Harry never went out alone. The crowds and the noise and the attention were too overwhelming, but if he was going to drown his sorrows, he didn't give a fuck about the crowd. The only sadder thing he could imagine was drinking alone at home, so he found himself in a bar.
Married with kids. Fucking Christ, and I'm still coming home to an empty flat. I can't stand that their happiness is breaking my heart like this.
He took another hefty gulp of his whiskey, trying to give off enough of a "fuck off" vibe that no one would try to approach him. It was for this express purpose that he was at a muggle bar, anyway. No one would recognize him here, and he wouldn't have to see anyone he knew, Merlin forbid.
It was only natural, after all, wasn't it? He shouldn't be feeling this way because his best friends had gotten hitched and were now starting a family. But he couldn't deny the bitterness that stung his tongue when he pictured it.
What the hell kind of a godfather could he possibly make anyway? As broken and shattered an individual as he was, he was sure he'd just end up adding unnecessary trauma to that child's life. He'd agreed because she'd put him on the spot so suddenly, but couldn't help but want to keep his wrecked self as far away from anything pure and innocent as possible. It wasn't like he could be anything like what Sirius had been to him.
Though, if he thought about it, this was much the same situation his own godfather had been in. Two of his friends ended up married and with a kid. A wry laugh huffed from his lips as he lifted his glass back up to them, considering the possibility that he'd end up in Azkaban similarly. What he'd have to do to fuck his life up that badly.
A pang of pain knelled through his chest at memories of Sirius, and he waved the bartender over for a refill. He was growing steadily drunker, but it still wasn't enough. Hermione's announcement had torn open a gaping hole in his chest, one he was usually so good at keeping under the rug, but now it was growing. Aching. Bleeding and dripping down into his gut, burning just like the whiskey.
"This is a surprise," came a familiar voice to his left. Harry froze. He knew that voice. It was slightly deeper in timbre, but he recognized it all the same.
Turning stiffly to confirm who'd joined him at the bar, his eyes went wide to find Draco bloody Malfoy settling into the bar chair next to him. He requested another of what Harry was drinking from the bartender, not returning his gaze, but waiting patiently for his own drink.
He should've left then. He should've ignored him, sat somewhere else, put as much distance between them as possible because like hell was he letting Malfoy in on his suffering. But as he stared, wide-eyed at his profile, his mouth went dry. Those features he once considered to be pointy and off-putting had shaped up to be a bone structure reserved for mythical creatures. That's why he stared; he was unnaturally beautiful. Not because he had any desire to run his tongue up that long neck and clamp his teeth around his sharp jawline, no sir. Nothing of the sort.
"Malfoy," he began, unsure of what to say. Where to even begin?
"Potter," he returned, wrapping his long fingers around the glass of whiskey and throwing back a mouthful before finally turning to return his gaze. "You look like shit."
Harry snorted. He couldn't help it. Five fucking years and the first words out of his mouth are an insult. Glad to see some things never change.
"Feel like it," he admitted, turning back to his own whiskey and desperately trying to ignore the fluttering in his gut. He felt Malfoy studying him, but couldn't look at him. The wooden texture of the bartop was suddenly fascinating.
"I admit I'm annoyed that that doesn't please me." Harry turned his frown up to the blond, and instantly regretted it. He wasn't sporting a single hint of emotion, but his eyes were spearing into Harry's so directly he was rooted to the spot.
"Come for an autograph?" He decided to say. If they were about to trade barbs, perhaps it'd function as an outlet for his ache. Malfoy's lips curled into that damn smirk he wore so frequently.
Fuck, he's attractive. It's so bloody irritating.
"Saw your spread. Turned out awful." Frustration burned at the back of Harry's throat. "You're so fucking awkward, even on camera."
He swallowed, trying to internally goad his anger to overtake his humiliation. Malfoy had the nerve to end up unrealistically gorgeous, and now he was criticizing him to his face? He couldn't deny it stung.
"Suppose my finesse is reserved for the air," he bit back. Malfoy's smirk spread wider into what was almost a real grin. His cheeks lifted high enough to touch the few locks of blond that framed his eyes, and Harry had the insane urge to reach up and brush them back.
The blond leaned over onto the bar on an elbow, resting his jaw in his palm as he faced Harry more directly. He sat a little straighter at the shift, taking refuge in his whiskey as Malfoy's eyes narrowed at him. And decidedly not accepting the invitation to peer down the unbuttoned neck of his dress shirt that'd pulled wider as he'd stretched.
"Only the air? I pity anyone who finds their way into your bed," he teased. Teased! What the fuck is going on?
Harry frowned at him, at the way he was smiling at him, leaning towards him. Is he drunk or am I? He checked himself internally, but he was nowhere near that drunk. Is he making a pass at me?
He clawed for words a beat too long, mouth snapping shut as Malfoy took another lazy sip of his whiskey, never glancing away for a moment. Frustration finally rose to overtake his humiliation as he realized he'd been watching the way Malfoy's pronounced Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed.
"What do you want?"
"What do you want?" He loosed a sigh as Malfoy turned his own question back around to him. But he considered. What did he want?
"I…" Shit, I think he is. What the hell? "I want to get so drunk I forget why I'm drinking."
Malfoy lifted his glass, and Harry stared at it a moment before realizing what he was doing. And hesitantly lifted his own to clink it to his.
"I'll drink to that."
Draco truly hadn't expected anything to come of it. He'd speak to Potter, who he'd never thought would be caught dead alone in a bar, much less a muggle one, and poke fun at him for his unnatural poses and camera shyness. But he hadn't risen to his jabs, not like he'd expected. There was something so utterly broken in his eyes when he thought Draco wasn't looking, and he had to admit he was curious what could be ailing the Savior of the Wizarding World so terribly. Didn't he have everything he ever wanted? Fame, success, glory, the whole nine yards?
He was drinking himself silly, though, and Draco couldn't resist coaxing those loose lips to admit the thing he was drinking to forget.
"Go on, then," he invited as he rotated the barstool around to lean both elbows back against the surface. "What could possibly be so bad in Harry Potter's life that he's slumming it with…" He leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "... normal people? " He gave an exaggerated shudder for good measure, and was surprised to earn what sounded like genuine laughter.
"Just… Taking a break from the spotlight, I guess?"
Potter's green eyes were slightly glassy, but anytime they swept sideways to Draco, they seemed to suddenly find clarity. And he couldn't help but grin at the way they seemed to drink in his features. Like he couldn't really believe what he was seeing, no matter how many times he looked at him.
"Fame not all it's cracked up to be?"
"Oh, fuck off. Not like you don't get recognized everywhere you go," he supposed as he threw back the rest of his whiskey with a grimace.
"I highly doubt my experience with infamy is similar."
Potter snorted, and Draco eyed him. The alcohol had invited a flush to his cheeks, to the hollow of his throat, and damn, it suited him. Despite the developments his lifestyle had introduced to his physique, he still maintained a sort of boyishness about his face, and with cheeks and ears as pink as sin, he was ridiculously handsome. Draco wanted to fuck his hair up a bit just to see if he'd go back to the awkward, gangly Potter he'd once been. Well… Still awkward.
"Least you found yourself a pretty job. Can't be too awful, certainly seems to pay well enough." He gestured half-heartedly to Draco, who glanced down at himself. He wasn't one for adornments, no, that'd imply an iota of self-confidence. But he took Potter's meaning – his job did afford him a fairly impressive personal wardrobe.
"Suppose," he allowed, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to slick back his damn annoying fringe that loved to tickle his temples. He wasn't allowed to cut it or grow it out, but he could at least try to manage it. "Not sure how I ended up here, honestly."
Draco's gaze swept the bar, wondering briefly what it'd be like to know nothing of the magical world for one night. To forget how close it'd all been to ending. But when his attention inevitably slid back to Potter, he found him staring, his eyes clear and a bit wide. And froze.
"Modeling? Or at a muggle bar?"
"Both." Potter nodded, and finally seemed to realize he was staring. He tore his eyes away, a small frown creasing between his brows as he signaled the bartender for a refill. And Draco was pleased to find he wouldn't have to use his imagination after all, because Potter leaned forward to fuck his own hair up with both hands, an agitated sound leaking through his lips. "What's got your wand in a knot?"
"Nothing!" He insisted, tearing his glasses off his face to scrub at his eyes. "I'm drinking alone in a muggle bar because everything in my life is perfect and pleasant and going exactly to plan."
"Oi," Draco lifted his own whiskey and swirled it implicatively. "Not alone, Mister Potter." The brunette accepted his refill and tipped it towards him in acknowledgement before taking another hearty gulp. "Really, though. The suspense is killing me." Potter snorted, clicking the butt of his glass down onto the bar as he side-eyed Draco. "What's wrong?"
Harry's already pleasantly light head whirled as he realized Malfoy seemed genuinely curious. Maybe even a bit concerned? There was no bite to his question, no venom to suggest he wanted to take the piss. And he was just so bloody mesmerizing , Harry almost told him.
"Model by day, therapist by night?" Malfoy smirked at that, but didn't back down. Oh, fuck it. I'm lonely and just because there's bad blood between us doesn't make him any less… That. Bloody hell, just how fucking desperate am I that I'm considering spilling my guts to Malfoy of all people? "Life went on."
His pale brow pinched a frown. "You… Saved the world, survived a war, defeated the most powerful dark wizard of all time, and life went on? That's what's wrong?"
"Yes!" Harry forced himself not to watch Malfoy take another mouthful of his own whiskey, knowing damn well if he glimpsed that throat bobbing again he'd lose his train of thought. "My friends got married, they're starting a family, having a life, and I just…"
Slowly, Malfoy swiveled back around to lean forward over the bar, seeming to turn Harry's words around in his head. "You're a professional Seeker."
"I know!" He growled. "And I'm so fucking good at it that I–" Huffing a sigh, he took another swallow of whiskey. One that didn't burn so much going down now.
"I see," Malfoy expounded. "Life isn't hard enough to be exciting anymore."
Harry was about to argue, to tell him to fuck off if he was just gonna make fun of him, because he should've fucking known Malfoy would have nothing significant to contribute and was only going to be his usual sarcastic self, but… His anger died in his throat as Malfoy's words settled into him.
"Yeah," he breathed, slightly awestruck as Malfoy smirked at him. "I-I mean, I don't want my life to be hard, persay… But…"
"It's unfulfilling." He shrugged his shoulders elegantly as he peered down at his dwindling drink. "You're the Chosen One, but now you've done what you were prophesied to do, when it's all you've had to think about for the first seventeen years of your life. And now you don't know what to do because you've never thought about a life after the Dark Lord."
Malfoy threw back the remaining few sips of his whiskey casually, and Harry gaped at him. How the fuck is able to read me so easily? Am I that open of a book?
"How did you know all that?"
The blond peered sideways at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Harry felt suddenly self-conscious as he swiveled again to face him, leaning forward intentionally and how the hell are his pores so fucking small? His skin looks like silk.
"Why Quidditch?"
Harry swallowed. He could tell him the truth. He could be totally honest and confess that the structure and the training and the exercise were exhausting enough that he didn't give himself any time to pick at the gaping wound in his chest.
"I'm good at it," he decided to say in the end. Even as decidedly nonexistent as his inhibitions were at present, he wasn't sure he was quite drunk enough to utter that particular truth. Malfoy hummed, his gray eyes roving over Harry's features.
"It's the easy option," he translated. "Same as me."
His comparison threw a spanner into Harry's spinning thoughts, grinding them to a halt. "Sorry?"
"Not an easy task, a person like me finding employment. So when a talent scout approached me, I just… Went along with it. Thought he was taking the piss honestly, but then the jobs started coming, and they just… Haven't stopped."
Harry's teeth clicked shut. So that's how he ended up modeling. Can't say I blame him, whoever he was. Regardless of his reputation, there's no spell or potion that could make you look like that. Fucking genetic lottery.
"And… Do you like modeling?" He was hesitantly curious, but he more so wanted to steer the conversation away from himself in general.
"Fuck no," Malfoy answered easily, catching the barman's eye to gesture for two refills. "I'm selling my body to capitalism. 'S almost worse than prostitution."
A bark of a laugh erupted from Harry's lips before he could swallow it, but it died just as quickly as his thoughts took a hard left turn to Malfoy soliciting. And the git seemed to guess just where Harry's mind had wandered as he turned a smirk back to him.
Those delicate collarbones protruding from his chest drew his gaze down unbidden, and he followed the graceful arch to the corner of his shoulder, all the way down his sleeved arm to the slim wrists that boasted those elegant hands. Fingers suited for a piano, Harry noted as they splayed and curled under his observation.
It was definitely the alcohol. Without a doubt, but he still reached forward to take that hand in his, driven by a compulsive desire to touch. And Malfoy silently allowed him to pull it closer to himself, passing his thumb firmly against his palm to feel the tendons under his pale skin. Turned it over to brush his own fingers against his knuckles, to the soft in-betweens of his fingers. It was like holding a living piece of art.
"What're you doing in a muggle bar?" Harry wondered, turning Malfoy's hand back over to feel the prominent tendons in his wrist, eyeing the faint blue veins beneath the skin.
"Fantasizing I'm someone else," came Malfoy's quiet voice, and Harry was surprised to hear it sounded somehow… Affected. His increasingly unfocused gaze snapped back up to his face, and he found his steely attention trained on Harry's hands on him. He still wasn't pulling away, wasn't making a fuss, so he let himself indulge in the satiny texture of his skin.
"Who are you?"
Oh, shit fucking bitch. I'm flirting back, Harry realized, but couldn't really care enough to stop. Because even though yes, he was definitely drunk now, this was the most connected he'd felt to anyone in… Too long to admit, even to himself. A corner of Malfoy's lips twitched as he seemed to tear his gaze back up to Harry's with supreme effort.
"I'm… Someone who always knows the right thing to do. And does it."
Harry sat, stuck in Malfoy's eyes for a heartbeat before suddenly realizing how inappropriately he was touching him. And as he ripped his hands away, blushing furiously down at his own drink as he tore his gaze away, he wondered if Malfoy hated the touching as much as he did.
He hadn't meant anything by it, truly. Sure he was handsome as the devil himself, but he'd only reached out to feel. On impulse. It wasn't like this night was going anywhere but right back to his empty flat, and certainly, definitely alone. He wanted to apologize, to correct Malfoy if he'd misinterpreted the spontaneous contact, and suddenly found the whole interaction wholly humiliating. But before he could form his thoughts into words, Malfoy was leaning in to murmur low at the bottom of his voice to Harry.
"You don't have to stop." Harry's cheeks burned, and he hesitantly turned back to search his expression. Bloody hell, he was close. A corner of his lips curled invitingly, and Harry's attention flickered down to it.
Anticipation burned in his stomach (or maybe it was the whiskey) as he realized he, for the first time since Hogwarts… Wanted to be touched. He could ignore the fact that it was Malfoy because his skin had been warm and unbelievably soft, and when someone as ludicrously stunning as him was giving him his full, undivided attention, yes, he very much wanted the blond git to reciprocate.
Just like in the studio, the entire bar faded to black as Harry, very boldly and likely foolishly, leaned an intentional inch back toward him.
"Nor you."
