Recipient's name: For dragonfly_lily
Summary: Of all the bars in all the world, Draco had
to walk into Harry's.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters are copyrighted to J.K. Rowling and her licensees, and their trademark belongs to The WB. No copyright and/or trademark infringement is intended.
Of all the bars in all the world, he’d ended up in this one. But Harry’s bar was dark and quiet and Draco liked it just fine. He sat at the bar most nights, staring into his whiskey, daring anyone to approach him.
Lately, though, things in the bar had changed and Draco didn’t like it. He didn’t like change. The word had got out that Harry’s was welcoming of “Friends of Celestina”, so to speak, and Draco watched as the place gradually filled up with vacuous twinks over the course of several months.
All he wanted was to sulk into his whiskey. He was good at sulking. But it wasn’t easy to do with fluttery boys nancing about the bar.
On the night in question, he was watching the bartender, Tim, flirt with a blond man wearing eyeliner and glitter. Draco, who was used to having Tim’s attention, didn’t appreciate the competition. He frowned and toyed with his glass. Another refuge, shattered.
He and Potter weren’t exactly friends. If pressed, he would admit that he didn’t know exactly what he and Potter were. Enemies was too strong a word for it, especially after fighting together in the war. He didn’t have a burning urge to strangle Potter, and he was pretty sure Potter felt the same. If that was a sort of détente, Draco was fine with that. They tolerated each other, and Potter left Draco alone. Plus, Potter’s bar—Draco couldn’t be arsed to remember the name--had the best whiskey in town.
The twinks had got to be too much, though, and Draco was considering his options. The war had left him with a growing need for novocaine, which whiskey worked quite well for, but Potter’s was the only place where people left him alone. He wasn’t really aware that he was actually snarling at the boys who had befouled his watering hole until Potter pointed it out one fateful night.
“That’s it. VIP lounge. Now.”
Draco looked up. “What?”
“Upstairs. You’re snarling and it’s bad for business.” Potter had that determined look on his face. He Meant Business.
Privately, Draco admitted the look was sort of hot.
“Bad for business? How about Tim the Enchanter there? I’ve been trying to get him to refill my drink for—“ he consulted his watch—“twenty seven minutes but no. He’s too busy flirting with Blond Assmunch to be bothered with the likes of me. See him helping anyone else? No, you don’t. He’s about as useful as that dying philodendron in the entry.”
Potter looked hurt. “It’s not dying.”
“Trust you to focus on the inane. It’s covered with brown spots and has three green leaves, one of which is shriveled up and resembles a burn survivor. It’s dying,” Draco assured him.
“I won’t have you scaring off the patrons. I mean it. Upstairs.”
“And what are you running anyway? A brothel? Because that boy in the corner is not, I am certain, hunting for a fork under the table.” Draco nodded in that direction, where one boy was indeed on his knees under the table, and from the grin of the boy seated on the banquette, no silverware was involved.
Potter was unmoved. “Upstairs.”
Sighing, Draco slid off his stool and followed Potter. “You’re going to lose all your regular custom. Twinks are fickle. They’ll be hanging out at the Cock and Balls next, you know.”
Harry opened the door to what must be the VIP lounge. “It’s Cock and Bull and yes, I know that could happen. Sit,” he said, gesturing to a leather couch.
Draco had to admit that the lounge was quite something. Polished wood floors, rich red leather couches and chairs, books on the walls, lush Oriental carpets, and lots of dark corners in which a boy could get into a lot of trouble if he so desired. It was more of a private living room than a lounge.
They were alone, though, and Draco walked to the windows. The lounge was on the top floor of the building, with expansive windows looking out over views of the entire city. It glittered in the dark below them, a false face on a much darker reality. Draco turned and accepted a glass of whiskey from Potter, who stood beside him. The silence grew between them until he could stand no more.
“I think I’m the only regular here, anyway.”
Potter sipped from his own glass. “No, there’re others. They’re just on a different schedule from you. I get a lot of people who work graveyard and come by for reinforcements before they go to work.”
“Anyone I know?” In the distance, the London Eye revolved and Draco briefly wondered if Potter had ever been on it.
“Snape, for one. He comes in with Luke.”
“Snape. I don’t get it. How could he possibly find anyone? He’s prickly, closed off, and impossible to get to know. His walls are harder to breach than the Tower, and he’s monstrously high maintenance.”
“And then there’s Snape,” Potter remarked.
Draco bristled. “What?”
“You just described yourself.”
“Did not!” Draco stopped himself, aware that he sounded like a 4-year-old, but dammit, Potter wasn’t being fair. Besides, Potter’s remark hurt more than he would have thought.
He felt the regard of those cool green eyes and swallowed.
“Sounds like a hit a nerve, hm?” Draco could have sworn he saw pity in the other man’s eyes and that pissed him off.
“Oh, fuck off.” Draco drained his drink and walked to the door. “If you wanted me to stop coming here, all you had to do was say something.” He stalked out, stung, though his grand exit was marred a bit by the fact that he tripped on the carpet in the doorway.
Draco’s grand snit lasted all of two weeks. He fully intended never to set foot in Potter’s establishment again, but no one else had that particular brand of whiskey and every other place was full of shouting baboons cleverly disguised as wizards. Some traitorous part of his mind whispered that he missed Potter, but he quickly dismissed it and strode in, sitting in his usual spot, noting that the philodendron in the entry was thriving.
Tim walked over. “Been a while.”
Tim smirked. “I’m sure. Scotch?”
Draco nodded and his drink appeared. He wouldn’t admit to himself that he was looking for Potter. He was just glancing around the room.
Potter appeared, soon enough, though, and Draco nearly smiled. Potter nearly smiled back, and walked over to him, one hand on his shoulder.
“Scotch all right? I just got back from Glasgow and picked that up. Thought you might like it.”
Draco was acutely aware of the warmth of Potter’s hand, and idly wondered if Potter was warm all over. “It’s fine.”
The scotch was very good, and as it warmed a trail down to his belly, it seemed to fill him with something he hadn’t felt in years. He turned to Potter.
“Can we talk?”
“We are talking,” Potter pointed out.
Draco sighed impatiently. “No, numbnuts. Upstairs. Can we talk upstairs?”
Potter grinned. “Of course we can talk upstairs. We can talk any place, really. We could do it in a boat. We could do it with a goat. We could do it here and there. We could do it anywhere.”
Draco’s heart plummeted into his stomach. The war had finally taken its toll on Potter and he’d gone mental. His face must have reflected his confusion because Potter laughed and took his arm. “Muggle literary reference.”
“Oh.” He made a note to introduce Potter to some wizard literature. If that’s what passed for Muggle lit, Draco was Unimpressed. They went upstairs, Potter leading, and Draco did not look at Potter’s arse.
Potter closed the door and walked over to the fireplace, lighting it. He sat on the couch, and, though the room was dark, Draco swore he could see those luminous green eyes following him. “So. Talk.”
“Talk. Right.” He took a few more sips of courage and sat on the other end of the couch. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. A few weeks ago. About… Snape.” He cursed inwardly. Hell of a time to chicken out, Malfoy.
“Ah. Snape. Right.” Draco heard the smile in Potter’s voice as he made a lazy gesture with one hand.
“And… you know, Snape is… well, he has a reason for being the way he is. But you… you weren’t completely wrong about him.”
Potter apparently decided to play along. “I wasn’t?”
“No. He’s… well, sure, he’s closed off. But he has a reason to be.”
“He just needs a good fuck.”
Somehow Draco’s glass had got full when he wasn’t looking. “He… well, actually, yes, he does. But I don’t know anyone who’d do it.”
“No? I’m sure there are people who would. People who might even want to. Some of us enjoy a challenge, you know, and… Snape… well, he is fascinating. All those layers. Imagine peeling them all away, getting to the naked truth underneath.”
Draco felt his face flush and took a long sip of Scotch.
“To have him laid bare before you, just waiting for you to find what makes him tick. What his desires are. His fantasies. And, I daresay, some would enjoy fulfilling them. Certainly someone would enjoy getting inside him.”
Oh God. The room was too hot now and the fire was casting shadows on Potter’s face and those eyes were watching him and suddenly Potter was right next to him.
“I… you…” Draco was surprised he managed that much.
Slowly, Potter reached out, taking the drink from Draco’s hand and putting it on the coffee table. “I do understand, you know,” he said softly. “I’ve been scared too.”
The protest was immediate. “I’m not…”
“Yes, you are. It’s all right. The war cost all of us. I know how much you miss him, but he’d want you to be happy. I know it hurt losing him, but you have to get past that.”
Richard. Draco could still remember him. His touch, his voice, his laugh.
But Richard was gone, killed in the war.
And it was time to pick up the pieces. Richard himself had made Draco promise that he’d find someone else.
Maybe that person wasn’t Potter.
But maybe he was good enough.
Draco swallowed and then Potter’s lips were on his, warm and much softer than he’d expected, and insistent. He kissed Potter back, melting into the other man’s touch, and then Potter’s tongue was dueling with his and all thoughts of war were forgotten.
Potter slid his lips down Draco’s neck, and Draco arched it, wanting more, wanting Potter, wanting everything. Potter seemed to understand, because he stood, stripping slowly. Draco watched the firelight on his skin, which seemed nearly translucent in the dim light, and quickly followed suit. Potter smiled, and pushed Draco down on the couch, which had suddenly got bigger.
Cradled in cool leather, he moaned as Potter kissed his way down his chest, tongue flirting with his nipples, lips skating over his belly and then finally planting kisses along the length of his cock, which was so hard now that it hurt. He moaned, incoherent, but then Potter swallowed him and slid a finger into him and his world shattered. Nothing else existed but this and them and even if they were… well, whatever they were, Draco had to admit the boy could suck cock like no other. He groaned and tensed up, warning Potter but that only served to increase the suction and he came so hard he felt his eardrums bulge out.
Panting, he lay there, in the leather’s embrace, aware only of Potter’s smile.
It was a very nice smile, but it grew wicked as Potter crawled up the length of his body, pushing his legs up.
“Gonna fuck me?” he managed.
“No, Malfoy, I’m going to perform an interpretative dance.”
Draco feebly swatted at him. “Funny. Get on with it, Potter.”
“Harry. That’s my name. I want to hear you moan my name as I fuck you.”
Okay, that was just sort of kinky and extremely hot and Draco had no trouble complying as Potter slid oh so slowly into him. Finally he began to move, moaning.
“God, Draco, you’re tight…”
“Yeah, I know you’re used to sheep, but—“ He moaned as Potter tilted his hips up, hitting a spot deep inside him that drove all snark out of his mind and he’d gladly shut up if only Potter would do that again.
And Potter—Harry—did it again and Draco moaned his name. Harry returned the favor, moaning Draco’s name as he came.
Draco slowly came back to reality, surprised to realize that he rather liked Harry’s warmth against him, and that Harry seemed to fit against him, and even if the boy was a giant, smug git, he was a brilliant fuck.
Potter chuckled sleepily.
“Just thinking that I’m glad you’re not Snape. He needs that, too, but I’m certainly not willing to do the job. I do know a sheep farmer in Yorkshire, though…”
“Makes me wonder if Snape uses button-pants,” Draco returned. “So that the sound of the zipper doesn’t scare off the sheep.”
Harry laughed, and the sound was happy, and normal, and comforting.
“Do all the clients who come to the VIP lounge get this treatment?”
Draco felt as if he’d been doused with cold water. “I… what?”
“Of course they do. This is actually my flat. Bedroom’s just through there.” Harry pointed to a doorway on the other side of the room.
“You mean I…” So it was just pity after all.
“Yes, Draco. You’re the only one I’ve ever brought to the VIP lounge,” Harry mumbled and fell asleep.
Something was wrong with him. He couldn’t speak, due to a huge lump on his throat. He was turning into a fuckinggirland that wouldn’t do.
But if Harry could make muffins like he could fuck, Draco decided he could live with the situation.