself like some of the divas Draco had worked with who considered themselves practically supermodels. He didn't strut, or look down his nose, or condescend as many in his situation likely would have. He simply… was.
And that was it. That was what made Draco look. Because he was Harry, not just Harry Potter, and because he stood up for Draco, talked to him like a friend, smiled at him, and even bloody well invited him to lunch with his friends. It was because Draco was rapidly realising that he was becoming, had likely already become, more than a little infatuated.
"Need a hand, Malfoy?" his assistant Yu asked, edging away from where he and Dawley stood to the side of the room as awkwardly and redundantly as ever.
Draco didn't spare him a glance. He knew Yu spoke only because he was staring. As two of the few Syren photographers that were wholly magical and capable of wielding that magic with any skill – Draco knew they were dangerous without having to be told that they were practically bodyguards – there was only one reason that Yu would have chosen to speak to him.
Mind on the task at hand, Malfoy. You shouldn't even be in the room with him, let alone looking at him.
The words went unsaid, but Draco heard them nonetheless. Yu and Dawley didn't know Harry, didn't speak to him with more than a passing word here or there, and all but worshipped him when they did. They were as fiercely defensive of their Harry Potter as the rest of the world was.
He's like a doll, Draco thought, gritting his teeth and turning aside from where Harry crossed the room towards Pansy and their usual set up. Like a china doll for them all to fawn over and cherish but not touch. Just admire from afar.
Scoffing beneath his breath, Draco shook his head. He hadn't thought Harry would have suited modelling, but the mould he'd been set in seemed a perfect design. It was almost as though he wasn't allowed a mind of his own; he was simply a face before a camera, in a magazine, before adoring eyes that prayed as much to their Saviour in thanks as they did whatever God appealed to them.
It was sickening. Draco hated it. But it fit. It fit Harry and what he'd become, what he'd been forced to become, like a glove. Draco was coming to many such realisations of late. He wasn't sure he liked stepping out of distanced ignorance.
"Good morning, Harry," Pansy said with friendly ease. She flopped her theatrical notepad down upon her vacated chair to cross the remaining distance between them, a picture of all smiles. "I like the shirt."
"Thanks," Harry said. "Apparently green's my colour?"
"You could say that," Pansy said with a smirk. "Didn't you have a whole month last year where practically everything you wore was green?"
"You've got a good memory. It was for St. Pat's Day."
"Which is only a single day out of that whole month."
"I didn't hear anyone complaining."
They continued their conversation as Draco rose to standing, as casual as acquaintances could be and sounding more like friends than ex-schoolyard rivals. Draco shook his head slightly again. He knew it was all Harry's fault. Or not quite fault, but something else. Whether he made nice to make a point as his last interview suggested he was doing or because that was simply the person he was, had become, had maybe even been forced into being, Draco didn't know. But just as he did with Draco, Harry made a distinct gesture of friendliness when it came to Pansy.
Or not quite the same as he did with Draco. It wasn't exactly the same. Draco had to tell himself that to avoid glaring just a little in Pansy's direction for reasons he didn't want to pursue.
The comfortable exchange, a backdrop to Draco's setting up and Dawley and Yu's murmured conversation, was nothing if not familiar. It had become so over the past weeks. Regardless of the fact that it had only occurred twice before, it felt somehow natural. When Von arrived, which he would at any moment, it would be just the five of them. Just the five in their small space, an isolated bubble in the midst of Syren, excluded from the glares and hatred that followed Draco everywhere. That exclusion, coupled with Harry's company and the fact that Draco listened to him, heard him talk of a past, and was left just a little stunned time and time again because Harry spoke and he spoke for Draco as much as anyone else in his subtle hints at defence – that meant something.
Draco was infatuated. He knew it, and he didn't even try to hide that his dislike for filmography had dwindled to negligible in a handful of sittings.
He wasn't quite avoiding watching Harry and Pansy, was busying himself making final adjustments to his camera, his stand, checking the lights behind him and adjusting them just so, when conversation ceased. Mid-sentence, too, which was unusual enough for Pansy as, who stopped speaking and stuttered to a grinding halt.
Only to bark with sharp authority a moment later. "Excuse me. This is a private sitting. I'll have you step out, if you would."
Draco glanced sidelong at the man planted in the doorway that he'd mistaken in his periphery for Von. He looked – and he froze.
Photography wasn't a large industry in London, or at least not in the Wizarding world. There were some, but few enough truly expert in the field that Draco had to follow Dimitri's unwitting suggestion years ago and cast his net further afield. And Draco had learnt. He'd learnt a lot in his training, and not the least of which pertained to an initially begrudging and then progressively genuine respect for Muggles. They knew what they were doing with their technology, and they made it work. At times, they even made it work better than witches and wizards could.
Nonetheless, that slightly stunned realisation didn't dampen Draco's instinctive urge to compare himself to those with magic behind their lenses more fervently than others. Draco knew the name and face of every witch and wizard photographer of note in London.
Samuel Ipetsky was damned good at what he did.
He stood tall and smiling in the doorway, dark hair twirled into spikes and tipped with a hint of lightness as had become something of the fashion of late. His arms were propped in a casual lean on the door frame, and he appeared nothing if not friendly as he consumed the entirety of the entry.
Draco regarded him with narrowed eyes. He'd been wary of Ipetsky for a long time, as a competitor, if nothing else, but his awareness of the man had reached new heights since he'd first heard Harry mention him a week before. 'Friendly' didn't entail call after incessant call when those calls were clearly being ignored. It didn't step beyond the professional boundary of photographer and model that was supposed to be kept, a boundary that Draco was himself morally grappling with of late. It certainly didn't involve intruding upon a private sitting as though it had every right to do so.
Draco's hands curled around the light-fitting he held as he stared at Ipetsky, grappling with the urge to echo Pansy's works for emphasis. He should call someone. Security, maybe, or Von, or he could even just pull his own wand to –
"Sammy! What're you doing here? You said you weren't going to be back in London for a couple of days yet."
Startling, Draco swung his gaze towards Harry. Harry, who was smiling brightly in clear welcome and crossing the room towards Ipetsky in long strides. Ipetsky's smile widened into a grin, and he had no hesitation in looping an arm around Harry's neck as soon as he was within reach. He even went so far as to plant a quick kiss – a casual greeting if nothing more – upon his cheek.
Draco stared. He watched, frozen, and he couldn't look away. Wasn't Harry…?
"What, because it's so hard to make it over the Channel? I just caught an earlier trip."
Weren't those calls…?
"You told me you weren't finishing up until tomorrow."
From what Draco had seen, from the tight expression on Harry's face and the equally tight squeeze he'd given his phone before stuffing it away, hadn't he been…?
"I finished early. Called in a favour to get the job done a bit faster, which was all but impossible, but – I guess you can say I missed home? Berlin's not quite like London, you know."
"I wouldn't, actually. I've never been."
"No? Really? Then you should come when I go next time. Look, I could even land you a job if you'd…"
Draco watched, silent and immobilised, as Harry took a step out of Ipetsky's hold, settling himself at a comfortable distance. It didn't make sense. He couldn't understand it; not after what he'd seen barely days before. Those calls… Harry had clearly been uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable, even. His discomfort bordered on distress, the kind of smothered and muted distress that bottled down to little more than tension and a persistent twitch of his leg that Draco wouldn't have noticed at all had he not been sitting right next to him.
The modelling industry was gruelling. It was merciless, or so some people said. More than that, as with every industry, it had a dark side that was kept under wraps but occasionally seeped out into the open to the cringing side-eyes of onlookers.
That darkness – or, more correctly, that particular kind of darkness – was distinctly more prevalent when many workers involved models, however. Models that were positioned, and primped, and idealised, adjusted into near perfection in a way that was crafted to draw the eye. Draco had heard the stories; when his keen ear grew practiced enough in picking up the undertones of particular conversations, it was impossible to miss them. He'd heard, and it was one of the many reasons he built his boundaries between photographer and model as he did.
Had he been wrong to assume something with Harry? Something with Ipetsky? Pansy wasn't the only one who had done her homework on Harry's line of work; Draco knew Harry had modelled for Ipetsky years ago, in his earlier and still tentative days. He'd assumed…
But if something had happened between them, surely he wouldn't be so comfortable with him. Even if he didn't tell anyone. Draco glanced between Harry and Ipetsky with sharp, darting attentiveness. There was nothing there. No animosity, no nervousness, no slight shuffling backwards that might have suggested that Harry wasn't anything but companionable with Ipetsky in return.
Was I really wrong?
"… have to make the usual rounds," Ipetsky was saying with a sigh. The long-suffering tinge was wiped aside by his smirk that arose a moment later. "Consider me proud when I heard how many people are talking about you. And not just because of the interviews, mind."
"Proud?" Harry laughed slightly. "Are you trying to take credit again, Sammy?"
"Well, I practically made you."
"Of course. You keep telling yourself that."
"I'll keep telling you that."
"I think Dot might have a thing or two to say about your opinion on the matter."
Ipetsky laughed, a loud, echoing sound that wasn't quite obnoxious, but Draco heard it as just that nonetheless. Fighting the distaste welling bitterly on his tongue, he glanced at Pansy.
At least he wasn't alone in his annoyance. Pansy met his eye and, with a deliberate finger, tapped her wrist. She wasn't interrupting when Harry was clearly feeling welcoming, but she wouldn't stand for a delay in their timetable, either.
Draco nodded. He didn't need to say anything – Pansy would do the talking as she always did – but he folded his arms across his chest and affixed a frown upon Ipetsky nonetheless. He didn't like him. Even if Harry really didn't have a history with him, he didn't –
"… time do you finish up today?" Ipetsky was saying, his hand rising to rest comfortably on Harry's shoulder heavily enough to jostle him.
"It just depends," Harry said with a shrug. He glanced towards Pansy. "So long as everything runs on time?"
"Which it would, if we could start," Pansy said pointedly. She took a step towards the doorway. "Mr. Ipetsky, I'm sure you're a credible man, but given the circumstances and the privacy of these interviews, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Ipetsky appeared nothing if not amused by her words. He glanced at Harry, lips twitching and eyes brightening. "I'm really not allowed to stick around?"
Harry opened his mouth to reply but Pansy dove in first. "You're really not."
Ipetsky chuckled. With a nod of his head, he squeezed Harry's shoulder once more and took a step backwards. "I apologise, then. I didn't mean to intrude. I'm merely checking in." He cocked his head slightly as he addressed Harry directly. "Give me a call when you finish up. We can head out for drinks if you'd like."
Harry's smile didn't waver. The friendliness didn't fade from his face, and his stance didn't shift. And yet Draco saw it. Maybe he was hoping for it, or expecting it, but for whatever reason he saw it. The slight tightening of his shoulders. The infinitesimal straightening of his spine. The barely perceivable way he leant back just a little. Nothing more. There was nothing more than that, but in the beat of pause that followed Ipetsky's words, Draco was struck.
This is really not right.
He wanted to say something. The words were on his tongue. "Sorry, asshole, Harry and I are going out to dinner, so you can fuck off." He wanted to say them, maybe even would have, except Harry spoke first.
"Sure. Did you want to just head down to The Corner?"
Ipetsky breathed enthusiasm with his reply, but Draco didn't hear it except to know he spoke. He was far more concerned with staring at Harry's back, at his shoulders, where, barely noticeably, they twitched almost like a flinch. Like a drift towards tension before he caught himself. This was… Something was… The bitterness rising in Draco's throat flooded his mouth, and he had to clench his fists to avoid blurting out something he might regret.
"… afraid to admit we're on short time," Pansy was saying just as Draco hauled his attention back to the conversation.
"I'm sorry?" Ipetsky said, shifting his gaze to Pansy over Harry's shoulder. It froze for a moment, flickered with a hint of disdain or dislike or perhaps even disgust. Draco hated it. He always did, no matter how many times he saw it.
"She means you need to leave," Draco said curtly. "This is a private session."
His words rung hollowly in the room, almost a growl. Whether anyone else heard the coldness, the anger, Draco didn't know. He didn't really care, gaze fastened on Ipetsky yet not quite distracted from Harry's immobility.
Ipetsky didn't turn towards him immediately. When he did, with a slow, deliberate motion, Draco saw the moment recognition settled. He saw the instant Ipetsky's disregard of him as a side-lined audience member morphed into consideration and then repulsion as so often happened. Draco had never met the man before and hadn't really wanted to for reasons aside from his social ostracism, but the reaction wasn't surprising.
What did surprise him was that Ipetsky visibly shunted him to the side and refocused back upon Harry. His smile arose once more as friendly as ever. "Right. Sounds like I'd best be off. I'll call you?"
Harry nodded, and that was enough for Ipetsky. Offering a brief, communal farewell to the room in the form of a lazy wave, he sauntered out as though he owned the place. The static silence that arose in his absence was likely ominous only to Draco.
And maybe to Harry. Possibly, maybe, just a little, though watching as Harry stared at the empty doorway, Draco couldn't be sure. He hadn't a bloody clue.
Von arrived. Pansy sat. Harry dutifully attended to her as he should. And, as Draco settled himself behind his camera and began filming, he found himself glaring fiercely. It wasn't at the camera that he scowled but at Samuel Ipesky's afterimage that still hung in the forefront of his mind.
"… is just fascinating. So, throughout the entire year of your supposed disappearance…?"
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"How often would you say you relocated?"
"We never stayed in the one place for too long. It was move or risk being found by - by Riddle's followers."
"Yes, understandably. And with a price on your head…"
"Yeah. You can't be too careful. We'd move every day or so, and more frequently if we had to. It felt a bit like a game of cat and mouse, except that we couldn't even see the cat."
"And it was just yourself? Just you and your friends, Hermione and Ronald?"
"For practically the whole time, yes."
"You realise how impossible it sounds that a trio of seventeen-year-olds managed to evade one of the most cutthroat and persistent gangs in London of our time?"
"And yet here we are."
"And yet here you are. You didn't ever feel the urge to falter? To turn yourself in?"
"To Vol – to Riddle? No. Definitely not. He would have killed me."
"Even if you surrendered? Surely there's the possibility that he would have accepted your submission without your necessary death. Mercy in the face of almost certain murder when you're caught – I know what I'd choose."
"Not for me. I don't think mercy or joining his ranks would have been a viable option. I'm fairly sure that Riddle wanted me dead no matter what."
"Because of your parents?"
"Because of the people my parents worked with, yes."
"I admit, Harry, that I knew a little of just what you went through that year, being involved on a secondary level as I am. But I never considered it to be quite so drastic. In your shoes, I fathom many would have simply given up. It would have been easier."
"There's always an easier path. But not for me. Not in this instance. That wasn't the one I was put on."
"You say put on. By who, exactly?"
"What do you mean?"
"Who put you, a seventeen-year-old boy, on a path that would lead to almost certain death? It seems terribly cruel."
"You could look at it that way. I guess you could say that Dumbledore was the one who encouraged me, but I think that would be exaggerating his role. Ultimately, Riddle is the one responsible when he painted a literal target on my head, but…"
"But?"
"If you're looking for something like blame, there's never just the one person to pin it upon. You could say it's because of my parents that I ended up in my position, because they were on the opposite side of Riddle's war. Or you could blame the people my parents worked for. Or my professors, for encouraging me and teaching my what I'd need to know. Hell, you could even blame it on fate, or prophecy if you'd like, or even my classmates and friends, because how could I do nothing when they were threatened by Riddle's regime and his vendetta against me?"
"How indeed. And yet, in spite of all that, you were only a child. I don't think that anyone could truly blame you for selfishly turning aside from some perceived responsibility."
"Perceived?"
"You said yourself that it was all but forced upon you – by Dumbledore, by your professors, by your peers…"
"But mostly myself."
"What do you mean by that?"
"At the end of the day, it's my choice, isn't it? A path might be put in front of me, and I might only have the choice of following it or digging my heels in to go the opposite way, but really, the choice is mine whether I move or not. If anyone's to blame, it's me."
"But you were a child."
"Pansy, you sound almost concerned. What's this all about?"
"Consider it empathy of a sort, Harry. But really, you were a child. You shouldn't have to consider something as critical as your own safety and potential death at such an age."
"Maybe not. But even a kid has to face those kinds of things. Many kids do on a daily basis. Just because they're not where we can see them doesn't mean it doesn't happen."
"It's almost strange to consider that, while I doubt there was a single person in London five years ago who wasn't aware that some calamity was afoot, there was no understanding of just how great a danger you claim you put yourself in."
"It wasn't like I particularly enjoyed being in it, you know."
"And yet you're saying you chose it? Even when that decision shouldn't have been put before you?"
"Yeah. It's funny, you know – every decision made that wound me up in a pickle seems to have been entirely my fault."
"Every decision? You don't believe the outcome is ever the result of the actions of another?"
"No. Not to me."
"Interesting… Do you believe in that reality even now? Even today, in your current position?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Merely speculating. But back to the topic at hand: we're discussing the war that next to no one fully understood the extent of. If I was to ask you to paint me a verbal sketch of where you think you went throughout your evasions, could you…?"
"Do what?" Draco snapped his gaze upwards to where Pansy stood above him. He didn't give her a moment to reply to his demand before all but lurching to his feet from where he'd been sitting at his desk. "No. Absolutely not."
Pansy huffed. "Be reasonable, Draco."
"Reasonable? No. No, I won't lower myself –"
"Lower yourself?"
Draco scowled. He was in a bad enough mood as it was. The pain of his bruised belly had eased somewhat throughout the day, but a knotted ball of malcontent in his belly had replaced it. Fucking Ipetsky. Fuck him and all of his skills as a photographer. Draco didn't even know the man, but he hated him, and a part of him knew it wasn't solely because of his interpretation of Harry's barely perceivable response.
If I'd said something first, would I be the one going out for drinks with him tonight?
Draco hated the thought and hated even more that he knew it was entirely sincere and utterly jealous. The shoot had gone well enough, but his bad mood persisted and only grew throughout the afternoon as Draco stewed. It was intensified further by Pansy's words that was more of a demand than a suggestion.
Closing his eyes briefly, Draco took a breath that did little to soothe him. "No," he said. "I'm not going to follow Harry to take sneak-shots of him."
Huffing once more, Pansy propped a hand on her hip. She cast a frustrated glance around the empty room that was Draco's pseudo-office, towards the dressing room over her shoulder that Draco had seen Harry leave barely minutes prior, before resettling her gaze upon him.
"Don't be a fucking idiot," she said lowly.
Draco's scowl deepened. "I said no."
"What, because you've never done it before?" Pansy scoffed and continued before he could speak. "Even if you haven't, you know this is a good opportunity. Just how far do you think you'll fall back down when these interviews are finished, Draco? You need something to keep you afloat when the industry will still be stabbing you with accusations. Don't tell me you haven't felt the effects already, because I know you have."
Draco opened his mouth to reply but closed it again almost immediately. Pansy wasn't wrong, and she knew it.
In recent weeks, Draco's workload and work offers had dwindled substantially. It wasn't because he couldn't take on the extra jobs, because he could. He knew he could. What time he didn't spend filming Pansy's weekly interviews, or with Harry in his weekly shoots, was spent finishing up the jobs he'd already accepted and even refining those that didn't especially need it. Because he had time. He had too much time, even.
He'd expected it. Draco had expected the hatred that was to come with being Harry Potter's photographer. He knew Pansy had, too, and knew she also accepted the backlash in the face of what was offered to act as a counter-weight. That weight was notoriety.
For Draco, it was the same. Notoriety meant casting his name out into the world so that, when the initial heat and anger died, those curious yet noteworthy few who saw and appreciated his work would approach him. Draco was good. He knew he was good, knew he was skilled at what he did, and simply needed the jobs. Pansy, too, though to a lesser degree; she was already established as a cutthroat journalist and interviewer, and though some weren't partial to such an approach, others deliberately sought it from her.
Just as they would seek Draco.
There was the good to come, but for the time being Draco had to weather the bad. He understood that, and saw that similar weathering in the agency that Harry had stood by since he'd first been discovered. Estallas en Ascenso was small, shouldered aside by many larger modelling agencies, but it was good. With Harry Potter as their poster boy, Draco knew that even they had become noteworthy; small though they were, disdained though they'd been and still sometimes continued to be, they were known.
That fame of sorts was worth it. It was worth Estallas being considered the stain that smeared Harry Potter's good name for the notice it afforded. Draco recognised that, and he knew it reflected his own situation almost perfectly.
The fact of that matter was, however, that he would have to endure the moments of shadowed nothingness and waiting that was to come. Draco knew he would have weeks if not months when the interviews were being printed in which hatred for him, for Pansy, would peak. He knew he would have to keep his head down. Regardless of how well those interviews paid, he would be living on next to nothing in that time.
Pansy was right. Having in his possession a horde of secretly taken footage, shots stolen from dark corners and potentially even in the throes of suspicious activity, would be to Draco's benefit. It was the sensible thing to do, even, and he wouldn't be the first photographer to have done just that. He was perhaps even one of the precious few who hadn't so far.
But even so.
"I won't take pictures of him to use against him outside of the studio," Draco said. "It's not right."
Pansy's eyes narrowed. "Not right?"
"Not professional."
"Not fair, you mean."
Draco's jaw tightened. He didn't reply. There was understanding in Pansy's simple words, and understanding of what was there that Draco hadn't voiced. And that was –
"Exactly. I don't want to do that to him."
Pansy stared at him unwaveringly for a long moment. Then she clicked her tongue sharply and drew her gaze sideways in a glare. "Bloody hell, Draco. You've fallen deep."
There was no point in denying it. Folding his arms before him and pretending it wasn't in defensiveness, Draco nodded. "Yes."
"You shouldn't mix business with personal."
"I know."
"You idiot."
Draco snorted. "Admittedly, I am."
Pansy, face still turned indignantly to the empty room, eyed his sidelong. "You must really be far gone if you'll go so far as to admit to it."
Draco nodded. He agreed with that, too. In any other situation, he would have bucked and denied the truth. But Pansy already knew, and Draco had accepted it. There really was no point denying it.
With a sigh, Pansy took a small step towards him. Though there was only the distant murmur of voices in sidelong rooms, only the suggestion of eavesdroppers, she drew her wand and flicked a quick Muffling Charm around them that hung visibly for a moment before fizzling into transparency. Even then, when she spoke it was in a low voice.
"You saw it," she said. "I know you did. With Ipetsky."
Draco blinked. Why wasn't he surprised that, of all people, Pansy had noticed too? She was about the only other person in existence who likely would have. "I did."
"He didn't want to go."
"Clearly."
"Well, not clear to some." Pansy folded her lips for a moment, taking another shuffling step towards him so that there was barely half an arm's length between them. "Something's going on, and I know you'd probably already thought about heading down to The Corner tonight before I suggested it. Tell me I'm wrong."
Draco didn't bother denying that, either. It wouldn't be worth it. When Pansy was certain, no amount of blathering and deflecting deterred her. "Going to the club isn't the same as taking sneak-shots, Pansy, and you know it."
"No," Pansy agreed. "But you could do both."
"I couldn't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." Draco gritted his teeth again, swallowing back the snap of his words that were laced with more frustration than he'd wanted to admit to. Taking a deep breath, he schooled himself before raising his chin and continuing. "Don't you think he's had enough of people creeping around him and all but stabbing him in the back?"
Pansy's eyes narrowed again, but it was less a glare and instead more touched with thoughtfulness. "He doesn't care," she said with a touch of surprise, as though at the very notion she voiced was incredible. "You heard him today. He doesn't care what people do to him. Or use him for."
"That's the problem," Draco snapped.
Pansy jerked back from him slightly, and Draco scowled, firmly wrapping a mental shroud around his anger in an attempt to smother it. His efforts didn't really work, and Pansy likely noticed for the calmness of her following words.
"I think he wouldn't care if you used shots of him," she said slowly, "but if it bothers you, then tell him. Show them to him."
"It's still not right," Draco said, glaring at the empty space between them.
"To you."
Draco opened his mouth to reply but found no words. That was the problem. That was, ultimately, the problem that he was realising. Pansy was right. Harry truly didn't seem to care that he was being used, as a model or as an idol for worship and adoration in the Wizarding world. Just as he didn't – or at least no longer – cared that he'd been used by Dumbledore, and the professors of Hogwarts, and the publicly recognised Order of the Phoenix. Draco could still picture the slight smile on his face as he shrugged at Pansy's words even hours after he'd seen it, disregarding the fact as necessary at the time.
How he hated it. Draco hated that he could even think to disregard it. It wasn't right, because… because…
You should care more for yourself. You shouldn't just be what others want you to be.
The thought came out of nowhere, but when it rose, it settled firmly and comfortably in Draco's mind. It was true. So true that it almost stung, and Draco couldn't believe he'd only just realised it as a tangible thought.
Harry should care about himself more. He shouldn't just be used by others, for others, as they wanted. Not for his career, not for the war, not for their personal satisfaction. Not for Draco's need when the world turned against him and Harry's leniency was all that kept him afloat. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.
Draco couldn't voice that. He couldn't admit any of it, and yet something of his thoughts must have made its way upon his face, because Pansy spoke more gently than Draco had heard from her in years.
"You actually care about him," she said quietly.
Draco swallowed. That knot in his belly tightened sickeningly, but he couldn't deny what it meant. "Yes. Somehow. Impossibly."
"Maybe not so impossibly," Pansy said with a sigh. She shook her head, turning and propping herself against the side of the table as though defeated. "It was always that way with you two, you know? If you didn't hate one another then you were bound to go in the complete opposite direction."
Draco couldn't reply to that. Not when it rung a little painfully true as it did.
"You should go, Draco."
He didn't want to.
"You should take those pictures, and if you really have to, show them to him. Just as a fall-back. Just in case."
He really didn't want to.
"You know you want to. If not for the pictures, I know you wanted to go tonight. You saw it too. I know you did."
And that was the thing. Draco had seen it. He'd seen what Pansy saw, what apparently no one else had, what no one else realised. Not even Harry's friends when Ipetsky had been calling, and calling, and calling, and Harry hadn't picked up. How could Draco not go? How could he not?
Which was why, at ten o'clock that evening, Draco found himself outside of a thumping club aglow with red and orange lights that somehow made it seem subdued rather than kitschy. It was why he had his camera slung over his shoulder yet hidden by a Disillusionment Charm, and why he nodded at the bouncer as he stepped past the absence of a line on a Monday night.
A Monday night at a club, Draco thought with a mental snort. Who'd have thought?
Clubs weren't Draco's scene. He didn't like a single part of them. Maybe it was because of his more refined tastes, his upbringing that demanded 'proper' partying, but he didn't like the heaving, thumping music that beat through the soles of his feet as much as his eardrums. He didn't like the shadows that revealed as much as they hid, the flashing lights that assaulted his eyes, the struggle to hold a decent conversation.
Mostly, however, he didn't like being surrounded by so many people. Not only had Draco learnt to be wary of people as a whole, but in a club…
There was something about them. Something about the way the dancers danced too close, their bodies undulating against one another in a mimic of sex. How shoulders pressed against one another and stayed pressed, suggestive and demanding, and lips breathed whispers in ears, warm and enticing. That a stare across the club wasn't simply a stare but an invitation, that a hand brushing past was similarly inviting, and that, more often than not, the drinking and the headiness of the club itself incited passion that revelled in the ready escape of Apparition.
Draco had been to few enough clubs in his time, but he knew that much at least. He knew he didn't like them and he knew what to expect. The Corner was no different.
It was dark, yet contrastingly bright with its coloured lights. The bar was illuminated with a pair of tenders darting back and forth, bottles pouring and hands palming drinks off to waiting clients. It was cluttered with bodies, and though not as many as would inhabit on a weekend, it was enough for Draco. Too much.
Standing just inside the doorway, Draco drew his gaze across the sea of people. He ignored the glances that turned his way curiously, and more determinedly those that lingered. He overlooked the distinct nature of the attendants, the predominance of men and lack of female representation, even as a murmur in the back of his mind reminded him of the comment Pansy had made in the interview the previous week. I guess her suspicions weren't far off.
It should have satisfied Draco. Maybe it should have heartened him a little, to know that, with whatever infatuation he'd developed, whatever he wanted to evolve from it, Harry might be more receptive than he could have been. But Draco wasn't satisfied. If anything, that sick feeling in his gut roiled once more, and he scanned for Harry and Ipetsky with growing discomfort, his fingers tightening and loosening compulsively on his concealed camera.
He saw Ipetsky first. The tall man was prominent where he stood at the bar, white shirt stretched across his shoulders and spiked hair as stupid as ever. He fit seamlessly into the scene alongside with other attendee of the club in his casual yet fitted clothes that would likely draw the eye of anyone who looked if he wanted them to.
Which he clearly didn't, given his attention was wholly focused upon Harry at his side. In an instant, Draco's was too.
What was it about him that Draco found so captivating, even from afar? Even without the unwavering stare that had caught him so often, why was it that whenever Draco looked at Harry of late he couldn't look away? It wasn't even when he was done up with makeup, of dressed in clothes so perfectly tailored or so revealing while simultaneously concealing that even a unquestionably straight man would stare.
In the midst of the thudding club, the darkness and shadows that didn't quite muffle Draco's view of Harry even from a distance, the bodies that stood in the way and he wished to thrust aside, Draco saw each and every part of why. It was the way Harry stood, casually comfortable and with the barest hint of a pose that looked entirely natural. It didn't ask to be stared at but somehow demanded it anyway. It was the way he smiled at the bartender as he passed, not offhandedly but as though he sincerely meant the fondness of his smile. It was everything about him from his hair, the tight fit of his own shirt, the even tighter fit of his jeans, that drew Draco's eye and punched him in the gut in a way that was nothing like the fist that had bruised him but left a mark nonetheless.
Draco stared, and he couldn't look away. As he watched, and as Harry raked a hand through his hair, in spite of himself Draco's hand twitched around his camera. It was those moments, those everyday actions, that Draco loved. It was what he couldn't help but long to capture, even if his morals demanded he recoil from such an inclination.
He still wanted it, thought. Draco still wanted that picture as much as he wanted to deck Ipetsky in the back of the head.
"You looking for someone?"
The voice came from his shoulder. That was all Draco registered. From his periphery, he got the barest impression of the man who had approached him – broad, square chinned, with a dark shirt that seemed to drink what little light struck him from the dancing strobes – but disregarded him instantly. With barely a shake of his head, Draco started down the short flight of stairs from the entrance into the club proper.
Bodies crowded him immediately. Draco didn't like it. The smell of sweat, alcohol, and aftershave was a cloying concoction, and he didn't like that either. Dodging between men, under glasses raised overhead so as not to spill, laughing faces shoved in his own, and more shoulders intent on bumping than he ever wanted to experience, Draco made his way to the bar. Slotting himself in a narrow gap at the counter, he eyed where Harry and Ipetsky sat and talked at a distance, barely perceivable through the people, the darkness, the almost visible blur of the music that bellowed at him.
The bartender swept past and paused only long enough for Draco to hail him with a muted request. The man nodded with a tokenistic smile before disappearing again, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts. When essentially stalking someone, whether for pictures or otherwise, such aloneness was never good for the mind.
What was he doing here? Draco picked at the sticky bar top, scowling to himself. Honestly, what how had he let himself be coaxed into coming to the club? It wasn't because of Pansy's bloody suggestion, even if he was incessantly aware of the weight of it hanging from his shoulder pointing him towards his camera. It wasn't because he was hoping to interrupt the companionable conversation occurring a dozen bodies down the line, because, much as he might want to, Draco knew he wouldn't.
I'm here because no one who's happy to be going out for friendly drinks should have reacted like Harry did, he told himself, but even that excuse seemed less and less valid the longer it sat with him. Draco hadn't always possessed wavering confidence, but that was an affliction that had certainly struck him over the years. He couldn't help but wonder, had he imagined what he'd seen that morning? Pansy's similar observation seemed to deny misunderstanding, but what if he had? Harry hadn't appeared out of sorts after Ipetsky left. Nothing about his interview suggested he was anything but as comfortable as always, both with the interview itself and what would come after.
If Draco considered, he thought – no, if he knew that something was afoot that caused Harry discomfort, he would think that it was as though Harry didn't expect anyone to step in, even if he was in a fix. Even if he wanted to get out of it. As though he had to plough on through the necessary situation with a contented smile firmly affixed because he was the only one who knew and could get him out of it. It was as though…
"Every decision made that wound me up in a pickle seems to have been entirely my fault."
Draco had been struck by those words in the interview. He'd stared at the image caught by his camera, at the crooked smile Harry wore, and it struck him hard. It wasn't because of the way Harry said it, for he spoke as offhandedly as he did every other statement. Not because there was a sigh, or an awkward pause following. It was just the words, only the words, but following what had preceded them that morning, what Draco had seen a week before with an incessant, demanding caller, suggested something far greater than their face value.
He doesn't expect anyone to notice and he doesn't expect anyone to step into something he's supposedly gotten himself into.
Draco reminded himself of that as he sat at the bar, as the chiding thoughts assaulted him, and when the bartender returned, he remained in silence to sip at his drink. He thought of that as he eyed Harry and Ipetsky sidelong, watched as they laughed, as Ipetsky tossed his head back with a bark of amusement that Draco swore he could hear even through the thundering din of voices and music. He told himself that he was here for a reason, even if he wasn't wanted, as his ears began to thrum with the pounding bass, as his eyes grew completely familiar with the night blindness, and as he finished one drink and beckoned to the bartender for another.
A man approached him. Asked him something barely audible over the music. Draco turned him away with barely a word.
Another approached, and Draco didn't even bother glancing his way. The man, whoever he was, didn't stick around for long but scowled and slouched off with a glare flung towards Draco that Draco only saw from his periphery. What did he care if a Muggle got offended by his disregard?
For they were Muggles, Draco realised. Muggles in a Muggle club. He didn't care, and would probably even prefer a Muggle establishment if he actually had any preference at all, but he had to wonder.
Why here?
Harry had suggested it as though it were commonplace. As though they'd been before. Maybe they had. Maybe there was an underlying reason for coming, other than the fact that it was clearly a gay bar and Ipetsky's blatant forwardness that had Draco scowling so severely wouldn't look out of place. The Wizarding world might not have a problem with it, but Muggles were inexplicably a different story when it came sexuality. It was just one of many things that had always baffled Draco.
He was on his third drink when a persistent tosser appeared at his elbow and wouldn't leave. The man, willowy and swaying with drunkenness that reeked from his breath, all but sprawled across the bar at Draco's side as he attempted to catch Draco's attention.
Just bugger off, Draco thought as he eyed the man tripping over his tongue in an effort to find coherence. If you're too drunk to realise I've rebuffed you then you shouldn't be here.
"… could – could really go for 'nother drink," the man said, words slurring and grin widening. He had a gap in the middle of his front teeth that made him seem remarkably young. "Whadaya reckon?"
Draco blinked, gaze hooded.
"You – you think? You'll have one wi' me?"
Draco took another sip from his glass, the citric bite of the lime stinging just slightly.
"I reckon you… reckon you'd be some good fun, eh? Wan' ta see if I'm –"
"Your friend is calling you," Draco interrupted him.
The man blinked owlishly, smile faltering. He struggled to push himself upright with the aid of the bar and didn't quite manage. "Wha'?"
Draco gestured to no one in particular over the man's shoulder, and, as he lurched around in a stumble, pushed himself from the bar and strode away. A slight fuzziness touched his mind, blurring the edges slightly, but it wasn't anything marked. He'd been at the club for a handful of hours already; it wasn't like he couldn't manage if he paced himself.
Slipping away from the bar, Draco took a brief, circulatory turn around the tables scattering the floor before once more returning to the line of attendees with drinks in hand and companions at their shoulders. He saw the gap-toothed kid already attempting to chat up someone else. A short, wide man turned from the bar with his arms laden beneath glasses. A pair were in such violent, hysterical laughter that they looked to be nearly falling of their stools, and Harry –
Draco's stomach dropped. That tight knot that had been coiled in his gut clenched with renewed force. Harry wasn't there. Neither was Ipetsky. Draco hadn't seen them leave and cursed the bloody git who'd distracted him from his sidelong staring that was maybe a little creepy but that he chose to ignore for its creepiness.
Turning in place, Draco scanned the darkened club that had swelled in number of clientele since he'd arrived. It was a little unextraordinary given it was a week night, but it dense enough that his frustration doubled by the time he'd darted his gaze across every inch. Had they really left?
It was stupid of him, but Draco checked in the bathrooms.
It was truly foolish, but he took another round of the club, peering through the staggering midst of dancers and drinkers and drinking dancers.
He should have just left, should have just accepted that Harry and Ipetsky had too, but a part of him didn't want to. He couldn't, because that part knew where they would have retreated to and he didn't want that. Abruptly, with the force of a colliding truck, it hit Draco that he didn't want Harry to go home with Ipetsky at all.
Draco lingered, and it was only because of his continued scanning that he noticed the pair of stumbling drunkards with their arms pretzeled around one another slipping from behind a heavy curtain, revealing a dimly lit hallway beyond. The curtain flopped closed again, seeping into camouflage against the dark wall alongside it, but not before Draco was striding across the club towards it, all but shoving clubbers out of his way as he did.
Why a club would have such a blatant set up was ridiculous to him, but even as his heartbeat thudded in his ears louder than even the music, he supposed it was logical. Better the lust-blown fools seek privacy there than in the bathrooms. Better than on the dancefloor itself. Better than leaving and robbing the club of clients. It was almost too perfect, and despite himself, despite what he wanted, Draco felt almost sure that he would find Harry beyond it.
He dove through the curtain in a snap. The hallway was dark, narrow, and spotted with more curtains like a forest of heavy cloth-trees. Hissing beneath his breath, the sound swallowed by the music thudding even through the heavy curtain behind him, Draco strode along the hallway and cursed what a stupid accommodation was provided. He hated it, hated it, hated –
"Invenio," Draco snapped almost before he'd pulled his wand from his pocket, and he was all but running after the little firefly of red light that appeared to seek as he per his mental request. Running, clutching his jostling camera like a lifeline and hating himself just a little, he swiping aside the curtain the globe disappeared through.
And froze. How could he not when, in the instant of revelation, all Draco could see in the not-quite-encompassing darkness was Harry's thigh?
He'd lost his ridiculously tight jeans somewhere. And his pants, for that matter, though it clearly didn't bother him. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen a model so careless of the location of their clothes as Harry was in that moment. Shoulders pressed against the wall, head rocked back and eyes closed, his lips were slightly parted to release short, sharp breaths that Draco could feel if not directly hear. His hands clutched at Ipetsky's stupidly spikey hair, making a mess of it, but Ipetsky didn't seem to care. He didn't even seem to notice, on his knees as he was, mouth wrapped around Harry's arousal and one hand clasping Harry's arse as his fingers –
Draco nearly flinched and fled from the scene. Nearly, and not because he was horrified by the sight – or not necessarily. He'd had enough experience witnessing what lay beyond closed hallways and behind locked doors to feel little fascination with what he saw. But always in closed hallways. Always behind locked doors. This was… it was…
He didn't want this. Not at all. Not him.
Draco's fingers trembled around his camera. A crazed, shrill voice in his mind told him to take a picture. It was the scoop that Pansy demanded. But Draco couldn't remember the first thing about even using a camera, because Ipetsky was shuffling forwards on his knees and pulling Harry's hips forwards.
He should take a picture –
But he could only stare as Harry gasped, released a barely audible groan, and sunk a little down the wall beneath the man's persistence.
He should – Pansy said he should –
But Ipetsky was abruptly standing. He was on his feet and in short order had Harry off his own. Somehow, in a remarkable display of dexterity that looked all but practiced, Ipetsky managed to hook his elbows behind one of Harry's knees, lifting him off the ground and all but crushing him against the wall as he pressed himself forward him with a groan.
The bass boomed behind Draco as Harry was pinned against the wall. The shouts, the echoes, the bellows of laughter dribbled into his ears as the fucking spikey-haired prat latched his lips onto Harry's neck. As he pressed himself against Harry, his hips canting forwards and fingers tightening, and thrust with a solid slap.
A groan. Harry's toes curling. A gasp. Another slap, and then the sharp succession of grunts and thrusts. Draco's hand had somehow found the curtain behind him, had gripped with white-knuckled tightness, but hardly noticed.
He hated it. He hated it, he hated that he –
Should take a picture. Stupidly, the thought clattered in his head, nagged Draco was supposed to –
He didn't want… couldn't have –
Draco couldn't look away, and maybe that was how the curtain he clutched was so thoroughly torn from his grasp. A shoulder ploughed into his own, a body alongside it, then another. Draco couldn't even look away from the display before him when whoever had intruded squawked, their companion exclaiming, and then dissolved into a fit of snorts and giggles nearly lost to the pounding, thundering bass behind following them in.
"Oops," a skinny bloke with too many tattoos managed to say through his laughter. "Looks like we're beaten to the play."
His companion was already backing into the curtain, shoulders shaking and face twisted with laughter. Or Draco thought it was. He couldn't see much from his periphery and he couldn't look away from Harry – his legs, his clutching arms, the curl of his fingers and the heavy fluttering of his eyes as he gasped, gaze swung towards the poor excuse for a door.
They'd fallen apart, Draco realised. Ipetsky, the spikey brute, had all but dropped Harry, lurching backwards as Harry crumpled onto the ground before him. Cheeks flushed, apparent even through the darkness, Ipetsky scrambled to put himself away, fumbling with his zipper and cursing as he did so. Then he froze as he appeared to register Draco's presence.
Not Harry, though. Not Harry, and Harry was the only thing that Draco really saw. Still breathing heavily, legs steepled before him, he slumped back slightly against the wall with eyes heavy lidded as they too drew towards Draco. Had there been something more enticing, something heated and demanding in that stare, Draco might have thought it a subtle proposition. But there was nothing. There was nothing of the kind at all. Unwavering as ever, Harry's stare was as mellow as ever, too.
As if he hadn't just been fucked against a wall.
Draco hardly noticed when Ipetsky lurched into motion. He barely heard the sharp, spitting, "shit. Dammit, Malfoy, you – you didn't –" before stuttering into growling curses. He was hardly even aware of the moment that Ipesky snatched his wand from his jeans and, swinging in a wild turn with barely more than a glance towards Harry and a frustrated groan, disappeared in a crack of Apparition.
He was gone. And Harry was alone. And Draco could have taken a picture, could have the scoop that Pansy suggested was so useful for him, but he didn't. He could only stare and then flinch at the weight of Harry's words when he spoke in a murmur.
"He always Apparates away in the middle of it when this happens. Sad to say it's not the first time we've been walked in on."
With a deep breath, a sighed exhalation, Harry draped his arms across his knees. It was likely unintentional – or was it? – but with hair mussed, his cheeks still slightly flushed, and naked from the waist down, it was such a perfectly languid pose that it could have been choreographed. Could have been scripted. Could have very easily taken prime place before Draco's lens and not looked amiss in the slightest, despite the promiscuity it entailed.
Draco didn't think even Pansy would scold him for not taking the opportunity that presented itself, even if Harry was aware of it. Draco wouldn't have cared if she had. He didn't really care about all that much at that moment other than Harry. I'll fucking murder Ipetsky, the filthy coward, was the only logical thought that passed through Draco's mind, riding upon the shoulders of a sudden bout of irrepressible fury. The clenching, roiling, twisting chaos in his gut was so fierce it nearly bent him double, and his rage was only distracted when Harry continued.
"Didn't know you were into voyeurism, Draco," he said, utterly calm, if still a little breathlessly. "But I suppose, being someone who practically watches people for a living…" He tipped his head sideways onto his arm, blinking slowly.
It should have been a picture. That moment should have been a picture, and it should have been beautiful, and it should have been because of Draco. Not like this. Never like this. With rage still pounding in his ears, unable to articulate even the beginnings of a reply, Draco strode forwards. The curtain was only spared being dragged after him by remarkably resistant hangers.
Harry watched him approach, and he didn't protest. Just as he didn't comment when Draco cast a sharp glance around the floor, or when he stalked towards the discarded pile of Harry's clothes and snatched them up. He only tipped his head to watch as Draco took himself back towards his side, dropping onto his haunches.
Harry gave another slow blink. It was too calm, too collected and detached for the thrumming beat that vibrated through the floor, echoing that pounding in Draco's head. Harry made no motion to take the clothes from Draco's hand where he all but crushed the denim into a bundle.
"Thanks," was all he murmured.
A simple word. Simple gratitude, mild and unremarkable but still grateful, snapped the last thread holding Draco together. Exhaling harshly, he dragged his gaze to the side, to the curtained entrance, to the darkened walls. When he growled a reply, he was almost surprised by the ferocity of his words.
"We're getting out of here."
Harry didn't protest when Draco grasped his shoulder in a grip he struggled to keep gentle. He did nothing more than blink his acceptance as Draco dragged them into a narrow tube of their own Apparition. When Draco thought about it, he didn't think Harry even knew how to say no.
A/N: Thank you to all of the lovely people who reviewed last chapter! I am so unutterably grateful! Sorry that it's a little bit late this week; hopefully I'll get back on track for next chapter. See you next time!