Chapter Text
Rated for future chapters.
"What You Do With Your Life, A.H.K.B.C.B. (After the Hero Kills the Batshit Crazy Bastard)"
Disclaimer: I do not own them. I desperately wish that I did, but I don't. The lovely English lady and the big movie studio own them, I merely occasionally invite them out to play.
A/N's: There's a bit of a story behind this one. I had written several fest fics in a row, (HDWC, Inspired Animagus, Free range bunny vamp fic) all very plotty, heavy on the angst. It was fun, and satisfying, and exhausting. When this fluffy little bunny hopped up, I invited him to have a seat, have a glass of wine, and set a spell. This was purely written for fun, much like you use sherbet to clear your palate after a heavy meal. In that vein, it may be the fluffiest thing I've ever written. Don't worry; I'm sure the angst will return, but this was really fun!
Part 1/8
Two Years, A.P.M. (After Psychotic Megalomaniac)
Draco Malfoy had waited years in hope of seeing Harry Potter utterly humiliated.
He’d even fantasized about it when he’d been younger. He’d spun elaborate plots in his head where Potter was left in cringing, abject misery, and he, Draco, could have a good, superior laugh right in the ‘boy wonder’s’ face. The fantasies had reached their zenith and their most vicious during his sixth year at Hogwarts, when he’d been at his most miserable. He’d been stuck trying to do the unthinkable at the bidding of a mad man, and Potter had been in his face all the bloody time. That had been all that had kept him sane, those nasty fantasies of seeing Potter brought low. The plots had been extraordinarily creative and the conclusion the same: Potter would be humiliated, and Draco would finally win… something.
Then the next year had been… well, he now chose to refer to it as ‘the year that must not be remembered’. There had been no evil fantasies that year, just ongoing terror and the will to survive. He’d been lost that year. Lost, until a firm, calloused hand had reached down and pulled his sorry arse out of the fire, and…
That was why now, when he should have been enjoying the spectacle in front of him, he couldn’t. Damn it. Even this, Potter was going to ruin for him.
“Oh, this is just too delicious,” Pansy whispered in his ear, all but salivating at the scene taking place across the crowded bar.
Standing at one end, Quidditch Super Star and Scotsman ‘Most Likely To Get Laid’, Oliver Wood, was in the midst of a rabid circle of admirers, smiling his thousand megawatt smile, tossing his curly head. He really was too good looking for his own good, Draco thought as he watched. All broad shoulders and gleaming white teeth. And his arm was firmly around the shoulders of another man, a very pretty young thing with wavy brown hair and doe-like eyes, his attention fixed on Wood’s face as if he were witnessing one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Which, if rumors about Wood’s ‘attributes’ were correct, Draco supposed he was.
At the other end of the bar, huddled over a shot of Firewhisky, disreputable hair even messier than usual, jaw scruffy and eyes red-rimmed, sat Potter. His broad shoulders were hunched; his head was bowed, and every line of his body screamed abject despair. He looked as if he wished to be invisible, but anonymity was something Potter was never going to have. From the moment Wood and his entourage had entered the smoky space, the other patrons were watching the Quidditch Star and the Savior, wondering which one would crack first.
It had been a huge scandal, when Harry Potter had thrown over pretty Ginny Weasley for Oliver Wood. While young witches – and some not so young – all over Britain had moaned in despair at finding out that Potter ‘batted for the other team’, there had been parties in every gay bar on the continent. Potter single-handedly redefined what it meant to be a poof, because there certainly couldn’t be any insults hurled at his masculinity; at seventeen he’d destroyed the most powerful dark wizard of the modern age. He might be gay, but he wasn’t anyone’s nancy boy. And Wood had been proud to be seen on that arm, smiling for the camera, eyeing Potter the way that his young sycophant was currently eyeing him. It had been nauseating, really, Draco reflected. And then rumors of Wood’s ‘track record’ had reached Draco’s ears, and he’d eagerly anticipated the meltdown. Wood was a man-whore, his friends had whispered. There was no way he’d stay, not even with Potter. After all, he might be a hero, but ‘the Boy Who Lived’ was still, by any respectable gay man’s standards, an utter mess. He still wore his clothes too big, his hair was a disaster, and his glasses were hopelessly out of date. In a very real sense, he still looked like that lost urchin that had stumbled into Hogwarts their first year, and any self-respecting gay would only put up with so much of that, hero or no.
But now that the moment of truth had arrived, and Wood was parading his latest conquest right in his jilted lover’s face, Draco couldn’t take any pleasure in it because Potter, the great lout, looked so completely destroyed that he was taking all of the fun out of it. Pansy was a carnivore; she lapped up Potter's heart's blood like a Kneazle with a bowl of cream. Draco stared at the clenched hand around the shot glass, the hunched shoulders, the trembling beginning in the chin, and couldn’t sit there any longer. Potter was about to fall apart, and Draco found he couldn’t watch it. Draco had felt the horrible burn of being replaced by a lover; no one, not even Potter, should be forced to experience this with an audience.
Rising to his feet, he started to make his way to the bar, when a firm hand hooked in the sleeve of his robe stopped him. He looked back and saw Pansy holding the expensive fabric in her curled talons.
“Wrinkles, darling,” Draco snapped, slapping her hand. She wasn’t deterred.
“Where are you going?” she hissed, brow furrowed.
“To get another drink.”
She looked meaningfully at the full glass near her elbow, then back to his face. He rolled his eyes. “That one is too sweet. I want something different.”
She smirked, but it wasn’t as effective on her little pug-nosed face as it was on his. “That something ‘different’ wouldn’t look like Potter, now would it?” Her tone was sly and her expression supercilious, and he suddenly wondered just why it was that she was his best friend.
“Don’t be absurd.” He batted at her hand again, and she let go of the fabric. Irritated, he eyed the smudged and wrinkled silk. “And you’re paying to have this cleaned,” he said before turning with a swirl of dove-grey robes and pushing his way toward the crowded bar.
“Don’t you dare ruin my fun!” she called after him. He ignored her, hoping that he’d be able to do just that.
It took a bit of effort to get across the room, and by the time he did, he’d been pawed by more than one hopeful and over-eager potential one-night stand. He’d eyed them all with icy disdain, and they’d backed away with mumbled apologies. He was only pawed when he chose to be, thank you very much. By the time he reached Potter, he was feeling distinctly ruffled. He stepped up next to him and caught the bartender’s eye.
“A Muddy Merlin,” he ordered, speaking over the din. Potter didn’t even glance at him, just downed his shot and set the glass on the teakwood counter with a clunk, then leaned his elbow on the bar and rested his forehead in his hand. Draco stared at that masculine hand and saw the tremor in it. He leaned forward and hissed directly next to Potter’s ear.
“Don’t you dare.” Potter jerked, his hand dropping and his eyes lifting. Draco saw Potter's unfocused expression as he searched for who had spoken to him, a clear indication of how much alcohol he’d consumed. He also saw the sheen of unshed tears in Potter’s eyes. His hand dropped onto Potter’s forearm, and he squeezed it hard.
"Malfoy?" Potter squinted at him.
“Give the man a Galleon,” Draco said wryly. Potter blinked, looked down at the slender, pale hand on his arm, then lifted his head and tried to focus on Draco’s face. “What the fuck are you doing?” He sounded lucid, but Draco could tell by the way he was swaying on his stool that he was anything but.
“Saving you from being on the front page of the Prophet tomorrow, crying in your booze.”
Potter's brow furrowed. Even in the dim room, Draco spotted the flush creep over the collar of his misshapen jumper. Relieved, he watched Potter's jaw firm. So the hero had some self-respect left after all.
“I’m not… crying,” Potter managed.
“Good,” Draco retorted. “Because no one wants to see that. Now—” he leaned his elbow on the bar and sent Potter his best slow, seductive smile, “—smile at me.”
Potter blinked again. “Smile?”
“Oh, yes.” Draco ran his fingers over the back of Potter's hand. “Smile.” He traced the middle finger delicately. “Pretend there’s a snow ball’s chance in hell that you might get lucky tonight.”
“With you?” Potter’s lips quirked at the corners, and then he laughed. Softly at first, then with enough volume that it captured the attention of those seated and standing nearest. Draco noticed their shift in attention from the spectacle at the other end of the bar. He leaned closer.
“Very good,” Draco muttered, a smile flirting with the corner of his mouth. “Five more minutes and everyone here will start questioning the Prophet’s version of your breakup, and you’ll no longer be the tragic victim of the piece.”
“Because you’re coming on to me in a bar?” Potter asked with a wry lift of one dark brow. The sheer sexiness of the expression caught Draco off guard, and he stared for a moment before regaining his equilibrium.
“I don’t just ‘come on’ to anyone, Potter.” He lifted one hand and traced the neckline of the hideous eggplant jumper with his finger. “Ask anyone. I’m extremely selective.”
Something dark flared in Potter’s eyes before he circled the slender wrist with his hand, holding it in a deceptively firm grip. Draco’s fingers curled protectively into his palm. “So what are you doing?” Potter asked, his eyes searching Draco’s features.
“Trying to prevent a train wreck,” Draco said softly, his own eyes earnest.
“Why? I’d have thought you’d have loved this.” Potter’s eyes were leveled on his, filled with honest confusion, and Draco really didn’t have an explanation. He was saved from offering one, however, in the last way he’d wished. A long-fingered hand curved over Harry’s shoulder, and Draco cursed the fact that he’d let his attention wander from the other end of the bar for even a moment. He looked up and saw Oliver Wood standing directly behind Potter with his hand on the man’s shoulder.
Potter turned to look, and the hurt that flashed through his eyes before he schooled them into indifference made something long forgotten in Draco ache, and something heretofore unheard of surged to life in his chest.
“Hello, Harry,” Wood said smoothly, his voice deep and seductive. Every muscle in Draco’s body tensed when he saw Potter swallow heavily, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Oliver,” he answered flatly. Draco saw Wood’s fingers tighten on Potter’s shoulder.
“What? Oliver, now, is it?” the Scotsman teased, hazel eyes sparkling. “Not Ollie?”
Draco saw Potter swallow again, felt the telltale tremble in the hand that still held his wrist, and stepped closer.
“You wanted something, Wood?” His voice dripped disdain, and Wood’s eyes lifted from the avid study of Potter’s face to Draco’s cool eyes. His face registered his surprise.
“Malfoy,” he said with a blooming smirk. “Been a long time.”
“It has,” Draco agreed. “If we’d seen you coming, it would have been longer.” He saw Wood register both the insult and Harry’s hand around Draco’s wrist at the same moment and felt a surge of vengeful pleasure when the man frowned. “You wanted something?” Draco asked airily.
“I was just going to introduce someone to Harry.” Wood’s eyes lingered a moment longer on Harry’s hand before lifting it to his former lover’s face. “But if I’m interrupting something…”
Potter opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Draco stepped into the pause. “Well, I was just offering to give your ex a mind-blowing example of my oral skills in the men’s when you toddled over.” Both the hastily indrawn breaths and startled giggles that erupted around them assured Draco that enough people had heard him. The quip would make it into the corners of the crowded bar the moment the altercation ended. “So, unless you’ve something better to offer…” He glanced over Wood’s shoulder and saw his doe-eyed boy toy watching avidly. “Oh, I am sorry,” Draco said. “You wanted Potter to meet your new ‘friend’, didn’t you?”
Potter re-engaged at that, looking over Wood’s shoulder to where the pretty young man stood. The boy started to reach his hand out, and Potter lurched to his feet, his fingers tightening around Draco’s wrist as he turned away.
“Whoops!” Draco grinned into Wood’s startled face as Harry began to stride away, pulling him along behind. “Clearly, I have the preferred plan. Later, Wood!”
Scattered laughter followed them as Potter plowed through the thick crowd, and Draco caught a glimpse of Wood’s reddened, outraged face before he was yanked around a corner.
They retreated to the men’s toilet, where Potter pulled him into a stall, slamming and locking the door before Draco registered that Potter might have taken him seriously. “Potter, listen,” he began, but Potter startled him by sitting heavily on the toilet seat and burying his face in his hands. Draco leaned back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, and silence settled between them. It lasted quite a while.
“Are you all right?” Draco asked finally. Potter lifted his head and looked up at him, and the wounded expression in his eyes made that place in Draco’s chest ache anew. He steeled himself against the unsettling hurt and curled his lip. “Honestly, Potter. It isn’t that tragic.”
Draco was relieved when some of the vulnerability faded and a spark of anger lit the green. “Isn’t it?” Potter snapped. “I ruined my entire life for him. I broke Ginny’s heart, Hermione won’t speak to me, the Weasleys have disowned me…”
“That is unfortunate,” Draco drawled, goading the other man. “Sounds to me like Wood did you a bit of a favor, actually. All of that hapless baggage, disposed of in one fell blow.”
Potter was on his feet so quickly, stepping close, green eyes blazing, that Draco’s breath caught and he pressed his shoulders back against the cool metal door. “Shut up, Malfoy.” Potter sneered, his white teeth gleaming in the unflattering, flickering light from the ceiling light. His eyes narrowed, and his face hardened. “My fucking life is falling apart, and you’re making jokes--”
They both stiffened as the men’s room door swished open, and Draco’s eyes caught Potter’s. “Silencing spell,” he mouthed, and Potter took a step back, nodding before raising his right hand and making a vague gesture. Immediately, silence settled over the stall like a muffling blanket, and Draco’s eyes widened.
“Impressive.” Draco resumed his casual stance, but his eyes were watchful. “Wandless, yet. You’ve picked up a few things.”
Potter sighed and leaned against one of walls of the stall. “A few things, yeah,” he muttered, running one of his hands through that thick mess he called his hair. It stood on end when he was done, but it was almost an improvement. Draco remembered Potter doing that when they’d been in school, running his hand through his hair when he was agitated. It was vaguely endearing.
“So,” Draco said carefully. “Care to elaborate on your previous statement?” Potter frowned at him. “Your fucking life is falling apart, I believe you said.”
Potter shook his head, his eyes drifting closed. “Like I’m going to discuss the particulars with you.”
Draco shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just thought maybe I could help.”
Potter's eyes returned to him, still suspicious. “Why would you?” he asked. “In fact, why did you help me out there? It’s not like we’re friends.”
Draco huffed. “We most assuredly are not. None of my friends would be caught dead in that hideous jumper.”
Potter rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You are the queerest queer I’ve ever met.”
Draco snorted. “Pot, kettle, Potter,” he said dryly. “A cock sucker is a cock sucker. Some of us just have more fashion sense than others.” Draco saw the corner of Potter’s mouth twitch. “Besides, in answer to your question, I owe you,” Draco went on. “You pulled me out of real fire; I pulled you out of figurative fire.”
“Yeah, and now everyone out there is thinking that you’re in here giving me a blow job,” Potter drawled.
“I’ve blown worse, believe me.”
They stared at each other for a long minute, a settling sense of understanding between them. The silence lasted a few moments before Potter spoke again.
“Ginny wanted to marry me,” he said, his face and voice stark. “The Weasleys wanted me to be their son-in-law. Hermione wanted us all to have kids that could grow up together.”
“And what did you want?” Draco’s voice was subdued, but not unkind.
Potter stared at the floor. “I wanted that, all of it. I wanted a family.” He sighed heavily. “At least, I thought that I did.” His hand combed through his hair again, wreaking more havoc. “And then, I ran into Wood again, and he invited me for a drink…” His voice trailed off, and he ran his hands over his face.
“Got you drunk so he could have his wicked way with you, did he?” Draco’s voice sounded teasing, and Potter shot him a sideways look.
“Well, I was drunk,” Potter affirmed. “But for the record, I had my wicked way with him, thanks very much.”
Draco smiled in delight. “Really? Wood bottomed?” Draco laughed delightedly when Potter shot him a sardonic look. “I wonder if ‘Bambi’ out there knows that, because he didn’t exactly strike me as a dom.”
“Well, not that it’s any of your business,” Potter said pointedly, “but he told me I’m the only one he’s ever done that for.”
Draco laughed again. “And you believed him, of course.” He shook his head. “You really are new to this.”
Potter scowled. “Well, as far as I knew, I was straight up until six months ago.” Once again, Potter’s fingers dove through the thick, shiny black hair. Draco had the sudden and completely inappropriate urge to see if the reason he did it so much was that it was softer than it looked. He shook himself, pushing the thought away.
“That isn’t how it works, Potter,” he said instead. “You don’t just wake up one morning, and decide it's the day to turn queer."
Potter’s scowl deepened. “I did,” he argued.
“Well, not to disillusion you,” Draco retorted, “but I doubt that. I mean, honestly, Potter. Look at the women you dated. Jocks. Butch, all of them. Built like boys. No tits whatsoever.” Potter looked like he intended to argue, but then stopped, his expression suddenly thoughtful. Encouraged, Draco went on. “I’m betting that you think getting head is dandy, but eating out your girlfriend didn’t appeal at all.” Potter looked down, but the rusty stain that started up his neck made Draco laugh. “And your favored position for fucking is from behind, because it’s easier to pretend your partner is someone else that way. Say, that fit bloke you saw jogging in the park…”
Potter's eyes snapped back to him. “How did you…?”
Draco sighed. “No one sets out to be queer, Potter. We all at least attempt to lie to ourselves in the beginning. Before good sense takes over, and we realize that ours is actually the superior lifestyle.” Potter’s face reflected his skepticism. “Seriously. All the sex, none of the nappies.”
Potter’s lips quirked again even as his eyes saddened. “I like kids,” he said softly. “I would have liked to have kids.”
“So, adopt.” Draco waved his hand dismissively. “At least this way, you don’t have to worry about someone named Potter sporting a full head of bright ginger hair.” He shuddered delicately. “And freckles. Let’s not forget the freckles.”
Potter turned his head and looked at him, really looked, and Draco felt a moment’s uneasiness until he saw the amusement in his eyes.
“You really are a complete prat.”
“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly.”
They stared at each other in utter accord, perhaps for the first time in the whole of their acquaintance. Another silence stretched out, but this one was more comfortable.
“I really don’t know how to do this, you know,” Potter said finally, eyes clouding.
“Do what?”
“Be gay.”
Draco snorted. “I’m guessing if you kept Wood interested for more than ten minutes, you were doing something right.”
Potter rolled his eyes. “I get that part,” he huffed. “I just…” His eyes dropped to the floor again, and that fetching blush once again stained his neck.
“What?” Draco prodded. Potter’s hands fidgeted with the hem of his sweater.
“I don’t get the jokes,” he admitted. “And the way you all talk, I can’t do that.”
“Please, don’t try.” Potter arched his brows in question. “The idea of you being camp is almost more than I can bear. You start waving your hands around and calling blokes ‘darling’, and I may be sick.”
“You do it.”
“I–” Draco spread his hand on his own chest, “—am brilliant at it. You–” he poked Harry in his sternum, “—would just be embarrassing. Please save us all the agony.” Draco shrugged. “Besides, it isn’t who you are. You’re very masculine. Makes all the little queens’ hearts go pitter-pat.”
Potter’s mouth twisted. “Not so you’d notice.” Draco cocked his head. “I haven’t gotten laid in… weeks, Malfoy,” Potter admitted. “They certainly aren’t beating a path to my door.”
“Well, that might have something to do with the whole ‘savior of wizarding kind’ thing.” Draco smirked. “Puts most blokes off their game a bit, unless they’re a seasoned attention whore, in it for the publicity.” He coughed, saying ‘Wood’ quite clearly behind his hand. Potter’s lips twitched again. Draco grinned, then looked Potter over carefully. “And, to be honest, it might have something to do with the way you’re turned out. Honestly, Potter, purple? Really?”
“So the clothes matter?”
“Haven’t you ever heard that ‘clothes make the man’?” Draco asked. “Never more true than when you’re cruising to get laid, which I’ll admit is somewhat ironic considering that whoever you attract with the clothes is likely most anxious to get you out of them. And the hair, Potter, the hair… Have you ever even met a stylist?”
Potter ran his hand through the offending mess once again. “It never seemed important.” Harry looked down at the lumpy sweater, then sighed.
“Maybe to the Weaslette, it wasn’t,” Draco said. “But to swim in these shark-infested waters? Trust me, it matters.” Potter leaned back against the wall, his head dropping back and his eyes closing. “What?” Draco asked. There was a pause.
“It seems so… superficial,” Potter said.
“That’s because, in most cases, it is.”
Potter lifted his head, and opened his eyes. He studied Draco’s face. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
“What?”
“That it all seems to be just about sex.”
“You’re the one who said you wanted to get laid, Potter. I have no difficulty in that area.”
Potter’s eyes traveled the length of Draco’s body, and it took Draco a moment to realize that he was being rather thoroughly checked out. “That I can believe,” Potter said, and Draco flattened his hand on his own chest.
“Good God, don’t tell me that was a compliment? I may faint.”
Potter rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Malfoy,” he said after a moment. “Don’t you ever want…” His voice trailed away, and he shrugged.
Draco responded in a soft voice. “Of course, I want,” he answered. “We all want. Everyone hopes, dreams that there is someone, one someone, just for them. It’s just–” he shrugged, touching Potter’s arm companionably, and who would have thought that they’d ever be ‘companionable’, “—I’ve been at this longer than you have. Not much, but a bit. And so far, I’ve seen very little to lead me to believe that there’s a ‘happily ever after’ for anyone.”
Potter stared at him, his eyes clouded. “I find that really sad.” His voice was soft and heavy.
“Well,” Draco replied, determined to lighten the mood, “look at it this way. There’s still the sex.” He raised his brows hopefully, and finally, Potter’s lips curled upwards at the corners.
“So you say,” he countered .
“Trust me; you get your kit straightened out, and something fetching and sexy done with that hair, and you’ll be beating them off with a stick.” Potter smirked. “Seriously, take Granger. Totally aside from her taste in men, she dresses well.”
Potter’s eyes darkened. “You weren’t listening. She isn’t speaking to me.”
Draco waved the comment away. “She’ll get over it. Trust me, the woman has fag-hag written all over her. Just start talking to her about how our rights are infringed; she’ll start a club. WAGGLE. Women Assisting Getting Gays Laid Effectively.”
Potter stared at him for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. Really laughed, his whole body moving with it. The sound was so infectious that Draco couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips. When Potter’s hilarity died down, he wiped at his eyes with his fingers, shooting Draco an amused glance. “You’re quite mad, you know.”
“Yes,” Draco answered, and again, Potter laughed. This time when he quieted, Draco put his hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, owl Granger. Take her for tea. Appeal to her innate fairness. You’ll be fine, I guarantee it.”
Potter nodded, then looked at the door at Draco’s back. “I suppose we should go back out there,” he muttered, but it was clear it was the last thing he wanted. Draco looked at the door, then back into Potter’s wary eyes.
“Tell you what,” he said brightly. “You just Apparate out of here. Don’t give Wood the opportunity to make a scene. I’ll handle it.”
Potter cocked his head to one side as he studied him. “Careful, Malfoy,” he murmured finally. “I’ll begin to think that you’re actually decent.”
“Good Lord,” Draco responded. “It’s utterly self-serving. I have every intention of allowing Wood to believe that you’re so completely over him that you let me, of all people, suck you off. I’ve always wanted to watch the prat’s head explode.”
Potter’s lips quirked in a half smile, but his eyes were warm. “I can think of worse things than having you suck me off.”
Draco smiled wickedly. “But few better, I’d wager.”
Potter’s smile was just as wicked. “For once in your life, I’d bet that’s the unvarnished truth.” Moving so quickly that Draco had no time to react, Potter slipped a hand around his nape and pulled him in, pressing his lips against Draco’s. “Thank you, Malfoy,” he said against his mouth. “You’re a better man than even you know.” And with that, there was a soft ‘pop’, and he was gone.
Draco blinked several times, lifting his hand to press over a heart that was galloping like a runaway racehorse in his chest. Potter had kissed him. Potter. Had kissed him. Quickly and fleetingly, to be sure, but voluntarily. And he’d called him a good man, something no one had ever done before. Putting his hand out to steady himself against the stall wall, Draco took several deep breaths before he was composed enough to turn and open the door.
As he’d known there would be, several men were in the restroom, standing at urinals and at sinks, pretending to wash their hands or take care of other business. Fully a dozen pairs of interested eyes watched him as he stepped out of the stall and made an elaborate show of crossing to an unoccupied sink and checking his hair in the mirror.
“Malfoy?”
He turned and saw the man who had spoken, someone named Tom, or Tim or something. They’d had a brief encounter once. He arched his brow in question.
“Where’s Potter?”
“Oh, the poor dear was just dead on his feet and went home,” he answered, smoothing the front of his robes. “Besides, he got what he came for.” His expression was sly as he smiled.
“So,” another man said. “How is he?”
“Well, I’m not one to kiss and tell,” Draco answered as he made his way towards the door. He waited until he could pause with his fingers on the handle before looking back over his shoulder. “Let’s just say my jaw is sore and leave it at that, shall we?”
He left the men exchanging wide-eyed, meaningful glances as he swung out through the door into the smoky club beyond.