Title: Queer as Folk (2 of 3)
Author: Paola
Disclaimer: Queer as Folk is based on characters and situations that belong to J.K. Rowling; publishers that include, but may not be limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Publishing, and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros. The title is borrowed from the show of the same name, the North American version of which was developed by Ron Cowen and Daniel Lipman from the original English series, of the same title, created by Russel T. Davies. No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Some details are borrowed, either consciously or unconsciously, from the North American version of Queer as Folk, and the character of Harry Potter, for the purpose of this story, is loosely based on the character of Brian Kinney.
Considerations: Similarities to other stories/events/passages are purely coincidental unless otherwise cited. References to real company/ies, historical figure/s, and other personality/ies, dead or alive, are purely fictional. Beliefs and points of view found in the story do not necessarily reflect those of the author's.
Timeline: Queer as Folk is canon-compliant, save for the epilogue; EWE
Rating: Extremely M for the warning that follows
Warning: This contains SLASH (a relationship between two male characters, more specifically), sex (acts of which may not be limited to orthodox sex), promiscuity, recreational drug-use, offensive language, other adult situations, and clichés. You have been warned and are duly expected to turn back if such things offend you.
Queer as Folk
Harry Potter, Draco thinks, is a destructive son of a bitch.
"Hello, sunshine, I see you're exuding such extreme brightness this fine morning," Ginny says, sitting across Draco and looking at him funny.
Draco grimaces and offers his untouched mimosa, which she dutifully frowns at. "I missed your sarcastic tongue. I really did. Don't mind that I lie all the time."
"So what crawled up your arse and died?" Ginny signals for a waiter to bring her a cup of coffee.
"How lovely that your first concern after coming home from tour is my arse. I'm flattered. To return the favour, how's yours?" Ginny rolls her eyes and cuffs him. "Did you just cuff me?" Draco exclaims, wide-eyed and suddenly out of his funk.
"Well, I didn't just kiss you, did I? And speaking of kissing, where's Harry?"
Draco's usually the sharpest tool in the shed, but even he finds that confusing. "How'd you get from 'kissing' to 'Harry'?"
"I don't know. How'd you get from disliking Harry to getting buggered by him?"
Draco glares at the crudeness. "Seriously, Ginny, have you always been this sarcastic?"
"I don't know, but I've always been lovely. Does that count?"
Draco rolls his eyes, not once cracking a smile. "Oh yeah, loads."
"PMS-ing even when you're not a girl. A record." Ginny laughs at her own joke. "Wow, you're only ever this moody with me when something bad has happened."
Draco wishes then that he hasn't just winced or that Ginny has somehow failed to notice. But of course, she hasn't because the humour has gone out of her face and really, he should fucking know how to guard is reactions. For fuck's sake, he's not eleven.
"What happened? Where's Harry?" she sounds genuinely concerned now, and Draco finds her concern deeply misplaced.
He's already scowling before he can stop himself. "I wouldn't know."
"Draco—"
"Why don't we just eat breakfast and not talk about him? Surely there's more interesting things we can discuss."
"You broke up, didn't you?"
"I wouldn't know, now would I, seeing as we were never in a relationship." Draco glares like he was wont to back in their Hogwarts years, taunting and defensive at the same time, and he thinks that maybe he's really still eleven. "Why don't you just tell me 'I told you so' and get it over with?" Defensive, definitely.
"Do you really want me to?" Ginny waits for an answer that isn't coming. "Draco, where's Harry?"
Draco can't understand why Ginny just can't fucking let it go. He's already said that he doesn't know, why is that so hard to understand? God, what the fuck is Ginny trying to do anyway? Because by constantly asking the same thing again and again, she's surely trying to understand something that he himself can't.
Shit, why does this woman have to be so fucking shrewd?
"I don't know, Ginevra. I don't know how I can make that any clearer. He left. He was there then he left. Fell off the radar, as is his habit. End of story." Harry usually goes missing for days, but this time is different. Draco can tell. Something between them happened before Harry left, something that wasn't properly addressed and he just knows that this time is different.
For a blessed while, Ginny doesn't pursue another question, until she speaks again in a tone that's supposed to be a questioning but Draco knows better.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?"
His fork clutters to the ground. So that's what she was trying to piece together! No, of course not. That's insane! He's just smarting because he wasn't the one who left first. Slighted pride. That's all. In love with Harry Potter? Ridiculous.
"You've gone mental," and before Ginny can reply, he's dropping a few sickles on the table and standing up to leave. Ginny doesn't stop him, and as he moves to the exit and prepares to Dissaparate, he can't help but feel cheated, in more ways than one.
If he'd left first, would Harry have gone after him, or would he have just sat there like Ginny?
Draco buries his head under the pillow, wishing that whoever's pounding on his door would just leave him and his dinging wards in peace. Maybe this was how Harry felt every time he pounded on the Gryffindor's door, and for a moment, he relishes the fact that he's more than done his share in disturbing Harry's life. Just for a moment because he's resolved to stop thinking of the bloody git. It's not like he's actually in love with Potter because he's fucking not. That's just Ginny's way of fucking with him, saying stupid things and sounding like a bloody know-it-all. So much like Granger in school.
Draco winces. Great, he's even thinking of Granger. Of all the things that life could hand him, it had to be a relationship with the Gryffindor lot. Karma, he opines, is a bitter bitch.
Heaving the sigh of the weary, he finally gets up from his comfortable bed and trudges towards the source of the noise.
"Can't a guy get some fucking peace around here?" he lets out as soon as he opens the door, and he promptly regrets his decision to get up when he sees Ginny on the other side, looking anything but apologetic.
"I was afraid you'd gone deaf."
"I was afraid it was some lowly Weasley, and lo and behold, my fears came true," he replies dryly, not moving an inch and giving a clear indication that Ginny isn't welcome. "The story of my life."
Ginny rolls her eyes and pushes her way in, earning an indignant grunt from Draco. "I leave you for half a week and you get all princessy. Seriously. Have you had breakfast?"
Well. Draco doesn't quite know what to say. Didn't she just leave him on his own a few days back? Wasn't she a bitch then, too, the kind that he actually hates? "What are you doing here, Ginevra?"
Ginny sighs and shrugs. "I made a mistake, okay? I thought you could pull yourself together on your own. I was never there for you when you got fired on your first job, your second and third, neither was I there when Richard cheated on you. Not because I didn't want to be, but because you did everything on your own — you're good at that and we never had a problem with it. I should've known Harry breaks every fucking pattern."
And there it is, so blatantly obvious that it's almost blinding. It's how he and Ginny work — it's what allows him to get back on his feet, his independence, and now that Ginny has only really followed what he prefers, he's bitter because he's forgotten that Harry shouldn't have been different from any other hardship he's ever faced. He's never needed a shoulder to cry on ever since he grew a spine and fucking Potter just has to fucking change that! And he's left bitter that Ginny knows him better than he knows himself.
"Stop implying that there's anything deeper than repeated shags," he says instead, sniping and aiming to get Ginny off track with his acid tongue.
Ginny raises her arms in mock surrender, but the expression on her face is quite telling that she doesn't believe him. "Fine, there isn't."
"There really isn't!"
"Fine, Draco, I said fine." Ginny has this calculated look that Draco doesn't quite trust. "Come now, let's have a spot of breakfast."
"I already ate."
"No, you didn't. You sprawled on your bed and played that woe-is-me card. Won't work on me. Come on."
And when Ginny gets like that, there's really no changing her mind. She's so sure of herself, so aware of what she can do, so confident that everyone would get her meaning, read the underlying Gryffindor goodness, and by Merlin, they do because otherwise would mean they're stupid.
Draco sighs. Ginny Weasley, a woman for the ages.
"I hate you."
"I love you, too, doll face. Come on, you're dangerously skinny."
Sometimes, the universe has one screwed-up sense of humour, and its favourite target is Draco Malfoy. Really, it's getting old, except it seemingly doesn't stop so maybe it's him who's not getting the joke. Or maybe because it's him who's getting laughed at and he's more than tempted to scream bloody murder.
"Hey, look, there's everybody! Let's join them," Ginny chirps from beside him, the bloody bint.
Draco looks at her as though she's just grown two heads. Seriously. Didn't the past week happen? Didn't this morning leave one intelligent thought in her head? Why in fuck's name would he want to join the "everybody" when in the middle of it all is that Gryffindor prick?
"Ginny."
"I thought there isn't anything more to it?"
Draco groans. Oh, he so should've known that that would come back and bite him in the arse. "You bitch."
"Bitch, witch, we all are, B.B."
Now Ginny is really being unfair, and by all rights, he should walk out on her, never speak to her again for her double-crossing, but he can't because this is a challenge. Oh God, it is, and Ginny knows how to play her cards well even if he's still trying to piece the whole game together and shouldn't have been able to tell that Ginny's an ace player.
"Hey, guys!" Ginny calls out, and for a moment, Draco detachedly wonders why they aren't being mobbed. They're at an outdoor café, Harry Potter is with three more war heroes, one of which a famous international Quidditch player. As far as Draco can detect, there are no notice-me-not charms.
"Ginny, Malfoy," Granger greets.
Of course, with the head of the Magical Law Department with them, Draco sees why no one's bothering them. It really pays to have influential friends.
"Ginny, B.B.!" Harry seconds, the smile on his face bright and real, like nothing out of the ordinary happened. Like he was never gone, never left Draco on his own, and maybe Draco's just exaggerating things. Surely, Harry can't be that glad to see both of them if there's something wrong between the two of them, can he?
"B.B.?" Weasley asks after nodding at Ginny and Draco. Of all the Gryffindors, ironically enough, Weasley had probably been the easiest to befriend. Not that Draco generally goes out of his way to befriend Gryffindors, but they come with the job, like Ginny's excess baggage or something.
Draco once beat him at chess and then they were good. No apologies asked and none extended. Of course, having nearly had his jaw broken by Weasley's fist during the war might have done something to soften the redhead. The violent prat. And yes, they don't normally hang out, but Draco has long accepted that some people are just too good to be healthy and that Gryffindors are one of those people and, conversely, isn't apt to turn away people who're not radiating evil vibes.
Shit, sometimes Draco wishes he's still viewed as that slimy spawn of evil of their childhood days. Not so much as the "slimy" part, per se, but the "evil" part should be rewarding.
"Beloved bastard?" Harry offers, easily taking a kiss on the cheek from Ginny.
"Oh honestly," Granger interjects, rolling her eyes and sounding so much the Granger of their Hogwarts years that for a moment Draco wonders how exactly he came up with that seeing as he didn't hang out with her kind back then.
Then again, he tended to eavesdrop on nearly every occasion he got the chance to, so that was probably how he heard her.
"Why, fuck you very much, Potter, that was lovely," he says, coming out of his stupor before they notice anything wrong with him.
Not that there is.
He gingerly takes the empty seat beside Harry because under normal circumstances, that's where he would normally sit, preferring Harry's presence a million times over Granger's and Weasley's, and, recently, maybe even over Ginny's since she's being a cunt. And yes, he's now resorting to the c-word.
Great, he's getting more immature by the minute.
Draco barely represses a shiver when Harry's fingers slide over his nape to tug at his hair, feeling all too warm against his skin. And all too intimate even if Harry probably doesn't mean for it to be.
"No cursing in front of the lady."
Ginny takes offense at that, leaning across Draco and chucking Harry's chin none too gently. "So Hermione's a lady, and I'm not? Merlin, you two curse worse than sailors in front of me!"
Harry laughs and is about to reply when he gets cut off by someone calling him.
"Harry, do you think— Oh. Hello."
Draco looks up to see a willowy woman with dark hair, olive skin, and, quite possibly, the most alluring face most women could only dream of having. Draco blinks.
She's not quite pretty in the conventional way, he reconsiders, but with the just-so tilt of her eyes and her small mouth, well, she's something. Draco may have been bent as a spoon, but he knows to appreciate a beautiful face when he sees one, and she is beautiful, in an off-kilter way that, on most days, can be the deadliest.
Immediately, Draco hates her because he knows. Oh God, he just knows, and he really shouldn't have gone to breakfast with Ginny. He shouldn't have allowed her to pull him towards Harry's table, and he really shouldn't have chosen the seat closest to Harry because it's so obvious who's been sitting there. Fuck. He can almost feel the bile rise in his throat.
Harry uncoils from his chair, and Draco immediately feels the warmth leave his person when Harry removes his hand from where he's touching. And then Harry's moving towards the woman, placing a hand on the small of her back, a gesture so familiar that Draco finds himself having a hard time swallowing. But fuck if they didn't look good together, Harry and her. Not quite the same when he was with Ginny, but just as good, nearly engineered to fit. His throat feels tighter.
"Lorelei, this is Draco and this is Ginny. Guys, Lorelei."
He feels Ginny shift in the seat beside him, moving to shake Lorelei's hand, and in that second, he can either do the same or walk out. He didn't hear who it was that Harry was talking to on the phone that night, but he'd sensed the urgency, had known that it wasn't just anybody that Harry was talking to. He's always been sharp and has always been proud of being able to put two and two together right away, but right now, he wishes that he isn't. Wishes that he can ignore the tiny voice in his head that's reminding him that this is the person Harry left him for that night.
Because she can't be anybody else.
When he stands up to shake her hand, she smiles at him, all soft and firm at the same time, but the sweep of her eyes over his person makes the hair on his nape stand on end. God, he hates her already.
"What a beautiful sight," Harry begins. "All my favourite people under one big umbrella."
"Oh, shut up, Harry," Granger says and Harry snickers. "I don't understand how you can stand him, Lorelei, he makes the worst jokes." By her tone, it seems that unlike he and Ginny, Granger and Weasley actually know Lorelei. Actually know the person who supposedly had turned Harry. Except, they should be mad at her, at her audacity to influence the Boy Who Lived to stray from the moral path, but quite clearly, they're not.
"He makes up for it in another department, if you know what I mean."
"I did not need to hear that!" Weasley exclaims, making gagging noises. "I think you two should beat it. Go. Whoever said we need to spend quality time together?"
Harry laughs and bends down to drop a kiss on Granger's forehead before clapping Weasley at the back. "Good thing for you, we've other places to be." And then he's kissing Ginny goodbye and chucking Draco's chin just like what he used to do before.
Before the phone call. Before the fucking.
Before the kissing.
Before that stupid reassurance that you're forever a free agent, Potter.
When Draco pulls out money from his wallet a little later, he wonders how he's survived breakfast without Granger and Weasley cottoning on to his problems when he's so sure he's fucking broadcasting every negative emotion he could possibly feel. Fuck, he really should learn how to keep his emotions to himself. Too reactive when he was a kid, and years later, nothing much has changed.
Funnily enough, it's still Potter whom he's reacting to, and he thinks that history should really learn not to bloody repeat itself.
The only heterosexual who's allowed in a gay club, in Draco's opinion, is Ginny Weasley, so what the fuck is Lorelei doing here? And hogging Harry for herself for that matter.
Draco grabs a shot by the bar and downs it without a second thought. What rankles the most, however, isn't that Harry is with her, but that while everyone around them is basically trying to get off with the excuse of dancing, she and Harry are swaying to a beat that's different from the one playing — barely dancing really and more of pressing in close and being so fucking intimate in a way that's beyond sexual. He's resolved to not get jealous, but he's never really too good at controlling his emotions.
After that fateful breakfast and first meeting, nothing has seemed to change in Harry, at least, nothing from an outsider's perspective. But Draco can tell because he knows what's missing. There are no more kisses. No more come-ons. No more touches that go beyond the border of friendship. It's like they're back to what they had before they first slept together, and Harry has never shown any indication that something between them happened. No recognition whatsoever even when it's only him, Draco, and Ginny in the same room.
But he's still so ever kind, so ever sweet, and so unfailingly Harry that it breaks Draco's heart because he's being treated like how Harry treats the rest of his friends even when he's known Draco inside and out, kissed him until they both couldn't breathe, fucked him until they both couldn't stand, shared the same bed and slept so tangled with each other that one couldn't have left the bed without waking the other.
Draco downs another shot and watches with morbid fascination as Harry kisses Lorelei's closed lids, then her nose, then her cheeks, the actions so incongruent with the strobe lights, the hormone level in the room, the fucking environment in general that his breath catches. And then he's downing another shot and stalking straight towards the grinding mass of people, intent to show that he's okay.
It doesn't take long before he's swamped with offers.
And it only takes a minute before he chooses and drags both of them to the backroom. Make like a Harry, that's all there is to it.
For the first time in nearly two weeks, Draco's feeling amazingly fine. In fact, more than fine, judging by the pounding of his heart in his chest and the beat of blood in his ears that is, funnily enough, never decreasing despite pooling generously somewhere south as he gets enthusiastically sucked within an inch of his life. This feels good. Too ridiculously good in fact that he sends his gratitude to whoever first thought of blow jobs and finding out how fun they could be, and fuck all institutions for not making that guy a saint.
The man on his knees in front of Draco takes him deeper in his mouth, and Draco's back arches off the wall, coming and coming and coming and thinking that he's been a fool for the past days, moping around because Harry fucking Potter upped and left, because suddenly, Potter's becoming that kind of Boy Wonder with a girl. Well. He was the one who said that nothing needed to change, so nothing did and Harry's just being the same fucking boy who doesn't do relationships, doesn't do dates, doesn't stick to one, and doesn't owe anyone except, perhaps, Lorelei.
That's just too bad for him, he supposes, but he's had a lot of disappointments in his life and Harry won't be the last of it. He's Draco Malfoy. He can deal.
"Wanna go take this somewhere else?" the man on his knees asks.
And this is how he's chosen to do it. Fuck Potter. He can go ahead and dance all sappy-like with Lorelei, whatever — he doesn't know what he's lost.
"Hey, still up for more?" the man asks again.
Draco thinks he's missed something the guy said, but he doesn't gather his wits right away, waits until he's completely down from his high, buttons his trousers, leans down to pat the other man on his cheek, and altogether dismisses that he probably isn't answering the right question, "You've been a very good boy, mister, now toddle off and share your talent." And then he's walking away,
Make like a Harry indeed.
When Harry returned from his supposed sabbatical, he returned too changed — aloof, confident, with a predilection for the night life and the sins of the flesh. And Draco thinks that that hasn't been such a bad thing to happen, and if anything, really exciting as he himself tries it on for size and finds himself too lightheaded to worry about his troubles. Yes, the mornings are for serious work, but his evenings, he's chosen to take a leaf from Harry's book and live a life of careless abandon.
And by God if it doesn't work.
Because it does work, it does allow him to stop thinking about Harry, to convince himself that it's really just lust he felt for the Boy Who Lived, and like all things temporary, the lust would evaporate like sweat on his body when he dances and indulges.
"When I said you needed a semi-Harry, I didn't really think you'd go a step further and turn into one," Ginny muses when Draco saunters over to where she's perched on a barstool.
"Oh please, Ginevra, drama doesn't become you."
"Draco, body shots? Seriously? Has Harry stamped all over it, except you're the one who started it this time. Gryffindor, Malfoy, doesn't become you."
Astute, this one. "I didn't know he'd had it patented. So sue me, Ginevra." He bends lower and says in a louder voice, "Wrist up."
The crowd cheers as Ginny rolls her eyes but offers her wrist. It's a familiar crowd at Resurrection tonight, the game a popular one and Ginny the most welcome woman, who's so unbelievably sexy in her confidence that she makes gay men hard.
He makes a show of licking the patch of skin before shaking salt over it. He's had at least three other men lick salt off him, each nearly leaving marks, but he has yet to finish his second — that second being Ginny when he finally laves a tongue over her wrist and sucks on a pulse point. Almost a sensual dance, prompting more cheers, before he smiles winningly at the crowd, downs his tequila shot, and sucks on a lime in a way that, judging by the groans of the men, is a little too suggestively.
"Knickers getting wet, darling?" the barman asks, winking and pouring Ginny a shot.
"I'm getting there," Ginny gamely answers. "Okay, my turn. Who's up for a little fun with a straight woman, my lovingly bent cohorts?"
Draco laughs at her audacity, loving the woman more and waits for anyone to step up when a familiar voice cuts through the crowd and effectively stifles his response.
"How about you have fun with me?" And then Draco sees Harry dip his head and favours Ginny a short but thorough snog. For a brief moment, Draco wonders why he's not attached to his current female of choice, but Harry's already taking the glass of tequila from Ginny's hand, nodding at the barman when he offers another glass, and downing the golden liquid. And when he sucks on a lime, Draco conveniently forgets about Lorelei.
"That's hot, love, but a little more man-on-man action, please!" an anonymous voice calls from the crowd, drawing a loud chorus of agreements, and the fucking prick that he is, Harry offers a slow smile, grabs another from the bar, raises his glass to the crowd, and says in a voice that Draco is sure will go straight to every man's cock because by God if it didn't just shoot straight to his:
"Can I offer anyone my services?"
And just like in every man's dream, fucking perfect Potter gets a lot of takers, eager and nearly begging because who in their right minds wouldn't want the hottest guy in the room to suck on any of their body parts? Among wizards or not, Harry is a magnet, a veritable sex on legs that's supposed to be clichéd but isn't, and dangerously charming in a way that rivals his accidental gravity back in Hogwarts.
Draco sweeps his gaze over the enthusiastic patrons and lands on Ginny, and he wonders why she's suddenly looking worried because she never looks worried for Harry's person when on a night out — that's reserved for breakfast. But when his gaze alights on Harry, he understands, startlingly clearly: Golden Boy has set his eyes on him, grinning that shit-eating grin that shouldn't have a place on his mouth because he's already supposedly spoken for. Because he's chosen to stick to one woman and shouldn't even be playing the game with any of the men at Resurrection.
And then Harry's stalking forward, towards him, green eyes so bright and standing out like beacons for fucking lost souls like Draco. He feels his mouth go dry.
"Hello, B.B. Fancy seeing you here."
And the cliché, horrible as it is, is like a good slide of Firewhiskey, smooth and warm down his throat, caressing until he can feel it causing his trousers to tighten at the crotch, and, God, it must have been the voice. But before he can reply, Harry's already tugging at the collar of his button-down and licking a stripe at the junction connecting neck and shoulder. "Salty enough," he hears Harry whisper before all other sounds blend into one cacophonous racket in his ears as Harry closes his mouth over the patch of skin and nips. Licks and sucks. Moves until he's kissing the soft skin near Draco's ear, and Draco forgets to breathe.
Harry moves impossibly closer, trapping Draco between himself and the bar, and Draco can barely register his surroundings. So fucking intoxicating, and he can't remember why he's been avoiding Harry because who the fuck wants to avoid something as good as this? As good as being on the receiving end of Harry's undivided attention?
When he opens his eyes — he doesn't even remember closing them — Harry's right there in front of him, so very close, and he feels something rough touch his chin and his lower lip before Harry flicks his tongue over them, dips it in his mouth to run it teasingly quickly over the edge of his front teeth. The slightly tingly feeling on his lip tells him that it must've been the salt.
Then again, it must've been just Harry's tongue leaving a small trail of magic.
Draco mourns the loss of the hard body pressed against him when Harry completely moves away and tosses back his tequila, sucks on a wedge of lime, and bows to the cheering crowd. In the periphery of his vision, he notices Ginny looking at him with an unreadable expression, before her eyes flick towards the crowd in front of Harry. He follows her line of sight and sees the familiar figure of Lorelei emerge, beckoning Harry and smiling when Harry steps towards her and takes her hand.
Draco feels the urge to wipe at his mouth with his sleeves to get the taste of Harry off. And if it would actually make a difference or send some kind of signal to the fucking brunette, he might have had.
"Come on, dance with me," he hears Ginny whisper, feeling her lithe body conform to his side, blocking him from the people who have been recharged by the sensual display and are now heavy into the body shots. Draco thinks someone later on will be unlucky enough to have salt spread over his cock and lucky enough to be enthusiastically swallowed by another. How Harry can inspire at the same time both benevolent acts bordering on saintly and hedonistic indulgences bordering on sinful, he'll never know.
He spies Harry swaying with Lorelei from the corner of his eye, and he takes Ginny by the waist and swears he won't look in that direction for the rest of the night.
Friday nights at Resurrection are the most out-of-control evenings in a week, almost as though everyone just has to celebrate the last day of work by being soused, stoned, and oversexed, and not entirely in that order. And so Draco stays even when Ginny has already begged off because he loves the adrenaline he gets from the place, never minding that somewhere in the throng of horny bodies gyrating on the dance floor are two people he really doesn't care seeing together.
Well. He doesn't need Ginny to stand between him and his nightmare. He's old enough to stand on his own. Besides, there are a million fit queers around and someone's bound to catch his attention.
The music selection is particularly good tonight, and he dances with abandon, feeling eyes on him and preening from the high of being watched and admired. It doesn't take long before someone approaches him, and when he turns to the man, he sees a good-looking brunette who has eyes so dark that they nearly swallow him in their intensity. His smile is so dangerous and exciting that when he offers a packet of E, Draco eagerly accepts and thinks that the night has never gone so well.
Draco wakes up to a very familiar ceiling and in a much more familiar bed, and even when the early rays of sun are burning his retinas, he forces himself to take stock of his surroundings because he just knows he shouldn't be here. He moves to sit up and alarm, swift and sure, sweeps through him when he feels the sheets slide down his torso. His very naked torso that doesn't have any business being naked in this place. At least, not anymore.
The last time he woke up in this same bed, he was left in the cold on his own, and he doesn't think he'd like to fathom the why and wherefore he's here on the same bed again, just as naked and feeling just as vulnerable. It's too fucked up to contemplate without losing all his marbles.
He hears the tail-end of a conversation somewhere in the living room, and he's freaked that he might find Harry in there with Lorelei. Surely, the Fates can't be that cruel, can they? He hurriedly grabs the robe he spies at the foot of the bed and creeps towards the steps leading up to the rest of the flat, wishing he's being as stealthy as he feels because there's no spying on the Boy Who Lived, not with all those war-honed reflexes and that bloody never-failing intuition.
When he glimpses the living room, he releases a breath he hasn't known he was holding upon seeing Harry alone. He's pacing the length of the sheepskin rug, his mobile phone being limply twirled in dextrous fingers, and a spliff cradled forgotten between two fingers of his other hand. It always amazes Draco how beautiful Harry is to look at: all wiry strength and lightly bronzed skin stretched over long bones and sleek muscles — a truly enviable seeker's build. And if he squints his eyes enough, he thinks he can even see the sunlight's particles grazing his skin, teasing the hairs, and glittering like fairy dust around his person.
Or maybe that's just him letting his inner poet come out, which doesn't have business coming out when he's pissed at Potter. Stupid Potter — where has that scrawny midget from their school days gone? That ugly duckling was easier to deal with.
Draco follows the line of Harry's spine and he reaches the band of Harry's jeans before he realizes that he's looking at a barely dressed Harry Potter. He immediately averts his gaze northward, only to notice Harry's hair, tousled like fingers have been carded through it the entire night. Oh shit. They can't have done what he thinks they've done, can they? It probably would've been very hot if he could remember but...no. No.
He pauses to take mental stock of his own person, and he doesn't know whether to feel relieved or insulted that he can't feel the familiar sting in his arse.
He must've made some kind of noise then because Harry's turning towards him, and of course, the first thing that Draco's eyes focus on is the open fly of Harry's jeans and the outline of something more sinful.
"You're awake."
Draco's curious gaze snaps towards Harry's face, and he hopes he doesn't look guilty. "Yes," he answers, sounding dumb in his own ears.
"Breakfast?"
Draco nearly replies affirmatively before he remembers that the only thing edible in Harry's is his limitless supply of orange juice. Or the occasional box of pastries from Hermione...and why the hell are they having this insane conversation anyway?
"I think I still have an unopened box of those wheat flakes you like so much, which I don't understand because they taste like cardboard," Harry continues absently, padding towards the cupboards after having thrown his mobile on the couch and discarding his unfinished spliff in a nearby ashtray. For a moment, Draco fights the urge to say something about that because that's a waste of perfectly good pot, and Draco's really all for not wasting an excellent stash.
He keeps his mouth shut and watches Harry's progress instead, vaguely pleased that Harry has kept something of his, and at the same time a little sad that that's all his presence will be in this loft.
There's something in the way that the new Harry moves that has always captivated Draco — agitated yet purposive when he can't figure something out, predatory when he does figure it out, liquid sex when he's on the pull, and sweepingly lazy when in his own home. The loping grace of someone who has finally come to terms with himself, comfortable in his own skin after years of seemingly unending puberty. Sometimes, he misses that awkward gait of the schoolboy Harry, but even then he could see a kind of measure in his steps, as though he was always aware of where he was and treading as though someone was out to get him all the time, which wasn't really all that far from the truth, but quite irrelevant in making a point in Draco's head.
"Harry," he finally calls when the silence grates on his nerves.
"Mm?"
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to solve the mystery of the universe, I guess," Harry answers glibly. "Come, sit down."
"Harry," Draco repeats a little warningly.
Harry stops in his tracks and faces Draco, tucking his hands in his back pockets and pushing his jeans dangerously lower with the motion. He cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like he's being prevented by Draco from going about his very important business of making breakfast. "What?"
Draco barely tamps his annoyance. "What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you to say your piece so I could start on breakfast," he replies, and Draco has the mad urge to roll his eyes. It's not like Harry eats breakfast. Gone are the days when Harry indulged in Hogwarts' feast. These days, when Harry says breakfast, it generally means a glass of orange juice or a round of sex or two. And clearly, there will be no sex between them in the very near future.
"Harry—" Draco cuts himself off. "Never mind. I'm out of here." There are so many unanswered questions, least of which is what he's doing in Harry's loft, but his head has started to ache, he's beginning to feel the fatigue that has built up in the last few days, and he's really not in the mood for Harry's mind games.
Just when he returns to the bedroom to look for his clothes, he hears Harry approaching him, speaking in that matter-of-fact voice he hates.
"Despite everything, I've never thought you were stupid, Malfoy. Not until today."
Draco whirls around quickly, his ego stinging, and he nearly overbalances, surprised that Harry has gotten so close. "What—"
"You'd think I'd gotten through your thick head. You'd think you'd learned to listen to me by now. Tell me, what were you doing last night?"
Nothing could've forced Draco to answer that because he doesn't think he owes Harry any kind of explanation, except he can't tell him not because he doesn't want to, but because he can't remember. And that's very alarming.
"Can't remember, can you?"
"Of course, I can!" A reflex.
Harry laughs, mocking, and Draco involuntarily takes a step back. "Oh really?" Draco can only glare. "Here's what happened, Draco: you took drugs from someone you didn't know. You willingly ingested substance from someone who isn't me when I've specifically told you never to trust anybody else but me when it comes to that!"
Harry's gotten so close and Draco nearly swoons at the intent leeching off him. There were times when he and Harry would spend the day alternating between smoking spliffs and fucking like bunnies until his arse was so sore and Harry was so sure that his cock was going to chafe if they didn't stop; and Draco can't help remembering, not when he can smell the intoxicating scent of ganja that lingers enticingly on Harry's skin.
"What the fuck do you care? It's my life!" Draco answers defensively in an effort to stave off more memories. He can't afford to lose his composure, not now, not when it's all he can do not to reach out and touch Harry.
And just like that, he stops Harry effectively.
Harry's face has suddenly lost its angry lines, has become more offensive in its indifference. He smiles then, equally gorgeous and sickening, stepping backwards before shrugging. "You're absolutely right. You're life." He turns to go back to the kitchen. "But stay, though, and have breakfast. After all, it must be tiring trying to be the subject of an eventual gang-bang."
"What?"
"Oh don't worry. You did brilliantly. Four, five men?"
Draco rushes towards Harry, disbelieving and even more offended at how he decided to break the news to Draco.
"I was very impressed, given how high you were last night," Harry continues lightly even when Draco grabs him roughly by the arm to spin him around.
"What are you talking about?" he barely manages to keep the shaking out his voice. It's all so very surreal, what Harry's telling him, but the thing about Harry is that when he gets like this, when he's deliberately hurting someone just to get his point across, he never lies. He finds a way to make the truth just absolutely hurt.
Harry leans forward and mouths Draco's jaw, his hands making short work of the ties of the robe. Then Draco's feeling the burn of Harry's hand on his skin and fuck if that doesn't make him lose his train of thought. When a finger traces the crevice of his arse, he shudders and feels himself getting harder, and Harry's still placing open-mouthed kisses along his neck.
"Shame that the party was broken up before the good things started. But you wound me, Malfoy."
Harry's jeans are abrading his cock, but the rough denim only serves to excite Draco more. He can't breathe, can't think, not when he can feel an answering hardness against his hip, not when Harry's fingers are pressing so intimately against his arsehole.
"Harry..." he means to stop Harry, but the name rolls off his tongue in a breathy moan that should mortify him if he weren't feeling so hot, so consumed by what he hasn't had in a long time. He should be ashamed of himself, but Harry has just situated a thigh between his legs and all the blood comes rushing down his groin, leaving him lightheaded and gripping Harry's arms tightly to keep him steady on his feet.
"You wound me, Malfoy." And he can't understand why Harry's still talking — how Harry can still talk when Draco's all but humping his thigh. "I could've done it myself, you know. Could've given you what you wanted. A rough fuck? You needn't spread your legs for five other blokes all at the same time."
And just like that, Harry stops him effectively.
...like a whore, is what's left unsaid.
Even when Harry's still doing that delicious thing with his fingers, even when Draco's still pressed flush against a warm solid chest, even when Harry's day-old stubble is scraping his cheek in that awfully familiar way, Draco feels like he's been doused with cold water, unforgiving in its pursuit of chasing away every good feeling in his bones.
He stumbles away from Harry, looking aghast, horrified. Unbelievably offended at the tone, and he finds his hand itching to hit Harry. To hurt him physically because he's tried every word before and nothing seems to break the fucking Boy Who Lived anymore. Sticks and stones and all that, he'd told Draco once.
"Fuck you, Potter." Fuck you because if anything, it's Harry who's the whore. It's Harry who sleeps around. It's Harry who doesn't have the right to censure him, to judge him because of a single mistake that doesn't even compare to his mistakes back when they were kids.
But Harry's vindictive. So fucking vindictive beneath his Gryffindor cloak. Always a curse for a curse, a Sectumsempra for a Crucio. And the sad thing is that he's always had good aim, "Oh sweetheart, we both know it's me who does the fucking."
This time, Draco hits him, a resounding slap across the face that reverberates in the room and has Harry's head canting to the side with the force of it. And it should feel satisfying, it should feel good to get back at Harry fucking Potter, but Harry's just standing there, unresponsive even when Draco's handprint blooms red and angry on his cheek.
He takes a deep breath to try to calm down, then he ties his robe, forgetting to ask for his clothes, and hurries towards the metal doors, eager to get away, to get the hell away from Harry.
To get away before Harry sees how he's managed the impossible — how he's managed to fucking break Draco's heart.
And that's when he realizes exactly what the problem was. The problem with fraternizing with Harry Potter is that he has this kind of magic that fucks people over: one minute you're only liking Harry, and then feeling something unaccountably more stupid for him the next. It starts out as a titchy, nagging feeling, and then it grows and grows and grows until it's too big to handle.
And it's so true for him because he has honestly, completely, irrevocably fallen in love with the fucking bastard. Fallen in love long before he could identify the emotion. So, truly, he's fucked, inside and out, because no one could make him hurt this much with so little words if he weren't in love with that person.
And now that he thinks about it, he's accepted their arrangement so easily because he thought it'd be different. That because he feels something, he just needs the physical relationship to nudge Harry into the path Draco wishes he'd take. That by getting that kind of close to Harry, the Boy Who Lived would just so miraculously fall in love with Draco, too.
Because he's different. He's different from the countless tricks and twinks that shared Harry's bed. They weren't strangers the first time they slept together, Harry and he. They were always reactive to one another. They had something and he was different.
He thought he was different. Believed it even.
You needn't whore yourself out...
But, apparently, he isn't. He's just one of the countless faces who spread their fucking legs for Harry. And the only difference was that he was the one who got repeatedly fucked. And even that, it turns out, wasn't enough to set him completely apart.
Before he slams the doors and Disapparates, he turns back and delivers a cheap parting shot, desperate to hurt Harry, to get past the barrier and hit Harry where it fucking hurts, "How proud your mother would be to see you now, Potter."
He sees Harry's shoulder heave in reaction and knows he's done it.
He's exacted his pound of flesh, and he's never felt worse.
The problem with living in a city and constantly being surrounded by other people who live in the same city is that he doesn't get any peace and quiet when he actually needs to be alone. That vibe that he first noticed upon seeing a Muggle show over at Harry's place once seems to be more than a TV creation and is actually a viable undercurrent that lights up city life. It's exciting despite nearly being completely Muggle, but in times when Draco wants be left the fuck alone, the vibe can be such a curse. Because right now, Ginny's in his flat, rummaging through his wardrobe, and nagging at him to get his arse going because seriously, doll face, you need to get out and I'm fucking inviting you to Resurrection myself.
If that isn't commitment, then Draco doesn't know what is. Ginny is a willing tag-along in Draco's trips to notorious gay clubs, but has never been one to initiate an invite herself until now. And Draco, far be it from him to be an ungrateful sod to the force that is Ginny, finds himself agreeing, on the condition that they go somewhere else. Resurrection, as it turns out, isn't a place high on his list of favourite places when it almost always houses Harry Potter and, nowadays, Lore-fucking-lie. And yes, he's bloody bitter about it all. Screw people who say that he shouldn't let someone who's that much of an arsehole affect him because what do they know anyway? He doesn't want to see Harry and that is that.
And it doesn't take too long before Draco finds that he needn't put too much effort in avoiding Harry because those two times he'd allowed himself to step foot into Resurrection, Harry hadn't been there, nor had Lorelei. Even in the few times Ginny had managed to drag him to breakfast with Granger and Weasley, Harry and Lorelei had been absent. But really, why should that surprise him? The fucking Gryffindor ups and leaves whenever he pleases, so why should this time be any different?
It shouldn't be. And it fucking isn't, he tells himself.
On the day that he decides to get everything Harry-related out of his life, he goes to Harry's loft, intent on retrieving even the little things he's left in that place. He's failed to leave an impression on the former Gryffindor, so he refuses to leave anything of his in any place of Harry's. Childish, he knows, but he needs something to completely break ties without throwing away the most important connection he has with Harry: Ginny.
Lovely Ginevra Weasley who took his offer of friendship to heart and has showed him since what friends are really made of. If he weren't so bent, he'd really pursue Ginny the soonest she's in the market. And that's saying a lot about how long he's come from his childhood bigotry. He's no longer the stupid Draco Malfoy who mouthed off words straight from his father's bible. He's changed, he'd like to think, and for that, he knows for sure that he deserves more than what Harry was giving him. He doesn't need leftover affections, especially from a self-destructive son of a bitch named Harry Potter.
As he stands in front of the steel doors of Harry's loft, he hates himself for feeling nostalgic, remembering every fucking detail of his visits because at first they were something extremely novel to him and then because he let himself be fucked, in more ways than one, afterwards. Shit, the memories taste bitter on his tongue, and he really shouldn't be reminiscing. He's always been a sentimental fool, too governed by his emotions to be an effectual Death Eater then, and he knows that any good memory he has of Harry will be nurtured until he can fool himself again into believing that the other wizard would fall in love with him just because he himself is already in love. A vicious cycle that has run more than enough times.
Stupid. Fucking stupid and he can't afford the high price tag of recollection anymore.
Fishing the familiar weight of the key from his pockets, he neglects to think why he hasn't returned it or why Harry hasn't asked for it to be returned. Not that he needs the key, it seems, because the doors are actually open, the light from the inside spilling from the crack to form a narrow triangle on the floor. He moves forward and his hands are already pulling the doors apart before he realizes that Lorelei could've been inside and he might be witness to acts that he has no wish to ever see. Heterosexual sex is still heterosexual sex and something he doesn't quite relish being a witness of. Even only hearing Ginny mention her escapades has had a profound and highly negative effect on his ability suppress his gag reflex.
The voice that washes over him, thankfully, isn't Lorelei's, but he doesn't think it's any better when he spies inside and sees Ginny carding her fingers through unruly black hair while Harry, sitting on the edge of the pristine sofa Draco'd been bent over more times than he can count, is clinging to her like his life depends on it.
They don't seem to have noticed him while he stands there, transfixed, and not just a little bit confused by the scene.
"Ginny, I want... It's— fuck. It's always been you, always been you..." he hears Harry say. "I love you. I love you. Always. Always, Gin."
Draco doesn't understand and gets even more confused when Harry tugs Ginny and she falls easily into him, straddling him and raining kisses on his face — his forehead, his eyes, nose, the corner of his mouth, his lips. And again. And again until Harry curls a possessive hand around her nape and kisses her full on the mouth and pulling her impossibly closer and closer still and Draco can't breathe. He's choking on nothing and he feels lightheaded, as though he's in a dream so surreal that he's sure he's dreaming. Only, he's not. He's awake. Fucking awake but the nightmare continuous to play before his eyes.
Ginny. His beautiful Ginny. His lovely Ginevra Weasley who he has entrusted with his friendship. His life-saver who has just gone behind his back and the man who he's so desperately in love with are so successfully rending his already broken heart.
Draco feels like falling, but he's still rooted to the spot until a groan from Harry goads his feet into moving, into backing away, into turning his back and walking away. Run away.
As he exits the building, he's horrified to feel his cheeks wet and the sob that he lets out is a bitter laugh at the thought that he and Lorelei are probably not so different at all — they've both been blindsided by supposedly honourable Gryffindors.
It's been seven days since that afternoon at Harry's apartment, and not once has he seen Ginny since, when before they only went so long without seeing each other when one of them was out of the country. He's rebuffed every invitation and sent back every owl from her, concentrating instead on his work, just like those days after Harry threw in his face the whorish label he hadn't the need to vocalize for Draco to understand. Stupid fucking Gryffindors; he really shouldn't have gone and made himself comfortable in their presence. Hell, he shouldn't have gone and slept with the best personification of Gryffindor itself. But he did, and now look where that has left him.
He sighs and proceeds to clean up his desk. It won't do to be late to his first official date since his breakup with Richard and the mess with Harry. He doesn't care if others think he should heal before he ventures into a new relationship because what do they fucking know anyway? He's not a woman and there's no healing what shouldn't have been broken in the first place.
The restaurant is a classy one, far different from the clubs and pubs where he and Harry spent most of their time in, and he takes this as a good thing. It's like being back to who he was before, when he dined and wined with wizards the likes of Richard, minus, possibly, the cheating aspect. For a moment, he thinks at least Harry didn't cheat on him, but how could someone cheat on him anyway when, to begin with, they weren't exclusive? Richard, Harry, they're both alike — they both broke his heart and he's done with them.
The waiter asks for his reservation and he's shown to a table after he gives his date's name. He smiles at the waiter as he leaves them be, and he takes in the man in front of him who has just gotten up.
"Hello, Draco."
"Hi, Cal," Draco smiles a genuine smile that he hasn't smiled in quite a while. Cal is very good-looking with a gaze so intense that Draco feels it sizzling on his skin.
Cal Harper is a wizard whose bloodline goes back to the Great Depression — an American Wizarding family who made a killing out of a barely legal manipulation of the Muggle economy that touched even the breadlines of the cities. Notorious in every transaction that deals with money, according to genealogy books, and a system that nearly resembles the Muggle mafia if only for their tight familial operations. But it's no secret in their circles that Cal has long since dropped out of the New York Harpers, only keeping the name for convenience's sake.
Cal moved to Europe when he was seventeen and ambitious. He carefully built his empire in real estate through proper connections and a trust fund he was smart enough to keep despite his falling out with his family. He stayed out of Britain during the war and relocated his business back to England only after the initial months of Harry's victory. A very fortuitous move as property problems were at an all time high and Cal had been skilled enough to turn it to his advantage. And because money speaks, he's earned the respect of his family and seems to be getting no flack from breaking off with them.
"Did you have any trouble finding the place?"
Despite spending his formative years in the land of the free, Cal's smooth baritone is anything but the lazy orthoepy of an American. Not quite English either, but completely acceptable in the high society of the British Wizarding folk. Modulated. Rich. Like fucking sex, and isn't that just what the healer ordered.
"No, no trouble at all."
Cal was Draco's estate agent when he sold a few Malfoy properties across the country to fund the excessive war reparations exacted from them, and while he hadn't been interested in Cal back then — and neither was Cal interested in the lost child that was Draco at eighteen — Draco can't quite say the same thing when they met again at a company event. Fortunately enough, Cal had seemed to be interested as well.
"More champagne, gentlemen?"
Draco looks up at their server in assent, but finds that Cal's attention hasn't wavered at all.
"Sir?" the waiter prompts Cal.
Cal tips his head to the side, eyes moving downwards when Draco licks his lower lip, not once looking at the waiter. "I'm good."
They say men think about sex every twenty-eight seconds. Of course, that's straight men. With gay men, it's every nine, but as Draco sits down and gets pinned by Cal's intense, dark gaze, he thinks it's every bloody second and it's all he can do to keep from spontaneously coming just by receiving such intense attention. Who needs a fucking Harry when he can have a Cal who's tall, dark, handsome, and has been the youngest wizard to make his first million outside the family?
Cal Harper is just the right kind of distraction he needs and he's right up Draco's alley.
Draco wakes up cocooned in warmth, both by the downy quilt covering him and the body spooned behind him, and for a moment, he sleepily wonders if it's a good thing or not. He usually doesn't fall into bed with anyone on a first date — he refuses to think about Harry at all because dating hadn't even been a concept in that...whatever that was — but last night with Cal was something else all together.
The American-borne realtor is gorgeous and charismatic as all hell that he could probably sell Draco soap at the price of gold and he wouldn't bat an eyelash. He was attentive, took only decent sips of champagne, and charmed Draco with his wit and easy humour. It was a date that Draco hadn't had in a long time, and the best part was that he felt like himself again.
When Draco moves to face the sleeping man behind him, he realizes that while his torso is so obviously naked, his nether regions are actually quite decent. But just to be sure, he lifts the blanket to check and there staring at his face are his grey boxer briefs, tidy and snug around his hips.
He feels more than hears the laughter reverberating in the supposedly sleeping man's chest, and he's mortified to actually feel the heat creeping up his cheeks. He's twenty-seven for heaven's sake, and if all those deviant things he did with Harry didn't cause him to blush, there's no reason to redden like a fucking virgin over something so mundane like checking out his own underwear.
"Nothing happened, Draco," Cal rasps, voice sleep-scratchy and inexplicably sexy for someone who just woke up.
When Cal shifts, Draco feels a prominent erection against his hip and wonders why he shouldn't just give in. Why should Harry be the only one allowed to break the rules? He fell in bed with Harry despite their non-relationship, but Cal promises to be of a different calibre, so why shouldn't he indulge? Besides, the man went to the trouble of setting up the best date he's had in years.
Deciding to keep Harry from being an exemption in his life, Draco fully turns towards the other man and cants his hips forward, feeling the glorious erection before him slide against his clothed one. "Then let's make things happen, why don't we?" He gives a shallow thrust, loving the groan that slips out of Cal's mouth — the same mouth he's currently whispering against. "I'd like a good seeing-to in the morning, and I'm of the impression that Cal Harper can make me come three ways from Sunday and still make me ache for more."
Cal nips at Draco's lower lip. "You have a dirty mouth on you, Draco."
Draco forces himself to forget a certain dirty mouth that has mapped his entire body and instead gives Cal a kiss so raw, it borders on sin. "Stop talking. Start sucking," he says because it can't get any better than Cal, can it?
xxx