A/N: Welcome, my friends, to my very first Muggle AU! This story involves smexy bikers, rival biker gangs, sad Draco, protective Harry, love at first sight, danger, violence, grief, death, gang nicknames, abusive relationships, assholes who think they own their partners, evil Death Eaters, morally ambiguous good guys, and a whole holy shit ton of drama! I should also warn you now that there will be infidelity. This a heads-up that Draco is already in a not-so-healthy relationship when he meets Harry. The relationship between the two MCs is complicated, to say the least. But, if we're all willing to take the chance, let's go on an adventure together 😊
(Also, in case anyone caught it, yes! The title of this story is indeed the title of an Alice Cooper song! I do so treasure that tiny man and his lovely music!)
(I GOT YOU) UNDER MY WHEELS
PROLOGUE—23 MONTHS AGO
The early winter wind was so cold it stung. It bit into Harry's flesh as it swept past, sinking its claws deep into his skin, tearing through the thick leather jacket covering his arms to hook barbed daggers straight through to his bones. He shivered, wondering if it was actually as cold as it felt or if being in a graveyard just somehow made everything feel as icy as death.
Glancing around, Harry shivered again, struggling to swallow back the scorching tide of grief rising in his throat. Despite the sorrow sitting scalding hot in his chest, burning like fire, it only made him feel colder. The tombstones surrounding them all appeared like blocks of grey ice, and he could not shake the feeling that every headstone in the large hilly plot was staring at him, looking straight through him with dull, deadened eyes, silent in their witnessing of his grief.
A presence approached from the side and he glanced over to Ron, who wore a grim expression. He said nothing, only clapping Harry on the shoulder once before beginning to head over to the large grouping of leather-clad men standing a dozen meters away, and Harry was grateful for his friend's silence. He could not take any more painful platitudes or hollow, heartfelt words. Sirius was gone, and nothing would ever change that. All he could do was hide his tears as best he could as he buried the man who had been as a father to him. All he could do was be there for Remus, who had lost his best friend. Harry was not the only one grieving—he needed to be strong for his brothers; he needed to be there for his family.
But most of all, Harry needed to find the piece of trash responsible for Sirius's death. And he needed to make that man pay.
It was all he could do now.
CHAPTER ONE
Draco pushed his scrambled eggs around on his plate, sighing down at the shapeless yellow mush. He pushed the rubbery mess away from himself, feeling his stomach tighten at the thought of eating. He hoped none of the men would wander over to speak to him—he just wanted to sit in silence and not have to force a smile or make plastic small talk with anyone.
"Not hungry, darling?" a voice asked, and he glanced up, tensing automatically before relaxing at the sight of Pansy.
"Not really," he answered, pushing the plate farther away from himself.
"I don't blame you," she shrugged, dropping into the seat nearest him. "I keep telling Daphne she overcooks everything, but you know how easily offended the girl is."
Draco nodded. Daphne was someone that, while he did like the girl most of the time, was not a person he would ever trust or consider himself close to. One minute, she was nothing but sweetness and smiles, pure unfiltered sugar, and the next second, she was screaming obscenities and threatening to curse everyone in sight. The girl seemed to think she was a witch, always wearing black lipstick and dark lacy dresses, practicing voodoo or whatever it was she did late into the night. It made most of the women around the clubhouse laugh and roll their eyes, but despite her occasional temper flares, she had not yet been barred from the club, which Draco knew was mostly due to Zed's obsession with her and her own connections to some of the shadier business dealings the club involved themselves in.
"So," Pansy said, sipping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee, "where's Wolf?"
The question made Draco stiffen. "I have no idea," he said indifferently. "You know they never tell us where they're going."
Pansy rolled her eyes in agreement. "The life of belonging to a biker," she said dryly.
Draco nodded, chewing one fingernail as he glanced around the clubhouse. Only about half the members were there. A small group of men stood clustered around a pool table, laughing at some joke. He could hear a motorcycle revving in the yard outside and could see two prospects seated at the bar.
"Well," Pansy said, leaning toward him with a smile, "hopefully Wolf will be back soon so you can quit moping already. I haven't seen you smile once all day, darling."
Draco shrugged, unsure how to tell his friend that Wolf was slowly becoming the main reason he smiled so rarely. He had no idea how to confess that the only times Draco ever really felt like he could breathe anymore were the times when Fenrir was out on club business. He wasn't sure when exactly that had happened, or when real affection had begun turning towards fear, nor was he sure what to do with the knowledge. It was not something he liked to think about. It all just…was.
"Hey," a voice said above them, and Draco and Pansy glanced up to watch as Tracey dropped into the seat next to Pansy. Her dark hair was cut short, framing her narrow face in a messy sheet. Her eye makeup was heavy and black, making her skin look even paler. She had a silver hoop stuck through the middle of her bottom lip and two large black studs poking through both sides of the bridge of her nose. Several multicolored hoops were stuck through both eyebrows, and there was a small diamond above her top lip.
Staring at her always made Draco wonder how she slept comfortably with so many bits of metal stuck through her face.
"Hey, Trace," Pansy smiled, leaning over to hug her tightly, and Draco felt his lips twitch. Despite both of them already belonging to members of the club, he had always suspected that Pansy had a thing for Tracey. And with the way that Tracey smiled and returned the embrace, he wasn't certain her attraction was at all misplaced.
"Looking good today, babes," Tracey grinned, glancing up and down Pansy's body, and Draco wanted to laugh at the way Pansy blushed just the slightest bit.
"So says the girl in the sexy fishnets," Pansy said, reaching under the table, and Draco ducked his head just enough to watch her run her fingers lightly over Tracey's stockinged thigh. He wondered when they would finally realize they were fooling no one and just fuck each other already.
Although, considering the fact that they belonged to two club members, he supposed they really didn't have the luxury of that option.
"Where are Wire and Morgue?" he asked the girls, hoping they would be able to stop eye-fucking each other long enough to answer the question. Were they off with Wolf, doing whatever the hell shady club business the man had been assigned?
Both girls turned to him with careless shrugs. "Dunno," Tracey answered, stealing Pansy's coffee and taking a long swig. Her dark lipstick left a violet ring around the rim. "I haven't seen him yet, he wasn't home when I woke up this morning. I came by to check if he was here."
"Nope," Pansy said, draining the rest of her coffee, "just us lovely girls. And the prospects."
Draco raised one eyebrow, clearing his throat.
"And darling Draco, of course," she grinned, saluting him with the empty cup.
"Were the eggs not good?"
A shadow fell over him and he glanced up to see Daphne standing over him, frowning down at his full plate. Her long blonde hair fell in a single straight sheet down her back, the yellow tips brushing the top of her thighs. She wore a black leather corset cinched so tightly Draco wondered how she could even breathe, paired with a long black skirt falling all the way to the floor in lacy folds. Tattoos of mystic runes and occult symbols swirled over her bare arms, blanketing them in black-and-white patches. She stared down at Draco with a serious expression, and he wondered if she was mentally attempting to curse him for not finishing the breakfast she had made.
"No, they were," he lied, forcing a smile. "But I'm not as hungry as I thought I was, sorry."
"Don't worry, Daphs," Tracey grinned, pulling the plate to herself and taking a large bite, "I'll finish it for him. You know I don't let food go to waste."
Daphne nodded before sweeping away, knowing that Tracey really would finish the eggs despite the taste and texture. When Tracey had first found her way to the club, she had been living on the streets, sleeping on sidewalks and rooting through dumpsters for meals, sometimes going without meals for days at a time, and as a result, could not stand to see food wasted and tossed out so carelessly.
"That bitch is gonna hex you one day if you're not careful, Draco," Pansy chuckled, opening her mouth and gesturing for Tracey to feed her a forkful of eggs.
"Oh, please," Tracey laughed, eyeing Pansy's mouth as she slid a piece of egg between her lips. "Every single member of this club, including the women, would all have been hexed to hell and back a dozen times if that bloodthirsty little lamb actually had any real powers."
Draco snorted. "A lamb? Daphne?"
"A bloodthirsty one," Tracey grinned, playing with a lock of Pansy's hair absentmindedly.
Before Draco could respond, the door to the clubhouse suddenly crashed open, startling several of the barely clothed women standing near it. A group of leather-clad men swaggered in, smirking at the women they had frightened with their entrance. They all immediately headed for the back, disappearing around a corner where Riddle's office was located. Draco wondered where they had been and what they were talking to the man about, but he knew that it was not his place to wonder such things, just as he knew he would never get any answers for his questions even if he were to ask.
Less than a minute later and they were back, stomping across the dirty wooden floor in heavy boots. Three of the bikers peeled off from the main group, heading for the table Draco, Pansy, and Tracey were sat at. Morgue reached out to yank Pansy to her feet, dropping down into her chair before tugging her down onto his lap with a grin. She returned the smile, but Draco noticed the way her lips thinned around the forced expression.
"Any food left?" Wire asked casually, reaching out to tug the plate of eggs in front of Tracey toward himself before beginning to eat with his fingers, and Draco felt his lip curl at the sight.
"You'd have to ask Daphne," Tracey shrugged, glancing at Pansy seated in Morgue's lap before looking away.
"That bitch cooked again?" Fenrir snorted, running his fingers through Draco's long hair before tugging on the strands lightly. "If she made it, you don't want whatever's left."
"Don't let Zed hear you say that," Wire chuckled through a mouthful of eggs. "Or her. He'll try to fight you and she'll try to cast a spell on you."
Fen scoffed. "Oh please. The only spell she's ever done is the one she put Zed under. Although I'd say it's more her mouth than her magic that really did it. Bitch must have one hell of a magic mouth to make up for her fucking personality."
Draco glanced away with a frown, unable to help but wonder if Fenrir spoke about him in similar ways the moment Draco was out of sight.
"Does Zed even really fight?" Tracey smirked, stealing a small forkful of eggs off the plate Wire had stolen from her. "I would've thought he'd be too worried about messing up his pretty face."
The comment made Wire frown at her. "You think Blaise is pretty?"
Tracey simply shrugged, ignoring the intensity of Wire's stare. "Not as pretty as Pansy," she grinned, and Morgue chuckled.
"You looking for an invite back to ours, little girl?" he asked in a low, raspy voice, squeezing Pansy's waist, and Pansy huffed even as her cheeks turned pink.
"Not everyone is like you blokes," she said, leaning back against his chest. "Not everyone wants to fuck everything they find pretty."
Morgue hummed, burying his face in Pansy's dark hair as his hands started to wander up and down her thighs. "But just imagine you and Trace together…"
Pansy's cheeks flushed darker as she risked a glance at Tracey, who was smiling softly at her.
"Maybe we could do some sort of trade," Wire suggested, running one finger along Tracey's collarbone. "We lend our girls to each other for a night. I would say we could all party together, but I really don't want to see Morgue's ugly naked arse. Not if I ever wanna be able to get hard ever again, at least."
Morgue guffawed. "Trust me, Wire, I feel the same way about you. It's bad enough having to look at your face, I don't need the image of your tiny cock burned into my eyes forever."
"This one's far too innocent," Pansy said with a grin, patting Morgue on the head. "Leave him and his eyes uncorrupted, please."
The statement earned a sharp bark of laughter from Wolf, who stood directly behind Draco's chair, resting a heavy hand on Draco's shoulder. "Uncorrupted? Morgue?" he snorted, tugging lightly on Draco's hair with his free hand. "If that one's uncorrupted, then Draco's still a virgin." He barked another laugh. "And I can tell you for a fact that that's not fucking true."
Draco felt his cheeks pinken as Wire and Morgue laughed. Tracey looked away, pointedly staring away from everybody, but Pansy offered him a sad smile and mouthed something at him, something too quick for him to read. At least Draco now had his answer—if Fenrir was willing to speak about him in such a way right in front of him, then he would of course have no problem speaking even more crassly about Draco when the blond was not around. Draco often wondered whether Fenrir would be so outspoken around the club members about the fact that his lover was male, but he supposed he now had his answer. Perhaps Fenrir did it as a way of fitting in with the other members? It was practically a rite of passage for the club members to discuss the women and hangarounds in the crudest detail possible. Maybe Fen was simply doing the same thing.
But was Draco okay with that excuse? He wasn't even sure why he was trying to find excuses for the man's behavior in the first place.
Sighing, he glanced over his shoulder at Fenrir, knowing he looked for excuses for the same reasons he knew that Pansy and Tracey overlooked the things that Wire and Morgue did and said, which was to keep any little peace of mind they could. He wondered if they had ever been happy with the men they were with. Draco thought he had been happy with Fenrir—for a time, at least.
Yet now…
"What are you thinking about, Draco?" a low voice asked in his ear. Draco could feel Fenrir leaning over him, he could feel the man's hot breath upon his neck.
"Nothing," he said hollowly.
"Hmm," Fenrir said, playing with a lock of Draco's hair. "I'm tired. Let's go lay down. Together."
A wooden nod was Draco's only response as he climbed to his feet, ignoring the whistles and lewd cheers from Wire and Morgue. A muscled arm wrapped around his waist possessively, steering him through the scattered mess of people toward the empty rooms in the back.
And despite the crowd around them and the heat of another person's body so near, Draco couldn't recall ever feeling so alone.
oOo
The deep growl of his motorcycle was a familiar, comforting sound. Harry shifted on the narrow seat, feeling the machine vibrate beneath him. Pollution spilled from the lip of the exhaust pipe in thick streams of smoke, rising up in the hot summer air like a cloud fallen from the sky, desperate to return to the heavens. The thought made Harry grin. Nothing about him was heavenly, especially the growling metal he was sitting astride. He glanced around at his brothers, his grin tightening at the sight. They looked dangerous; he felt dangerous being near them. After spending years of his life being nothing more than a football for his family to kick around, he loved the knowledge that now, he was not a person anybody would want to fuck with. He was intimidating now in a way he had never been as a child, and he loved the feeling. He would never be anybody's football ever again.
The revving of an engine caught his attention, and he glanced to his right, sharing a grin with Ron. The redhead was leaning back on his motorcycle, one casual leg propping the bike up, but he revved his engine again, and Harry could practically feel the impatience rolling off the man. It made him chuckle.
"Calm down," he said, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the engines. "We'll be leaving soon enough."
"We've been out here for bloody days," Ron grumbled, and Harry laughed again as he slid a pair of dark sunglasses on. He hadn't been expecting the sun to make an appearance today and was glad that he always kept a spare pair of shades in his bike.
"It hasn't even been ten minutes," Harry pointed out, glancing around. It seemed like nearly everybody was there.
"Exactly," Ron said instantly. "Days."
Harry snorted, straightening up when he saw Kingsley approaching them. "Kings," he greeted, nodding to the man. Kingsley nodded back, his face permanently carved in a serious frown. He was tall and wide, with dark skin the color of burnt coffee and hands large enough to do damage to anything they closed around. The small golden hoop he always wore in one ear glinted in the sunlight, and Harry grinned. Even if he had not been the club president, Harry still would have found Kingsley to be the most intimidating member of the Deathly Hallows. There was an air of command that radiated from him, one that demanded respect without the man even having to say a word. And Harry respected the damned hell out of him.
"We leaving soon, prez?" Ron asked.
"Soon," Kingsley responded. "We're just waiting for our road captain to get back."
Ron frowned. "Where'd he go?"
"On a run," Kingsley said, glancing over the assembled men. "I sent him out this morning, but he should be back any minute."
"I think that's him," Harry said, squinting at a nearing cloud of dust.
Several moments later, a bike roared into the yard, stopping less than a foot from Harry. The engine cut off and a tall man stood up, nodding to Harry and Ron before gesturing to Kingsley. The two men walked away, speaking quietly to one another. Harry saw something get passed to Kings, who tucked it into a pocket of the black duster he wore, despite the sun and the growing heat of late spring.
"What do you think it is?" Ron wondered in a low voice, and Harry glanced over with a shrug.
"Dunno. If they wanted us to know, they'd've told us."
"Yeah, I s'pose," Ron sighed. "I just want to get this bollocks done with though. Hermione and I have plans later."
"Yeah?" Harry grinned. "Got a date tonight, do you?"
"Fuck off," Ron chuckled, flicking two fingers in his direction.
"Give her my love when you see her, yeah?"
Ron waved a casual hand. "'Course, mate."
Still grinning, Harry turned his head and watched as Oliver walked back over to his bike, climbing on and looking back at him. "Captain," Harry greeted, grinning at Wood. He liked Oliver. Despite the man's intensity and single-minded focus that could sometimes be a bit draining, Oliver was a good man and one of the first to welcome Harry into the club.
"Seek," he nodded back, one corner of his mouth tugged up in a rugged smirk, and Harry felt something in his gut tighten at the sight. He knew that he should not be looking at his brothers in such a way, and yet, there was no denying that Oliver was a damn attractive man. Leaning over, Oliver sent the same expression in Ron's direction. "Red."
A loud sigh escaped Ron as he rolled his eyes. "Why do you lot have to call me that? I'm not the only ginger one here, you know!"
Harry laughed as he glanced around, noting the red hair sparkling in the bright sunlight. Charlie leaned against his motorcycle several meters away, laughing loudly at something Irish was saying. Behind him stood Fred and George speaking to one of the prospects, the two of them dressed in nearly identical outfits. And over by the stairs, Harry could see Ginny standing with Dean, both arms wrapped around his waist as he stood with her tucked into his side. Sometimes it still amazed Harry that half of Ron's family was in the club.
"We know," Captain grinned, adjusting the leather cut he wore. "But you're our favorite ginger."
"'Course I am," Ron huffed, rolling his eyes again. "Because my brothers are knobs."
Before Oliver could respond, Kingsley clapped for attention, waiting until every engine in the yard had been cut before speaking. "All right," he called, and Harry's eyes narrowed in anticipation. It was time. "You all know what the plan is. We get the blood we're owed, and we get right back out. Nobody does anything we're not supposed to. I don't want anything getting out of hand today, one brother in hospital is enough. We all come home today, is that understood?" Grumbles of agreement met his ears, and Kingsley nodded. "Good then. Let's go." His eyes suddenly sharpened as he pinned everybody into place with an icy stare. "And, if anybody sees Worm, you take that fucker alive. Worm is mine. Understood?"
Harry practically felt the way everybody gritted their teeth as they nodded. Worm had better hope that Kings never actually got his hands on him, because Harry wasn't quite sure what Kingsley was going to do to the man if he ever got the chance. Worm's betrayal of the club had rent a hole of devastation and grief so deep that Harry wasn't certain if they would ever really recover. Even now, two years later, Harry still felt the same coalescent rage and loathing swirl through him at the thought of Peter Pettigrew. Fuck, it would make the run more than worth it if they managed to catch him. Kingsley had promised two years ago that if they ever got their hands on him again, Harry would have his chance at revenge. All he could do was wait as patiently as he could for that day.
"All right then!" Kings shouted, swinging one long leg over his bike and revving it loudly. The rest of the men turned their ignitions as one, splitting the air with the fierce growls of the engines. "Let's go!"
And without another word, he took off. Harry and Ron exchanged a grin before Harry twisted the throttle and shot off like a bullet, following the familiar leather cuts in front of him. The wind whipped at his face, screaming past his ears and clawing at his hair and clothing. Lord, he never felt more alive than he did when he was on his bike. He could hear nothing over the sound of the air rushing past and the blood pumping in his ears. The road ahead of them was empty and Kingsley sped up, making Harry grin even wider as he sped up in response. Kingsley set the pace, but Harry wanted to twist the throttle until he was faster than light, faster than sound, faster than a gunshot. He wanted to be the fastest thing on the road, wanting nothing more than to open his bike up to the max and leave every lingering shred of grief still haunting him behind. He wanted to be able to outrun his childhood, his past mistakes, every single regret he was still holding onto. Harry wanted to outrun the very sunlight spilling across the road, warming him even at the same time the wind whipping fiercely past seemed to snatch the heat straight from his skin.
Even if Harry no longer had Sirius, he at least still had this. He would always have this. In those moments, nothing else mattered. The entire world fell away, and it was just him, his bike, and the road, and Harry wanted nothing more than to fly over the hard ground until everything else was just a passing blur.
He didn't think he would ever love anything more than this feeling.
oOo
Draco sighed as he stared around at the empty clubhouse. Well, the almost empty clubhouse. There were a couple of unknown girls passed out on the sofa, their half-naked bodies sprawled over the worn leather, bare breasts on full display to the world. Which mostly only included Draco since he was really the only one there to see them. Not that he wanted to, of course. Breasts were something that he had never really gotten much excitement from seeing. To him, they were on the same level as expensive furniture or modern art. He might glance over it out of curiosity, but ultimately, it was never anything he was particularly moved by.
Sighing again, he poured himself a shot of vodka and threw it back with a grimace. He had no idea how long everyone was going to be gone. Maybe he should take his time doing something productive, like bathing, or reading. Greyback rarely gave him time or peace to read, and Draco missed it. Maybe he could really treat himself and read in the bath, since Greyback rarely even let him take a bath without leering or making crude jokes, or else ordering Draco to do things whilst in there that Draco would prefer not to.
Thinking about Fenrir made Draco shudder and he poured himself another shot, filling it up to the very brim. The cold liquid spilled over the lip and ran down his trembling fingers as he raised the glass to his mouth, throwing it back and coughing as he wiped his chin with the hem of his shirt. He stared down at the spilt vodka spread across the bar top, frowning down at it before deciding that he wasn't a damned prospect and did not have to clean a fucking thing. Just because Greyback thought he owned him didn't make Draco some sort of housewife, for god's sake. He did not and would not clean up the filthy clubhouse for the stupid arseholes.
Glaring, he reached over for the half-full bottle of vodka when a sudden noise made him pause. It was the distant revving of a single engine, and Draco lowered the bottle in confusion, wondering if anyone from the club had come back. They had only been gone a quarter of an hour or so, they should not be back for at least another hour. He cocked his head, creeping over to the door to peer out at the empty yard. There was nobody there. Not a single motorcycle was left, and Draco did not see anybody approach.
Confusion mounting, he tugged the heavy door open, listening to it creak and whinge as it swung on rusty hinges. The harsh sunlight overhead stabbed into his eyes and he automatically flung one hand up to shield them, feeling a faint pounding near his temples. Lord, he had not gotten nearly enough sleep.
Stepping outside, he scanned the yard, unable to spot anything out of place. The black brick building he had just stepped from was large and imposing, a solid wall of ebony with a large emerald flag declaring it to be the home of the Death Eaters, the words painted above the club's symbol, something that made Draco's lip curl every time he saw it. A white skull with a large, twisted serpent protruding from the open mouth was not an image that Draco found to be particularly comforting, which he supposed was the reason it was the symbol of a club called the Death Eaters in the first place. But there had always been something so obscenely disturbing about the image, especially when coupled with the name. Draco still wasn't even sure what a death eater was meant to be. Were they saying that they feasted on death? They found death delicious? They got full on death? Draco had no idea, and frankly, an answer would most likely only have made it more unsettling.
Whatever.
Turning around to head back inside, he paused as he heard a strange sound. Was that…rummaging? It sounded as though someone was moving around nearby. Fuck. Was someone in the yard? Had a rival biker come to the house while everyone was away? Shit. Draco's palms started to sweat as he wondered what he was supposed to do.
But then the sound of a loud, high-pitched moan drifted toward him and he rolled his eyes, relaxing on his back foot with a disgusted shake of his head. So, that's where the prospects had fucked off to. Draco had wondered why the main room of the clubhouse had been so empty. The prospects were usually down there, along with the hangarounds who for some reason seemed to enjoy being fucked and mistreated by a bunch of disgusting, rowdy bikers.
Although, Draco allowed with a sad sigh, he supposed he could not really judge, since he was hardly more than another club whore himself. It was not something he had ever wanted to be, and yet somehow, that's the life he had found himself trapped in.
Allowing himself another heavy sigh, he tried to shake off the gloom that had once more settled over him like a creeping cloud, one that seemed to constantly be hanging over his head. He took a step back, preparing to head back inside.
But a sudden scuffing sound had his head whipping around. It seemed to come from the same direction he had thought he heard the rummaging in. The moaning was still going on, but Draco could now tell that it was coming from the open window several feet above him.
Cautiously, he took a careful step forward, neck prickling with fear. Who was there? Maybe he should run in and get one of the prospects, just in case. But they would not react well to being interrupted whilst doing whatever they were doing to the poor girls upstairs, and Draco did not want to risk annoying them. He knew that none of them would ever dare mess with him when he belonged to Fenrir, but he still did not like crossing them, especially if it turned out to be nothing more than a stray cat making the noise.
Taking a deep breath, he took several more steps forward, reaching down to make sure he still had his switchblade in his pocket. The solid weight of it settled something in him, reminding him that he was not completely without some sort of defense.
The loud rummaging sounded again, and Draco followed the noise, keeping as quiet as he could. The sound seemed to be coming from one of the large garages on the property, the ones where the members worked on the bikes and kept a few cars and pick-up trucks in.
Heart pounding, Draco crept around the side of the building, feeling his heart rate increase at the sight of the large sliding door gaping open. Shit, maybe Draco really should go get the prospects. They may as well do something for once, instead of whatever the hell useless shit they were always claiming to be busy with. Draco hated the prospects even more than most of the club members.
Still moving cautiously, Draco slipped into the garage, grateful for the cool dimness it provided from the hot, harsh sunlight. The noises Draco had heard in the yard were now louder, several thuds and soft footsteps, and Draco heard a strange hissing sound, as though one of the tarps they used to cover the cars was being dragged off. Was somebody in there trying to steal a car? The thought made Draco stifle a laugh. Whatever poor bastard decided it would be a good idea to try to steal from the Death Eaters had no fucking clue who they were thieving from.
A sudden shadow on the wall made Draco freeze and he automatically reached for the switchblade, heart pounding. The sound of the knife being flicked open made the shadow on the wall freeze as well, and Draco's racing heartrate somehow tripled as the shadow moved toward him.
Fuck. He should run. He should leave. He should never have gone into that fucking garage or ever tried to play detective. What the hell had he been thinking? What could he possibly do against whoever was in there? What had Draco—
"Who the hell are you?" a sudden voice interrupted his panic, and Draco's eyes flashed up, widening in fear. A man stood several meters away, calmly pointing a heavy-looking revolver in Draco's direction. The gun was oil black and looked as though it weighed a thousand pounds, but it did not waver or tremble in the stranger's grasp. It was held coolly, confidently, by a hand that was clearly no stranger to its weight.
Feeling nearly dizzy with terror, Draco's eyes snapped up to meet the stranger's, and he felt his breath catch at the sight of the man. Fuck, Draco thought faintly, he's bloody gorgeous. The man had wild black hair and pale skin, a combination that Draco usually found a startling contrast, one that normally tended to make the person look washed-out and almost sickly, but on the stranger before him, it was an oddly pretty effect. He had a straight nose and bright green eyes, surprising Draco with the shocking splash of color. He didn't think he ever really tended to notice eye color, but on the man, it was the only thing he seemed able to focus on. He had never seen eyes like that.
The pretty eyes narrowed into a glare as the man raised the gun and took a step closer. "Who are you?" he asked again, voice low.
The question combined with the glare made Draco's hackles rise and he answered with a glare of his own. "Who am I?" he asked angrily, clenching the handle of the switchblade tightly. "Who the hell are you? I actually fucking belong here!"
The man tilted his head as he studied Draco. "Do you," he said flatly, not a hint of a question in his words.
"Who are you?" Draco repeated, brandishing the knife. He knew that a knife was no match for a revolver, but he at least wanted to show the man that he was not completely weak or helpless.
At the sight of the knife clutched in his right hand, the stranger barked a sharp laugh.
"Relax," he said with a heavy eye roll. "I'm not here to hurt anybody."
"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Draco demanded, refusing to lower his weapon.
"You a prospect?" the man asked, ignoring Draco's question yet again. "You're not a club member, I know that. They're all at the meet."
Draco's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about the meet?"
"Because," the man grinned. "They're meeting up with my club."
"What?" Draco gasped, feeling his hold on the knife loosen in surprise. "You're one of the Hallows?"
"At your service," the man said, grin widening, and Draco refused to acknowledge the way his pulse raced at the sight.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Draco hissed, glancing around frantically. "Get out before they get back! For fuck's sake, do you have any idea what they'll do to you if you're caught?!"
The man tilted his head as he stared at Draco, his cocky grin from earlier fading into something softer. "Aw," he murmured, not even blinking as he stared at the blond, "are you worried about me?"
"No!" The man may be smiling at Draco, but all Draco could do was glare. "But I know the members, and you do not want to get caught by them on their own fucking turf! For fuck's sake!"
"Relax," the man said, chuckling to himself. "I can handle myself. Besides, I should be in and out before they even realize I was here."
"Except for the fact that you've already been caught," Draco reminded him in an icy voice. Who the hell was this man and why was he so unafraid? Draco knew exactly just how afraid the man should be, for Christ's sake! This was not something to be taken lightly!
But the statement only made the arrogant grin return to the stranger's face. "And what are you planning on doing with me then?" he asked almost teasingly, and it made Draco's jaw clench.
"I could call the prospects," he said coldly. "They're still in the house."
The man rolled his eyes. "I'm terrified," he said sarcastically, and Draco glared even harder.
"What the fuck are you even doing here?" he snapped.
At the question, the man's eyes hardened. "Getting something that belongs to us," he said in a voice as hard as his gaze.
"And what the hell do you think we have that belongs to you?"
The man snorted, an angry, derisive sound. "You don't even know why the clubs are meeting up, do you?"
Draco paused, unwilling to claim that no, he had no idea. Fenrir rarely told him anything of import, and Draco was not allowed to be privy to club business. At the end of the day, he was nothing more than a piece of property.
"Three days ago," the man said, shifting closer to Draco, who couldn't help but fall back a step, cursing himself for his reaction, "a couple of your club members attacked one of mine. Jumped him, beat him, stole his bike and his cut. I've come to reclaim what's ours."
"They attacked one of your members?" Draco felt his eyes widen. He hadn't heard a thing about it.
"One of my brothers, yes," the man spat, firm body practically vibrating with anger. "He would have come to reclaim the cut himself, but he's still lying in hospital at the moment."
"I'm sorry," Draco sighed, flipping the blade of the knife away and tucking it back into his pocket. "I had no idea."
The man stared at him for several long moments, as though attempting to solve a puzzle in his head. "Who are you?" he asked softly, clicking the safety on the revolver and tucking it into a holster on his waistband.
"Nobody," Draco said hollowly, feeling the truth of those words pierce through him. He was nobody, absolutely nobody. Nothing more than Wolf's boy, not even a real person any longer.
"I doubt that," the man said, shifting even closer.
Draco shook his head. "It doesn't matter who I am."
"Maybe not," the man shrugged, and Draco fell back another step, "but maybe it matters to me."
"What does the bike look like?" Draco asked, changing the subject. He did not care to discuss his lack of worth with a stranger, no matter how good-looking the stranger happened to be.
The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Are you helping me?"
"I suppose I am," Draco mused, surprised at himself.
"Black and chrome," the man said, still sounding surprised. "Red trim. Big motherfucker, hard to miss."
Draco paused as he thought. "I think I saw Macnair take a bike like that out to the pit a couple days ago."
The man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "The pit?"
"The fire pit," Draco nodded. "It's back here." Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, Draco spun around to lead the man outside, but a hand closed over his arm before he had even taken two steps.
Swallowing a scream, Draco wrenched his arm free and nearly tripped over his own feet scrambling away, flicking open the switchblade once more with trembling fingers.
"Whoa," the man said, raising both hands to show he meant no harm. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."
"Right," Draco said, breathing heavily. There was something about the man that made Draco want to trust him, which only made Draco distrust him even more. He had learned long ago that instincts could lie; he learned long ago that people lied even more than instincts, especially the people who appeared the most trustworthy. "Sure."
"Cross my heart," the man vowed, corners of his lips twitching.
Still breathing hard, Draco jerked his head in the direction of the large door. "Come on then. Hurry up and get your damned bike so you can leave already."
The man's eyes narrowed back into slits. "I thought you said they burnt it," he gritted angrily.
Draco frowned. "No, I said they had taken it to the pit. They haven't burnt it yet. I'm assuming they were saving that for after this meeting of yours is finished."
The stranger returned the frown. "All right then." One hand swept out in front of him, a gesture for Draco to lead the way.
"You first," Draco said suspiciously. He was a fool to have ever turned his back on the man in the first place. No, more than a fool—he was a stupid, naïve idiot. This was a member of the Deathly fucking Hallows, for Christ's sake! Draco should know better by now than to ever trust a member of a rival gang.
The man rolled his eyes once more, and Draco wondered how many times in a day the stranger did that. "No trust, eh?"
"No."
"Fair enough," the man shrugged. Back straight, he marched past Draco and into the sunlight, keeping close to the garage as he waited for the blond. Draco jerked his chin in the direction of the pit.
"It's over there," he said, waiting for the man to continue walking forward. A large fire pit was dug into the earth, blanketed in burnt rock. A pile of blackened wood and grey ash coated the bottom. And even though no fire was lit, Draco could still smell the scent of smoke that seemed to live in the very air out here. It was a smell that never fully went away, no matter how long it had been between fires. The very earth and air were drenched in the smell, saturated by the thousands of fires that had been burned in that spot over the years.
The man glanced around curiously, eyes razor-sharp as he took everything in, but he suddenly paused before running forward. Lying on its side several meters away was a large motorcycle, looking a bit worse for wear. It was scratched and dented in several places, and Draco noticed that the kickstand and both side mirrors were missing. The man lifted it with ease, and Draco found himself unable to look away from the sight of the man's firm biceps rippling as he maneuvered the heavy machine into a standing position. He was mumbling something to himself as he practically ripped the seat up, sighing in relief when he pulled out a folded square of leather. He shook the leather out, nodding to himself at the sight. It was a leather vest, with the name DEATHLY HALLOWS stamped in white on the back, above their odd symbol. It was a circle surrounded by a triangle with a single solid line running vertically through the center. Draco wondered for the hundredth time what the strange symbol meant.
The man turned the cut around, inspecting both sides, and Draco winced at the sight of dried blood on the front, staining the leather in brown splotches.
"Thank you," he said unexpectedly, looking up to Draco. "I don't really get why you'd help me, but thank you."
Throat tight, Draco nodded, unsure how to respond. He also had no idea why he had helped the man.
"Guess I should probably leave now, huh?" The man placed the leather cut back beneath the seat before beginning to wheel it back in the direction of the garage they had just come from.
"Huh?" Draco asked, staring in confusion. "What are you doing? I thought you were leaving?"
"Well," the man said, throwing a wicked grin over his shoulder, "I'm going to need a little more help getting this out of here. They've cut the wires, and I still have my bike near here that I won't leave behind. So," he shrugged, "I'll just be taking one more thing and then I'll be out of your hair for good."
The last half of the statement made Draco frown as he realized he didn't necessarily want the stranger to leave, especially for good. But he could hardly stay. It was far too risky for them both if the man lingered. "What are you taking?" he asked cautiously, catching up to the man.
The man's grin widened. "Something to help," he said mysteriously, strolling back into the garage and gazing around before his eyes lit up. He wheeled the bike in the direction of a large pick-up, and Draco's mouth dropped open.
"You're taking a truck?" he whispered, shocked for some reason. "You're taking Wolf's truck?" Oh god. He was about to steal Fenrir's truck. What the hell was the man doing? Did he have any idea what Greyback would do to him if he ever caught him?
"Looks like it," the man shrugged, completely unconcerned for the bloody death now awaiting him as he lowered the door of the bed and glanced back at Draco. "Don't think you could help us with this, do you?"
Stunned, Draco could only stare, mouth hanging open. The man was insane.
"No? Didn't think so." He began looking around the garage, grinning to himself before lowering the bike onto its side and dragging a slim metal ramp close enough to haul the bike up into the bed. Panting, the man jumped back down, lifting the ramp and throwing that in as well. "May as well take it," he mused to himself, slamming the bed door closed before walking around to the driver's side. He snorted when he found the door unlocked. "Fucking figures," he muttered, and Draco couldn't help but agree. Fenrir rarely locked the doors to his truck, always assuming that nobody would ever dare mess with anything belonging to him. The man began fiddling with something out of Draco's sight, and Draco stepped closer, staring in surprise at a tangle of wires now dangling above the foot pedals.
"So," the man said, still fiddling with the wires, "don't suppose you'd tell me your name now, hmm?"
"Um…" Draco hesitated, feeling as though he was in some sort of shock. The man wanted to know his name? He was effectively signing his own death warrant right in front of Draco, and he was asking for Draco's fucking name? Who the bloody hell was this man, and was he incredibly, unrealistically brave, or just incredibly, almost impossibly stupid? Was there even really a difference?
The man laughed. "I really doubt it's 'um'. Not really a pretty enough name to suit you, is it?"
The words made Draco's nose scrunch up in confusion. The man thought he was pretty? Was that what he was saying? Or had Draco misunderstood? "I'm nobody," he mumbled, watching as the man pulled a pocketknife from his denims and neatly cut two wires before crossing them and beginning to twist two of the split ends together.
But the words made the man pause and he turned back to face Draco, a soft, almost unguarded expression in his eyes. "I doubt that," he said, echoing his earlier words. "I'm Seek, if you'd like to know my name first."
"Seek?" Draco repeated, wondering what kind of name that was.
The man laughed. "As in Seeker," he said with another eye roll. "I'm the guy they usually send in for the quiet jobs like this. I'm pretty decent at finding the things we need found, you know?"
Draco nodded, even though he wasn't certain he did know. He had no idea if he knew anything any longer.
"What about you?" the man asked, taking a step closer, until he was only inches from Draco and Draco was having trouble breathing. Lord, he was standing so close that Draco could smell him—a dark, leathery sort of scent that reminded Draco of pine trees and rain, fresh earth and melting chocolate. It was definitely not a bad smell, and Draco inhaled as subtly as he could. Christ, the man smelled amazing.
But Draco could not respond. He did not want to tell the man his name; he did not want to make his involvement in the situation any more real than it already was. He had no idea of what Fenrir would do to him if he ever found out that Draco had helped a member of the Hallows steal his truck.
"All right then," the man said softly, reaching out to stroke Draco's cheek with one thumb, and Draco shivered at the light touch. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But seriously, mystery man," he grinned, "thank you." And before Draco even had time to respond to the gratitude, the stranger was leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to Draco's mouth.
At the feel of warm lips suddenly pressed to his own, Draco froze, his brain coming to a sudden screeching halt. Oh Lord, what was the man doing? What was Draco supposed to do? Was he supposed to kiss him back? Would the man be angry with him if he didn't kiss him back? Draco definitely wanted to kiss him back, but what if it was some sort of test? What if the second Draco returned the kiss, the man pulled back with a snarl of disgust, wiping his mouth before sinking a fist into Draco's stomach? The kiss continued for several more heartbeats, Draco's panic growing with every passing second, before the man finally pulled back.
"Well, gorgeous," he said, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a small smile, "I suppose I'll see you around, yeah? Or not." And with that, he released Draco and turned back to the truck. "I would estimate about forty-six seconds before I get this truck running. So if I were you, I'd head back into that house and pretend that you never stepped foot outside, yeah? I don't want that pretty face of yours to get in any trouble."
"Right," Draco whispered, stumbling back a step before suddenly turning and sprinting to the door. He paused in the doorway, cursing himself as he pushed the garage door open all the way, leaving more than enough room for the truck to escape. He spared one last glance for the man but could see nothing, not even the stranger's unruly hair. All he could see were the two black boots on the ground as the man leaned into the truck, still fiddling with the wires.
Continuing his sprint, Draco tore back to the house, pausing outside for five seconds to collect his breath. He carefully eased the door open, slipping inside and shutting it quietly. Racing over to the bar, he snatched the bottle of vodka from the counter before hurrying quietly upstairs and practically flinging himself into his room. He shut the door with trembling fingers and slid the lock shut, stumbling backward until his legs hit the thin mattress and he was able to sink down onto it. The second his arse touched the bed, the sound of a loud truck roaring to life sounded, and Draco threw himself back to his feet before tripping to his small window, peering down into the yard and watching with wide eyes as the stranger backed the truck from the garage and tore out of there like the devil was on his tail.
A loud "Fuck!" was heard overhead, accompanied by a door crashing into a wall and heavy, thumping footsteps tearing down the stairs. Moments later, a half-naked prospect launched himself into the yard, staring after the trail of dust the truck left in its wake. Draco continued to watch until even the dust had settled and nothing more remained of the man whose real name Draco still didn't even know. Had any of it been real?
He sank back down onto the bed, clutching the bottle of vodka to his chest like a lifeline. Christ, what had Draco done?
TBC
A/N: Aaand, that is the first chapter down! Hooray for biker drama! The second chapter should be up soon 😊