Archive of Our Own ^beta

Nothing good happens after midnight!

Harry could almost hear Hermione’s voice in his head, calling out the warning. Normally, Harry made it a rule to listen to her as much as possible, seeing as it was her decision-making that more often than not had saved his life, but he couldn’t be bothered tonight. With the club lights casting colorful patterns on his skin, the intense bass of the music the DJ preferred rattling his heart in his chest, and the numerous drinks he’d consumed allowing him to dance with abandon, unashamed, there was no way Harry was going home anytime soon.

He’d had just enough alcohol to teeter along the edge of pleasantly tipsy and drunk, still in control of himself but rather… spinny. He was more than content to ride out his buzz for as long as possible, but when his hairline had beaded with enough sweat that he could push his unruly hair away from his forehead and have it stay in place, Harry knew it was time to switch to water. He still had enough of his mental facilities to know that he didn’t want to spend the rest of the night hugging his toilet or his morning with a headache so agonizing it made him wish he had hopped onto the train when Dumbledore had given him the chance.

He moved through the crowd, relishing in the press of bodies against him. He had picked a muggle club for tonight, and he was grateful for it. There was nothing more freeing than the sense of anonymity he felt around muggles, knowing that whatever stares he felt were simply because someone found him attractive, or maybe even because he was dancing that poorly, but either way, it wasn’t because of the scar on his forehead.

The bar was packed with people jostling each other in their haste to get their drinks, but Harry was more than content to wait. He found a slice of unoccupied space and slid in quickly before it could be taken by someone else. Despite the alcohol thrumming through his veins, the effects of dancing for several hours on concrete floors were still making themselves known, so Harry leant against the bar to relieve some of the ache in his knees and ankles. He thought that at twenty-five he would be too young for joint pain, but apparently going through a war and suffering from malnourishment as a child would do that to a man.

It was as he was waiting to get the bartender’s attention that he heard it: a word that brought him right back to his time living with the Dursleys, when Uncle Vernon would laugh and jeer at the television, his voice dripping with derision and contempt.

“Poofter,” someone muttered, not said directly to someone but spoken clearly enough to be heard over the music.

“Excuse me?” A female voice replied, her tone cold.

“I said,” the first voice grew louder as he was addressed, “that he’s a poofter.”

“And? What’s it to you if he is?”

Harry looked down the bar to find an obviously posturing, absurdly large man a few people down from where he was leaning. He swept his gaze over the man’s back, sizing up whether or not he could take him down if it came to it. Despite not growing much taller than average, the Auror lifestyle had added plenty of muscle to Harry’s smaller frame, and with his Seeker reflexes, he was a force to be reckoned with in a fight.

“This club is no place for faggots,” he hissed, and Harry was moving before he even processed the words.

“Hey,” Harry called out over the music, drawing himself up to his full height and gripping the man on the shoulder.

The man turned to him, eyebrows furrowed and dark eyes glaring. He looked every bit the brute he was acting like: a sloping, protruding forehead, a thick neck, excessive muscle. His thin mouth was bent in a frown as he snarled, “What?”

“Leave them alone. They’re not bothering anyone.”

“They’re bothering me.”

From behind, the female voice snapped, “I didn’t realize we were dealing with the Queen of England.”

The man made to turn back to her, so Harry reached out and took a hold of his arm. “Look, it’s a free country. If them being here is such a problem for you, why don’t you just leave?”

“Why don’t you make me?” He sneered.

Harry sighed, rolling out his shoulders and widening his stance, putting his weight onto his back foot. He stared directly into the man’s eyes as he said, “I will if I have to.”

The snort he got in response was pure derision. It wasn’t unusual for Harry’s slighter frame to be underestimated, but he didn’t mind. It was an advantage, really.

Faster than the club lights could flash, Harry was sweeping behind the man, twisting his arm until his hand sat between his shoulder blades, and shoving him bodily into the bar top. The crowd around them gasped and tittered, the bartender finally seeming to sense a commotion as he scurried over.

“No fighting inside!”

“What do you think,” Harry whispered into the man’s ear, wrenching his arm up further and smirking at his pained cry. “Should we take this outside?”

Harry held firm while the man thrashed and struggled to get free, and eventually, the fight left him. He sagged against the counter, and Harry finally stepped back. Slowly, the man righted himself, making a show of dusting himself off before shoving past Harry and stalking off into the crowd towards the exit. Harry watched him leave, wanting to make sure he didn’t loop around to cause more problems.

Distracted, he asked, “Are you guys alright?”

“Potter?”

He looked over his shoulder to find a matching set of wide-eyed stares belonging to Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy.

“Er,” he blinked, “hi?”

Malfoy groaned, letting his head drop forward into his hands. “Of course it would be you.”

“Excuse me?”

“What he means to say, Potter,” Parkinson paused to elbow Malfoy roughly in the side, ignoring his responding yelp, “is thank you.”

“Er,” Harry said again, the picture of eloquence, “you’re welcome.”

Now that the initial shock has worn off, Harry was able to take in the changes to his former classmates’ appearances that had occurred in the years he had gone without seeing them. Parkinson looked much the same, her hair still styled in the sleek bob she had sported all throughout Hogwarts. She had clearly dressed up for the night out; her eyes were lined with a sharp wing, her lips a bold red, and her tight, black dress had a plunging neckline that drew the eye to her, admittedly, sizable breasts. When Harry realized where his eyes had landed, he quickly shifted his gaze back to her face, only to catch her smirking at him.

If Parkinson looked the same, then Malfoy looked like a different person altogether. He had gained back the weight he had lost during sixth year and his brief stay in Azkaban, his features losing their pointiness and gaining an air of aristocracy. His hair was no longer slicked back but hung in loose waves around his face, the ends of his hair barely kissing the nape of his neck. As Harry’s eyes scanned over him, he could see what had set the man off on his homophobic tirade. Malfoy wore a mesh top, his entire torso clearly visible through the material. His eyes had been lined as well, the black making the silver of his irises pop even more so than usual, and a smattering of glitter highlighted his cheekbones. When his hand snaked out to grip Parkinson’s arm as he shifted slightly under Harry’s scrutiny, Harry noticed that his fingernails had been painted black. He looked good. Confident.

“Can we buy you a drink, Potter?” Parkinson asked.

“No, thank you. I was going to switch to water.”

“Oh, boo.” Parkinson’s lips pursed in an exaggerated pout. “Don’t be a bore.”

“Pansy,” Malfoy hissed warningly, and Harry jolted. His voice had gotten deeper. He glanced at Harry, his gaze wary, and Harry found that he didn’t like being the cause of that unease. Perhaps it was the alcohol in his system, but Harry decided that he needed to learn more about what Malfoy had gotten up to in recent years.

“Alright,” Harry relented. He held up his index finger. “One drink.”

“One drink,” Parkinson repeated, but the way she smiled could only be described as ominous.

***

Despite his initial hesitance, Harry was having a marvelous time with the pair of Slytherins, though that could be due to the several shots Parkinson had coerced him into drinking. They had managed to find a small booth that was unoccupied along the edges of the club and were currently trying to talk to each other, though they ended up shouting more often than not over the loud music. Their conversations revolved mostly around reminiscing on their school days, but every so often, Parkinson of Malfoy would mention something interesting about what some of the classmates he hadn’t kept up with were currently up to. Still, he couldn’t help but feel nervous when Parkinson turned to him with a viscous glint in her eye.

“So, Harry,” she had insisted that everyone call each other by their first names since they were no longer school children with petty rivalries, “I’m hoping you can settle an old bet between Draco and me.”

Harry raised his eyebrows in question as Malfoy groaned aloud. “Do I want to know?”

“Of course you do. Don’t be silly, darling.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes as Harry choked on his drink, startled by the term of endearment.

“Now,” she continued with an air of grave importance, “back in school, us Slytherins were always bickering over the state of Gryffindor’s sexual affairs. See, some of us were convinced you were all self-righteous prudes, but others thought the noble thing was all an act and that you lot were really just kinky bastards.”

This time, Harry had been prepared and hadn’t taken a sip of his drink. It hadn’t mattered, though, because he still managed to choke on his saliva. Malfoy patted him lightly on the back as he tried to pull himself together, wheezing out, “What?”

“Well, it was rather rare for a Slytherin and a Gryffindor to get together, you see, so we were never sure if it was because of our rivalry or if you all were saving yourselves for marriage or some other such rot.”

Perhaps earlier in the night, Harry would’ve mustered up some indignance at the way Parkinson was talking about his House, but with the pleasant thrum of alcohol in his veins, he simply laughed.

“You know, we also wondered about that in school.”

“Oh?” Parkinson leaned forward, curious.

“We could never tell if Slytherins would be keeping themselves pure because of your traditional values or if you would be throwing orgies down in the dungeons.”

Parkinson hummed, considering, one sharp nail coming up to tap on her chin. “It was a bit of a mix. Many Slytherins didn’t care about the concept of virginity, since there are spells to make sure that nothing unexpected comes from a midnight romp, but certain members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were very strict with what they would and would not allow themselves to do.”

She cut her eyes meaningfully to Malfoy, and Harry whipped his head towards him, his mouth agape. “You’re a virgin?”

Malfoy scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be crude, Potter.”

“Harry,” Parkinson corrected.

“I should think not,” Malfoy drawled as he took a sip of his drink, but his cheeks had pinkened slightly in the dim light, and Harry refused to let himself be distracted.

“Are you?”

Malfoy set his drink down onto the table with a little more force than necessary, a few drops spilling over the side. He glared at Harry as he hissed, “I don’t see why it matters or why it’s any of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Harry said with a smirk as he leaned back in his seat. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Malfoy.”

“Draco,” Pansy corrected again, though she seemed content to sit back and watch Harry and Malfoy bicker.

“Of course not,” Draco snapped, “and I’m sure you’re very proud of your man-whore status, Potter.”

Harry just shrugged. Anyone keeping up with The Daily Prophet would assume that he was sleeping with half the wizarding population, since they seemed intent on taking photographs of him interacting with every witch he so much as makes eye contact with. No one seemed to believe him when he said that he really didn’t engage in casual sex at all, since every wix that he had hooked up with ended up selling the story to a publication. It was a part of the reason why he was at a Muggle club in the first place, but he didn’t feel like getting into all that here and now, especially not with Malfoy.

“I do think I’ve managed to snog someone from every House,” Harry paused, contemplating, “except Slytherin.”

“Charming,” Malfoy said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Harry turned to Parkinson and gave her a winning smile. “Care to make it a clean sweep?”

Parkinson snorted, reaching a perfectly manicured hand up to pat his cheek condescendingly.

“Oh, darling, you couldn’t handle all this.” She nodded her head at Malfoy, grinning wickedly. “Draco, on the other hand…”

“Potter’s not gay, Pansy.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” Harry turned to Malfoy, leaning across the table and resting his head against his fist. “I’m bi.”

“What?” The Slytherins asked in unison, Malfoy looking shocked and Parkinson looking like the cat who had gotten the cream.

“How has that not been front page news?” Malfoy asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged, blasé. “It took me several years to come to terms with it, if I’m being honest. And for a while after the war, Ginny and I were still together, so it didn’t really matter that some blokes caught my eye. By the time I got around to actually doing something about my attraction to men, I had learned enough to know not to pick up anyone from the wizarding world. Hence,” he motioned to the bustling room around them, “muggle clubs.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened as he leaned forward, brows furrowing. “You came here to pick up a man?”

“Hey, now!” Harry pointed an accusing finger at Malfoy, a small smile tugging at his lips despite his admonishing tone. “If I don’t get to make a big deal about the fact you’re a virgin at twenty-five, you certainly don’t get to make a stink about my sexuality.”

“Trust me, Harry, Draco has no room to judge,” Pansy said, snickering behind her palm as Malfoy turned to her in outrage.

“Pansy!”

Harry frowned, placing a hand on Parkinson’s arm to drag her arm away from where she and Malfoy were communicating silently through eye contact and wiggling eyebrows. “Hey. I know you and Malfoy are best friends and everything, but you shouldn’t out him like that.”

Pansy’s mouth dropped open in shock, and Harry continued.

“I’m practically a stranger at this point, and if he’s not comfortable with me knowing, then it should be his choice not to tell me.”

Pansy’s cheeks flushed pink, and she tugged her arm out of Harry’s grip sharply. She lowered her eyes to the table top, muttering, “You couldn’t tell just from his outfit? Just how bad are your eyes, Potter?”

“I thought I was Harry?” Harry gave her a small smile, and Pansy glanced up at him, though she still looked thoroughly chastised.

“Fine.”

Both he and Pansy looked up to find Malfoy watching them with a challenge in his expression, his mouth pressed in a firm line.

“Fine, what?”

“I’ll kiss you, Potter. Since you’re so desperate for it.” He shrugged as if he were unbothered, but there was no hiding how his pale skin was turning red, not even in the low lighting of the club.

Harry felt his eyes widen, and he rushed to say, “You don’t have to push yourself, Malfoy. I was joking.”

Malfoy raised a blond eyebrow, his voice haughty as he asked, “So, you don’t want to kiss me?”

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

If Harry was being honest, and the alcohol in his system was compelling him to be, Draco Malfoy had turned into one of the most attractive men Harry had ever seen. And, though he had been quieter than Parkinson this evening, it was clear that he wasn’t the same spoiled git that he had been back in school. In fact, Harry wouldn’t mind spending more time with him, preferably in an environment where they can actually hear each other and talk without having to shout themselves hoarse.

Plucking up his Gryffindor courage, Harry straightened and admitted, “No, I do.”

Malfoy blinked, startled, apparently not expecting Harry’s honesty. Parkinson brought a hand to her mouth to hide her smile, but her eyes still crinkled, giving her away. She stood abruptly, shoving her way bodily out of the booth before turning to give the two men a salacious wink.

“I’ll give you both some privacy. I’ve been dying to get on the dance floor, anyway.” With that, she spun on her heel and sauntered into the crush of grinding bodies, her hips swaying enticingly and drawing more than a few pairs of eyes before she disappeared out of sight.

They stared after her for a few moments before Harry chanced a glance at Malfoy. His face was bright red, and he was looking everywhere but at Harry. It was rather endearing, actually.

“We don’t have to, you know. I won’t be offended if you’ve changed your mind.”

“No,” Malfoy said, looking at Harry with a determined gleam in his eyes. He patted the space beside him, the leather cracked from years of use. “Come here, then.”

Harry slid around until he was next to Malfoy, their knees knocking together slightly from where they were facing each other. Slowly so as to give Malfoy enough time to change his mind, Harry lifted his hand to Malfoy’s neck, his fingers sliding into the silky strands of his hair, and his thumb rubbing gently across his cheek. Malfoy seemed to stiffen more and more with every moment that passed, and a thought crossed his mind.

“Have you kissed anyone before?”

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, just kiss me,” Malfoy scoffed, his tone indignant but his voice shaking slightly.

Closing the distance between them, Harry brought their lips together. He held himself there for a few moments, allowing for Malfoy to get used to the feeling. When he remained frozen, Harry pulled back just enough to be able to see his expression. Malfoy’s eyes were still closed, his lips parted slightly. Harry moved away fully, and Malfoy opened his eyes, a furrow growing between his eyebrows.

“Is that it?”

Harry couldn’t help chuckling. “At the most basic level, yes.”

“What if I wanted something more than just the basics?”

Malfoy was refusing to meet his gaze again, so Harry leaned back against the booth, attempting to project a benign air. “Typically, the next step would be to add tongue.”

Malfoy flinched as if struck, and Harry was just about to take back his words, when he nodded jerkily. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, Potter.” Malfoy turned back towards him. “Okay.”

Harry leaned in again, and this time, Malfoy met him halfway. Harry brought a hand up to Malfoy’s shoulder, pushing him gently until he’s sitting back against the booth. Opening his mouth slightly, Harry used his tongue to swipe against the seam of Malfoy’s lips. Malfoy jolted at the touch, and it took him a few moments to let Harry in. When he finally did, Harry slipped his tongue inside and pressed it gently against Malfoy’s. He adjusted the angle, moving his lips slowly until Malfoy got the memo and began to mimic his actions.

It was… pleasant. It wasn’t anything earth-shattering, and it was clear that Malfoy was inexperienced, but his expression when Harry pulled away more than made up for it; his face was flushed, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. His pupils were blown wide, and his head dipped to follow Harry until it registered that their kiss had ended.

“Oh,” he murmured, disappointment apparent in his tone as he brought a hand up to touch his lips.

Harry smiled, gesturing with a jerk of his chin to the room at large where a few of the nosier patrons were watching them and whispering to each other. “I didn’t want to get thrown out for public indecency, so I decided to stop there.”

Malfoy looked at the club around them as if just remembering where they were. He ducked his head in embarrassment, and Harry waved at those who were still staring at them, flashing them a grin until they finally turned away.

“We could,” Malfoy started quietly before lifting his head and darting forward to press a quick peck to Harry’s lips, “we could go somewhere more private.”

It was meant to be a suggestion, possibly even a flirty one, but the way Malfoy’s voice raised at the end of it made it sound more like a question.

“We could,” Harry conceded, waiting for Malfoy to look at him once more before continuing, “but I don’t think it would be a good idea."

A hurt expression flashed across Malfoy’s face before he schooled it into something flat. He began to clamber out of the booth, mumbling something about finding Pansy, but Harry gripped his wrist and pulled him back before he could get too far. Malfoy glared at him, but Harry just smiled.

“You didn’t let me finish. What I mean is: we've both had plenty to drink, and I don’t want to rush into anything.”

Malfoy straightened. “I am still more than capable of making decisions, Potter.”

“Then, how about you decide whether or not you’d like to go out with me tomorrow night? Properly.”

“Properly,” Malfoy repeated, both of his eyebrows raising.

“Properly,” Harry confirmed with a nod. “Flowers, dinner. I’ll even attempt to wrangle my hair into something stylish.”

Malfoy snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“So?”

Malfoy pretended to consider it before he broke into a wide grin and nodded. “Alright. I’ll go out with you, since you seem so desperate for me to say yes.”

Harry was sure that his responding smile was blinding, and he leaned in to seal their agreement with a kiss.