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The club is heady and overwhelming, and doesn’t feel nearly like the escape Harry craves. He staves away the fear that even this-- even the booming music, the stranger’s cologne, the neon signs washed out by strobe lights and techno-- won’t be enough to forget, even with another drink. He staves away today, and yesterday, and tomorrow with more drinks after that.
When he catches a glimpse of silver-blond on the dance floor, it’s a blessing in disguise. Draco Malfoy, 19 and haunted, is a vision, and Harry shakes his head to clear the mirage. It doesn’t fade. Malfoy’s face just gets clearer as he nears, his mouth pinching into a scowl through the waves of glimmering heat and fog-machine smoke.
“Pottah,” he says, though Harry can’t quite be sure if the words are real or imagined syllables in the bass and beat. “Imagine seeing you here, in a gay bar in Soho. Is this irony, or just a nightmare?”
He doesn’t know what to say, so he goes with, “Will you buy me a drink? You know, for all the trouble you caused?”
Malfoy laughs bitterly. “Yes, I can’t think of any better way to repent. A fucking drink, really? Do you also want me to pick up garbage on the highway? That’ll really turn me around.”
Harry rolls his eyes, because he can, and, really, he’s having more fun now than he has in a long time. Ron and Hermione are back at Grimmauld, not asleep, certainly, but likely too tired to go looking for him. He wonders what they’d say about the conversation he’s having right now. “What an awfully muggle thing to say,” he tells Malfoy.
“Well, you see, I’ve had to learn a lot of things rather quickly, with my accounts frozen and my wand snapped. But I’ve just been informed I could have paid my dues by simply ordering someone a drink.”
“Gin,” Harry says, “neat.” When Malfoy says nothing, he adds, “Or we could get out of here.”
Malfoy widens his eyes in mock outrage. “Have I just been pulled by The Savior himself?”
“No, not pulled. I have a joint I was going to smoke. If I keep it all to myself, it’ll make me throw up.”
“I don’t know,” Malfoy says, “that sounds like a date. And dates always lead to sex when the bloke looks like me.”
It’s not Malfoy’s words, but the way he says them-- posh accent, mannerisms dripping with sarcasm, wicked wit-- that makes Harry laugh out loud. “Christ, I should have offered dinner and a movie.”
“So it is a date.”
“It’s whatever it wants to be. I think it’s crystal clear already that this night has taken the reins for itself.” In Harry’s head, it sounds terribly poetic, but he’s sure it’s not.
“In that case, are you good to Apparate?” Malfoy is smirking, but it’s a façade. Harry can’t tell if he's fighting giggles or nerves or both.
“Probably not,” Harry says.
“I will, then.” Malfoy’s grip on his arm is punishing, and it shouldn’t feel nearly as good as it does. A rush goes through his head when they emerge from the back door of the club and into the quiet. Even with the blaring cab horns and lights of the city, Harry’s ears ring and his skin prickles. Without flashing lights and moving bodies to surround them, Malfoy’s presence is stronger by a hundredfold.
“Can’t we just walk?” Harry asks. “There’s a park right round the corner.”
Malfoy wrinkles his nose. “That one has shit swings. They squeak. We’re going towards the river-- I know a spot where the chains are so long that, if you pump your legs high enough, you can look over the whole city. Plus, the slide gets really fast when it rains.”
A first fat drop strikes Harry in the shoulder, and he eyes Malfoy quizzically. “The forecast was clear.”
Malfoy shrugs. “Weather magic runs in the family. I don’t need spells for intuition. Anyway--” He holds out his hand in expectation. “Wand? Let’s go.”
Harry summons his holly wand from the holster at his thigh with a snap of his fingers, holding it just out of reach. “The Wizengamot would say this is an astronomically bad idea.”
“If I wanted to steal a wand and run, I’d have done so already, Potter. I’m irresistibly charming-- haven’t you noticed? In fact, I’m insulted you think, if I were to rob someone, I’d be dumb enough to rob you. You’re disgustingly famous.”
Harry swallows and sighs. “Trust me, I know.” He places his wand in Draco’s open hand, looping his fingers tight around Draco’s wrist and securing them together with a spell.
Draco winks. “I see how it is. Kinky.”
Harry tries not to smile. “I’m minimizing risk.”
“You think this is minimizing risk? Never change, Potter. Never change.”
Draco’s Apparition is smooth and tidy, but even the symmetrical acceleration forces Harry’s eyes closed, the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his blood turning queasy. He stumbles on the landing, jerking Draco’s arm forward awkwardly. Draco jostles into his side, and Harry’s reflexes respond just a moment too late. The ground approaches, slow and spinning, and it’s not until he’s flat on his back with Draco pinned on top of him that Harry no longer feels like he’s watching in a dream from above.
“How do you do that?” is all he can think to ask. “When you Apparate, it feels like a plane taking off. ‘Mione says I’m like a helicopter in a hurricane.”
Draco’s busy trying to get up. “What was that? You slurred.”
“Mmm,” Harry responds. It hasn’t occurred to him to begin finding his feet. He hardly knows where they are. “Didn’t notice.”
The holly wand is pushed back into his palm, but Harry doesn’t break the Incarcerous binding their wrists. “Christ,” Draco says. “Where’s that blunt?” He yanks Harry to his feet by the arm fast enough to hurt.
“You know about weed, too? You’re a teenage connoisseur.”
“Still slurring,” Draco drawls. “Anyway, I’ve never actually tried it.”
“You’ll like it. It’s good for first dates.”
“And why might that be?”
“It makes you feel like you’re not you.”
Draco grins. “I think you must be mistaken, Potter. I want you-- just you-- very much.”