Second Place - Action/Adventure

It was several days later before Harry woke fully, completely aware of his surroundings and with some semblance of control over his faculties. Looking around the too-white room Harry remembered where he was with a sigh. St. Mungo's. Alone. He'd not seen or heard from Snape or Malfoy again, not that he'd expected to. His shoulder had healed and the addiction blocking potion had finally worked its way through his system. Peering down, he saw nothing but pale, unblemished skin. He was grateful that the healer had been able to get rid of evidence of four months of hard-core drug use�even if it hadn't been real. Harry sighed. He'd probably be forced to take a "vacation" before going out in the field again. Whatever. It was all the same to Harry. He was alone no matter where he was or with whom he was.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. A brief smile flitted across his face at the memory of Severus and Draco's visit. Visits, maybe? Harry only remembered the one, but from Draco's bitching, it was obvious they'd been there several times. It was their ritual. When one of them was hurt�and they seemed to get hurt quite a bit�the other two were there until they were sure that their comrade, their friend, was safe. It was the only way they knew how to connect, Harry surmised. Well, other than the other way they usually connected. Harry snorted. He was fairly certain a particular blonde would be turning up within a few days. Harry found himself looking forward to it a bit. It had been a long time since they were together.

A brusque knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. Before he could even say "come in," an efficient and serious looking mediwitch strode through the door with Harry's section chief following in behind her. With nothing more than a short nod and curt "Mr. Potter," she whipped out her wand and made a series of jabbing motions. Harry sat there, speechless, eying his section chief carefully. A few minutes later, the mediwitch nodded again and told Harry he was free to go as soon as he'd signed all of his discharge papers.

"Uh, my clothes?" Harry asked sheepishly.

The mediwitch wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Unsalvagable," she said. "There is a robe in the cupboard�you may wear that over your gown. No need to return either of them." And with that, she departed in the same serious manner with which she had arrived.

After the mediwitch left, Harry looked at his section chief cautiously. It was always hard to tell if Simmons was happy or pissed off. He was the blandest bloke Harry had ever had the miserable fortune to meet.

Simmons pushed away from the wall and sauntered over to the side of Harry's bed. "Looks like you'll live, kid. Though, it was touch and go there for a bit."

"How long have I been here?" Harry croaked.

"Three weeks."

"Three weeks," Harry gasped in surprise.

"Like I said�it was touch and go there for a while."

"How did I get here? I mean, how did you find me?"

"Severus," Simmons said slowly, as if gauging Harry's reaction.

Harry fell back into his bed, sighed and nodded. "Of course," he said softly.

Simmons nodded as well. Frankly, he found the lot of them�Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter�a bit unnerving. Beyond the fact that they were who they were, there was something altogether odd about them. They didn't seem to have families. Or friends. Or acquaintances, even. They worked lonely, solitary assignments, even though technically they were a team. They were cold, hard and completely crippled emotionally. At least they seemed that way. Simmons was beginning to wonder. Things about these three just didn't make sense. Like the fact that they seemed to hate each other, but at the same time, stuck together like some sort of perverse little merry band of thieves. Harry and Draco even seemed a little too close at times�there was this odd sort of heat or gravity between them. Odder still was the palpable "connection" Harry and Severus had. Even though they were always at each other's throats in debriefings, there was just something there. They seemed to know each other inside and out. Most perplexing was the weird way Harry and Severus always seemed to know when the other was in trouble. Just last year, Severus had been nearly killed while working a particularly strange assignment. It had only been Harry's information that had saved him. And, three weeks ago, Harry had been left for dead in a Muggle alley. Without Severus's frantic call, he would have spent eternity in a pauper's grave.

"What happened back there?" Simmons asked nonchalantly in a rather not-so-nonchalant way.

Harry thought about pretending not to know what Simmons was asking, but found he didn't have the energy for the verbal cat-and-mouse game. Harry looked away. "Jake was with me. He was a liability. I didn't want to see him get killed simply because he couldn't keep his shit together for a few fucking hours. I let emotion get in the way. I didn't realize the Muggle wasn't alone until it was too late."

"You've never cared before. Why now?"

The skin around Harry's eyes wrinkled almost imperceptibly�the only outward sign of his wince. "He just . . . he reminded me of someone I knew once," Harry said softly before returning his gaze to Simmons. "It won't happen again. I apologize," he said with a hard edge to his voice.

Simmons sighed. For a moment, Harry had almost seemed human. "Fine, fine. Doesn't really matter anyway. We got the drugs, identified the Muggle and rounded up the rest of his dealers. You killed him by the way."

"I was aiming to," Harry said evenly.

Simmons bristled. "We, uh, didn't get the manufacturer, no one else saw him and our only other available witness is now dead."

Harry looked up sharply. "He was a vamp. Ice-blue eyes. From his accent and appearance, I'd place him from Eastern Europe. He's old. Very old�really powerful. I didn't get a great look at him, but-'

Simmons held up his hands in mute request for Harry to stop. "The fact that he's unlikely to return is a success in the Ministry's eyes. He may show up some place else, but he'll be someone's else's problem by then."

Harry snorted. "Bureaucracy at its finest." Harry sighed. "What now?"

"Two weeks vacation�you know the rule," said Simmons, hoping to stave off an argument. The kid looked awful�he truly needed this one.

"Fine," Harry said irritably. "What then?"

"New assignment," Simmons said smugly. "You'll be traveling to Los Angeles and working with Severus and Draco this time. Best we can tell, a squib with a penchant for kinky breath play and cursed objects has killed a string of young men by draining their life essence�soul, magic, and the like�with Menhop's ring. Have you heard of it?"

Harry shook his head "No" as he sat up, his interest piqued.

"Not many have. It's thousands of years old. It gives the wearer the ability to transfer another's life essence to himself. Some nasty, dark wizard who thought he'd get his jollies by watching Muggles and squibs try and become wizards probably created it. It is powerful magic and terribly addictive. We don't know if the guy knows what he has, but we've got to get that ring before the Muggles figure out what's happening."

"What do they think is happening now?"

"Muggle serial killer. The squib is strangling his victims, though we think he just gets so lost in the power transfer that he doesn't stop what probably started out as nothing more than kinky sex. According to the history books, once the power transfer is done, the body simply disappears. There's probably some form of involuntary Apparition or port-key use involved. The bodies are showing up everywhere, usually once a month or so, and the Muggles haven't a clue where to start. We only got lucky because one of our agents working a Muggle forensics beat out there happens to be a dark artifact history buff and recognized the imprint of the ring on the neck of one of the bodies."

"It leaves a mark?" Harry asked.

"Yeah. Practically seared into the skin. You can't miss it�it's like a bisected oval. Looks a bit like a scarab, actually."

"Well, if you know who the squib is, why not just haul him in? Why all the cloak and dagger?"

"Too dangerous. With all of the excess power he's been taking in, he'd be too unpredictable, too unstable, if he felt trapped. Right now, he probably doesn't feel anything more than an incredible endorphin rush that lasts for days. That "rush" gets progressively more addictive. The whole purpose of the ring is to draw and focus incredible power. You thought kicking Voldemort to hell and back was rough? Try an unbalanced, mad, power-hungry squib with enough power to wipe out a city block with the flick of a wrist. The other little wrinkle is that the ring can only be removed by his victim. Once the ring is removed, the magic drains from his body and he's just a regular squib. But, the ring has to be removed first," said Simmons.

Harry pushed out a breath and relaxed back into the pillows. "Well, that certainly makes it more complicated."

"Precisely."

"And how, precisely, is the victim supposed to do that with the squib's bloody hands wrapped around his neck?"

"I didn't say it would be easy."

Harry puzzled through that thought for a moment. "How did you find this guy anyway?"

"Once we recognized the marking, we traced the dark magic backwash to a Goth club called the Lair. Boys�young men�all of them, were seen there before turning up dead. The squib fancies himself a player. He picks his victims carefully, enjoys a bit of cat and mouse with them for several weeks, and then does the deed, so to speak."

"Have all the victims been Muggles?"

Simmons hesitated. "No. this guy runs a mixed club�wizards, squibs, Muggles, magical creatures�you name it. His first few victims were Muggles but, he's branched out and has been going after stronger wizards and squibs. Like I said�it's an addiction. You know how that works."

"Yeah, no thanks to you and the bloody Ministry," Harry muttered as he unconsciously looked down at his arms."

Simmons continued on as if he hadn't heard Harry. "Severus is already there working as a floor manager for the club. Somehow he wrangled a top-drawer reference�one I don't think I want to know anything about, frankly. He's already helped the squib with the latest victim. So, he's trusted now. Draco joins him in a few days as a newcomer to the club, and in two weeks you�"

Harry interrupted, "Wait, let me guess. I'll play the part of the fucking dishwasher. Or, perhaps the janitor or some other disgusting job for which my talents are uniquely suited," Harry said with poisonous sarcasm and an indignant sneer.

Simmons' mouth quirked up at the corners in amusement. It was true that Harry did seem to get stuck with the less desirable assignments, but it was rather hard to picture him frolicking in the South of France with debauched playboys or discussing literary theory among the erudite. "Actually, you're the bait. Or, victim, if you prefer. You and Draco both."

"I'm the what?" Harry said in surprise.

"The bait. You have the same look as the boys who've been killed�small, slender, . . . attractive in a . . . pretty sort of way. . . . and, of course, there's the strength of your magic."

Harry scowled, focused on the pretty boy comment. "The hell I am. Someone better get their fucking eyes checked. No thank you�I'll stick with the goddamned dishes, thanks."

"Too bad. It's decided. Two weeks and you leave for Los Angeles. I'd make the most of your vacation, if I were you. Call if you need anything."

The last thing Simmons heard before he left Harry's hospital room was the sound of breaking glass and Harry screaming "Fuck!"

It had been four days since Harry had flooed home in his mint green hospital gown and equally atrocious robe. He'd thrown the disgusting things away the minute he'd tumbled into his living room. After a scaldingly hot, ridiculously long shower, Harry put on his favorite pants�soft fleecy cotton at least two sizes too large�and a tee-shirt�similarly soft and roomy. Harry had never cottoned to wearing properly fitting clothes�he'd spent too long in the "wild," as he liked to call his time with the Dursleys. As promised, he'd downed a full vial of dreamless sleep before settling into his bed. He proceeded to do the same thing for the next three days until good sense and his abused stomach finally caught up with him, forcing him out of bed and into life. And now, a week since St. Mungo's and four days since he'd rejoined the land of the awake and living, he sat in his flat, in his deeply plush window seat staring out over the tree line.

Harry's flat, like his life, was a study in paradox. The flat itself was located in the most exclusive building in London. Harry could have given two shits about who lived there. It was the view�and the absolute privacy�that sold him. He'd bought it the week after defeating Voldemort and had no intention of ever leaving�even if it looked like he was poised to flee at any moment. He'd never had much "stuff" and couldn't be bothered with many material trappings now.

His flat was the smallest in the building, primarily consisting of two rooms: a small living room with an attached kitchen, and a bedroom with an en-suite bath. Located on the top floor, it was tucked under the broad eaves of the noble building, nearly hidden from view. Harry rather liked that. He'd never felt comfortable in large, open spaces. Another item to add to the long "fuck you" letter he'd mentally written to the Dursleys.

The walls of both rooms were comprised of deeply recessed walnut bookcases that spoke volumes about their previous, uppercrust inhabitants. While surely filled with rare and valuable books before, they now sat empty. Similarly, the gleaming hardwood floors had surely been blanketed with expensive Persian rugs before, but suffered the indignity of sitting bare now. Only the expansive windows in both rooms, as well as large fireplaces nestled within each, provided any sort of warmth. As far as furniture, there was only a leather chair, a small table and lamp, a large, elegant brass owl stand, a single stool at the kitchen bar, a bed and a nightstand. While few in number, his furniture pieces and bed linens had been wildly expensive. Much like his window seats, only the finest materials had been used. But for a single picture of Harry's parents on the nightstand�one that captured a glimpse of a carefree existence Harry would never know�there were no other personal effects laying about. Everything else was carefully stowed in his old school trunk, now tucked far away under his bed. If necessary, Harry could be completely packed�the Muggle way�in under an hour. While not particularly cheery, it certainly made for an uncomplicated life.

Harry sat in the window seat, his knees tucked under his chin, and watched as tree branches undulated in the wind. He felt a rush of heat roil through him, causing his stomach to flip-flop and flutter. Severus had obviously had no problems adjusting to the west coast�he was already feeding. "Uggh," Harry muttered to himself, "why couldn't I have been asleep when you decided on a midday snack?" Harry snorted at the mental picture of Snape wooing some unsuspecting Muggle into giving him a quickie in the shadows. Stupid, gullible Muggle.

A knock at the door broke the connection. Harry sighed. There was only one person who even dared to visit him here. He rose laconically and stiffly made his way to the door. Even after a week of "vacation," he really didn't feel that great. Of course, three days of that had been spent in a potion-induced coma.

Harry opened the door to find an impatient Draco Malfoy. "Oh, it's you," he said.

Draco looked Harry up and down with a critical eye. After a few moments he said, "You look like shit, Potter."

"And it's nice to see you too," Harry muttered as he rolled his eyes and shuffled away from the door. He heard the click of Draco's expensive shoes hit the bare floors.

"Seriously," Draco said as he shut the door and re-warded it, "you look awful. I know you were never much for keeping up with trends, but just in case you missed the news, the �Heroin chic' look went out a couple of years ago. And what's with the baggy pants? Does nothing you own actually fit you?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Harry said as he returned to the window seat.

Draco chuckled. "How quickly you forget. I do the fucking around here," he said as he casually removed his blazer and sprawled in the leather chair elegantly.

Harry watched with strange fascination as Draco moved with ease around his small flat. He'd never be able to sit like that, talk like that, be like that. Which, Harry surmised, was why his assignments skewed toward cheap, seedy and common. "Is that why you're here, then? Come sniffing around for a quick fuck? Not that I'm adverse, really, but you might want to work on your chat-up for the blokes that might actually fall for your shit," Harry taunted.

"Yes, because I so often have to go looking for sex," Draco fired back.

Harry grinned and tilted his head. "You do with me."

Draco stiffened, his elegant grace pinching just a bit, before relaxing back into his previous sprawl. "Face it Potter, you like someone else to do all of the work. Merlin forbid you actually admit you want it."

Harry stood and walked over to Draco and bent down. "Oh I always want it, Malfoy�I just like making you beg me for it," Harry said in low, seductive tones. With a wink, he sauntered off to his bedroom, leaving a stone-faced Draco in his wake.

The hang of it was, Draco thought as he fought to regain control of his libido, Harry was mostly right. Draco always initiated things. Harry had a take-or-leave it approach to sex. As much as he hated to admit it, Draco was fairly certain that Harry was just as happy to jerk off as he was to have someone shove his prick up his ass, or vice-versa. He was there in body, but never in spirit. For those who only had a chance to bed the Boy-Who-Lived once or twice, they would say that he was open and even somewhat submissive. Draco snorted at the thought. Potter yielded falsely. He let you do what you wanted, just so long as he didn't have to do much of the work and still got off.

But, there was more to this than just casual sex. They gave each other what no one else had or could; security, understanding and physical touch that wasn't wielded as a weapon or a punishment. They were rather like incestuous brothers, Draco thought. Draco had gamely taken on the role of the wiser, older brother. Harry let him. At times he possessed Harry like a precious toy not to be shared with others. Both got what they needed from that. Draco didn't question it�that would require actually thinking about the incredibly fucked up relationship the three of them shared. It was so much easier for the three of them, Draco thought, to pretend that they fucked each other and watched because it was erotic and convenient.

Draco had once fancied himself in love with Harry. And why wouldn't he? Harry was beautiful�well and truly beautiful. Beyond the physical, though, there was just something about him that made one want to be near him and protect him; a transient vulnerability that didn't contravene the fact that he radiated charisma, a power, that was utterly breathtaking. Whatever it was, it ensnared Draco completely. However, Draco quickly disabused himself of being in love with Harry�Draco wasn't wired for that. Worse still, Draco had long resigned himself to the fact that Harry didn't love him. Not that way. Not the way he loved Severus, though neither prat would ever admit to their feelings.

Harry poked his head through the bedroom doorway, thus interrupting Draco's musings. Draco could see he was naked.

"Are we going to fuck or not? If not, just let yourself out," Harry said without hint of malice or emotion before darting back into the bedroom. He could have just as easily asked if Draco wanted a glass of milk or if he minded grabbing the post on the way in.

Draco stared for a moment at the place where Harry's head had just been. For a fleeting moment, he found all of this rather sad�this artificial casualness; artificial indifference. He quickly shook away morose thoughts as he stood, smoothed his hair, and, with practiced ease, whispered to the empty room, "Of course."

"Damn it! Is anything in here not some sort of Muggle science project?" Draco muttered as he rooted through Harry's refrigerator. Harry was still sleeping after their afternoon of tawdry sex and Draco was hungry. They had a big night ahead of them�not that Harry knew that yet�and both would need their energy.

"What the fuck are you doing?" came Harry's sleep thick voice.

Draco looked up. Harry's nose and brow were wrinkled in confusion, his hair was going in at least twenty different directions, his face was sleep-flushed and dreamy. Draco resisted the urge to conjure a comb. "I'm looking for some food�is there anything even edible in this thing?" Draco sighed.

Harry frowned. "There's uh . . . I think there's some take-away that's only, uh . . . three, no four, no three days old, I think?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "When was the last time you ate an entire meal, Potter?"

"Uh," Harry said with a slightly glazed expression. He was obviously still half-asleep.

Harry's befuddled silence answered Draco's question. Draco swore under his breath before withdrawing his wand and hastily vanishing everything in the refrigerator. He stood quickly and rummaged through the cabinets. After finding nothing more than several boxes of stale, Muggle cereal and a few chocolate frogs, he stormed over to the floo, only peripherally aware that Harry was trailing after him. He quickly called his house elf in Nice and requested provisions for the next five days.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Harry asked as Draco withdrew from the fire-call.

"There is no food in this abominable little flat. Normal people require food in order to survive. I am normal," Draco eyed Harry speculatively before continuing, "and you should at least pretend to be. Besides, I refuse to eat any of that horrid take-away of which you seem unduly fond."

Harry stared at him. "You can't stay here, Malfoy."

"Why the hell not?"

Harry twisted his lips in contemplation. "I only have one plate," he finally said.

"I suppose we'll have to share, then," Draco sneered.

"You can't fucking stay here, Malfoy," Harry spat.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Relax you little Gryffindor whore. I'm not staying, all right? But I've just vanished all of your, err, food, if one call that gelatinous mass food, and I seriously question your competency to forage and gather. We need a good meal tonight before we go out anyway."

"Go out? What the hell are you on about? Go out where?"

This was the part Draco had been dreading. Simmons had told him that Harry was going to be the primary bait on this next assignment�he was a near match for at least three of the boys that had been killed. But, in order to pull off the assignment, Harry would have to fit in at the club. Simmons questioned whether Harry had ever even stepped foot in a club, based on his rather violent and apparently destructive reaction to his new assignment. Simmons asked Draco, a veteran of the both the Muggle and Wizarding club scenes, to give Harry a few pointers�make sure he could handle himself. With the time difference between L.A. and London, Draco could zip back and forth over the next week and make sure that Harry would be ready. "Clubbing, Potter. We're going out clubbing."

Harry crossed his arms. "No," he said flatly.

"Yes," Draco fired back, "Are you honestly prepared for this next assignment? Are you? Because Simmons doesn't think so and frankly neither do I."

"What does Simmons have to do with this?" Harry demanded.

Draco ignored him. "Have you ever been to a club, Potter? Have you? Don't you think it might be worth your while to at least know what a club is like before you have to waltz into one as if you knew what the hell you were doing? These kids that are getting murdered�every single one of them were club kids�they knew what to do. Do you?"

"I don't dance," Harry growled.

"You better start."

"I," Harry faltered, "I don't think I can. If that is what this assignment entails, then Simmons picked the wrong person for the job."

Draco stood and slunk over to Harry, placing his hands on his hips. "Yes you can. I know the way your body moves, the way it writhes. Trust me, Potter, if you can do that, then you can dance."

Harry knew he needed to do some research. He'd spent weeks before his last assignment trying to get the drug lingo down, developing his "look." It wasn't unreasonable to expect that he'd have to work at this, too. "Fine," he said in exasperation.

"Good. Now let's see what you've got to wear."

An hour later, Draco declared that Harry had nothing to wear. "Again, I ask you, do you have anything, ANYTHING, that actually fits you??"

"What? It all fits. It just fits comfortably."

"Loose and baggy only works for the old fag hags, Potter," Draco said as he once again made a pass through Harry's small wardrobe. "Are you sure this is it? You don't have any other clothes somewhere else."

"For the tenth fucking time you asshole, this is all of my clothing!"

"Wait, what's this?" Draco asked as he pulled out a pair of black trousers made out of some sort of slinky techno fabric.

"Those are my trousers from Auror training. You remember�the tech ones with all of the pockets and stuff."

Draco flipped them over and back again, a plan forming in his mind. "Wasn't there a little shirt that went with them�really tight one? Shiny, I think?"

"Err, yeah. Why?"

"Where is it? Where's the shirt?"

"Dunno. In the closet?"

Draco threw the trousers at Harry with instructions to put them on while he made a frantic search for the shirt. "Ah ha!" he crowed a few minutes later, "Potter we have got to . . ." the words trailed off as Draco turned around and took in the sight of Harry's ass wiggling around in the very tight trousers.

"These don't fit," Harry said as he wiggled some more.

Draco swallowed as he continued to stare�Jesus, Harry was perfect. Why was he always hiding himself in ugly clothes that threatened to swallow him whole?

Harry turned around. "Malfoy? Did you hear me? These don't fit. I can't wear these."

Draco strode forward and tugged at Harry's waistband. The trousers were tight, but they were meant to be.

"Hey, watch it!" Harry cried as Draco pawed at him.

"Actually, Potter, these fit perfectly. Put this on," he said as he threw the shirt at Harry.

Harry pulled the shirt on. It fit like a sinful glove�molding to every curve and dip in his lithe frame. It barely reached the top of his trousers. Clearly uncomfortable, Harry kept tugging at it in an attempt to pull it down further.

Draco slapped his hands away. "Stop it, you prat, you'll pull it out of shape."

"That's the idea. This is too tight. I can't wear this. I look . . . I look indecent in this."

"You look delectable�especially once I'm done adding a few things�it will do for tonight. We've got to get you a new wardrobe, though. You can't wear this every night."

"I'm not wearing this," Harry growled as he continued to wiggle his ass. "My pants are bunching. This can't be right."

Draco whipped out his wand, said a quick incantation and almost laughed at Harry's horrified expression once he realized that Draco had just spelled away his pants. "Get used to it, Potter, you don't wear pants with the kinds of trousers you're going to be dressed in for the foreseeable future."

Harry growled and charged up to Draco, knocking him back into the wall, pinning Draco's shoulders to the wall with his hands. "Okay, you've had your fucking fun. �Operation Humiliate Potter' is officially over. Now give me back my goddamned pants!"

Draco shouldn't have been aroused. He really shouldn't have, but he was. He licked his lips unconsciously. "I'm not trying to humiliate you, Potter," he said softly in an attempt to keep the situation from getting out of control. "This really is what people wear to clubs. I am only trying to help you fit in."

Harry seemed a bit unsure for a moment before letting his eyes roam up and down Draco's body. "You're not dressed like I am! You're wearing a nice dress shirt and comfortable looking trousers while I'm squeezed into this outfit like a goddamned sausage."

"This is not what I'm wearing to the club," Draco said calmly, "Would it make you feel better if you saw what I was planning on wearing?"

Harry thought about it for a second and backed-off. With a short nod of the head, he said "Go on then."

Draco sighed and quickly cast a few appearance charms. He'd conjured his favorite pair of leather trousers, a midnight blue mesh shirt, a bit of eyeliner, boots and several leather studded belts, which he wound sinuously around his waist and hips. After his handiwork was done, he turned to Harry, who was staring at him with his mouth hanging open. "Like what you see?"

Harry clamped his mouth shut. "You're not seriously going out it that get-up, are you?"

Draco stalked over to Harry. "Oh yes I am�and believe me when I tell you this is pretty fucking tame. And, next to me, you look like a goddamned choir boy. Not stop being such an unbelievable prick and let me finish getting you ready."

Feeling much more subdued and completely out of his element, Harry simply nodded�not knowing what else to do. He sat passively as Draco did something to his hair�he wasn't sure what. It felt all spiky and he thought he saw some glitter or something in there. He didn't say a word when Draco wrapped leather cording around one of his wrists and through the belt loops in his trousers. He only huffed when Draco pushed his dragonhide boots at him to wear. But, when Draco came at him with something that looked suspiciously like eyeliner, Harry put his foot down. He didn't care that Draco was wearing it too�he was not going to wear that fucking shit.

"Back away now," Harry growled, "I'm not wearing that shit."

"Yes you are." Quickly seeing that this was only going to lead to another wall incident, Draco sighed and decided to try the art of compromise. "Listen Potter�try it my way one night. If you feel out of place wearing it, I'll wear what ever you want me to tomorrow."

Harry thought about that. "Anything?"

"Anything?"

Harry thought some more. "In public? You'd wear what I asked you to in public?"

"Yes."

Harry mulled that over. "Okay. You have a deal. Be ready to pay up."

Draco smiled, "Don't worry, I will be."

After another hour of work, one swipe of lip gloss, and a good meal, they were finally ready to go. Draco decided to take it easy on Harry the first time out�they were going to a pretty tame club in the West End.

"Ready?" Draco asked as he looked appreciatively at Harry. His clothing hugged him beautifully�he looked rather tough . . . well, scrappy, maybe. The pencil lining his eyes had smudged a bit more than Draco had intended, but it looked good against Harry's pale skin and unearthly green eyes. His cheeks were still pink from the eyeliner battle and his lips were pouty, red and glistening. He was gorgeous. His small size and delicate features made him seem vulnerable. But his light musculature and hard-edged demeanor made it clear he was anything but. Harry was going to turn quite a few heads tonight. Draco could already tell he was going to have to keep his neophyte companion out of trouble.

"Stop looking around like a slack-jawed yokel," said Draco in an attempt to yell over the thump of the bass.

They'd been at Club Lo for about an hour and Harry was proving to be a bit of a wallflower�a gawking wallflower. Harry just couldn't believe what people were wearing�what they were doing in this place. There was no way he was going to be able to do any of this. Draco had been right. They were probably the least provocatively dressed people in the room. Harry hated the fact that he was going to have to admit that. He gulped his drink down, hoping that a little bit of alcohol might ease the pressure in his chest.

Draco checked his watch and rolled his eyes. They were getting nowhere. Making a decision, he looked around the club, spotted a dark hallway and practically dragged Harry there.

"Why Malfoy, I didn't know you were feeling so frisky," Harry taunted.

"Listen up Potter," Draco hissed, "You have got to get your shit together. You have to be able to walk into a club, wilder than this mind you, and act like you own the place. Your wallflower routine isn't going to get very far. Now. We are going out there and we are going to dance."

Harry suddenly felt very apprehensive. "Malfoy--"

"Trust me Potter. Trust me."

Harry swallowed. After a moment, he exhaled a shaky breath and nodded his head.

Draco smirked and took Harry in hand and led him to the floor.

Harry looked around wildly at the writhing bodies bumping and grinding. "Relax," he heard whispered in his ear, "Just close your eyes and move your hips. Don't focus on anything else. I'm right behind you." Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. He felt Draco behind him, felt his hands on his hips, guiding him. He started wiggling, following the movements of Draco's hands.

A few minutes later and he found the beat. "Good," he heard whispered in his ear. He felt himself relax�was it the music? The alcohol? Harry wasn't sure. He let his hips swivel a little more, let his back arch just a bit. He felt the hands at his hips loosen some, moving with him now instead of guiding him.

A few minutes more and the hands were completely gone. Harry's eyes were still closed. He felt as if nothing else existed, nothing else mattered but the music. It continued to wash over him, filling him, stirring something within him. He let himself go, he let his body do what it wanted and it felt amazing. He danced, and writhed and moved in ways he didn't think were possible. He felt other bodies brush up against him, their energies commingling with his briefly. Harry could feel, could sense the swaying bodies moving in and out of each other.

Draco danced while keeping an eye on Harry. Just as he suspected, he was a natural. He got nervous anytime someone got close to Harry�Harry had a weird thing about touch. There were only one or two people that could touch him casually without eliciting a rather violent response. So far, Harry was handling it fine. Eventually, Draco found himself relaxing and giving himself over to the music as well.

Harry felt a hard body brush up against his backside. Not Malfoy, he determined. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing. No, it wasn't Malfoy, but it, he, was nice nonetheless. He paid no attention to it as he continued to dance.

Draco didn't know how long he'd been dancing, but he needed a break. And a drink. He looked over at Harry to check on him and noticed a guy dancing awfully close to him. Draco's eyes narrowed as the guy pawed at Harry possessively. Either Harry didn't mind, or he hadn't really noticed. Draco slowly started making his way over�this had the potential to get out of hand. Harry was not known for subtlety and if he felt threatened, he'd make a scene without a second thought. "Fuck!" Draco roared when the guy reached out and roughly pulled Harry to his chest.

Harry felt occasional touches on his sides and back, but paid them no mind. The music, this dancing thing, was fucking awesome. But, when the hard body behind him roughly pulled Harry to him, Harry's eyes snapped open. His body stilled. As the adrenaline coursed through him, he prepared to fight back.

"There you are," Draco said to Harry loud enough for the bloke grasping Harry's middle to hear. With a seductive smile, Draco smoothly pulled Harry to him so that Harry's back was to his front.

Harry, still riding the adrenaline burst, felt disoriented at the quick course change. He felt the heat radiating from Malfoy's body. He looked down at the pale arm curled around his middle and felt safe. And, then, he felt very, very aroused. He didn't know if it was all the dancing or what, but he wanted a good fuck. Right then.

Eyes boring into other guy, Draco licked and nibbled at Harry's neck in a decidedly possessive way. Draco was unprepared for the moan that escaped Harry's lips or the way he pushed back against him. Draco's breath caught in his throat. Composing himself, he grasped Harry firmly, sneered and thrust his chin at the other guy. The other guy simply shrugged and tottered off to find someone else to dance with.

*What are you doing now, Potter? Wasn't this afternoon enough? Can't the two of you keep your goddamned paws off each other long enough to let some of us sleep?*

Holy fuck, Harry thought to himself as Snape's voice thundered through him. The music, Malfoy, Snape�it was too much. The thought of Snape watching, feeling, was too much. He found himself moaning again. *You like it you, sick fuck. I know you do. You wish it was you behind me, don't you? Don't you?* Harry fired back.

"Holy Christ," Harry said aloud when Draco nipped at his neck again.

Harry wiggled anxiously as he tried desperately to slip back into the music. Draco caught on and a few seconds later, they were both moving in tandem. Harry let himself fall back into the hard body behind him. One hand reached back and clawed through Draco's perfect hair while one of Draco's hands rested on Harry's chest and the other rested on Harry's hip. Draco continued to nip and lick at Harry's neck, enthralled by his responsiveness�utterly unaware of the stream of sexually charged profanity and erotic images Harry was hurling at Snape.

Harry and Draco gripped each other possessively while the constant thump of the music thrummed through them. Both pairs of eyes closed as if lost to exquisite torture. Their movements, while still perfectly orchestrated, became ragged and needy. Desire coiled tightly in the pits of their stomachs. Draco lifted his head from Harry's tilted neck, leaned down and kissed him violently, relishing the mews he captured. Before either of them could be accused of public indecency, they stumbled into the same dark hallway, still gripping each other, and Apparated blindly to Harry's flat.

Within seconds of arriving, both waved their hands making the other's clothing disappear. They attacked each other's mouths, twisting and turning, slamming each other into walls as they made their way to the bed. Draco hit the bed first and before he could get his bearings, Harry was between his legs, swallowing him whole. Draco howled and fell backwards in a boneless heap. Harry worked him hard, sucking, nipping, licking, while at the same time preparing himself. When Draco thought he could stand no more, Harry abruptly stood, cast a lubrication charm, turned around and seated himself on Draco's swollen prick. Harry hissed and said something in a virulent stream of parseltongue. Draco screamed and launched forward, grasping blindly at Harry's body as Harry levered himself up and down. Draco fought for control. He pulled Harry to him and grasped his hips�stilling their movement. At Harry's animalistic cry, Draco began thrusting. Harry's head fell back against Draco's shoulder.

"Harder," he cried. He was muttering something else, talking to someone else.

Draco didn't have to guess who Harry was talking to. He didn't have to guess who was fucking Harry. Draco knew, as far as Harry was concerned, it wasn't him. That would have offended most people. Luckily for Draco and Harry, Draco wasn't one of those people.

A thousand miles away, Severus Snape was in the grips of an onslaught of eroticism unlike any he'd experienced before. He could feel what Potter was feeling. But that wasn't enough for the obnoxious brat. No, he was sending lewd mental pictures and fucking him with his stream of consciousness soliloquy of smut. He couldn't help it. He couldn't stop it. As his hand crept lower, as it brushed over his astoundingly hard prick, as it enclosed it in warm heat, his eyes closed and one word slipped from his mouth. *Harry.*

Harry's breath caught in his throat and he broke free of Draco's grasp, impaling himself like a man possessed. Draco growled and thrust harder, faster. He felt himself getting close to the edge and took Harry's cock and pulled once, twice, and screamed as he came. Harry followed seconds later with a hiss that was so laden with sex, Draco thought he might come again.

They fell over on their sides, panting, trembling, still coupled. As he struggled to get his breath, Draco thought that was the most amazing fuck he'd ever had. "Think I'll take you dancing more often," he said in between pants.

Harry chuckled. "I might let you do that�if you beg nicely enough," he said in between his own wheezing breaths.

"Fuck you," Draco slurred . . . finding it hard to stay awake.

"You already did that," Harry murmured as he slipped into sleep.

Draco thought about that. Yes, he had in fact just fucked Harry within an inch of his life. But, he knew that Harry had been with someone else. Sighing heavily, he looked at Harry and hesitantly brushed his hand through the soft, black hair. "You're both stubborn, sodding pricks, I hope you know that," he murmured before falling asleep as well.

An hour later, Draco woke. He was still lying next to Harry, even though at some point he'd obviously slipped out of him. He rolled over and realized with a start that they were both cold and sticky. Draco grimaced and cast about for something to clean himself with. Not finding anything within reach, he silently padded into the bath and cleaned himself. He looked at his watch and realized he still had time to get back to L.A., take a nap and make an appearance at the club. When he walked back into the bedroom, he saw that Harry was still sleeping, curled on his side, his hands wrapped around himself protectively. Draco stood there for a moment deciding whether to just leave. Sighing, he returned to the bath, got a warm, wet flannel and carefully cleaned Harry before rolling him over and covering him with the duvet. He let his gaze linger before shaking his head and Apparating to L.A.



Artificial Life - Chapter 3

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