New fic!
Hello! This is my first post to this particular community. :) This is just a short (for me, at least!) little AU fic, which is also a first for me. Let me know what you thought! :)
Title: Beautiful Stranger
Author: SilentAuror
Pairing: HP/DM
Genre/Rating: AU, smut; NC-17
Length: 3,615 words
Summary: Many, many plot cliches, all rolled into smut-form. :) Features leather-clad Draco, slightly-drunk and inexperienced Harry, and all manner of good times. Read on, if ye dare!
Disclaimer: As per, well, always, I still don't own these boys, damn it!
Beautiful Stranger
Harry stared into his closet for the tenth straight minute, fingers thrust roughly into his hair, and tried in vain to decide what to wear. A club, Hermione had said. Just a club. That hadn't helped. Harry never went to clubs. When he did go out, it was usually with Ron, sometimes Dean, Seamus, Neville, or the twins, and it was the Leaky Cauldron. That was familiar territory. But since they'd all graduated six months ago, Hermione had broken out of her standard behavioural pattern, fairly significantly, engagement to Ron, forsooth. She and Ginny had taken to going out, quite frequently. Sometimes Ron went with them, but not usually. Ron, after the first few tries, had attempted to get Harry to come, too, but Harry had stoically refused time and again.
Tonight, however, Hermione had won out. It was her birthday, and she had gotten quite insistent. The Ministry job was not exactly taxing, and Harry couldn't even protest a heavy workload to get out of it. So, here he was, one hand on his still-too-skinny hip, one in his hair, trying to work out what to wear. It was no good. Harry turned abruptly, left his messy bedroom and Floo-called Ron.
"What am I supposed to wear to this place?" he asked irritably.
Ron just grinned. "Wear whatever, honestly."
"Thought Hermione said there was a dress code," Harry said suspiciously.
"What? Is there? Oh. Hmm," Ron said, apparently somewhat taken-aback by this bit of information. "Well, in that case, no trainers. You'll have to wear nice-ish shoes. And no jeans, either, mate, unless they're designer, or something. You know." He rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Ah," Harry said, feeling more ill-at-ease than ever. "Khakhis?" he ventured.
"Sounds great," Ron said immediately, pleased that they'd come to a solution. "I dunno. Wear black or something on top. Then at least you'll blend into the shadows or whatever if it's the wrong thing."
"Thanks, mate," Harry said flatly. "That's great."
"No problem. See you at nine in the foyer here, eh?"
"Yeah, sure."
* * *
Which was how Harry found himself going, for the first time in his life, to a club. The music was dizzyingly loud, and despite Ginny's assurances that it was apparently really good, Harry was only convinced of one thing: that loud music and crowd scenes brought out the worst in Ginny. If she'd been a muggle, he thought sourly, she'd have been a cheerleader in high school. She and Hermione were on the dance floor, with a reluctant Ron in the near vicinity, attempting to dance (if that's what it was) with a butterbeer in one hand. Harry was sitting alone at their table (he'd refused to dance), nursing a double shot of firewhiskey, something he'd taken a liking to sometime during seventh year.
Hogwarts already felt a long time away.
Through the heavy crowd, a flash of shining, blond hair caught Harry's eye, and he focused on it in a vague sort of manner. It belonged, he discovered, to a bloke. A youngish one. About his age, actually. Harry narrowed his eyes and focused with a little more purpose. Nearly exactly his age. Nervously, Harry looked back at his friends. They were all deeply involved with the intricacies of the dance floor (or rather, introducing Ron to the general principles involved with said locality), and had not noticed Harry's slip. He had not yet told them that he was fairly sure that he preferred blokes. His disastrous experimentation with Cho during fifth year had led him to wonder. Not that he'd tried anything. Ron, Dean and Seamus were all straight as they came, and if Neville wasn't, then Harry didn't need to know about it. He'd had no idea whether or not any of the other boys in their year were gay or not, but he was too terrified to ask anyone. That was all he needed, for the wizarding world to discover that their precious Boy-Who-Lived was queer, in addition to everything else.
The blond moved into sight again; again, Harry's eye was caught. That hair had to have been charmed, or something. There was no way any normal bloke had hair that smooth and shiny and thoroughly touchable-looking. Oh, fuck. He had not just thought that. Harry swallowed. Yes, he had. Just because he hadn't tried anything didn't mean that he didn't want to. But the question was, who? And how? He didn't want anyone knowing, and the Boy-Who-Lived doesn't just stroll into gay bars and start looking to be picked up. Especially not in the wizarding world. Not that Harry even knew if such a thing existed.
Then it happened. The blond turned and looked straight into Harry's eye. A cool, piercing stare. Unmistakeably directed at him. Harry swallowed again, and, after a minute, looked quickly away, heart thumping loudly. He took another sip of his firewhiskey, welcoming the way it burned when he swallowed too much of it at once. The song changed, barely perceptibly, and Harry relaxed after a few minutes had passed.
"Care to dance?"
The voice in Harry's ear was low and sultry, and he jumped about a foot. Furious with himself, he forced himself to calm down, and turned to faced the speaker. It was the blond. He knew it was, before even seeing him. "I - uh, I don't dance," he said quickly.
The blond's eyes were cool and grey, and regarded him with what could only be termed amusement. "Never?"
"Never," Harry vowed firmly. "This is only my first time in a club, actually," he said, not sure why he was admitting it.
The amusement became more pronounced. "Mind if I sit down, then?" the blond asked.
For some reason, Harry glanced down. Fucking hells. The other was wearing leather pants. Black leather pants, that clung to his every curve like a glove. Harry jerked his eyes up, and looked over at his friends again. So far, so good, but - "Uh, that might not be the best idea," he hedged.
The blond followed the direction of Harry's look. "I see," he said, comprehendingly. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Your friends don't know yet, I presume."
"Know what?" Harry asked, heat rising into his cheeks.
A knowing look, with just a touch of smirk. "What you and I both know already," the blond said simply. "Fine, then. Play it however you like. I'll be here." He leaned in again and, lips brushing Harry's ear, murmured, "My name is Draco, by the way."
He slipped off, back into the melee on the dance floor. Harry felt like his face was burning, and his ear was most definitely tingling, to say nothing of - he noticed then that his hand was gripping his firewhiskey glass rather tightly, and made himself relax the death grip.
A few minutes later, Hermione came over. "How's it going?" she called, over the noise of the club.
"Fine," Harry said loudly, trying to be heard - this song was particularly loud. He found himself looking at the blond boy again, just tracking his movements and location. Hermione followed his gaze.
"Did I see you talking to him before?" she asked, calling over the music, but moving a little closer to Harry.
"Who?" Harry feigned ignorance.
"That hot blond guy," Hermione said, nodding with her chin.
"Maybe, just for a minute," Harry said, shrugging. "Why?"
"He's trouble, Harry, stay away from him."
"Wh - what do you mean?" Harry stammered.
The song ended, leaving an uncomfortably wide bit of silence, although in reality, it was probably only a few seconds until the next one started. Hermione gave Harry a gentle smile and patted him on the arm. "I mean several things," she said. "First, don't panic - but I've suspected that - well, let's just say that I think you'd consider him more your type than, say, Ginny - since about sixth year. Secondly, I really don't care, and if you're happy, then I'm happy. Thirdly, that guy is definitely gay; I've heard of him before, plus I've seen him here before, and he's bad news."
"Why?" Harry asked, still flaming in the face from Hermione's matter-of-fact statement about knowing, damn her, how did she always know?! "Is he a wizard?"
"Yes, but he went to Durmstrang," Hermione said, seemingly unconcerned with Harry's discomfort. "His father is Lucius Malfoy - you know, the former Death Eater? He's super-rich and rather influential. If you hadn't destroyed Voldemort back in fourth year, who knows what would have happened? Malfoy Senior was supposed to have been Voldemort's right hand man."
"And... that's his son," Harry said, confirming, staring at the blond.
"Right. Remember, he went to Durmstrang, so he's probably up to his eyebrows in Dark Arts - he probably even has the Dark Mark tattooed on his arm just for fun, even though Voldemort's dead." Hermione rolled his eyes. "Anyway, just some friendly advice. I'm going back out there - Ron's starting to embarrass Ginny, I can tell. Do you want to come?"
Harry shook his head quickly. "No!"
Another arm pat. "Fine. Maybe next time," Hermione said, as though consoling him. And then she was gone, leaving Harry to brood by himself again.
"Excuse me?" A comely, young waitress stopped by the table. Harry looked up. "Sorry to bother, but I was asked to bring you this." She removed another glass of firewhiskey from the tray and replaced Harry's emtpy, fingerprint-grubbed one.
"What?" Harry was confused.
She gave him a conspiratorial wink. "It's from the blond gentlemen, over there." She, too, nodded at the blond with her head, then took her leave - to Harry's immense relief.
The blond was dancing with a tall, dark-haired girl. He was tall, Harry noticed, and very slender. Not skinny, exactly, just slim and fit. Muscles slid subtly beneath well-tailored clothes; leather pants clinging to narrow hips. Harry let himself stare. This was grist for imagination, if nothing else. The blond was dancing fairly intimately with the dark-haired girl, though it seemed more choreography and less chemistry, at least to Harry's untrained eye. Then the blond dropped, and slid up the girl's thigh, like it were a pole. And Harry was gripping his glass again, frozen an inch from his slightly-parted lips. The blond turned his head and looked straight into Harry's eyes again, and he knew he'd been caught staring.
Well, so what if he knows - he's gay, too! Harry allowed his gaze to be held this time, and raised his glass slightly, with a small smile, and took another sip.
For a split second, the blond returned a dazzlingly brilliant smile, and then turned his back on Harry again, still outwardly focused on his dancing partner. And Harry was hard, hard in his loose khakhis, which most certainly wouldn't hide the fact.
For the rest of the song, Harry and the blond kept exchanging these subtle looks. There was no harm in it, Harry kept arguing with himself. Nothing would come of it. It was just harmless flirtation. It wasn’t even really that, when it came right down to it - it was just harmless looking.
Or so he told himself, at least until the blond made his way over to Harry's corner table again, slowly, but deliberately. Harry's heartbeat increased with every step the other took. The blond was in front of him. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were at the bar, backs to Harry, ordering a round of drinks, apparently. Harry was torn being furious with them for abandoning him like this, and ridiculously relieved. He shook his head. After four shots of firewhiskey, his courage was somewhat enflamed, not to mention other things.
"So," the blond said, voice slightly husky, "reconsidered, at all?"
Harry studied him for a second, then dragged his eyes off the blond's chest and back to his face - which was pretty much just as good, really. He was extraordinarily attractive, with finely-cut, almost delicate features, coupled with those cool, grey eyes and expression that seemed perpetually caught between haughtiness and amusement. "I still don't dance," Harry said. He pushed out the chair across from him with his foot. "But you can sit down, if you like."
The blond smiled, looked at the chair, then sat on it, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. Harry tried not to stare at those leather-clad legs, with moderate success. "What's your name?" the blond asked.
"Harry," Harry said. "What's yours again?" He hadn't forgotten. But it seemed to sound better if it had, he decided.
"Draco," the blond said, and held out a hand.
Harry shook it. Somehow, even this seemed a rather seductive move on the blond's part, and Harry pulled away too quickly, palm burning. He suddenly became aware that he was being stared at. "What?"
Another faintly-amused smile. "I was just thinking that it's a shame you're such a chicken-shit," the blond said smoothly. "Because you're really quite incredible, you know."
Harry was somehow flattered and insulted at once, and didn't know how to react. He settled for blushing. Or was he just angry? He couldn't decide. "I'm... uh, not really... out," he said, after a pause.
"Obviously." The blond smirked. "Who says you have to be out?"
Harry couldn't think of a good answer for that. "For... what?"
The smile grew. "I'd really rather demonstrate," he purred.
Gods. The bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach, even as desire began to eat him from within. "Uh..."
"I know you're attracted to me." This was delivered with the simplicity of a fact perfectly well-known; there was no boastfulness here. Just a knowing awareness.
Harry couldn't lie. "Well. Maybe a bit," he said.
A scornful smile. "It's alright," the blond said. "You can admit it. I'm attracted to you, too. Very much so, in fact." He turned and located Harry's friends. "They're all looking the other way," he said softly, smile still lacing his tone, teasingly.
Harry looked, too. It was true. "What are you saying?" he asked, his mouth dry.
Draco stood. "Let me show you," he said, and Harry was somewhat surprised to discover that he'd stood, too. Must be the firewhiskey.
"Where are we going?"
"Follow me."
Furtively, they made their way around the outside of the dance floor, and around a corner. It was dark and deserted. The music was ever so slightly quieter, but not much. Draco withdrew a wand and muttered a spell. "No one will disturb us here," he said. "So, relax."
"Okay, but what are we - "
Harry's nervous question was cut off as the blond's mouth closed abruptly over his. His hips were shoved up against the wall partition, and he could feel the other's erection pressing into his, even through the leather pants. But - Harry's senses were overwhelmed at the moment. This was only his second kiss, for crying out loud, never mind - this. Somehow, even as Harry was relishing the feeling of someone else's tongue on his, pushing against it, taunting, daring him to push back, warm wetness sliding against warm wetness, Harry realized that his hands had somehow gotten onto that firm, leather-clad arse, and that they were squeezing and pulling the similarly leather-clad hips closer to his own. Oh, gods - ! It felt good, really good - Harry was gasping into the stranger's mouth, grinding his cock into the other's. The blond was moaning, and his hands were fumbling for the zip of Harry's trousers - successfully; those slim hands were shoving the offending material of Harry's boxers aside, grasping his cock. Harry moaned loudly and pushed into the blond's hand, even as his fingers attempted the intricacies of the leather pants.
"Here." The blond pushed his fumbling fingers away and opened his fly. Harry's jaw dropped. Draco was commando; his long, evil-looking cock sprang forth from the restricting material at once, and Harry had to touch it, see if it felt like his own, feel what it felt like to touch another bloke's cock, at last. As his hand closed around it, he thought, good. So good. They were pushing and twisting and moaning, mouths lipping at each other's.
"Harry."
Harry didn't want to stop, to open his eyes, but the kissing and the stroking had stopped, so he did. "Yeah?"
"Do you know any spells for protection yet?"
Harry's face flushed. He hadn't known there was any such thing. "No."
"Let me, then." Draco did something then, and Harry also felt... odd. Moist, in a region that shouldn't normally be moist - but before he had time to digest this, the blond had dropped to his knees and had put his mouth over Harry's cock.
Harry made a keening sound and almost slid down the wall, it felt so good. Oh, gods, how he'd wanted to try this, in particular! It was sofuckinggoodyeah, and he couldn't get enough of it - he was pushing forward, almost not caring if he was choking the blond. Who wasn't protesting, anyway - but after a few minutes, which was not nearly long enough, Harry was almost there and just wanted to get there - but Draco had stood again. His cock was quite impressive, actually, and Harry was eyeing it hungrily. Draco, however, clearly had other plans.
He moved closer and placed his mouth on Harry's again, aggressively, as though daring Harry to resist. Harry didn't resist. As they kissed this time, Draco's hand snuck south again, stroking over Harry's saliva-wet cock, cupping his balls, moving past, to - oh gods - slip into him, and who would have thought that first-time experimentation would go so far, and fuck, he sort of liked it - after a bit of this, the blond's fingers disappeared, and suddenly Harry was being impaled by the other's cock. He gasped, but was too drunk and/or dizzy with lust to even think of resisting it. The blond moaned, and, with a second push, thrust himself all the way into Harry. Harry cried out (it was lost in the thunder of the music) and clenched at the blond's fine, silky hair. Draco gave him a minute, and then began to fuck him, up against the wall. After a few strokes, he located a place inside Harry that turned him into liquid, or would have, if the blond's warm, lithe body were not pressing him into the wall. Harry gasped again and shuddered. His erection was dripping with precome. Draco was fucking him hard, but slowly enough that Harry could feel every stroke, damn it, and it felt fucking amazing - he was close, so close - Draco's eyes squeezed shut; his hand moved from Harry's hip to his cock and jerked, hard - Harry came thickly, wetly, groans tearing from his throat like fire - and Draco's thrusts sped up considerably. There, he was flooding Harry's insides with wet heat, and it felt odd, but not bad - Harry's body was wracked in the last of his orgasm, the afterglow already settling over him, like after a particularly good wank.
But this was no wank. He opened his eyes to look at the blond still inside him, how had that happened? - and was kissed again before he could say anything.
"How do you feel?" Draco was asking, voice rough with breath and desire, still.
"Fucking amazing," Harry was answering, almost lazily.
"Are you drunk?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
"If I give you my number, will you call me sometime?"
Harry pondered this. "Maybe."
A condescending smile. "If I call you, will you talk to me?"
"Yes."
"Good." The blond pulled out then, and kissed him again. He then withdrew his wand and said, "Watch." He uttered a spell which cleaned them both, inside and out, in Harry's case at least, and said it loudly enough for Harry to catch it. Another kiss, and the blond was zipping himself back into his leather pants. "Go back to your friends before they miss you," he said.
"Okay." Harry, still dazed, found his boxers and khakhis (pooled around his ankles) and pulled them upon, did up the zip and button. "Uh - Draco?"
The blond turned back. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
An almost sweet smile. "Sure. I'll be in touch."
Harry had no idea if it was true or not, but realized that the blond had left him his phone and Floo numbers on a bit of parchment he'd tucked into Harry's hand. "Okay."
And he knew that, no matter what Hermione said, he'd call.
-fin-
Feedback is glorious. :)
Title: Beautiful Stranger
Author: SilentAuror
Pairing: HP/DM
Genre/Rating: AU, smut; NC-17
Length: 3,615 words
Summary: Many, many plot cliches, all rolled into smut-form. :) Features leather-clad Draco, slightly-drunk and inexperienced Harry, and all manner of good times. Read on, if ye dare!
Disclaimer: As per, well, always, I still don't own these boys, damn it!
Beautiful Stranger
Harry stared into his closet for the tenth straight minute, fingers thrust roughly into his hair, and tried in vain to decide what to wear. A club, Hermione had said. Just a club. That hadn't helped. Harry never went to clubs. When he did go out, it was usually with Ron, sometimes Dean, Seamus, Neville, or the twins, and it was the Leaky Cauldron. That was familiar territory. But since they'd all graduated six months ago, Hermione had broken out of her standard behavioural pattern, fairly significantly, engagement to Ron, forsooth. She and Ginny had taken to going out, quite frequently. Sometimes Ron went with them, but not usually. Ron, after the first few tries, had attempted to get Harry to come, too, but Harry had stoically refused time and again.
Tonight, however, Hermione had won out. It was her birthday, and she had gotten quite insistent. The Ministry job was not exactly taxing, and Harry couldn't even protest a heavy workload to get out of it. So, here he was, one hand on his still-too-skinny hip, one in his hair, trying to work out what to wear. It was no good. Harry turned abruptly, left his messy bedroom and Floo-called Ron.
"What am I supposed to wear to this place?" he asked irritably.
Ron just grinned. "Wear whatever, honestly."
"Thought Hermione said there was a dress code," Harry said suspiciously.
"What? Is there? Oh. Hmm," Ron said, apparently somewhat taken-aback by this bit of information. "Well, in that case, no trainers. You'll have to wear nice-ish shoes. And no jeans, either, mate, unless they're designer, or something. You know." He rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Ah," Harry said, feeling more ill-at-ease than ever. "Khakhis?" he ventured.
"Sounds great," Ron said immediately, pleased that they'd come to a solution. "I dunno. Wear black or something on top. Then at least you'll blend into the shadows or whatever if it's the wrong thing."
"Thanks, mate," Harry said flatly. "That's great."
"No problem. See you at nine in the foyer here, eh?"
"Yeah, sure."
* * *
Which was how Harry found himself going, for the first time in his life, to a club. The music was dizzyingly loud, and despite Ginny's assurances that it was apparently really good, Harry was only convinced of one thing: that loud music and crowd scenes brought out the worst in Ginny. If she'd been a muggle, he thought sourly, she'd have been a cheerleader in high school. She and Hermione were on the dance floor, with a reluctant Ron in the near vicinity, attempting to dance (if that's what it was) with a butterbeer in one hand. Harry was sitting alone at their table (he'd refused to dance), nursing a double shot of firewhiskey, something he'd taken a liking to sometime during seventh year.
Hogwarts already felt a long time away.
Through the heavy crowd, a flash of shining, blond hair caught Harry's eye, and he focused on it in a vague sort of manner. It belonged, he discovered, to a bloke. A youngish one. About his age, actually. Harry narrowed his eyes and focused with a little more purpose. Nearly exactly his age. Nervously, Harry looked back at his friends. They were all deeply involved with the intricacies of the dance floor (or rather, introducing Ron to the general principles involved with said locality), and had not noticed Harry's slip. He had not yet told them that he was fairly sure that he preferred blokes. His disastrous experimentation with Cho during fifth year had led him to wonder. Not that he'd tried anything. Ron, Dean and Seamus were all straight as they came, and if Neville wasn't, then Harry didn't need to know about it. He'd had no idea whether or not any of the other boys in their year were gay or not, but he was too terrified to ask anyone. That was all he needed, for the wizarding world to discover that their precious Boy-Who-Lived was queer, in addition to everything else.
The blond moved into sight again; again, Harry's eye was caught. That hair had to have been charmed, or something. There was no way any normal bloke had hair that smooth and shiny and thoroughly touchable-looking. Oh, fuck. He had not just thought that. Harry swallowed. Yes, he had. Just because he hadn't tried anything didn't mean that he didn't want to. But the question was, who? And how? He didn't want anyone knowing, and the Boy-Who-Lived doesn't just stroll into gay bars and start looking to be picked up. Especially not in the wizarding world. Not that Harry even knew if such a thing existed.
Then it happened. The blond turned and looked straight into Harry's eye. A cool, piercing stare. Unmistakeably directed at him. Harry swallowed again, and, after a minute, looked quickly away, heart thumping loudly. He took another sip of his firewhiskey, welcoming the way it burned when he swallowed too much of it at once. The song changed, barely perceptibly, and Harry relaxed after a few minutes had passed.
"Care to dance?"
The voice in Harry's ear was low and sultry, and he jumped about a foot. Furious with himself, he forced himself to calm down, and turned to faced the speaker. It was the blond. He knew it was, before even seeing him. "I - uh, I don't dance," he said quickly.
The blond's eyes were cool and grey, and regarded him with what could only be termed amusement. "Never?"
"Never," Harry vowed firmly. "This is only my first time in a club, actually," he said, not sure why he was admitting it.
The amusement became more pronounced. "Mind if I sit down, then?" the blond asked.
For some reason, Harry glanced down. Fucking hells. The other was wearing leather pants. Black leather pants, that clung to his every curve like a glove. Harry jerked his eyes up, and looked over at his friends again. So far, so good, but - "Uh, that might not be the best idea," he hedged.
The blond followed the direction of Harry's look. "I see," he said, comprehendingly. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Your friends don't know yet, I presume."
"Know what?" Harry asked, heat rising into his cheeks.
A knowing look, with just a touch of smirk. "What you and I both know already," the blond said simply. "Fine, then. Play it however you like. I'll be here." He leaned in again and, lips brushing Harry's ear, murmured, "My name is Draco, by the way."
He slipped off, back into the melee on the dance floor. Harry felt like his face was burning, and his ear was most definitely tingling, to say nothing of - he noticed then that his hand was gripping his firewhiskey glass rather tightly, and made himself relax the death grip.
A few minutes later, Hermione came over. "How's it going?" she called, over the noise of the club.
"Fine," Harry said loudly, trying to be heard - this song was particularly loud. He found himself looking at the blond boy again, just tracking his movements and location. Hermione followed his gaze.
"Did I see you talking to him before?" she asked, calling over the music, but moving a little closer to Harry.
"Who?" Harry feigned ignorance.
"That hot blond guy," Hermione said, nodding with her chin.
"Maybe, just for a minute," Harry said, shrugging. "Why?"
"He's trouble, Harry, stay away from him."
"Wh - what do you mean?" Harry stammered.
The song ended, leaving an uncomfortably wide bit of silence, although in reality, it was probably only a few seconds until the next one started. Hermione gave Harry a gentle smile and patted him on the arm. "I mean several things," she said. "First, don't panic - but I've suspected that - well, let's just say that I think you'd consider him more your type than, say, Ginny - since about sixth year. Secondly, I really don't care, and if you're happy, then I'm happy. Thirdly, that guy is definitely gay; I've heard of him before, plus I've seen him here before, and he's bad news."
"Why?" Harry asked, still flaming in the face from Hermione's matter-of-fact statement about knowing, damn her, how did she always know?! "Is he a wizard?"
"Yes, but he went to Durmstrang," Hermione said, seemingly unconcerned with Harry's discomfort. "His father is Lucius Malfoy - you know, the former Death Eater? He's super-rich and rather influential. If you hadn't destroyed Voldemort back in fourth year, who knows what would have happened? Malfoy Senior was supposed to have been Voldemort's right hand man."
"And... that's his son," Harry said, confirming, staring at the blond.
"Right. Remember, he went to Durmstrang, so he's probably up to his eyebrows in Dark Arts - he probably even has the Dark Mark tattooed on his arm just for fun, even though Voldemort's dead." Hermione rolled his eyes. "Anyway, just some friendly advice. I'm going back out there - Ron's starting to embarrass Ginny, I can tell. Do you want to come?"
Harry shook his head quickly. "No!"
Another arm pat. "Fine. Maybe next time," Hermione said, as though consoling him. And then she was gone, leaving Harry to brood by himself again.
"Excuse me?" A comely, young waitress stopped by the table. Harry looked up. "Sorry to bother, but I was asked to bring you this." She removed another glass of firewhiskey from the tray and replaced Harry's emtpy, fingerprint-grubbed one.
"What?" Harry was confused.
She gave him a conspiratorial wink. "It's from the blond gentlemen, over there." She, too, nodded at the blond with her head, then took her leave - to Harry's immense relief.
The blond was dancing with a tall, dark-haired girl. He was tall, Harry noticed, and very slender. Not skinny, exactly, just slim and fit. Muscles slid subtly beneath well-tailored clothes; leather pants clinging to narrow hips. Harry let himself stare. This was grist for imagination, if nothing else. The blond was dancing fairly intimately with the dark-haired girl, though it seemed more choreography and less chemistry, at least to Harry's untrained eye. Then the blond dropped, and slid up the girl's thigh, like it were a pole. And Harry was gripping his glass again, frozen an inch from his slightly-parted lips. The blond turned his head and looked straight into Harry's eyes again, and he knew he'd been caught staring.
Well, so what if he knows - he's gay, too! Harry allowed his gaze to be held this time, and raised his glass slightly, with a small smile, and took another sip.
For a split second, the blond returned a dazzlingly brilliant smile, and then turned his back on Harry again, still outwardly focused on his dancing partner. And Harry was hard, hard in his loose khakhis, which most certainly wouldn't hide the fact.
For the rest of the song, Harry and the blond kept exchanging these subtle looks. There was no harm in it, Harry kept arguing with himself. Nothing would come of it. It was just harmless flirtation. It wasn’t even really that, when it came right down to it - it was just harmless looking.
Or so he told himself, at least until the blond made his way over to Harry's corner table again, slowly, but deliberately. Harry's heartbeat increased with every step the other took. The blond was in front of him. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were at the bar, backs to Harry, ordering a round of drinks, apparently. Harry was torn being furious with them for abandoning him like this, and ridiculously relieved. He shook his head. After four shots of firewhiskey, his courage was somewhat enflamed, not to mention other things.
"So," the blond said, voice slightly husky, "reconsidered, at all?"
Harry studied him for a second, then dragged his eyes off the blond's chest and back to his face - which was pretty much just as good, really. He was extraordinarily attractive, with finely-cut, almost delicate features, coupled with those cool, grey eyes and expression that seemed perpetually caught between haughtiness and amusement. "I still don't dance," Harry said. He pushed out the chair across from him with his foot. "But you can sit down, if you like."
The blond smiled, looked at the chair, then sat on it, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. Harry tried not to stare at those leather-clad legs, with moderate success. "What's your name?" the blond asked.
"Harry," Harry said. "What's yours again?" He hadn't forgotten. But it seemed to sound better if it had, he decided.
"Draco," the blond said, and held out a hand.
Harry shook it. Somehow, even this seemed a rather seductive move on the blond's part, and Harry pulled away too quickly, palm burning. He suddenly became aware that he was being stared at. "What?"
Another faintly-amused smile. "I was just thinking that it's a shame you're such a chicken-shit," the blond said smoothly. "Because you're really quite incredible, you know."
Harry was somehow flattered and insulted at once, and didn't know how to react. He settled for blushing. Or was he just angry? He couldn't decide. "I'm... uh, not really... out," he said, after a pause.
"Obviously." The blond smirked. "Who says you have to be out?"
Harry couldn't think of a good answer for that. "For... what?"
The smile grew. "I'd really rather demonstrate," he purred.
Gods. The bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach, even as desire began to eat him from within. "Uh..."
"I know you're attracted to me." This was delivered with the simplicity of a fact perfectly well-known; there was no boastfulness here. Just a knowing awareness.
Harry couldn't lie. "Well. Maybe a bit," he said.
A scornful smile. "It's alright," the blond said. "You can admit it. I'm attracted to you, too. Very much so, in fact." He turned and located Harry's friends. "They're all looking the other way," he said softly, smile still lacing his tone, teasingly.
Harry looked, too. It was true. "What are you saying?" he asked, his mouth dry.
Draco stood. "Let me show you," he said, and Harry was somewhat surprised to discover that he'd stood, too. Must be the firewhiskey.
"Where are we going?"
"Follow me."
Furtively, they made their way around the outside of the dance floor, and around a corner. It was dark and deserted. The music was ever so slightly quieter, but not much. Draco withdrew a wand and muttered a spell. "No one will disturb us here," he said. "So, relax."
"Okay, but what are we - "
Harry's nervous question was cut off as the blond's mouth closed abruptly over his. His hips were shoved up against the wall partition, and he could feel the other's erection pressing into his, even through the leather pants. But - Harry's senses were overwhelmed at the moment. This was only his second kiss, for crying out loud, never mind - this. Somehow, even as Harry was relishing the feeling of someone else's tongue on his, pushing against it, taunting, daring him to push back, warm wetness sliding against warm wetness, Harry realized that his hands had somehow gotten onto that firm, leather-clad arse, and that they were squeezing and pulling the similarly leather-clad hips closer to his own. Oh, gods - ! It felt good, really good - Harry was gasping into the stranger's mouth, grinding his cock into the other's. The blond was moaning, and his hands were fumbling for the zip of Harry's trousers - successfully; those slim hands were shoving the offending material of Harry's boxers aside, grasping his cock. Harry moaned loudly and pushed into the blond's hand, even as his fingers attempted the intricacies of the leather pants.
"Here." The blond pushed his fumbling fingers away and opened his fly. Harry's jaw dropped. Draco was commando; his long, evil-looking cock sprang forth from the restricting material at once, and Harry had to touch it, see if it felt like his own, feel what it felt like to touch another bloke's cock, at last. As his hand closed around it, he thought, good. So good. They were pushing and twisting and moaning, mouths lipping at each other's.
"Harry."
Harry didn't want to stop, to open his eyes, but the kissing and the stroking had stopped, so he did. "Yeah?"
"Do you know any spells for protection yet?"
Harry's face flushed. He hadn't known there was any such thing. "No."
"Let me, then." Draco did something then, and Harry also felt... odd. Moist, in a region that shouldn't normally be moist - but before he had time to digest this, the blond had dropped to his knees and had put his mouth over Harry's cock.
Harry made a keening sound and almost slid down the wall, it felt so good. Oh, gods, how he'd wanted to try this, in particular! It was sofuckinggoodyeah, and he couldn't get enough of it - he was pushing forward, almost not caring if he was choking the blond. Who wasn't protesting, anyway - but after a few minutes, which was not nearly long enough, Harry was almost there and just wanted to get there - but Draco had stood again. His cock was quite impressive, actually, and Harry was eyeing it hungrily. Draco, however, clearly had other plans.
He moved closer and placed his mouth on Harry's again, aggressively, as though daring Harry to resist. Harry didn't resist. As they kissed this time, Draco's hand snuck south again, stroking over Harry's saliva-wet cock, cupping his balls, moving past, to - oh gods - slip into him, and who would have thought that first-time experimentation would go so far, and fuck, he sort of liked it - after a bit of this, the blond's fingers disappeared, and suddenly Harry was being impaled by the other's cock. He gasped, but was too drunk and/or dizzy with lust to even think of resisting it. The blond moaned, and, with a second push, thrust himself all the way into Harry. Harry cried out (it was lost in the thunder of the music) and clenched at the blond's fine, silky hair. Draco gave him a minute, and then began to fuck him, up against the wall. After a few strokes, he located a place inside Harry that turned him into liquid, or would have, if the blond's warm, lithe body were not pressing him into the wall. Harry gasped again and shuddered. His erection was dripping with precome. Draco was fucking him hard, but slowly enough that Harry could feel every stroke, damn it, and it felt fucking amazing - he was close, so close - Draco's eyes squeezed shut; his hand moved from Harry's hip to his cock and jerked, hard - Harry came thickly, wetly, groans tearing from his throat like fire - and Draco's thrusts sped up considerably. There, he was flooding Harry's insides with wet heat, and it felt odd, but not bad - Harry's body was wracked in the last of his orgasm, the afterglow already settling over him, like after a particularly good wank.
But this was no wank. He opened his eyes to look at the blond still inside him, how had that happened? - and was kissed again before he could say anything.
"How do you feel?" Draco was asking, voice rough with breath and desire, still.
"Fucking amazing," Harry was answering, almost lazily.
"Are you drunk?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
"If I give you my number, will you call me sometime?"
Harry pondered this. "Maybe."
A condescending smile. "If I call you, will you talk to me?"
"Yes."
"Good." The blond pulled out then, and kissed him again. He then withdrew his wand and said, "Watch." He uttered a spell which cleaned them both, inside and out, in Harry's case at least, and said it loudly enough for Harry to catch it. Another kiss, and the blond was zipping himself back into his leather pants. "Go back to your friends before they miss you," he said.
"Okay." Harry, still dazed, found his boxers and khakhis (pooled around his ankles) and pulled them upon, did up the zip and button. "Uh - Draco?"
The blond turned back. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
An almost sweet smile. "Sure. I'll be in touch."
Harry had no idea if it was true or not, but realized that the blond had left him his phone and Floo numbers on a bit of parchment he'd tucked into Harry's hand. "Okay."
And he knew that, no matter what Hermione said, he'd call.
-fin-
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