Reckless Abandon (Drarry)

Chapter 25

Harry hesitated stepping over the threshold into the dark interior. Draco's hand was on the small of his back, and Harry could swear he gave a firm push that finally got him moving.

The private club was elegant and old, with dark wood panelling covering the walls and thick, deep red rugs on the floors. A long hallway was covered with paintings of the most famous Slytherins, all moving within their frames to look at Harry with great suspicion.

At the end of the hall, there was a large room with several fireplaces, the golden light they gave off dancing over the people gathered there. A couple dozen faces seemed to turn towards Draco, and he was greeted warmly.

His arm now firmly around Harry's lower back, Draco guided him to each person in turn, introducing him with perfect manners. Harry was surprised that almost everyone was a few years younger, with bright eager faces of those who were embarking on their new careers. None of them with the hardened eyes of those who had fought in the war.

Harry was welcomed, but it all felt a bit stuffy and formal. Were these really Draco's friends?

Draco had also introduced him to the few older men there, likely too old to have been that involved in the last wizarding war. He pushed Harry into a chair near a fireplace when he had to rush off to discuss an upcoming Stormcloud event with someone, apologizing and promising he wouldn't be long.

"Firewhiskey?" A senior sitting in an armchair nearby offered, waving a hand towards the crystal decanter and glasses on the table between them.

Even though he had been drinking a lot less lately, Harry felt the need for a drink now. He poured himself a couple fingers' worth and took a sip. The flavor was a subtle blend of smoke, peat, and a hint of dark chocolate. He let out an appreciative hum.

"Fifteen year old Blishen. Never touch that Ogden swill," the man said, lifting his own glass in salute. "So, you are Harry Potter. I hope you don't expect me to be impressed."

"I don't expect anything," Harry replied, finding it a bit refreshing to be around people who didn't immediately stare at the scar on his forehead in awe.

"I knew your grandfather, of course. Fleamont was a few years older than me, and quite gifted at potions. He was also fierce when dueling, which you could imagine he'd have to be with a name like that."

Information about his family always intrigued Harry, and he turned towards the man. "Do I look at all like him, Mr. Flint? People often say I take after my father's side of the family."

The old gentleman peered at Harry a little closer, and then shrugged. "It's hard to say. Fleamont and his wife died suddenly from dragon pox, so it's been ages since I've seen him. Plus, he always wore his hair slicked back with that damn hair potion. You should maybe use it on yourself." His eyes flicked up to Harry's tousled hairstyle.

"Oh right, that Sleekeazy stuff," Harry said, vaguely remembering someone mentioning that it contributed greatly to the gold in the Potter's vault. Fleamont Potter had invented it.

Mr. Flint took a long sip of his drink. "At least he wasn't alive to see his only son marry that mudblood."

Suddenly, Harry wasn't feeling as interested in talking with the old man. "So, you believe the Sacred Twenty-Eight should just keep on intermarrying? Your grandson Marcus has those horrible huge teeth, and had to repeat his final year. Are those really traits you want passed on?"

Mr. Flint slammed his glass down on the table, sitting up straighter to glare at Harry. "What do you know about anything? After your foolish parents got themselves killed, you were raised by muggles."