If someone asked fourteen-year-old Draco where he sees himself in ten years, he'd surely say that he’ll be rich and respected then. He'd probably imagine himself looking just like his father, holding his future wife's hand and probably having at least one son by then. He'd hope to work at the Ministry of Magic, have a big beautiful house and overall to live... exactly like his parents. Because that was all he knew then, and it was all he was taught to want.
And yet here he was. Twenty-four years old, looking nothing like his chewed and spit out by the war father, thank Merlin, not that he knew how exactly Lucius looked like now; he hasn't spoken to his parents in months, maybe years. Except for when they fought, and they fought a lot. He still talked with his ex-fiancée sometimes thought, and they were on fairly good terms now, she even tried to set him up with a guy one time. Didn’t work out but he was grateful for the effort. Instead of the Ministry, he worked at a nightclub. Not that he really needed to work; a Malfoy couldn't just be cut off from the entirety of the family fortune, not even if his parents hated him. He just enjoyed the muted, flashing lights, the loud music and all the people watching him with admiration while he danced. Or maybe it wasn’t admiration, maybe it was lust. Or jealousy. Whatever it was, it helped him forget about everything else, helped him to feel seen and wanted. It’s fair to say that Draco Malfoy is a complete disappointment to his parents. But not to himself.
Ever since the fourth year at Hogwarts (the end of it, more specifically, with the graveyard and Cedric's body that sometimes still haunted him in his dreams), Harry James Potter has had a weird feeling everything in his life was going downhill; sometimes more rapidly, like on a wicked rollercoaster headed towards doom, and sometimes very slowly and gently, making it somehow seem like the slope was actually facing upwards and things were actually getting better for once. Sure thing, they never actually did get better, not in the long run, because somehow, even if it wasn't that bad at the moment - even if it was good, very good, when Voldemort was no longer a threat to anyone and all Harry had to do was relax on the couch with his girlfriend and everything was just utterly great - reality always somehow managed to find a way of being a bitch.
OdpowiedzUsuńThe thing about reality was, Harry didn't really like it. As a kid, living under the stairs and pretending he doesn't exist most of the time so that Dursleys could live their perfect life in their perfect house, calm and peaceful, without any abnormalities - and then as an adult too. Because even though right after the war it all seemed to be taking the right turn, finally, obviously things didn't really last.
It took him by surprise, all of it, honestly; the nightmares he learned to live with, block the memories and not let himself appear too weak and too damaged, because that was what everyone expected of him - to be the great hero everyone wanted to see. But no one ever tells you that's how life after war is going to look like, and no one ever tells you how to deal with it. No one tells you what to expect. Ginny was there for him, holding him in her arms in the middle of the night until he calmed down enough to go back to sleep, rubbing his back and making him tea, telling him to breathe; she was always just there, up until the moment she wasn't. He never blamed her for leaving; couldn't blame himself either, because really, people come and go, and besides, miscarriage is never anyone's fault. It just happens. Like that.
So there he was; a single guy with nothing but a weird scar that's made muggles stare at him and young wizards and witched point at him in the crowd, whispering look, mum, that's Harry Potter! just loudly enough for him to hear. The press was still writing about him and his breakup after seven months (Merlin, has it really been that long?), but somehow he couldn't seem to bring himself to care.
The work was, for a lack of better term, draining. The nightmares, even more so.
"You look like shit," was all Ron said the last time he visited him and Hermione, eyeing his friend suspiciously. "You should go out, have some fun, forget about... stuff."
"Sure," Harry shrugged and sipped his tea in silence. He knew Ron cared and tried to help, but going out was the last thing on his mind right now.
And yet, somehow, about two weeks after that tea, he found himself in a club - strip club, which was, paradoxically, not the most surprising thing about the club itself. The most surprising one was definitely Draco Malfoy himself dancing on a pole in heels. And not much more than heels, unless one counted underwear and glitter on his eyelids.
Harry desperately wanted to count that underwear, because if he didn't, he'd have to admit he was getting turned on by his school enemy dancing almost naked and smirking down at him, and he was definitely not ready to do that. But Draco was tall and pale in a way Harry would never think he'd find attractive, and yet he did, and was that a boner he was having right now?
He only dared looking down at his own pants after Malfoy disappeared behind a curtain, and yes, that was a boner for sure if he ever saw one; groaning, he looked around, his glasses sliding dangerously close to the tip of his nose. The club was... nice, in this almost bourgeois kind of way, but still nice. He actually considered ordering a drink to soothe his nerves a bit, but then Draco fucking Malfoy made a reappearence, and shit, was he taller than Harry remembered when he turned around and was first faced with the other man's collar bone - and only then, after raising his head a bit, the sly smile and a raised brow.
Usuń"It was rather mediocre, I'd say. Almost amateur, you know," he couldn't stop his eyes from running off to the side and his own body from fidgeting. This wasn't a comfortable first meeting after the years, for various reasons, one of them being his treacherous libido, which has suddenly decided to rise in the worst moment possible. Why Draco Malfoy, of all people.
All of this was weird, just a very, very weird situation, and Harry's been in a lot of those in his life. Literally a lot, and yet this one was probably the most bizarre and in a way the most humiliating of all of them; standing there in the middle of a strip club (damn it, Ron should have warned him exactly what type of club he's recommending to him as a way to loosen up), trying to chat with his childhood enemy like nothing's wrong, and with a fucking boner. Because of Draco Malfoy, of all people. He must be going mad. Yes, he definitely was, there was no other logical explanation as to why his treacherous decided to react the way it did to the sight of a guy he used to hate with all of his might.
OdpowiedzUsuńBut here's the thing, this exact guy has now turned out to be tall and good-looking, with nice milky-coloured skin, and shit, were Harry's eyes wandering again? He bit his lower lip hard, fixing his eyes on a random spot right above Malfoy's right shoulder.
"I don't have time for fun," be blurted, getting angrier and angrier with every passing second. He was pretty sure it's his Gryffindor blood talking but he couldn't stop himself from picking up a fight, especially in a state he was in right now; especially with Draco fucking Malfoy. It was how their relationship has always looked, right? That must have been what Malfoy wanted, just some bickering and making fun of his childhood enemy, for the old times' sake. Yes, it definitely was that, and Harry went with it, because why wouldn't he, honestly?
He looked back at the other man, and the fact, that he had to look up to meet his eyes made him even more irritated. Some part of him knew perfectly well how it all has to look - Malfoy's made is really clear. He sounded like someone ashamed of the situation they've gotten themselves into and who's now trying their best trying to look casual and sound... Not suspicious at all. But, frankly, he was a horrible liar.
And that made him even angrier.
And so did the club itself. Harry suddenly started noticing the noise, the murmur of conversations, people laughing at the bar. How loud the music was and how harsh the lights looked when he was standing right next to the scene. He could feel a headache starting to burn somewhere inside his head, right behind his eyes.
"Can we take this somewhere more... private?" he grunted, moving his gaze to the side again. It was already a very uncomfortable meeting so the best he could do was to try and make it a bit less uncomfortable for himself. Because, honestly, he had no intentions of running away and giving up a quarrel. A thought crossed his mind that he might have actually kind of missed that, but he banished it quicker than it had appeared.
Harry didn't say it out loud, couldn't say it out loud or his own Gryffindor pride would open the earth beneath his and make it swallow him whole, or at least he thought that's exactly what would happen - but he was grateful. Grateful for the opportunity to step away from the pulsing sound of music filling the whole club and resonating in all of his bones all at once; it was actually making his head feel like it was ready to explode every second now, and the overly sweet smell (he couldn't quite put his finger on what the club smelled like, he just knew it was sweet, so sweet, way too sweet) was making him want to throw up. So he stayed silent, didn't open his mouth, not even once, letting Draco lead him through the dimly lit room, between the tables and couches, under curious glares that were being thrown at them from every direction and every angle. He tried to keep his head down as much as he could, not look around to not attract even more attention but he still felt all the stares burning a huge hole in his back. Shit.
OdpowiedzUsuńFunnily enough, it made him even more irritated. He didn't even think it was possible, to get angrier than he already was, and yet. It felt like he's been bottling it up for a very, very long time, ever since the war has ended and Harry's been forced into the mold of the saviour of the whole wizarding world probably. And he hated it, hated all of it, even if he didn't want to realise it, even if he ignored it and pushed it to the back of his mind for years, Merlin, did he despise it all. He just didn't have a way to let all of that frustration out in a harmless way, and besides, great wizards and saviours of the world don't get mad at the life they've been blessed with, a good, comfortable life with money and fame. He should be a shining example to the future generations, The Boy Who fucking Lived, even though sometimes he wished he really hadn't. And so he just kept it in, and all of that frustration was building up like pressure, but now, right fucking now it was becoming too much, or maybe he just stopped caring at all? Maybe it was the fact that Malfoy apparently didn't care either - he was a stripper, for fuck's sake - that made Harry just tiny, little, a bit jealous of this air of being fine with himself that he could basically sniff off of the former Slytherin?
He wasn't sure what it was exactly, and to be entirely frank, he didn't even care. He was angry and ready to throw an actual fit when they entered a bathroom that looked way fancier than he would have imagined. Not that it mattered, it was a fancy club, maybe toilets just were fancy in places like that, he had no way of knowing. Instead he clenched his fists, faced Malfoy and... frowned, suddenly extremely confused. Draco was standing way too close for it to be a casual conversation between two ex-enemies, and shit, he smelled like the rest of the club too, just not so sickeningly sweet, more fruity or floral, or... just nice. Exactly what a tall, gorgeous piece of man should smell like, not that Harry had any way of knowing what that would smell like, no, of course he didn't, but suddenly the meaning of Malfoy's words hit him like a train and he was painfully aware of his boner again.
"What?" that was all he could think of and all he could utter, his brain suddenly dumb and useless. He felt redness creeping up his face. Was he really suggesting...?
Seemed like he was. Oh heavens above, he was.
"And even if I did need help, what would you do about it?" he heard himself say and for a split second hated himself for it, because was he actually flirting with Draco fucking Malfoy? More, was he actually asking if Malfoy would give him a blowjob? Apparently he was. And he was ready to think he was going crazy, but then again, a different, quite large part of him kinda liked the thrill of it. Of knowing how it might end and not being sure if it would end like that, not being sure which outcome he'd like better.
UsuńMaybe he was going crazy after all.