Expectant || Drarry

1

That whole evening had felt like a dream to Harry.

He never much enjoyed the ambience of a club - the unrelenting press of strangers' bodies, the music that, after a point, was just basically noise, the way everyone, everyone, around him seemed so intent on having a good time.

Or maybe it was just Harry. Maybe he was the one who didn't know how to loosen up and just...be for one evening.

It was Seamus' birthday and Harry hadn't been able to refuse, nor been able to wriggle out of there well before he'd gotten truly shitfaced, and so at eleven thirty PM he found himself hazily watching Seamus add a tiny golden pill of something to his enth drink. Seamus had grinned widely, handing him the glass with a loud, "throw it the feck back, ya dope!" and Harry had grimaced and sullenly wished for better friends as he'd obeyed.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur and Harry remembers it in foggy bits and pieces - Seamus climbing onto the bar and dancing raunchily for a full forty seconds before toppling over and ending up with a shard of glass from his pint bottle embedded in his arm, howling for Dean to save his life before he died on his birthday, Ron following a startled, perm-haired young woman around bellowing Hermione, don't ignore me! at her the whole time, until a helplessly giggling Neville had dragged him away, apologising profusely to her; Ron and Neville attempting to demonstrate to Seamus, Dean and Harry what a traditional wizarding ball dance looks like while people around them hurried out of the way muttering under their breath as Neville had vigorously spun and dangerously dipped an out of balance Ron.

Harry remembers being so completely out of it that when he'd finally spotted the head of platinum blond, glinting under the multicoloured strobe lights, he'd not given himself more than two seconds to consider it before meandering over, ears ringing and vision swimming. He'd felt like someone he'd never ordinarily be, someone who'd regularly and gleefully throw back drinks with mysterious pills mixed into them, someone who'd find nothing more amusing than bellowing at his friend to climb atop a bar and thrust his pelvis out at the room - he'd felt more reckless than he had in years, had felt exhilarated and free in a way he'd assumed he'd never feel again, and by the time he'd walked up to Malfoy, lounging carelessly against a pillar, Harry had stopped thinking.

Malfoy had looked every bit like the dream Harry was sure he was in the middle of. Pointy as ever, insufferable as ever, Malfoy had been ethereal that night, spellbindingly beautiful to the point where Harry felt discombobulated from it. He'd been arrogant and smug in a way that had made Harry want to ruin him.

Malfoy had smirked and snarked and snapped and scoffed, and had led Harry on a pointless little chase around the place before they'd ended up in a stall right there in the gents' of that cramped Muggle night club in Wandsworth, Malfoy moaning softly as Harry had pressed him cheek-first to the door and driven into his luscious, wildly jiggling arse with all the force and scorching energy he felt coursing through his veins. He tasted Malfoy's mouth, his skin, run his hands over the incredible, velvety softness of it; he'd wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's slender, throbbing cock, had revelled in the sounds Malfoy made as Harry had his way with him, his slim, pale body pliant and willing in Harry's arms.

And as he'd fucked Malfoy, for the first time in months, for the first time since he'd been bitten actually, he hadn't thought about the wolf. His mind hadn't wandered over to the ugly, blotchy pink scar on his left flank. He hadn't been agonising over the fact that he's technically a dangerous predator infected with a sickness that couldn't be cured, and that how if not for his potions, he'd be considered a threat to society.

He'd fucked and fucked and fucked Malfoy into the flimsy plywood door, wringing helpless cries and shameless demands out of him, until they'd both shuddered with orgasm and Harry had spilled into him for so long and with such formidable intensity that he nearly went blind from it.

He doesn't quite recall much after Malfoy had righted his clothes, thrown Harry an indecipherable, wide-eyed look and slipped out of the stall. He'd woken up in Ron and Hermione's guest room the next morning, sheepish and mortified, but with every last detail of his spectacular fuck with Malfoy still somehow crystal clear in his painfully thudding head, and had figured...eh, well, shit happens.

And now, a month and half later, he realises okay, well, wow, shit did happen. And how.