Chapter 8
Harry knew even before he'd opened his eyes that the spell hadn't worked. He couldn't have explained how he knew; he just did, deep down in the pit of his stomach. So it wasn't a surprise when he reached over to his bedside table, fumbled for his glasses, and his Muggle house swum back into focus: his half-open wardrobe with its hideous work uniform; his Muggle alarm clock; the detritus of a life without magic. The whole room had the faint of air of neglect that proved it, at any rate; there was no way Kreacher would have stood for the half-drunk mug of tea that was undoubtedly leaving an ingrained ring in the ancient wood of his chest of drawers on the other side of the room.
Was he meant to be working today? It was Friday, and he hadn't worked last Friday, had he? Harry couldn't remember, too depressed by the realisation that he'd been stuck in this new reality for over a week now, and he still hadn't made any progress on getting back home. OK, so now he had a wand that worked, more or less, but what was the benefit of that when he didn't know the right counter spell? What was the point of magic, he found himself thinking as he sat up, scrubbing his hands through his hair and feeling depression eat at his insides. OK, so he could cast Lumosinstead of using the light switch, and he could Summon the TV remote control, and he could – probably – Apparate, if he wanted to risk a mild, horrifying Splinch. But why would he bother? The Muggle alternatives were almost as good. If he had a working broom and could fly . . . That was probably the magic he missed most. His outlet, his stress release, when things were weighing on his mind. He couldn't fly, though. All he could do was get out of bed, stomp grumpily to the bathroom to have a piss and wash his face, and continue his stomp down the stairs to the kitchen.
Harry made himself an extremely strong pot of coffee and after a large mug's worth he felt marginally more himself. It was stupid to brood; what good did it do? He made himself some toast and grabbed a pen and paper, tugging the top off the biro and taking a large bite out of the slice as he tried to think logically. OK, so he didn't have a magical library to help him solve this problem, and he didn't have Robards or his fellow Aurors. But he wasn't completely helpless. He wrote the heading I have got . . . at the top of the paper and underlined it three times, before running out of inspiration. He ate some more toast, trying not to panic, and eventually came up with:
Wand
Hermione
Ron ??
Parvati
Draco
He considered each of the items on the list in turn, washing down the toast crumbs with more coffee and fiddling with his pen. OK, so the wand wasn't great, but it worked, more or less, didn't it? It felt stupid to focus on the fact it wasn't perfect, when it was so much better than nothing. It hadn't worked last night, but then how did Harry know he'd cast the right spell?
Harry moved to the next item on his list: Hermione. He felt a flush of guilt as he realised that although Hermione had left him several messages, he hadn't called her back. She hadn't called in several days, had she? She'd either written him off as a con-artist or decided he was rude and ungrateful and not worth her time; he wasn't sure which was worse. It was Hermione who'd suggested the wand in the first place, he realised, thinking about it now. He'd always relied on her intelligence, her courage, her infuriating stubbornness. There was no reason he should discount her just because she was temporarily tooth-fixated, was there? She still seemed like his Hermione, underneath.
Harry, feeling bolstered by this thought, looked at Ron's name thoughtfully. He wasn't sure he was ready for a footballing, playboy version of his best mate. But at the same time, it felt wrong to discount Ron either. If he needed Hermione, he needed Ron just as much. Their friendship just worked – all three of them, facing evil and defeating it because they had each other's backs. Where would he be without Ron and Hermione? Probably dead, he thought bleakly, and shivered, feeling an Acromantula walk over his grave. He crossed out the question marks he'd written after Ron's name, feeling like a bad friend.
Next on the list was Parvati. Harry paused to consider her as someone who could help. He supposed she'd already been helping, in a funny kind of way – her fun, gossipy nature had distracted him from his anxiety. Could she help him reverse whatever spell he'd inadvertently cast, though? She'd been an invaluable member of the DA, a courageous fighter. But . . . he just didn't know her the same way he knew Ron and Hermione. And, on the off-chance he really was stuck in this reality forever, he thought uneasily, it might make sense to have a friend – a real friend, who liked him for his new, 'magic-free' personality, not just because he'd told them that they used to be friends in a brighter, more terrifying version of the world. He had a horrible suspicion that if he told Parvati about magic, she'd be sad – and he didn't want to make her sad. He really liked her. Well, apart from when she was harassing him about Draco, he thought, reaching the final name on his list.
Harry poured himself another large cup of coffee and drank half of it straight down. It seemed inevitable that because Draco was the most awkward item on the list, he was also the key to the whole fucking business. He was, after all, the only wizard Harry had met so far who actually remembered being one. There had to be a reason for that. Harry drank another large swig of coffee, considering that. The most embarrassing reason – and therefore the most likely, he suspected – was that Harry had been thinking about him when he'd made the wish. In a sense, this whole reality had created itself – had shaped itself – for Draco. To give him a chance to be famous and see how he liked it. Well, he seemed to like it just fine, Harry thought, trying to resist the urge to smack himself in the face.
If it wasn't that – what was it? Maybe Draco would have an idea, Harry thought doubtfully. He hadn't shown much of an urge to help so far, even though Harry had offered to beg him on bended knee, but then Harry had got a bit distracted by the whole gay crisis thing, hadn't he? He hadn't exactly sat Draco down and demanded he wrack his brains for ways to fix reality; he'd been too busy daydreaming about Draco, and texting him, and – yes – wanking over thoughts of him. Harry decided, firmly, that the next time he saw Draco, he would be firmer about asking for his help. They could . . . meet up with Hermione, he thought, trying not to cringe at the thought of introducing Draco to his superfan. And think about how they could get in touch with Ron. And OK, so Draco hadn't expressed any enthusiasm about going back to the wizarding world, and Harry wasn't an idiot and could understand why. But surely Draco missed some things? Harry wracked his brains to think of things that Draco would be missing, and came up with his parents. If he was sure of anything about Draco, it was that he loved his parents, vile and terrible people though they were. Surely, Draco wouldn't be content to give them up, in favour of this world's Muggle imitations?
Harry found he'd finished all the coffee. He'd finished his toast. He'd finished his list. And now . . . all there was to think about was the fact that today was Friday, and he had tickets to see Draco sing. Which meant . . . Harry wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but there was a reasonably good chance, his churning insides told him, that he'd meet up with Draco after the show, and then they'd . . . Harry tried to clear his mind and think pure, clean thoughts. In his pure, clean thoughts, Draco popped up and licked his lips.
Harry shot up from his chair, almost breaking his mug in his haste to take his dirty pots to the sink and wash them up. What should he do with his day, until the concert? He should . . . buy some new clothes, he thought as he squirted washing up liquid on a sponge. He needed some, after all. And he should— Shit! He should ask Parvati if she wanted to go with him, he supposed. He had a momentary sensation of guilt – maybe he should ask Hermione – but then he reminded himself that he was going to introduce Hermione to Draco later, so there was no reason for him to indulge this madness any further. No, he'd ask Parvati. It was basically her fault he had the tickets, anyway.
Harry finished washing up and dried his hands on a tea towel – a crime that would have had Kreacher muttering about his degeneracy for days – before going to hunt down his phone. Draco hadn't texted, but he tried not to see this as a bad sign and sent a quick, Morning! Looking forward to tonight. He'd barely pressed send before his phone was beeping at him with a reply from Dickhead Supreme.
Of course you are.
Harry rolled his eyes, but felt a bit better; the sheer speed of the reply suggested that Draco had been waiting for him to text, didn't it? Or that he had his phone right by him, his brain helpfully amended, making him feel like death might be a better option than this tortured life. What was wrong with him, mooning around like a lovesick idiot over Draco fucking Malfoy.
Harry considered the word lovesick and then decided he'd lock that thought deep in his brain and never allow it out again. For fuck's sake. He tried to pull himself together, and looked at his phone again, wondering how he should play this with Parvati. He didn't want to lie to her about Draco, but at the same time, he didn't want to tell the truth either. In the end, he went for a simple I've got two tickets to see Draco Malfoy tonight. Want to come?, deciding to put off the explanation until he'd actually come up with one.
A few minutes later, as Harry was brushing his teeth, his phone beeped. Omggggggggggggggg, are you serious?!!!! Parvati had sent. He was just about to try to answer one handed, when the phone rang. He answered it in a flap, spitting out a mouthful of foam into the basin as he did so.
"Well, that sounds revolting," Parvati said reprovingly into his ear. "Is this a bad time?"
"I'm just brushing my teeth!" Harry protested, going back to brushing, because it was only Parvati, and it would be a good excuse as to why he didn't answer when she asked how he knew Draco, for possibly the millionth time.
"Did Draco send you the tickets," Parvati said sternly, her words missing a question mark.
"No-o," Harry said around his toothbrush.
"Oh my God, you liar," Parvati said.
"His management did," Harry confessed. "Hang on." He removed the phone from his ear and spat out more toothpaste, swilling his mouth with water.
"You done?" Parvati inquired.
"Mm," Harry said, unwilling to commit. "So do you want to come or not?"
"Of course I want to come!" Parvati said, and let out a high-pitched squeal that set Harry's teeth on edge. "Are they good seats?"
Could he trust Draco on the whole front-row business? Block A3 sounded like three blocks back to him. How big was a block, anyway? How big, even, was this Wembley Arena? "Dunno," he said, hedging his bets. "Probably OK."
"Well, if they're not front row, then I'll grudging believe that maybe you don't actually know Draco," Parvati said, not sounding convinced. "Although you clearly do."
"I—"
"No, let's not have another row, I just want to be excited," Parvati interrupted firmly. Harry hadn't realised they had been rowing over Draco. He really hadn't been paying attention over the past couple of days, had he? "At any rate, what are you going to wear so that Draco 'definitely doesn't know you' Malfoy falls head over heels in love with you? I intend to go all out. Glitter, PVC trousers, strappy top and push-up bra, the works. Dad won't let me out the house if he sees me," she said with satisfaction. "Maybe I'd better get ready at yours."
There was a buzzing in Harry's ears. "I'm not trying to make him fall in love with me!" he said, voice coming out strained and high pitched.
"Great! Less competition," Parvati said. "But if you wear your work uniform and show me up in public, I'll gut you like a fish, just saying. All right?"
Harry thought he might be up for a bit of gutting. At least it would give him a good excuse for not going out tonight.
"All right?" Parvati repeated threateningly.
"Yes, yes, all right!" Harry said, wondering if it was possible to Obliviate yourself, or if you needed help. Lockhart had managed it, hadn't he?
"Good," Parvati said cheerfully. Then there was an ominous pause. "You're not going to do any . . . terrible dancing, are you?" she added suspiciously.
Harry thought back to the only time he could remember dancing in public – the Yule Ball. It seemed ironic, really. He'd taken Parvati to that too. This was the second time he'd asked her out, so to speak, and the second time he hadn't fancied her in the slightest. He hadn't danced back then, if he remembered right, and he wasn't planning on starting now. "I can promise faithfully that if I do any dancing, it will definitely be terrible," he said solemnly, and she laughed.
"All right. Just remember – if you try it, I'll stamp on your toes. Deal?"
"Deal," Harry said. And when he hung up what must have been a good half an hour later – Parvati was hard to get off the phone when she'd got into her stride, not that Harry minded much – he'd almost managed to put the whole 'make Draco fall in love with you' nonsense out of his mind.
Almost.
^^^^^^
Harry had a vague picture in his mind of what a concert might be like. He'd have said that his favourite band – if he was forced to name one – was the Weird Sisters, and they'd played at the Yule Ball, hadn't they? And while, logically, his brain had told him that Draco's concert would be something larger in scale, he didn't entirely believe it until he got to Wembley Arena. All right, he thought, trying not to feel even more nervous, it wasn't nearly as big as the venues for the two Quidditch World Cups he'd attended, was it? But . . . it was still pretty big. And the crowd that were streaming towards it – thousands of teenage girls, many dressed up and all talking excitedly – was pretty big too. Some of them were carrying large banners. DRACO, WE LOVE YOU! shouted one, in uneven capital letters.
Parvati clutched his arm painfully as the building loomed up in front of them, the queues outside the dozens of doors moving at a quick pace, and Harry fumbled in his pocket for the tickets. He'd checked they were there half a dozen times already, he knew they were there, but he experienced a brief moment of panic – that he'd forgotten them, that they'd fallen out of his pocket – before his fingers touched the card and he pulled them out, to pass them to the cheerful, but harassed-looking woman at the door. And then they were inside, the atmosphere strangely tense and electric for such an industrial-looking building – boring white walls, and speckled grey floors, and corridors that appeared to go on forever.
Parvati made him stop and queue for a million years outside a booth that was selling merchandise – programmes with pictures of Draco's face that practically cost more than a week's wages, and shapeless T-shirts with pictures of Draco's face and lists of dates, and horrible plastic-looking scarves in red (red!) with DRACO MALFOY: THE 'WHAT I WANT' TOUR spelt out in white caps. Parvati had bought him a terrible T-shirt before he could stop her, and then he found himself waiting for another million years as she 'nipped' to the toilet before they found their seats. He dug out his phone while he was waiting, glanced around paranoidly to make sure no one was looking over his shoulder. At the venue. Anything you need me to do? he typed, and then deleted it, thinking he sounded overly anxious. But he needed to text something, he thought. The phone reception was already pretty shaky, and he hadn't arranged to meet up with Draco after the show.
Did Draco even want to meet up after the show, Harry wondered, suddenly feeling overdressed and ridiculous. He looked down at himself, and felt marginally reassured; there was little chance Draco, with all his ingrained, stuck-up, pure-blood airs, would consider what he was currently wearing to be overdressed: a fitted black coat over black jeans, black shoes and a smarter, much greener shirt than Harry would have picked for himself. Unfortunately, Parvati had taken him shopping, and he hadn't felt able to say 'actually, green reminds me of snakes, and great evil, so maybe blue would be better'? Apparently, it brought out the colour of his eyes: bright green, she said. Harry had looked in the mirror after that and wondered why his eyes were so disloyal to Gryffindor, and then wondered why he cared. It wasn't like he was still at school; it wasn't like his Hogwarts house mattered any more.
Harry looked back at his phone, typed out I'm here. Need anything? and then pressed send before he could overthink things. His phone beeped a minute later.
Unless you want to help the girls do my hair and cover me in glitter, then no.
Harry considered this, and decided it wouldn't be good for his constitution to help other people cover Draco in glitter. But I'll see you after, yeah? he sent instead, aiming for casual but feeling so wound up that his hands were shaking.
You can help me wash the glitter off again, saviour, Draco sent, which didn't help matters.
Happily for Harry's sanity, at this moment Parvati finally emerged from the ladies. But . . . her hair was not just even neater than when she'd started, but now also streaked with glitter. What was it with the glitter? he thought resentfully. Was the world trying to send him doolally? Still . . . "You look, uh, very sparkly," Harry said, thinking a compliment was probably expected, and then panicked. That wasn't a great one, was it? He looked her up and down, before realising that made him seem like a perv. "And . . . and . . . your trousers are very shiny!" he added, rejecting everything else that ran through his head as likely to get him a smack. She did look nice, he thought, despite the shiny trousers; anyone with eyes could see it.
Parvati grinned at him fondly. "And you look very . . ." She looked him up and down speculatively, still grinning. "You," she concluded.
Harry resisted the urge to reach up and fiddle with his hair. "Thanks," he said, with heavy sarcasm. "You sure you can bear to be seen in public with me? You could just go home."
"And miss your dancing? I think not," she twinkled at him, folding her arm in his. "Come on, let's see how bad our seats are."
They made their way arm in arm, past packs of squealing girls, following the signs towards a door marked 'A3–A5', music spilling out from the concert hall on the other side of the corridor as they walked. Harry took a deep breath as they walked through the door and into the pulsing semi-darkness, the arena unfolding in front of him, rows upon rows of seats, and thousands upon thousands of fans. The stage was brightly lit but empty, coloured lights flashing on and off towards the crowd as canned music played. A smiling woman with a torch checked their tickets and guided them to their seats, jealous eyes following them as they sat. The stage was right in front of them; Draco had arranged front-row tickets, after all.
"This is amazing!" Parvati gushed. Then she turned to Harry and put her face very close to his ear. "He must really like you," she whispered.
Harry was bored of denying he knew Draco. "He does get the tickets for free, you know," he pointed out.
"I knew it! I knew you knew him!" Parvati squealed. "You are going to tell me everything. But when you're ready," she amended. "Because you're being a bit weird about this, you know. Like . . ." She shot him a sidelong glance. "No way! Like you're dating, or something," she hissed in his ear, so their seat neighbours couldn't hear her.
Harry could feel himself going phoenix red. "That's not! Um!" he said incoherently. "He just arranged some free tickets!" he managed. "It's his concert! It's not a big deal!"
Parvati let out a high-pitched giggle. "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that," she said, giving him a nudge in the side.
"No, really, I—" Harry started, but Parvati flapped her hands at him.
"Shh," she said, flicking her glittery plait over her shoulder. "Just relax and enjoy yourself, all right? Seriously, Harry. You need to learn how to stop worrying and start living. What's the worst that could happen?"
Was he really the sort of person who worried, rather than lived his life to the full? He didn't think so. He hoped not. Didn't he always act, make the hard choices? Hadn't he been willing to give up everything, for the sake of the world? A little voice in his head pointed out, though, that maybe living for others wasn't quite what 'living life to the full' meant. And that maybe being a tiny bit more selfish wouldn't hurt, would it? Didn't he deserve it, after all he'd done? After all he'd lost?
Parvati looked over at him, and he tried to smile at her. What was the worst that could happen? He could be stuck here, without the wizarding world. Without his friends – without the people who'd become his family. But . . . he already had a friend here, in Parvati, didn't he? And there was Hermione. And Ron. He had a house. He had a brain. He had the ingredients he needed to rebuild a life without magic, didn't he? He could probably even be happy. And . . .
And there was Draco. In this reality, there wasn't Malfoy; there was Draco. The thought was simultaneously terrifying and electrifying. Harry took a deep breath and tried to think positively. Whatever happened, he'd be OK. He just had to get through tonight first.
^^^^^^
Harry hadn't appreciated that Draco wouldn't sing right away. That, instead, he would have to suffer through nearly an hour and half of support acts, none of which he'd describe as dreadful, exactly, but that were definitely not aimed at him. He supposed he should have expected it, not being a teenage girl. When he tried to express this to Parvati, during the third act – five fully grown men with very floppy hair swaying awkwardly on the spot while the one in the middle sang mawkishly about 'flying without wings' – she rolled her eyes, telling him he didn't know talent when he heard it, and Westlife were going to be huge, didn't he know they were managed by Ronan from Boyzone? Harry thought it best to leave it be, before he ended up getting a lecture on British boybands through history. It was bad enough having to suffer through them in person, he thought as the band progressed to an even slower tempo, which nevertheless seemed to leave them breathless enough to need stools to balance on as they sang.
By the time the support acts had finished though, and the interval was nearly over, Harry found himself feeling unsettled and nervous. He vanished to the toilet, Parvati telling him to be quick!, but while the queue outside the nearest ladies stretched out into the horizon, the men's was almost empty and he was soon out and back in the dark arena. The atmosphere felt different now – tense and expectant, and punctuated by random screams of excitement that made him twitch. This was nothing like a Quidditch match, he thought; how had ever thought the two might be comparable? The World Cup matches he'd attended had been full of people brimming with competitive spirit and patriotic pride; this was a dark, pulsing pit full of women who wanted to jump Draco Malfoy's bones and were willing to scream themselves hoarse to catch his attention. Harry tried to hunker down in the front row and be invisible, aware that if any of them suspected he knew Draco personally, they might attempt to rend him limb from limb.
As it approached nine o'clock, the music playing through the speakers suddenly stopped, to be replaced by a loud, electronic heartbeat. The screaming increased in intensity, and Parvati clutched at his arm, jumping up and down on the spot. The enormous screens either side of the stage suddenly showed two large digital clocks, counting down. 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .
Harry could feel his heart speed up, his blood pounding. The lights surrounding the stage were frantic now, flashing madly into the darkness.
7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . .
The chant Draco! Draco! Draco! rolled around the stadium, thousands of voices almost tearfully shouting for him. Draco! Draco! Draco!
4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .
Everyone around him was surging out of their seats, standing up on tiptoe; he glanced back to see some girls standing on their chairs, straining towards the stage.
1 . . .
Parvati yanked Harry to his feet, just as the stage seemed to explode: golden-red fireworks fizzing round the edges, half blinding him. When he blinked, there were lights in his eyes, and there in the centre of the stage, standing tall with his chin raised and fists clenched tight by his side, was Draco – so covered in glitter that he was sparkling fiercely, a pair of enormous red-feathered wings sprouting from his bare shoulders as red flames burned either side of him, smoke pouring out from beneath his feet to coat the stage. Harry could smell it – sweet, and strange – as it rolled off the stage towards him. Harry barely had time to take this in – to breathe – before Draco was surrounded by dancers, slim and also glittered; and then Draco was singing, powerful and confident, the song exploding out as the dancers whipped madly around the stage.
The song was something about being reborn, Harry realised when he could make his brain work. He found he wanted to laugh, a little bit, overcome by embarrassment, although he wasn't sure if he was embarrassed for Draco or embarrassed by the idea that a singing, feather-wearing Draco might catch his eye mid song. He had no idea how to behave in this situation; no idea how he was meant to act. Draco Malfoy was singing. Singing topless. His feet, poking out from the bottom of his dark-red, figure-hugging trousers, were bare too, Harry noticed when the smoke started to clear. Again, he experienced the odd, disconcerting sensation that this reality was trying to collide with the real world. Luna had dressed Draco as a phoenix, hadn't she? The wings, the fire . . . the rebirth . . . Harry felt a chill shiver down his spine.
The song ended, and the dancers melted away, leaving Draco alone on stage. He smiled, very bright, and Harry was close enough to see he was shaking, wasn't sure how to deal with how that made him feel. "Hello, Wembley!" Draco said, and the arena exploded with screams and yells; whatever Draco said next, Harry could barely hear it, and soon Draco was sitting on a swing that seemed to have descended from the sky, the notes of something cheesy pounding out on a piano as the swing rose uncomfortably high into the air. Winged Draco serenaded the arena from the sky, lit by a spotlight. His voice was pure and sweet and only slightly out of tune, Harry thought, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand as he watched and tried not to feel overwhelmed with baffling emotion. It wasn't working so well.
Winged Draco rose higher, vanishing out of sight as the final strains of the ballad faded away, and then curtains swooshed back at the rear of the stage, revealing the members of Draco's backing band one by one, each doing a tedious solo. Draco re-emerged after barely a minute, now casual in ripped white jeans and a soft white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and launched straight into another song, standing tall and confident as his backing dancers weaved around him.
"Isn't he amazing!" Parvati yelled in his ear.
Harry thought about that, his heartrate still too fast, his stomach still doing nervous leaps. But now he'd calmed down a fraction, he could see that there were several groups of backing singers tucked at the edges of the stage, providing soft but firm support to almost everything Draco was singing. And . . . Draco wasn't really dancing much, was he? He was standing as if he owned the stage, while not really joining in. But . . . "Yeah, pretty amazing," Harry said in her ear, because it was true, wasn't it? It was certainly amazing to him that he was standing amidst thousands of Muggles, watching Draco Malfoy – whose disdain for Muggles was well documented – singing his heart out for their entertainment. He was still very glittery, Harry thought, watching Draco's clothes sparkle as the lights bounced off him.
Draco caught his eye – at least, he looked in Harry's direction – and seemed to forget his words. He caught himself quickly, pointing his microphone in the direction of the audience, who cheerfully sung along, word perfect, as Draco stared at Harry. Harry tried to smile, feeling incredibly awkward, and did a stupid little wave, which seemed to bring Draco back to himself. He turned away and began to sing again, and Parvati hissed, "Oh my goddddddd," in Harry's ear, making him feel even more awkward than he had originally.
Harry lost all sense of time as the concert continued. Draco changed costume several more times – each outfit somehow unsettling in its own way. A pale formal suit with a floor-length jacket covered in embroidered flowers, somehow reminiscent of formal robes. A soft black shirt and trousers covered in stars, his fingers and toes studded with rings that caught the light in flares of rainbows. A white T-shirt with a startling green snake pattern winding round Draco's torso, to curl, chokingly, around his neckline. He didn't look in Harry's direction again, but he dedicated a song, half-mockingly to my biggest fan; he knows who he is, which made Parvati squeal and nudge him again. It was the title track off his album: I love you. Harry couldn't bring himself to listen to the lyrics, could barely look in Draco's direction, in case his head exploded in embarrassment. He didn't know what Draco was playing at, but he was determined not to let him mess with his head any more than he already had.
As Draco said, "Goodnight, everyone, I love you!" and left the stage to a soundtrack of hoarse, despairing screaming, Harry felt a bit like he'd been hit by the Knight Bus. He was trembling slightly, his ears were ringing, and his brain kept going round and round and round, unable to settle on anything other than Draco. The lights didn't turn on though, and the screaming didn't stop.
"He'll do an encore," Parvati said in Harry's ear. "Bet you."
She was right. It wasn't long before Draco appeared back on stage, to whoops and squeals of delight, in another new outfit: a very sharp tailored black suit and white shirt, silver jewellery glinting at his wrists and neck. When he turned around, Harry saw there was a silver lightning bolt stitched into the back of his jacket. Harry reached up to press his scar uncomfortably, wondering what Luna had been thinking of when she'd chosen that particular motif.
Draco sang two more songs, and then headed to the back of the stage, waving goodbye. But rather than leaving the stage, he stood there and raised his arms high, legs spread wide. And a torrent of water gushed from the ceiling of the stage, waterfalling over him, soaking him to the skin as the fans screamed and screamed and screamed. Then the stage lights went dead, flooding the arena with darkness for a moment. When the lights were turned back on again, the arena also lit by over-bright ceiling lights this time, Draco was gone.
Harry blinked, dazzled by the lights. He felt exhausted, as if he'd been standing up for hours, and his skin felt weird. He scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. He needed a drink. He needed . . . Merlin, what was he meant to do next? He hadn't arranged a place to meet with Draco, had he? He didn't have the faintest idea how to get backstage, or even the name of the hotel Draco was staying at. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, noticing it was gone eleven, to find he had no reception. All around them, people were already starting to file out, girls clutching programmes tightly to their chests, their faces lit by inhuman happiness.
Parvati didn't look nearly as neat as when she'd started, Harry noticed. She, too, was beaming, her hair falling out of its neat plait and one of the straps of her top falling off her shoulder. He gestured vaguely towards her, and she grinned at him, fixing her top and pulling the hair tie out of her hair, unravelling her plait and shaking her long, sparkling hair free. "I want his autograph, even if he's not going to fall in love with me after all," she said, reaching over to poke him firmly in the side. "Can we do backstage?"
Could they? Harry didn't think 'dunno' would cut it here, but Parvati was already waving to the nearest security guard. "Excuse me," she said very politely, "but my friend here was given complimentary tickets by Draco Malfoy himself. Are we on the guest list to go backstage?"
The guard looked unimpressed. "Name?" he grunted.
"Harry Potter," Harry said, after a pointed look from Parvati.
The guard took a step away and talked, very low, into a walkie-talkie in his hand. "This way," he said gruffly when he'd finished, gesturing towards a side exit that led into the narrow channel between the seating and the stairs.
Parvati practically ran for it, Harry bringing up the rear and feeling very peculiar. They followed the guard around the side of the stage and out into an enormous cavernous space, busy with burly men pushing equipment around on trolleys. They passed through a door and into a more familiar-feeling space: a long but very narrow corridor, white walls, speckled grey flooring. The guard knocked at one of the doors, and Pansy stuck her head round it. "Yes?" she said, and then groaned out loud. "Oh damn, not you again," she said, but she waved the security guard away, giving Parvati a curious stare. "Come on then," she said, ushering them through.
The large room was packed with people: Luna – who waved enthusiastically when she saw him – was sitting with the musicians Harry had noticed from the stage, and there were men with cameras, and people who Harry thought might be venue staff. A handful of girls about Harry's own age sat in a corner on a pair of sofas, looking excited but terrified, clutching programmes in their hands. "Kindred spirits," Parvati murmured, and went over to join them, leaving Harry standing like a lemon in the middle of the room.
"Can I get you a nice bottle of water?" Pansy said from by Harry's ear. She had a glass of wine in her hand. "I'm presuming you're not old enough to drink."
Harry wasn't rising to the bait. And besides, everybody else seemed to be drinking water, pretty much; there were plastic bottles scattered on all the surfaces, along with trays of artfully arranged fruit and tiny cheeses. "Water is fine, thank you," he said, and tried not to grin at the look of disappointment on Pansy's face as she passed him a bottle from the tiny bar.
"Draco's just changing," Pansy said casually. "Be nice when he gets here – but not too nice, understand?" she added, just loud enough for Harry to hear. "He's a pain in the arse, he really is," she said, and then – to Harry's surprise – grinned at him, her lips very red and her black bob swinging in front of one eye. "I hope you're not going to be a pain in the arse, too?"
"Harry is always a pain in the arse," Draco said from somewhere behind Harry, nearly making him spill his water down his front. "For someone with your job," Draco said levelly as Harry turned around, "you really do have shit reflexes."
Harry nearly choked all over again. Draco was wearing an outfit that should have been completely ludicrous, and yet somehow just looked fun and quirky: a loose white T-shirt under navy dungarees, his hair hidden under a dark-orange furry hat with what appeared to be a scarf attached on either side. The hat had ears like a bear.
Draco smirked at him and waved one end of the scarf. "It's got gloves attached, look," he said, sticking his hand in a pocket at the end of it. He was still glittering faintly, his skin sparkling under the ceiling lights every time he moved.
Pansy gave him a little shove. "Go and greet your fans, Draco, and then you can piss about with Harry afterwards. I've arranged your usual driver."
"Yes, Mum," Draco said, rolling his eyes, and wandering off towards the women, followed by a man dressed head to toe in black and who was, in shape, roughly as wide as the room itself. Harry thought he'd seen him before, but couldn't remember where, too occupied watching Draco go. Draco's back stiffened – presumably as he recognised Parvati, Harry thought, realising he probably should have warned him – and then he relaxed as he took a pen and started signing things.
Pansy took a large swig of her wine. "All right then, Mr Pain in the Arse, let's get you in a car," she said, and started to guide Harry towards the exit.
"Sorry?" Harry asked, wondering if he should be resisting. This was Pansy, after all; he couldn't trust her then, so why should he trust her now? "Are you trying to get rid of me?" he asked crossly. "I haven't even said goodbye to my friend."
"The girl?" Pansy said without much interest. "I can arrange a taxi home for her, if you like." Then she snorted. "Oh, I see. No, I'm not trying to spoil your evening, my love. But if you think I'm letting you be papped leaving with Draco, you must have a poor opinion of my management skills," she said as she took Harry by the arm and pulled him out the door.
Harry blinked at her. "Papped?"
"Paparazzi? Photographers?" Pansy said, raising her eyebrows. "God, talking to you is like talking to someone who's never visited this planet before. It's like talking to Draco this past week or so, and I don't say that as a compliment. I think meeting you might have addled his brain. Come on," she continued, leading the way through the corridor and out a sturdy door at the end that led to an area reminiscent of a car park. More burly men were lugging things about, and a large tour bus was parked at one end, along with several cars.
Pansy approached one of the smaller cars, pulling a keyring out of her pocket, pointing it towards the car with her arm outstretched – a classic wand stance – and pressing on it. The car emitted a beeping noise and then a click, and Pansy pulled the driver's side door open. "Alohomora," Harry muttered.
"What?" Pansy said, as if he was weird, and then said, "Get in, then," as she bent to get in the car herself.
Harry got in.
^^^^^^
Draco's hotel was on Whitehall, just to make things even weirder than they already were. Harry had passed it dozens of times when he left the Ministry, without really noticing it. The imposing building was just another imposing building on a street that was so wealthy it made Harry itch.
"You talk the perfect amount," Pansy said as she got out of the car and tossed her keys to a neatly-suited staff member standing outside the hotel. "Thank you."
Harry tried to remember if he'd said anything at all during the forty minute journey; Pansy had driven too fast for comfort, and when he hadn't been fearing for his life – it would be ironic to survive Voldemort and die in a car crash, he thought wryly – he'd been too busy stressing out about the night ahead. "I didn't say anything," he concluded.
"Yes, precisely," Pansy said, stretching widely. She shot him a look. "Sorry, I'm not being a cow. I've just spent the whole day talking, and if I have to make any more pleasant but pointless small talk about Draco, love him though I do, I think I might scream."
"Were you good friends at school, then?" Harry asked, without thinking.
Pansy snorted. "I knew it was too good to last. Yes, we were great friends," she said as she led the way up the small flight of steps outside the hotel. "I knew from the moment I met him that he something special. His family are connected to royalty, you know. My family are practically royalty when it comes to show business, and I only had to pull a few strings to get him signed by his current record label. His father talked to my father about it, you know, but it was really down to me." She looked proud, but Harry just felt irritated to discover that – surprise, surprise – in this reality, Draco was the Muggle equivalent of a pure-blood, seemingly handed everything on a plate. Pansy shot him a look. "We can't all drag ourselves out of the gutter," she said matter-of-factly as a top-hatted doorman held the door open for them to pass through. "What is it that you do, exactly, Harry?"
"I work in a shop," Harry said coldly. "Tills. Stacking shelves. That kind of thing."
Pansy screwed up her nose. "Gosh," she said. "I don't think I've ever talked to a shop-worker before. Socially, I mean."
Harry tried not to grind his teeth.
Pansy swept over to the reception desk. "This is Harry," she said to the smiling man behind the counter. "Harry Potter. He's working for Mr Malfoy and will need access to his suite."
"Of course," the man murmured, pressing a tiny bell which summoned another immaculately dressed, smiling hotel worker. "Please, Mr Potter, follow my colleague and we'll show you to the Musician's Suite immediately."
Pansy turned to go, and then stopped. "Do you have my phone number?" she asked, turning back.
Harry didn't; he didn't want it. "No," he said flatly.
Pansy rolled her eyes. "No need to sulk because I pointed out a few home truths. Here—" She passed him a business card, which he reluctantly put in his coat pocket. "Call me if you need me. Draco will be back soon, I expect."
"Thanks," Harry said, vowing to never, ever call her, because she was Pansy, she fucking was, and as bad as he remembered her.
The hotel worker was waiting politely, but when Harry turned, he led him down a long, luxurious corridor and off down a side passage, to a row of lifts, each marked with the name of a suite. The man pressed a button and ushered Harry inside a lift that was practically gold-plated, the doors opening again inside an enormous, softly-lit living room, studded with sofas and with a grand piano in the corner. "Can I help sir with anything?" the man asked as Harry looked around, slightly bewildered. "A cocktail? A glass of wine from the private cellar? The menu rests here," he said, indicating a sideboard. "No?" he continued when Harry shook his head, flustered. "Well, if sir requires anything at all, please ring the bell here –" he indicated a tasselled rope hanging on the wall – "and I will attend immediately."
"In the middle of the night?" Harry asked dubiously. It must be gone midnight, he thought.
"Any time, day or night," the man said, with a polite half-bow, and then vanished back into the lift, disappearing from view.
Harry looked around, feeling like an intruder in someone else's home. The room was nice enough, but it was enormous, and so neat that he felt dubious that it was occupied. He half expected a stranger to pop in at any moment and turf him out. He had a nervous poke about the room, finding a small but shiny bathroom covered in marble, and a long cupboard that when he took a closer look was actually a series of fridges, packed with champagne bottles. In the corner, a posh staircase curled up to another level, but it seemed too much of an imposition to go up and take a look.
Harry checked his phone; Draco hadn't texted. So, to pass the time, he went and nervously used the bathroom, washing his face and peering at himself in the mirror. He looked anxious. That done, he went and perched on the edge of one of the sofas, not wanting to disturb the perfectly plump cushions. He dug his phone back out of his pocket and texted Parvati: You get home OK?
Of course, knobber, she sent back. You with Draco?!!!
Harry texted No, because it was true.
Yeah, yeah, Parvati texted, which made him grin.
He set the phone on the coffee table in front of him and tugged the now very screwed up T-shirt she'd bought him out of the pocket of his new, non-rustly coat, looking at it more closely. The list of dates on the back were tour dates, he realised. Draco was going to travel extensively, by the looks of it. Harry didn't know why that annoyed him, but it did. He folded the T-shirt up roughly and put it on the coffee table too, moving his phone on top of it and trying to think calming thoughts as he waited for Draco to get back.
^^^^^^
Barely fifteen minutes later, Harry heard the sound of the lift door go, and he turned, half-expecting to see the hotel worker again.
It wasn't the hotel worker.
"What, you expecting the butler?" Draco said, kicking off his shoes as he came in and tugging the stupid animal hat off his head. His hair was wet and sticking up at odd angles.
Butler! Harry had the odd mental image of handing the butler a sock and telling him that he was now free.
"You are allowed to take your shoes off," Draco said, almost crossly, striding across the room towards the staircase. "Make yourself a drink, for fuck's sake. I'm going to take a shower. I'll have a large gin and tonic, no ice. Entertain yourself for a bit – there's a terrace with an amazing view upstairs."
And with that, Draco vanished up the staircase – or, rather, fled up the staircase, a little voice in Harry's head amended, suddenly wondering if Draco felt as nervous as he did. The thought was oddly bolstering, even if Draco was treating him a bit like a house-elf.
Harry managed to find the gin and mixed two drinks, taking a ginger sip of one. It had an odd, but not unpleasant, floral taste. Should he take them upstairs? He grabbed first the drinks, and then his courage, walking up the sweeping staircase and finding himself in a large hallway, with doors leading off to a bathroom – he could hear the shower going – and a bedroom. With some trepidation, he walked into the bedroom, putting the drinks down on a long side table, and finding the door to the roof terrace.
It was gorgeous outside, although there was a chill in the midnight air. He was high up, and sweeping in front of him were the lights of central London – the river Thames, criss-crossed by bridges; skyscrapers reaching for the heavens; the squat dome of St Paul's. It was so bright that the lights of the stars were faded and dull, but it didn't seem to matter, what with the twinkling glory of the city laid out beneath him. He should probably have brought the wand with him, Harry thought, and felt glad he hadn't, followed by sick at the reason behind that thought.
Draco cleared his throat behind him, and Harry turned, mouth going dry. Draco was practically naked, dressed only in a large bath sheet, slung low on his hips. He wasn't even properly dry, his torso studded with water droplets, stray bits of glitter still clinging to his wet skin and his hair dark with moisture. Draco was holding two glasses, and he leaned on the doorframe, holding out one hand. "Drink?" he suggested. "I'd come out, but there was once an incident with helicopters overhead, Pansy tells me, so I'd better not."
Harry swallowed hard again, approaching Draco and taking the drink. Up close, Draco was kind of terrifying: his gaze hard and almost mocking. But Harry had never been scared of Draco before, and he wasn't planning on starting now. "Thanks," he said, taking a sip. The alcohol burned pleasantly down his throat, and he wondered if he'd made the drink a bit too strong.
"Funny to see you with Parvati Patil," Draco said, stepping aside to let Harry back inside. "Didn't you take her to the Yule Ball?" He sounded fucked off.
"Yeah, and you took Pansy," Harry pointed out, looking round for a place to sit and only finding the enormous bed, which wasn't helpful.
"I work with Pansy now," Draco said coldly.
"And I work with Parvati," Harry said. "In a shop. On the check-out," he said.
Some of the tension in Draco's face drained away. "What's a check-out?" he asked.
Harry snorted. "You've been in a shop before, Draco," he said. "Don't wind me up."
Draco finally smiled, a little lopsided, and then took a long sip of his drink. "So . . ." he said, giving Harry a stare that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. "We doing this then?"
It suddenly seemed important to Harry to know whether if – when – they got back to reality, Draco would regret it. He'd told himself sternly in his head, dozens of times in the past few days, that he didn't particularly like Draco, even if he'd lost his mind and started to fancy him. And Draco clearly fancied him right back; had even told him he'd had dirty little fantasies about him before the wish world had even existed, for fuck's sake, although Harry still found that difficult to believe. So it didn't matter if Draco liked him as a person, did it? But he found now – faced with the prospect of taking off his clothes in front of Draco – that it did matter, quite a lot. At least, Harry told himself, trying not to panic, it was important that Draco didn't despise him, at a minimum. Looking at Draco now, Harry had no idea what he was thinking, or how he was feeling, other than strangely possessive.
"When we get back to the wizarding world . . ." he started carefully.
Draco scowled and took a long swig of his drink. "Seriously, Potter?" he said, by which Harry understood that Draco had definitely taken it the wrong way. "I'm hardly going to go around boasting about sucking another man's cock, am I? That would go down so well with all the pure-blood mothers looking to marry their daughters off. And I'm currently such a brilliant catch, remember."
"I didn't mean—!" Harry tried to interrupt.
"No, I bet," Draco snapped. "I'm sure you meant something much more—"
Harry hadn't come all this way to have a row. "Shut up, Draco," he found himself saying.
Draco stopped dead, eyes widening and a look of incredulity sliding across his face. "Shut up?" he repeated, as if he was about to kick off.
"Do you like me or not?" Harry asked, feeling awkward but determined to see this through.
Draco went pleasingly red in the face. "Sometimes, I have no idea how I feel about you," he said, which wasn't really an answer as far as Harry was concerned, but at least it wasn't a flat out denial. So he set his glass down on the closest flat surface, took several strides across the room towards an increasingly scarlet-faced Draco and, taking all his courage in his hands, leaned in and kissed him.
Draco dropped the glass in his hand, liquid flooding into Harry's socks.
"Argh!" Harry said, pulling away.
"You . . . you kissed me!" Draco said, sounding completely shocked.
"Er, yes?" Harry said, feeling like a wally. A wet-footed wally. He awkwardly bent down and tugged the damp socks off. "Should I not have?"
Draco stared at him for a moment, face still scarlet, and then he practically threw himself at Harry, their faces colliding in a way that was almost painful. His mouth was hard against Harry's, his kisses insistent, and Harry found it hard to catch his breath, he was so fucking into it. Harry parted his lips, and his tongue met Draco's – hot, and wet, and Draco let out a noise of pleasure that coursed all the way down Harry's spine.
Harry felt panic flare, bright and blinding, inside him for a brief moment – he was kissing a man; he was kissing Draco Malfoy – and then it burnt itself out, leaving behind only the inevitability of what was going to happen. Harry didn't want to want this, but he did, so fucking badly he couldn't stand it.
They half-stumbled, half-fell towards the edge of the bed, sitting down heavily, still kissing and kissing and kissing. Harry felt like he couldn't get enough. Draco was so warm, and when Harry reached over to put his hands on Draco's waist, his bare skin was warm too, and slightly damp, under Harry's fingertips.
The kiss slowed, and time seemed to slow down with it, until all there was in the world was Draco's skin, his mouth, his tongue. Harry ran his hands up and down Draco's sides, found the action made Draco moan into his mouth, so did it again, hands butting up against the towel at Draco's waist. Harry was already so hard that it was uncomfortable, his cock straining against his trouser leg. The thought that if he gently tugged at the towel, Draco would be completely naked next to him, was turning his mind to mush.
It seemed too fast and yet simultaneously too slow. So Harry just kept kissing, fingers sliding under the towel to nestle against Draco's sides. Kissing and kissing, and Draco just kept making tiny noises that seemed connected directly to Harry's cock. He began to wonder, madly, if he could actually come without being touched.
Finally, Draco pulled away. His face was still red, but his expression loose and blissed out. "Right then. You still want me to suck you off?" he asked, only slightly awkward beneath the confident veneer.
Harry felt his face explode with colour. "I– I– only if you want to!" he stammered.
Draco's lips curled in a smile that wasn't one hundred percent kind. "Yes, or no?" he asked.
"God yes," Harry managed, now unable to think of anything other than how much he wanted it.
Draco's smirk widened. "Say please."
"Yeah, fuck off," Harry said, regaining a bit of his self-control. He wasn't going to beg. There was only so much his dignity could take.
"So well brought up," Draco murmured sarcastically, but he still reached between them and started unbuttoning Harry's shirt buttons, sliding the shirt off slowly once he was finished and then reaching for Harry's belt. "Up," Draco said, giving him an encouraging shove. Harry didn't need the encouragement; he sprung up from the edge of the bed and turned to face Draco, heart pounding like a drum as Draco undid first his belt buckle and then the top button of his trousers. He felt exposed and almost stupid, even with his trousers on, his erection tenting his trousers so much that it was impossible to miss.
Draco, barely breathing now, went for his fly, fingers trailing over the fabric covering Harry's crotch as he did so. Harry gasped, the noise embarrassingly loud in the quiet room, his cock straining even harder. He felt light-headed and hot, his cock throbbing with pressure.
Harry felt the urge to kiss Draco again, and he bent his head down, wiping the smirk off Draco's face almost instantaneously. God. Draco kissed like a dream; the pressure just right. The speed just right. Harry thought he could come from just this. The feel of him. The sound of him.
Draco pulled away, pressing his face into the side of Harry's neck and sucking slow, soft kisses against his skin. It was almost weird, but definitely amazing, the feeling tingly and unnerving, and Harry stretched his head to the side further to give Draco greater access, twisting to sit beside him on the bed once again.
"So fucking lazy," Draco murmured against his skin, which Harry thought was unfair, but he couldn't be bothered to answer. "All right then," Draco said, sounding warm and amused, and he pulled away, briefly standing up, before sinking to his knees on the soft, thick carpet, to sit in front of Harry. Harry twisted back to face him, only to find himself unable to look Draco in the eye as Draco hooked his fingers into Harry's waistband. "Up," Draco ordered, and Harry lifted his bum as Draco dragged down his trousers, and then found himself making an extremely embarrassing noise when Draco leaned in between his thighs – and there was no other way of describing it – nuzzled his cock through his boxer shorts, rubbing his cheeks, his mouth, over the fabric.
Harry's legs felt all trembly. Fucking hell – he was really going to do this. He was going to let another bloke . . . He – he thought that if Draco threatened to stop now, he was going to beg another bloke . . .
Draco kissed the inside of his thigh. "All right?" he asked, and sat back to give Harry a level look. "Not freaking out?"
Harry was freaking out, but he couldn't tell if it was in a bad way or not. His stomach felt like it was full of squirmy things, his cock and balls aching to be touched. "I'm fine!" he managed, spreading his thighs wider in an attempt to give himself some relief.
Draco was still looking at him. "OK," Draco said eventually, reaching down to cup Harry's cock in his palm. Harry could feel his face flushing, couldn't look away from Draco's face as Draco started to rub him through his boxers, slow but firm. The fabric dragged over his cock, the warmth of Draco's hand leaching through the fabric. It was delicious, and infuriating, and a bloke had his hand on his cock. "Sure?" Draco asked, hand still moving.
Harry nodded, very hard, feeling unable to speak he was so turned on. He pushed his hips against Draco's hand, felt even redder when Draco's lips quirked into a smug smile. Draco – still not taking his eyes off Harry's face – moved his hand and then Harry could feel fingers against his sides again. He lifted his arse in anticipation, and Draco tugged his boxers down, and off.
Harry felt very exposed, sitting there naked in front of Draco, particularly when Draco dropped his gaze briefly to look at Harry's cock. Then Draco was reaching his chin up for an awkward kiss again, and Harry sank into it.
Draco pulled away, and as he did so, he wrapped a hand around Harry's cock and started jerking him off, slow but firm. Harry didn't think he'd ever been so embarrassed and so turned on. It was excruciatingly delicious, Draco watching him intently as he squirmed and twitched, every movement of Draco's wrist making warm, delicious pressure build inside him.
It was . . . it was almost too much. He groaned, and Draco's lips parted before he pressed them together again, his hand moving away from Harry's cock. And then – sweet Merlin – Draco had his head between Harry's legs. Just kissing the inside of his thighs, to start with, as Harry's cock ached and ached and ached. But moving closer in, to nuzzle – and lick – his balls. Harry curled his toes and tried to breathe steadily, but the first swipe of Draco's tongue along his cock nearly had him losing control, just the sight of it was so hot.
Draco spent several long, torturous minutes just licking. The feeling was ticklish and arousing, but not satisfying. Harry curled his fingers in the duvet on the bed and tried not to go mad, tried not to push his cock in Draco's face to make him suck it. The arousal was making him feel twitchy and shivery, and every time his cockhead released a drop of precum, Draco licked it off, the sensation almost too intense to tolerate.
"Please," Harry found himself saying, clenching his thighs, tightening his hands in the bedcovers. "Please, Draco, please."
Draco snorted, soft and self-satisfied. "Finally," he murmured, and a tiny part of Harry felt like he should resent that, screamed out against it, but his cock was in charge and he found he didn't actually care, as long as Draco gave him some relief.
Draco took another long, flat lick, and then another, before raising his eyes to meet Harry's and – Harry tried not to come on the spot – opening his mouth and taking in Harry's cock a couple of inches. It felt amazing. Draco's mouth was warm and wet, and then he started moving – sliding his head up and down, a firm, wet, pressure building around Harry's cock. He was taking more in with each slide, his lips now wet. Harry watched his cock disappearing into Draco's mouth, thought he'd never seen anything hotter in his life, and never would again. Everything was wet, and hot, and tight. Draco was straining his neck to look him in the eye, moaning as he sucked.
Harry was moaning too now, overwhelmed by the heat, the pressure. The sight before him. Draco on his knees, his mouth full. It couldn't be real. And yet. Draco kept sucking. The pressure kept building, and building, and building. Harry could feel his thighs shaking, threw back his head, then managed to look back down again at Draco. "I'm going to . . . fuck . . ." Harry said, clenching his stomach muscles rigid in an effort not to come yet.
Draco just kept on sucking though, a steady, slow, unbearable pressure. Harry started swearing, now unable to stop his legs from actually shaking. He thought he might fall off the bed. He was so close. So close. So—
Harry felt the pressure peak, and he couldn't hold off any longer. His orgasm hit him like an explosion, and he was coming in waves, the pressure rising and falling as he came helplessly into Draco's mouth.
Draco held still, and then continued to suck, very gently. Harry felt his eyes roll back in his head, couldn't stop juddering.
"Well, that was something," Draco said, sounding hoarse and incredibly smug all at once. Harry shot a look at him, and he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his face still shiny with spit. "You taste OK," he said.
"Thanks," Harry said, not sure how to reply to that one. He felt strung out and blissful, and fucking hell, he wanted to do that again, right now, and then again for luck. Except . . . he didn't want to do exactly that, did he? "Come here," he said, tugging on Draco's arm to get him to stand up.
Draco rose, keeping a firm grip on the towel around his waist which was threatening to slide off. Harry raised his eyebrows. "You don't want . . .?" he said.
Draco flushed, looking more embarrassed than when he'd had Harry's cock in his mouth. But he raised his chin and released his grip, the towel sliding off his waist and pooling at his feet.
Harry stared. Draco's cock was very hard, and very red, compared to Draco's pale skin. It jutted out from a bush of pale curly hairs, proud and thick. Harry had never seen another bloke's hard-on before, and the sight was both arousing and intimidating. "Come and lie down," Harry mumbled, shuffling up the bed and lying back against the mound of pillows.
Draco paused for a moment, then came to lie awkwardly beside him. "You don't have to," he said, which Harry thought was kind of ridiculous.
"I want to," he said, which also sounded ridiculous – why did they have to say anything out loud? Surely silence was much easier on the nerves. His glasses were now digging into his face uncomfortably, so he tugged them off and turned briefly to put them on the bedside table. "Er, tell me if you like it a different way," he said when he'd turned back to face Draco, and he reached down between their bodies and took Draco's cock in his hand. It was hot to the touch, and as Harry wrapped his fingers round it and took a tentative stroke, he could feel it swell even further inside his grip.
"Oh God," Draco said, small and controlled, and leant forward to kiss Harry.
It felt incredibly weird, touching another man, but within about five seconds Harry had decided he was perfectly happy with it, and actually, if Draco would continue squirming like that he'd be happy to do it a lot more. Draco was practically fucking his mouth with his tongue now, and that was also a bit weird, Harry thought in a dazed way, tasting his own come in Draco Malfoy's mouth, but again, it was something he decided he'd like a lot more practise at.
Harry jerked Draco how he liked to be touched himself when he was already pretty turned on – holding his cock firm, his strokes long and quick. Draco seemed to be enjoying it, Harry thought, by the way he was kissing him. By the little grunts and sobs he was making. By the way he was almost fucking Harry's hand, in rhythm with Harry's movements.
In only a few minutes, Draco stopped kissing Harry, his mouth pressed open and hard against Harry's mouth, and started jerking. Harry felt his hand, his stomach, grow wet. He continued stroking Draco until he reached down to bat Harry's hand away, Draco then kissing him over and over, pressing their bodies together until Harry was panting and hard again already.
Draco reached down and started to jerk him off again, and they lay there like that, kissing and kissing, Draco's hand working between his legs, while Harry lost his mind all over again.
^^^^^^
After, as Harry's brain made what he considered a very heroic attempt to turn back on again, he did some simple arithmetic and worked out that he'd not been much of a gentleman. Draco had turned to lie flat on his back, and Harry thought about just reaching over and giving his cock another stroke, but he wasn't hard again, and this gave Harry pause for thought. Did . . . Draco not want another go? Harry had definitely wanted another go. Could, in fact, be persuaded to enthusiastically participate in a fourth go, given a short rest.
"Do you not want . . .?" he mumbled, and then decided better of it, rolling face first into the pillow and deciding suffocation would be a fine end to the evening.
Draco laughed, but to Harry's embarrassed ears, the sound was warm and mocking, rather than just mocking. It made a difference. "Of course I want," he said, "but I've jerked off so much recently thinking about this, I think my dick's gone on strike."
Harry was glad his face was in the pillow; Draco wouldn't be able to see him blushing.
"The back of your neck's gone bright red," Draco said, now more mocking, but Harry felt a warm hand rest between his shoulder blades, stroking down his back to sit at the base of his spine. Harry felt like he could sink into the mattress and happily float away. "Anyway, we can have another go tomorrow morning," Draco added, matter-of-fact. "I don't have to sound-check till four."
Sound-check? Harry remembered, feeling like an idiot, that Draco was a pop star now. He'd seen him in concert earlier than evening, hadn't he? It felt like years ago. Before he'd . . . done the gay stuff. Harry considered this, the scent of the hotel linen thick in his nose. He'd had gay sex, even though they hadn't tried any . . . arse stuff. Was he meant to be freaking out properly now? He didn't feel like freaking out over that. If he was going to freak out about anything, he thought, a little thrown by the realisation, it was that he was in bed with Draco Malfoy, more than the fact that Draco was a bloke.
Harry removed his face from the pillow before he could suffocate, turning to find that Draco was now on his side, facing him. "You've still got glitter on your face," he said stupidly, noticing faint twinkles on Draco's cheeks; the other side of the bedroom was a blur, but Draco's face was so close, he was almost in perfect focus.
"Bastard stuff's impossible to get rid of," Draco said, hand now resting on Harry's side. "It's on your face too now, by the way."
Harry resisted the urge to get up and check. He didn't think he could move, anyway.
Draco's face did something complicated, and then he reached up to push Harry's hair out of his face, rubbing his thumb over the scar on Harry's forehead. "I don't know why I was jealous of this," he said eventually, looking somewhere over Harry's shoulder. "Does it still hurt?"
"Not since Voldemort died," Harry said uncomfortably. "And yours – does that . . .?"
Draco looked very tired and worn all of a sudden. He took his hand out of Harry's hair, to stare at the faint trails of the Dark Mark on his inner arm. "It only hurt whenever the Dark Lord activated it," he said. "Now it's just a shit tattoo and a shit reminder of my terrible choices. At least the fucking thing's faded to almost nothing now the bastard's dead."
Harry wondered if he'd feel different about lying next to Draco if the Dark Mark was always black and vivid on his inner arm, rather than so pale and transparent that he could barely see it, even when he had his glasses on. He wasn't sure, didn't want to probe that one too hard in case he didn't like what he found.
"To be fair though," Draco continued, low and sulky, "my choices were between taking the Dark Mark and trying to save both mine and my father's lives or rejecting the Dark Mark and being murdered on the spot. Maybe you would have heroically chosen differently, but I'm fairly pleased to still be alive, despite everything."
Harry remembered – bizarrely – the T-shirt Draco had worn on stage, earlier that night. The bright green snake, winding round his torso and curling chokingly round his neck. "Is your pillow talk always so sexy?" he asked, finding the whole conversation unamusing. "I'm glad you're alive too. I saved your life when you and your friends were trying to kill me, if you remember."
"And I saved yours right back," Draco flashed back.
There was an awkward, curdled silence. Harry didn't know what to say, wondering how he could ever have been naïve enough to have thought sleeping with Draco wouldn't lead to horrible conversations about the past that he didn't want to have.
"Did you really think I was trying to kill you?" Draco said wearily after a while. "I seem to remember things differently to you."
"Weren't you?" Harry asked. "You were going to turn me over to Voldemort. What did you think he was going to do? Read me a bedtime story?" Sometimes he could still smell the Room of Requirement burning. He shivered, trying not to remember. He hadn't liked Crabbe, but that wasn't the point.
"I just wanted to stop you winning, get into the Dark Lord's good books so he'd leave my father alone," Draco said bitterly. Then he sighed. "I suppose you see that as the same, but I never wanted you actually dead."
It was a pretty fucking fine line, Harry thought.
"Well, apart from when my father went to Azkaban," Draco continued relentlessly. "I think I wanted you dead then. But after that . . . I couldn't have fucking cared less what happened to you."
"You . . . you were good tonight," Harry said, to change the subject, because he was too tired for this shit. "The concert, I mean."
Draco seemed to consider this, his face still pinched with horrible memories, and then he relaxed fractionally, his forehead smoothing out. "All right," he said, still sharp and bitter. "We can talk about something else. You thought I was good?"
Harry could feel an argument still brewing in the air, whipping up gusts of bad feeling. "Yes, very," he said firmly, because it was true. Draco wasn't an amazing singer, and he wasn't an amazing dancer either, but he'd had the audience eating out of the palm of his hand the entire night. When he was on stage, Harry had found it almost impossible to look away.
"I . . . thank you," Draco said, now sounding puzzled. His eyes met Harry's; they were very pale, and Harry wondered if they were blue or grey. He'd always thought of them as grey, and cold, but close up he could see swirls of whites and blues and greys. Draco's eyes were made of smoke – misty and electric all at once. "Aren't you going to ask me about my newfound love of Muggles?" he continued after a moment, a challenge in his voice.
Harry pressed his lips together to stop himself saying anything unhelpful, and Draco looked away. "You know, on the first morning when I woke up to find myself in this place, practically a Muggle, I thought it was revolting," Draco continued, and paused, as if daring Harry to say something. Harry didn't. "But . . . then I found out that Pansy was my manager. Pansy! And . . . I met Luna, and Blaise, and . . ." He didn't seem to know how to describe it, frustration in his voice. He reached up to scratch through his hair. "I don't know what they are here – Muggles, wizards who haven't found their powers yet, Squibs. But they seem just the same as they are back in the real world." He made a noise of disgust. "Pansy is just so . . . . You know we haven't spoken since that last day at school . . .?"
Harry hadn't known that.
"I miss her so much, but she's so . . . I don't think she understood why I sided with the Dark Lord, in those last years. I think she enjoyed it too much. I never enjoyed it," Draco said flatly. "And I know you wanted to change the subject, but I just can't. I'm never a mess, except when you're around."
"Thanks for the compliment!" Harry said, stung.
"Don't get offended, for fuck's sake," Draco said. "We're talking about my issues right now, not yours."
A bone of contention stuck in Harry's throat. "Well, you'd better make it quick, because I understand you're only in London for a couple more days before you're pissing off to Europe."
For some reason, this seemed to actually amuse Draco. "Going to miss me after all?" he asked, lips quirking.
"No!" Harry said.
Draco stared at him.
"I just . . ." Harry amended, and then faltered, not sure what he wanted to say. "Don't be a dick," he said, rallying. "This is pretty weird, you have to admit. And it was you who said you didn't even want to be friends, remember?"
"Yes, I did say that," Draco agreed, and then seemed to be waiting for something. Finally, though, he shrugged, turning to roll away from Harry on to his back again. "You could always come with me," he suggested, very off-hand. "It's not like you have anything better to do."
The implication that Harry should follow Draco around Europe like some kind of Cruppie made Harry feel annoyed. "I have a job!" he said.
Draco snorted. "And you'll be a tragic loss to the world of retail, I'm sure."
"Parvati is relying on me," Harry said flatly. "And being a shop worker is nothing to be ashamed of, Muggle or not. Ron works in a shop."
"He owns the shop," Draco pointed out, voice now sounding a bit tight.
"So he's better than Trina, who also works there, because he's richer?" Harry said, the question coming out overly loud.
"For fuck's sake," Draco muttered under his breath. "I want you to come with me, OK?" he flared up. "Do you fucking want to come or not?"
"Well, yes," Harry said sulkily. "But not if you're going to be insulting to people who don't own half of Wiltshire."
"You could probably buy all of Wiltshire," Draco pointed out, still sounding cross, "the amount of Galleons you have in your Gringotts vault. Aren't you heir to the Sleekeazey fortune? You kept that one quiet at school."
"Probably didn't want to be looked down on as new money," Harry said arsily. "Also, I was kind of preoccupied at the time by being an orphan who was born to defend the world from evil, if you remember."
"Yes, yes, we all know about how you died to save the universe," Draco said, an eye roll in his voice, and then to Harry's bemusement Draco leaned forward and kissed him, very thoroughly. It took the sting out of the conversation somewhat, and when Draco finally pulled away, cheeks very pink, it was to say, "Oh, the things I'm going to do to you." He spoiled it slightly with a yawn he couldn't hold back.
Harry grinned, feeling the churning in his stomach calm down to be replaced by anticipation. And a memory of a promise he'd made to himself earlier flashed up in his mind. "If I agree to come – and I'm not quitting my job, you wanker, so it'll be dependent on if I can take it as a last-minute holiday – I have one condition," he said firmly.
"Oh?" Draco said, going still.
"Will you come and see Hermione with me tomorrow? I want to talk to her about ideas for breaking the spell. She's had some good suggestions, and . . . and you do want to help me get us back home, don't you?" Harry ended doubtfully, at the look on Draco's face. "I know I asked before, and you didn't exactly say yes, but we haven't really discussed it properly so far. I . . . I know it was pretty shit for you, how things turned out, but it doesn't mean the rest of your life has to be terrible too."
"Thanks for your insight," Draco said with aching politeness.
Harry tried not to frown, feeling massively conflicted.
"Yes, all right, don't look at me like that," Draco said. "I'll go and see Hermione with you. I suppose the sight of her fawning over me might be amusing, at least."
"Thanks," Harry said, deciding not to rise to the bait; he was too thankful that he didn't have a battle on his hands. He felt completely knackered. It must be gone two or three in the morning by now. "It's a shame I haven't managed to get in touch with Ron yet," he mumbled through a yawn. Not that he'd tried, he thought, feeling more determined to do so. "It would be good to see him too. Pick his brains."
"He has a brain to pick?" Draco asked with mock-surprise, and then grinned when Harry scowled at him. "God, you owe me," he said bafflingly, and then got up off the bed, going to where he'd left his clothes and rooting through the pockets.
Harry tried not to stare at his arse, and only managed it because he couldn't see properly without his glasses.
Draco came back with a phone in his hand, flopping back down next to Harry, his thumbs working. He paused, and then his phone made a buzzing noise. Draco screwed up his nose and then sent another text, chucking his phone carelessly on to his bedside table. "Sorted," he said. "Apparently, he'll have to bunk off training, but he was going to do that anyway because he's met a fit bird tonight and is about to . . ." Draco screwed up his face. "I can't even say it. Disgusting."
"I'm sorry," Harry said politely, "did you just text Ron?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "You'll be Head Auror in no time with a brain like that." And then, when Harry was deciding whether pushing Draco off the bed might be a good course of action, he said, "Ron and I went to school together, you know. He's been sending me texts pretty much every day. We appear to be . . ." He wrinkled his nose. "Friends."
"You're friends with Ron?" Harry asked, feeling hurt, and feeling ridiculous about feeling hurt. He wanted to say but Ron's MY friend, but kept it inside, where something so pathetic belonged.
Draco frowned. "Yes, odd isn't it? Apparently, our sporting rivalry was legendary, even though he plays in defence and I, allegedly, was a striker, whatever that means. I probably could have been a professional footballer too, if I'd chosen that rather than international singing stardom," he said lightly. "Multi-talented."
"I wonder how things would have been different if we'd been friends at school," Harry found himself saying.
Draco was silent for a long time. Then, finally, he said, his voice odd, "I wonder." He didn't wait for Harry to reply though, instead stretching over to turn off the light switch by the side of his bed and giving the covers a shove so he could slide under them. Harry followed suit, wondering if he should reach out and hug Draco, or if that would be odd. While he was wondering this though, tiredness overcame him, and at some point he fell asleep without having made a decision either way.