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Harry had been coming to the Masquerade Club since the night he'd turned fifteen, through the entrance in the back, secured by secret passwords and casual handshakes with bouncers that towered a full foot over whoever dared to step by them. They didn't card past the door, so Harry found himself content to stop by every Friday, telling his mum he was off to Niall’s to study (as if she believed it after the fifth week), and get smashed at the bar with a few mates while watching scantily-clad, beautiful men dance across the stage. He had a fascination with one dancer in particular; Louis Tomlinson.
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