Work Text:
Sweet Euphemisms
There were days like that, when Harry Potter wished he was still living with the muggles. Those days, when he felt like his mind would explode, did not happen that often, but they were present, nonetheless. When they happened, Harry would usually go to a club and physically exhaust himself, dancing throughout the night, until he fell flat on his bed at the wee hours of the morning, the sharp scent of fags, spilled alcohol and colognes of the blokes and lasses he'd danced with still clinging to his clothes. That's what he'd done, from the moment he'd killed Voldemort by the end of his seventh year at Hogwarts until two months ago, when the Ministry of Magic had finally sent him an owl to let him know that it was finally safe for him to come back to their world.
How nice of them.
He'd actually learned to love his life in muggle London, even finding himself a nice, quiet job that fit him quite well, in an Internet caf. He had a lovely flat in Notting Hill, had even managed to end up the owner of a Bernese mountain dog named Edgar and a cat called Ernest. Living five years with the muggles would do that to even one of the most powerful wizards still walking the Earth.
But now, Harry Potter was back to the wizarding world, and not entirely happy. Even though Dumbledore had offered him - what a surprise - the Defense Against the Dark Arts job at Hogwarts, Potter didn't feel like accepting - not yet anyways. He was still trying to acclimate to the fact that he was back. Adjusting to the fact that people had started to stare at him again, after all these years when he'd been left in peace. Adjusting to the fact that he wouldn't see some of his friends ever again, and others - let's be honest, Slytherins- he'd never expected to see again (thinking they'd sided with Voldemort) shyly smiling at him when he'd cross path with them in Diagon Alley: Millicent, Pansy, Greg or Blaise.
And Malfoy.
Not that he'd seen the blonde since the War all those years ago, but Ron and Hermione had made sure he'd known what had happened: Malfoy had been a spy for the Order, just as Snape had been. But he'd been so deep in the circle of Voldermort's minions that only Dumbledore and McGonagall had been aware, and vigilant -`just in case'. Even Snape had not been told, reporting Draco Malfoy's activities within the Dark Lord's Inner Circle to the Headmaster, confirming he'd taken the Dark Mark early during his seventh year at Hogwarts, amongst other things. To say they had been on their guard would have been an understatement - after all, if Draco Malfoy had decided on changing allegiances it would have been painful for the Order, to say the least. And nobody had taken the time to tell Harry of the blonde's fake `treason' or even of his `treason' at all. The day he'd seen the tattoo on Malfoy's left forearm was still one of the most painful memories he had. Of course, Malfoy had always been a huge pain in the arse, but to see the skull on the blonde had crushed something in his gut.
No, Harry himself had never been warned, only finding out during the final confrontation who Draco had really been, when the blonde had distracted Voldemort long enough for Harry to cast the Killing Curse properly on the now dead Lord. After that, Harry had fainted from the pain in his scar, the loss of blood and his numerous injuries, and he'd woken up in St. Mungos a week later, mostly surrounded by the worried faces of his friends, but also by some pinched, a-stick-up-their-arses-looking people he'd guessed were from the Ministry.
He'd been right. His memory was quite blurry concerning what followed but he did remember that he was strongly suggested to disappear for a while, to let things settle down, and Harry had not protested. He knew quite well that some of Voldemort's supporters, mainly the Death Eaters, were still alive and walking freely; that it'd take time to make sure his life in their world would be safe.
Only, no one ever mentioned it would take five years.
But it didn't really matter anymore. He was back; he had a great, isolated house near Hogsmeade with plenty enough ground for Edgar to run around and nice, cushioned chairs and couches for Ernest to cuddle in. His friends were showing up as often as they wanted, and he had made sure to be connected to the Floo Network.
All he needed was, sometimes, to let the steam out of his system. And it hadn't happened since he'd settled in. So, tonight was the night.
He'd asked the Weasleys, Hermione, Dean, Neville and Seamus to come along with him, and they'd all been delighted with the idea. Especially since it was Halloween and almost everyone would be disguised. Potter included.
~*~*~*~
The drum and bass rhythm of the music that was actually playing over the dance floor was pounding in Harry's veins, awakening something in him he hadn't felt in a long time. Passion. Lust. He looked at the lithe, sinuous bodies walking past him and he without inhibitions let his eyes linger on them, appreciating the beauty of both males and females. It had been too long. Returning to the large booth where his friends had gathered with two double shots of Firewhiskey in his hands, he couldn't help but smile at the creativity they had made use of to disguise for tonight.
Ron was dressed up like a muggle from the 20's with a Fedora, stripped slacks and jacket, a thin white tie and a black shirt, Hermione was wearing an assorted costume which made her look quite sexy, Dean was dressed in a traditional kilt, Ginny as a red-haired leprechaun, the Weasley twins were wearing Slytherin garbs - though he had no clue where they'd found them - and masks, Dean disguised himself with clothes much alike Snape's and had cast a spell on his hair so they would be black and greasy and Neville, well, Neville had dressed as a woman, a stunning one as a matter of fact, which was scary, to say the least.
Harry, for his part, had not taken hours to pick up an outfit and costume himself. He'd instead decided to focus on the details. Half his face was covered by a sliver and green mask (`Slytherin-esk,' had said Hermione after she was done whistling), shaped to fit his features and hide his scar. His eyes were defined by a thick line of black kohl, his lashes accented by a layer of mascara - his green eyes, hidden under silver contacts, burning, his mouth softly reflecting the dim light with the gloss he'd applied. His thick, black, messy hair was spiked and the points were gel-coloured in silver, the same silver shade of his short-sleeved shirt, and it was also accentuating the black, fit, low-riding trousers he was wearing. The look was completed by black Doc Marten's he'd bought a couple of years ago, a leather belt with five rows of studs and metallic-grey nail polish.
Harry Potter was simply stunning. Or, at least, that's what the looks his friends exchanged told him. If anything, he'd come back from his five-year exile more tanned, his muscles more defined, without spectacles (thanks to muggle laser surgery), more confident and exuding raw sexuality. On top of it all, he had actually learned how to *dance*. This whole melange made a scandalous package which leaked dangerous power all over the place. And desirable to the eyes of everyone who'd spotted him since he'd arrived a little over an hour ago. If only they had known who it was they were lusting after.
The conversation was not interrupted by his arrival, but was instead even more animated as it seemed they all wanted to know what he had to say on the topic they were discussing. Their sex lives back in the Hogwarts days, of course.
`I don't kiss and tell, mates,' was his only answer. That and a sly smile.
A chorus of disappointed voices was heard, but Harry would only wink saucily at them and smirk, apparently remembering the `good ol' times'.
`You can at least tell us which house you were poaching in, can't you Harry?' Neville, with his flaxen wig of long, wild curls, was literally begging him for an answer. And he was so cute in this outfit that Harry wasn't able to brush him off.
`All right, all right, all right. Four. Slytherin. Ravenclaw. Pretty boys and cute girls,' he said in a slow drawl, his words slightly slurred by the alcohol he'd already had. And for good measure, he gulped down one of his shots, under the disbelieving looks of his gathered friends. Not that it surprised him, for he'd been discreet about his comings and goings in sixth and seventh year around the school. Too much had been at stake. But now that it was all over, he could not help but feel a slight tinge in his heart, realising he hadn't seen any of his school-lovers since the end of the War. And he didn't want to think about the fact that two of them were laying six feet under. Not tonight, anyways.
`Bullshit-'
`There's no fucking way-'
`Bloody hell!'
`Harry how could you-'
`But who-'
But Harry let them express their stupor without adding a comment, only snorting once in a while as they were slowly getting used to the fact that the former Golden Boy might not have been as golden and innocent as he had led them to believe. When he realised that the topic wasn't about to change, he decided to take the lead.
`I don't know for you, mates, but my legs are begging me to invade the dance floor... What is it that they're saying? ` Ils s'aiment et suivent?''
`It's `Qui m'aime me suive', Harry,' was Hermione's answer.
`Whatever.' And with that he swallowed his second Firewhiskey shot, put the glass on the table firmly and, swaying his hips teasingly, made his way to the dance floor, more eyes than could be counted following his movements with lust and envy.
~*~*~*~
And Harry danced. For hours, it seemed. His body refused to stop, all the pressure that'd built up inside in the last two months finally vanishing into thin air. It felt good. Harry felt real. Alive. That's what music usually did to him and he was forever grateful to be able to channel his emotions and energy into dancing.
And while Harry was dancing, he had noticed something. Or, to be exact, some people. Former Slytherins, that also attended the party. He could recognise Millicent and Pansy on the dance floor and the young man that was with them was probably Blaise. All were dancing around a tall, slender bloke with shoulder-length blond hair with red highlights. From what Harry could see, the blonde was wearing a blood-red, long sleeved shirt, second-skin like, hipster-cut, black leather pants that would probably need to be peeled off the man's legs by the end of the night and shiny, black boots.
All in all, Potter couldn't wait to finally see the front side.
~*~*~*~
He had not been able to take his eyes off the blonde, separated from Harry by the sheer masses of bodies. Slowly though, a circle had cleared around both of them, though the young man in the red shirt seemed completely oblivious to what was going on around him, contrary to his Slytherin friends.
Harry found himself with a partner for a while and had to admit that Justin was about as good a dancer as Harry would probably ever be. Curiously, both him (Justin had gone after Dean) and the blonde had unconsciously got closer, or the circle had widened, because where their used to be two circles, now there was only one.
They weren't dancing together, though. It was as if they were both encased in their bubble and unaware of the other one. . . for the blonde anyway, it looked like that was the case.
So Harry, once more, closed his eyes and let the groove take over the control of his body. He felt his veins pulsing, his muscles throbbing, his limbs jerking in sync with the intricate rhythm of the music, and he opened his eyes only to realise that the blonde had finally turned around while away from him.
If he'd enjoyed the rear view, it was nothing compared to the front. The face, aristocratic, chiselled, was painted in dark green and maroon colours, the effect similar to that of a mask, though it must have been easier to simply wear make-up and put a waterproof charm on it, to ensure it wouldn't melt and mix at all, even when he could see the sweat-soaked fabric of the shirt clinging to well-defined muscles. Lashes were glimmering silver in contrast to the coloured skin they were laying on, as the eyes were still closed. The shirt was opened at the collar, a few buttons down, revealing alabaster skin, the thin layer of sweat making it shimmer. The front of the dark leather slacks was as delicious as its rear counterpart and black, shiny boots were completing the disguise.
Disguise. More like a `come and get me' costume, Harry thought.
The thin body was undulating ceaselessly, like a snake moving on the ground, soundlessly. Effortlessly. The other young man had still to notice there was someone dancing in front of him, so Harry decided to close his eyes, too, and soon he felt that the two of them had converged to the same spot and were now dancing *together*. Harry knew, then, that the blonde was probably aware he was dancing with someone. The heat between the two of them would have told him so, anyway. They were as close as they could be, without really touching each other.
To the young crowd encircling them, their moves were literally hypnotising.
The music had now reduced to a tribal beat of drum and bass: it was raw, it was primal, it ensured you would stop thinking and that you would simply hand your body over to the beat and the flow. And they did. And everyone encircling them did too, though their eyes were fixed on the sinuous bodies duelling in front of them. Because it was now more a duel than a simple dance. Eyes still closed, their bodies were provoking each other, taunting and teasing, barely touching one moment and grinding into the other the next, hoping that their opponent would finally break and give up. Neither did. Neither would. Both were fighters; they'd learned life the hard way and were stubborn to the point of arrogant aloofness, and though one of them was a Gryffindor, in that very moment, they were both Slytherin to the bone and knew it.
Thankfully, someone took the decision out of their hands, as the beat finally faded. Both seemed to get out of their trance as they heard a thunder of applauds and appreciative whistles from the crowd gathered around them. As they were attempting to catch their breath, panting, their foreheads touching, and their fingers brushing against each other, they finally opened their eyes.
To say it was a shock for both of them would be a sweet euphemism.
A flash of recognition flickered first in Harry's eyes as he stared deeply into the silver-grey depth in front of him. A particular shade of silver-grey he'd never been able to eradicate from his mind. Eyes that had haunted him for years. Those of a Slytherin he owed his life to, and, to make matters worse, who owned his heart unknowingly. Not that Harry would acknowledge it.
Draco Malfoy, of course. Who else?
Less than a second after Harry had recognised the blonde he'd been dancing with, a gleam lit up in the grey eyes, but it only lasted the time it took for the brunette to blink. It was replaced by a malcontent frown, and a sneer subtly curled the pink lips. He could only emit suppositions, but Harry thought it was more of a mechanical defence system Draco had developed than something personal and directed at him.
The air around them was hot, and the crowd was still applauding and the music began again. The stress eased out from Draco's face, and the quirk of an eyebrow took the place of the previous frown.
That was all Harry needed.
They had an understanding, a truce of some sort, for the night. They danced well together; it felt good to dance together. They didn't need to talk - not at the moment, anyway - and Harry knew that talking would imply using his brain and remembering painful days of old, and emotions he'd buried deep, deep down inside. He didn't want that. Not tonight, anyway. That was not the reason why he'd come to the club.
A small smile twitched the corner of Harry's glossy lips and Draco understood, too. They'd come here for the same purpose, they wouldn't ruin their night for any reason. Slowly, they started to move in time with each other and with the music. They heard the cat calls and they made both young men chuckle at the same time, as they began to stalk and circle each other like a feline would their prey, getting closer and then retreating to a much safer distance, and, this time, they used their arms, their hands. Touching lightly, brushing against warm skin subtly.
It felt good.
They might as well keep on dancing.
~*~ La Fin ~*~