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The Hex Files
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Published:
2006-07-02
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2007-08-09
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13/13
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Two Playboys on the Pitch

Summary:

Harry's a famous Quidditch player. Draco's the Healer for a Quidditch team. They're both known for their wild ways, but what happens when these two playboys meet after several years apart?

Notes:

Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at The Hex Files, which was closed for financial and health reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on The Hex Files collection profile.

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Chapter Text

“Master Malfoy? Sir?”

Draco stretched and snuggled further underneath the burly arm that was thrown over him. It was far too early in the morning for house elves, especially considering how late he’d finally gotten to sleep the night before.

“Master Malfoy, sir, you’ve got a fire call, sir,” the elf tried again.

Draco lifted his head slightly and squinted at the elf. There was a loud grunt next to him and the owner of the burly arm rolled away. Draco scowled and propped himself up on his elbows.

“What are you on about, Poppy? Do you realize what time it is? I should skewer you.”

“A fire call, Master Malfoy. Mr. Martin, sir.”

“Martin?” Draco asked. Kevin Martin was the owner of the Quidditch team he worked for, the Falmouth Falcons.

“Yes, sir. Says it’s urgent, sir.”

Draco was confused. The Quidditch season didn’t start again for another month.

“Fine. Tell him I’ll be right there. Wait! Hand me my dressing gown before you leave.” Draco held out his hand imperiously. The elf did as she was told and disappeared with a pop. Draco sat up and wrapped the luxurious garment around himself.

“Where are you going?” his bedmate mumbled. The burly arm reappeared and attempted to pull Draco back down onto the bed. Eyes as gray as Draco’s own glittered at him from beneath bushy black brows. The man’s hair was curly and black, a bit on the longish side, and positively everywhere.

He was a handsome bloke, but for the life of him, Draco could not remember the man’s name. They had met the night before at a conference on sports medicine. Draco had been a speaker, explaining his technique for healing the lower back problems that many professional Quidditch players had as a result of being hunched over their brooms. The technique had the tantalizing name of “The Malfoy Strong Hand Massage.” Afterwards, the black haired man approached Draco, flirted shamelessly, and, several cocktails later, the two had ended up in a naked heap back at Draco’s place. Draco vaguely remembered that his bedmate had mentioned being married with two children, but the man’s name still completely escaped him. He chuckled to himself. It wasn’t the first time he had this problem.

Draco loved his life. He had been the Healer for the Falmouth Falcons for two years now. In that short time frame, he had become the most respected doctor in the League. This was mainly due to the new spells and potions he had created specifically for Quidditch injuries. There were potions for endurance, spells that sealed even the deepest cuts, and he had even created a new form of Skele-gro that healed bones in a matter of minutes rather than hours. Of course, it was still in development as the only player they’d used it on, the Falcons mammoth Beater, Mack Wall, had nearly gone mad from the pain of rapidly re-growing bones. He had wiggled about so much that, after the searing pain had ended, they had to re-break his arm and start all over with regular Skele-gro.

Each player on the Falcons was under Draco’s care. Not only did he cure their ills, he also provided them with nutrition and exercise programs tailored to each of their individual needs; muscle building for the Beaters, upper body strength and flexibility for the Chasers, flexibility and increased reflex for the Keepers and Seekers, endurance for all. For instance, Bartlett, the Falcons’ star Chaser, was a complete fat arse if left to his own devices, but by following Draco’s regimen, had dropped enough weight to increase his field speed by ten kilometers per hour.

“I’ve got a fire call, you brute. Do let me up. Speaking of, you should get up as well. It’s time you went home.”

“Ah now, don’t be like that. Take your call and come back to bed. I think you’ll find I’m already up.” The man made obscene hip gyrations against the thin, tenting sheet that still covered his lower half. Draco rolled his eyes and got out of bed.

“You shouldn’t have stayed the night and if I hadn’t had so much to drink, you wouldn’t have. The only times men happen to stay here are when I’m too drunk or too tired to know any better. Now it is time for you to go. Do us both a favor and be gone by the time I return.”

The man stared at him.

“Are you serious?”

Draco tied the belt of his dressing gown and gave the man a level stare.

“Deadly. Not that you weren’t a lot of fun, but it’s time to be off. Have a lovely life. Poppy or Pitney will show you out.”

The man was making sounds of protest, but Draco ignored him and strode from the room. He had always found it easier to ignore his one night stands than deal with them. He just left it to the house elves to sort out. His flippant attitude used to cause ugly stories to pop up in the tabloid magazines, but they had stopped since Lucius Malfoy had informed Draco that it would be in everyone’s best interest if Draco stopped taking up with the pretty, random nobodies he met. He followed his father’s advice and started being a bit choosier about who he took to bed.

The stories had stopped. Officially, anyway. The rumor mill still churned on and on, creating and spreading new stories about Draco behind the scenes. Draco was, after all, quite the playboy, and people were always inclined to talk.

Draco pushed the door of his study open to find Martin’s head lolling in the fire, sporting a face splitting grin.

“Malfoy! Sorry to wake you so early, but we’ve got quite an interesting situation on our hands!”

“Well that is lovely, but it’s the off season. Which means that I’m supposed to be off. And it’s 9:30 in the morning.”

“Have a late night, did you?” Martin took in Draco’s appearance and wagged his eyebrows lecherously.

Draco pulled his robe tighter around him and primly raised his chin. “Yes, I did. The conference ended up being a tad more strenuous than I had anticipated. What can I help you with?”

“You’re not going to believe it,” Martin said, practically drooling, completely unconcerned with anything Draco had just said. This was just as Draco wanted it. He sat down in a large easy chair and crossed his legs.

“Try me.”

Martin’s head leaned forward in the fireplace. He actually licked his lips. “We’re getting Potter.”

The blood in Draco’s body rushed to the top of his head, where it felt as if it were trying to push its way through his skull.

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘we’re getting Potter.’ Isn’t it wonderful?”

Draco shook his head. “Impossible. The Magpies would never give him up. They’d be fools.”

“Yes, well, his contract is up and he approached us. Asked to join the Falcons, he did. Said he needs a challenge.” Martin’s eyes beamed with pride.

Draco could feel his own eyes bulging. It was unpleasant. He took a deep breath and tried to relax.

“What has this got to do with me?”

“His agent is putting us through hoops trying to negotiate Potter’s salary. They’re asking for a bloody fortune, they are, more than anyone’s ever been paid in the history of the League. Cheeky bastards. The terrible thing is, Potter’s worth every bleeding sickle. Can you imagine the fans’ reactions? The merchandising?”

Draco thought of little moving Harry Potter action figures. His stomach rolled.

“Still, I thought we’d put him through a hoop or two. I insisted that our team Healer give him a thorough physical. Hence, I need you.”

Draco wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, which was suddenly bone dry.

“You want me to give Potter a physical.”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No. No, of course not. When?”

“He’s Apparating here this afternoon. Fourteen hundred, your office, at the stadium.”

“Yes. All right. I’ll be there, then.”

“Excellent. And Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“Make it a very thorough exam. Leave no stone unturned. I want every statistic, stress tests, bone
density tests, visions tests—he’s not wearing his glasses anymore, you know—whatever you can think of. I don’t want to make this too easy for them.”

Draco swallowed and nodded. A thorough exam, indeed.

“Wonderful!” Martin said his good-byes and was gone, leaving a very distracted Draco to his thoughts.

“Shite,” he muttered under his breath after several moments. Before he could stop himself, Draco was reliving a particular night two years ago, all over again.

***
Draco strolled into the lavishly decorated ballroom and handed off his coat to Pitney, his house elf. He’d brought him especially in hopes of angering Granger. The stupid bint had made an official non-profit organization of SPEW and was its chairwoman. The group was rapidly gaining momentum and had been bombarding Draco’s parents over their large number of house elves, both privately (they sent letter after letter to the Manor) and publicly. Hardly a day passed that a story about the Malfoy Manor house elves didn’t make the Prophet. Draco hoped to make quite the statement to Chairwoman Granger with Pitney’s presence.

He looked around the room and smirked. It was, of course, decorated in garish Gryffindor red and gold. After all, this was the party to celebrate the one year anniversary of Lord Voldemort’s defeat at the hands of the wizarding world’s darling, Harry Potter.

Only Potter wasn’t such a darling anymore.

Potter had done all the right things after the war; he’d immediately enrolled in Auror training, had done all the public appearances and collected a boatload of medals, he had kissed orphans, and sponsored charities. But then, he did the unthinkable. He broke up with Ginny Weasley, whom everyone loved and adored as the smart, devoted and loyal girlfriend of the Boy Who Lived. Still, Potter hadn’t finished. Days after announcing that he and Ginny were officially uncoupled, he delivered the coup de grace: he announced to the world that he was gay. Strictly by coincidence, the announcement had fallen exactly one week before the party in his honor.

The wizarding world erupted. Numerous debates took place, in the papers and on the radio, in every pub, shop, and restaurant. Most people weren’t quite prepared to hate Potter, but others felt heartily betrayed and said so. One of the most vocal to do this was Ron Weasley, Harry’s best friend from Hogwarts. According to numerous articles, the Weasley family was rather split down the middle when it came to Harry’s break up with Ginny and subsequent announcement concerning his sexuality. The father, Percy, Ron, and Bill now despised Harry, while the mother, Charlie, the twins and Ginny herself had gone on record as saying their feelings for him had not changed at all. The division in the Weasley clan perfectly mirrored the division in the wizarding world.

Draco smirked again as Granger and Weasley entered the room, side by side. Granger was perhaps Harry’s most vehement supporter, Ron, his most vehement detractor. Draco could only hope that fireworks would ignite when the man of honor arrived.

Not only that, but Draco was just dying to see who Harry brought to the party. He positioned himself in a corner where he could clearly see the entryway, Pitney at his side to fetch drinks and nibblys at his command. Granger, spotting him, gave him something akin to a death glare. Draco raised his champagne glass in toast to her. Like everyone else, he was on pins and needles, waiting for Harry to arrive.

***

Harry arrived right on time, a young blond man on his arm. Draco nearly spit champagne at the sight. After recovering his easy grace, he began to mentally dress down Potter’s date.

Boring dishwater blond, terrible hair style. Ill-fitting, cheap robes, possibly used. Tie knot altogether wrong; too wide, too loose, too low. Body, far too thin. And, wait, could it be?

Draco squinted and leaned forward, staring intently at Harry’s date.

Merlin in knickers! He’s a bloody clerk! I recognize him from Quality Quidditch!

Draco laughed this time, rather out loud. The most famous person in the entire world just arrived at his own celebration with a shop boy on his arm.

“Bloody idiot,” Draco muttered, almost affectionately.

“Can I get you another glass of champagne, sir?” Pitney asked.

Draco downed the rest of his drink and handed it to Pitney. “Something a bit stronger I think. A scotch, neat. Do try to find something decent, won’t you? The champagne was swill.”

Pitney scuttled off, leaving Draco to examine Potter, who was the antithesis of his date. His hair was smooth and shiny, obviously professionally styled for the evening. His robe was of the highest quality and fit him beautifully. He smiled politely for the photographers, his even white teeth sparkling in the harsh lights. Potter had turned into quite a looker, Draco thought. Pitney returned with his cocktail. He took a sip, grimaced, and leaned against the wall to watch.

After a few moments, Granger ran over and gave Potter a quick hug, followed by an apologetic look. They exchanged a few quick words before she pecked his cheek and ran back to Weasley, who had turned his back and was chatting with a very attractive woman wearing a very low cut red dress. Granger had to tap his shoulder three times before he acknowledged her. Potter looked on, wearing a sulky expression, thinly veiled by a fake smile. Draco, however, smiled genuinely from ear to ear. It was looking like it was going to be quite an evening.

As Draco suspected, Granger and Weasley fell into a heated argument. When tears welled in Granger’s eyes, Potter whispered something in his date’s ear and, giving the shop boy’s hand a quick squeeze, made his way over to the fighting couple.

Draco watched for a second as the three tried to keep their voices low and be discreet, but discreet was not a word in the Weasel’s vocabulary. Draco pushed himself away from the wall and downed the hideous scotch in one gulp. Weasley’s arms were waving and he and Harry were mere inches from each other, both red in the face.

“Pitney, I’ll be outside on the veranda. I expect that any moment now, Harry Potter will be joining me. Please do make sure no one disturbs us, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Draco was humming a tune as he sauntered out the French doors that led to the outside.

***
It only took Harry another four minutes to get bent out of shape enough at Weasley to flee. Draco had known that he would—Potter had always hated being cooped up and, over the years, Draco had noticed that when the pressure became too much, Potter always ran to the nearest open, outdoor space. Draco watched from a small bench under an archway of roses as Potter kicked the low wall around a fish pond and cursed under his breath.

“Bloody arsing fucking moron!” he hissed. “I can’t believe I used to be friends with that idiot!”

“Yes, I never could understand what, exactly, you saw in that foul tempered cretin,” Draco drawled.

Harry’s actions ceased at once. He whipped his head towards Draco.

“Malfoy? What the hell are you doing here?”

Draco leaned back on his palms and tilted his head to one side, a teasing smile on his lips. Potter was easy to wind up under the most serene conditions. Catching him with his ire up only made Draco’s life all that much easier.

“Why, Potter, don’t you know? I’m one of the good guys now.”

Harry crossed his arms and stared down his nose at Draco.

“So they say.”

Draco feigned surprise. “You don’t believe them?”

Harry let his arms fall to the side and walked over to Draco, stopping so close to him that Draco had to crane his neck to see his angry face.

“It’s always been hard to tell with you, hasn’t it?”

Draco laughed and patted the bench next to him. “Join me, Potter.”

Harry looked over his shoulder, back towards the party.

Draco sniffed in annoyance. “Don’t worry about him, Potter. He’s a shop keeper. I’m sure he’s used to waiting on others.”

Harry turned back and glared down at Draco before sitting down.

“You might be a good guy now, but you’re not any nicer, that’s for sure.”

Harry leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and fingers laced together. His brow was tightly knit, and up close, Draco could see that permanent lines had already been forged on Potter’s young forehead. He had deep circles under his eyes and his jaw was tight with tension.

“Potter, you’re a mess. You should have Mr. Quality Quidditch take you to the bathroom and give you a quality blow job to release some of that stress. You look like you’re about to explode.”

Harry stood from the bench in an angry, jerky move.

“Sod off, Malfoy. Prick.” He turned and began to walk away.

Draco leapt from the bench and grabbed Harry by the arm, yanking him around so that they were face to face. Without thinking, he started to speak.

“Or you could come home with me, right now. Merlin knows we have several years of unresolved tension we could work on.”

Draco never knew who kissed whom, but suddenly he and Potter were mashing their lips together in the most brutal, beautiful kiss Draco had ever experienced. When it was over, he was breathless, staring into Potter’s eyes.

“Let’s go, Harry,” he managed to puff out.

Harry took a step back, never letting his eyes drop from Draco’s.

“I can’t, Draco. I’m here with someone and everyone is watching.”

Anger rose in Draco like steam in a kettle. Just as he could always get to Potter, Potter always managed to get to him.

“Do you really think that by continuing to play the nice boy you’ll make them keep loving you, Potter? Hmm? Because now that they have what they want from you, now that you’ve done your job, do you really think they’ll give a piss about you? You broke their hearts, Potter. They’re only watching so they know when to start kicking, after you fall.”

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“Sure, you’ve got your diehards like Granger, but there are a lot like your good friend Weasley, aren’t there? People who would probably rather have Voldemort back than have to feel indebted to a queer.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said again, through gritted teeth.

“If you have any sense, Potter, you’ll stop being their boy and be your own man. Do what you want for a change.” He pressed himself against Harry. “And right now, you want to come with me.”

Their lips were dangerously close and, once again, Harry’s eyes locked on Draco’s own.

But then, Harry lowered his eyes and stepped back.

“Fuck off, Malfoy. I’m here with someone and I am not going to start being a dick just because I’m pissed off at a few people. If you want to go, go, but I’m going back inside.”

Harry turned on his heel and marched away.

Draco stood, stupefied for a moment before he unleashed.

“You’ll see, Potter! You and your stupid, Gryffindor optimism! I may not be a nice guy, but at least they taught us a thing or two about human nature down in the dungeons!” Draco yelled at Harry’s back.

Harry whipped around as if he was going to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, he flipped Draco off and went back to the party, leaving Draco all alone in the garden.

**
Draco remembered how he had Disapparated from the garden straight away, not even thinking to collect Pitney. He had been near tears and absolutely apoplectic. He roared around his bedroom for a moment, throwing things in rage, before collapsing on the bed and wanking himself raw, thinking of the vicious kiss he and Harry had shared, thinking that he would never see Potter again.

Now, two years later, Draco also recalled the aftermath of that party, and how right he had been about what the world would do to Harry.

It started the next day. The Daily Prophet published a respectable account of the party, but the gossip columnist, Rita Skeeter, wrote a scathing article about Harry’s date. It was very much along the lines of Draco’s thoughts concerning the young man.

It was all downhill from there.

Draco could remember the flurry of photographs of Harry and the shop boy together, and the swarm of paparazzi that followed them wherever they went. It wasn’t a month before Harry’s new friend broke it off and disappeared from London. Harry had been furious, threatening the Daily Prophet with invasion of privacy suits, hexing photographers and being all around surly to anyone involved in the media. When it didn’t stop quickly enough to suit him, he got a solicitor and succeeded in filing a restraining order against the Prophet.

Still, they found other ways of making Harry’s life miserable. Stories from men claiming to have had sex with “a dark haired war hero” kept cropping up, painting Harry as everything from a masochist to a diaper fetishist.

Instead of going underground, Harry shocked everyone once again. He quit Auror training. He got a Quidditch agent and sold himself to the Montrose Magpies. He left England for Scotland, swearing that he’d never return.

His behavior after arriving in Scotland only fed the newspapers’ appetite for gossip. He slept with men at an alarming rate, started public and on the field fights, showed up to parties on his godfather’s motorcycle, let his hair get long and shaggy, and even posed as a centerfold in a gay charity calendar. People ate it up.

Draco had been shocked along with everyone else by Harry’s decision. It had come close on the heels of the announcement that Draco was going into the Quidditch world, although as a Healer. Lucius Malfoy had made sure that the story of Draco’s remarkable contribution to the Ministry during the war and his subsequent devotion to the Healing Arts was published in every paper in wizarding Britain, big or small. There was no way that Harry wouldn’t have heard.

Draco had known from the start that he’d have to face Potter sooner or later. They had seen each other at games, but it had been from opposite sides of the arena, not face to face. As Malfoy was a Healer, there was no occasion for the two men to bump into one another. All that had passed between them were some stiff nods and suspicious glares.
What bothered Draco now was the reason why Harry was courting the Falcons. The Magpies were the number one team in the league. Potter’s wanting to defect made no more sense than anything else the former Gryffindor had ever done.

Draco rose from the armchair, hugging himself. He stood, staring at the floor, deep in thought. With a sigh, he let his arms fall and headed for the door.

“Fine. Come on then, Potter. Let’s see what tricks you’ve got up your sleeve this time.”