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Let Me See You (On The Dance Floor)

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For the fourth time in less than an hour, Harry looks in the mirror, tugging at his hair in one last vain attempt to turn it into something manageable before giving up with a groan and grabbing the jacket Hermione and Ron had given him for Christmas a few months earlier. He can’t help but wonder what Ron would say if he knew Harry was trying to use the leather jacket to pull tonight, and not just to help keep him warm and safe when he rode his motorbike like Hermione had claimed it was for when they’d given it to him.

Ron proudly told him they’d had Charlie acquire the dragonhide in Romania on the Dragon Reserve. Harry had barely been listening when Hermione went off on a long speech about how it was legally and humanely acquired dragonhide and how rare it was while Ron had crossed his arms and smirked about Harry having something almost as rare as his invisibility cloak. But all Harry had been able to do was finger the jacket, wondering how something could be both supple and strong at the same time. He’d felt a rush of emotions at the gift, not at how much it cost - though Harry had been grateful- but for the time and thought they’d both clearly put into the gift.

It was the first item of clothing Harry could ever remember owning where he knew he looked good. Ron liked to tease him about the extra attention he usually received when wearing it, at least when Hermione wasn’t around to roll her eyes at them both. Harry had always, always hated attention, felt that it was solely because of his scar and not anything about himself. But he couldn’t deny that the first time he’d worn the jacket out to a club alone, he’d felt the eyes of men and women alike trailing after him. He hadn’t taken anyone home, despite the multiple offers, but he’d gone home and pulled himself off hard and fast, not even removing his jacket and letting the scent of dragonhide fill his nose as he shoved his hand down his pants and let himself imagine it was someone else.

He’d stopped wearing it to clubs after that because despite making his body flush and his stomach flip knowing people found him attractive for reasons completely unrelated to his past, he had absolutely no desire for random hookups and one night stands. So he’d taken to leaving the jacket in the wardrobe, occasionally pulling it out and running his hands over it, wondering what it might be like to fuck or be fucked while wearing it, but usually reserving it only for motorbike rides.

Hermione had been right, of course; it was ten times warmer than his favorite hoodie for a nighttime ride around London, and he could see the appeal of something so tough if he were to have an accident. But that wasn’t why Harry liked to wear it.

And as he pulls it on, a strange sense of confidence washes over him. He might not be looking for anything casual, but he was definitely looking to take someone home tonight.




When Harry pulls up to the front of the club, he can see immediately that Pansy had been right. There is a line of witches and wizards around the corner waiting to get inside, and he's immediately grateful he had the forethought to ask for her help. Even if it was likely to cost him later as he’d had to promise an unnamed favor at her discretion.

“What exactly do you want from Draco?” she’d asked, her bright red nails tapping on the table impatiently, an unreadable expression in her eyes.

Sometimes Pansy still made him nervous, with her calculating looks and cold bluntness. She was still all sharp edges and impossibly hard to read despite the fact that she’d be within his circle of friends for a few years now. But other times, when she was with Luna her voice would drop as she reached for her hand, Harry saw a tenderness in her that made him grateful Luna had found someone who appreciated her.  It had taken him awhile to understand what Luna saw in her, but once he did it opened up a world of realisations that had made him reconsider all the things he thought he knew about Slytherins- or one Slytherin in particular anyway.

Harry hadn’t been able to put into words what he wanted. Not exactly. But Pansy must have guessed, because something in her softened as Harry spoke, and she’d agreed to get him on the list for the club without Draco knowing.

Draco. It had been Draco for a long time now. At least six months. And not a day had passed where Harry wasn’t acutely aware of wanting the other man, even if he hadn’t realised how he wanted him at first. And he was pretty sure Draco wasn’t totally immune to him, or at least he hoped so or this entire night would be a disaster of epic proportions and Harry would never be able to show his face at pub night again.




Harry had never truly understood the point of clubs; they were obscenely loud with far too many people constantly in your personal space. No one ever really wanted to get to know anyone and, despite the fact that it was occasionally enjoyable to try to lose yourself in the music and a warm body pressed against his, he could never truly see the appeal of taking someone home without the promise of a more substantial emotional connection; a relationship.

Hermione had told him it was alright, not to be embarrassed or self-conscious, that some people needed an emotional connection to enjoy physical pleasure, but it had still made Harry feel vaguely uncomfortable when he realised that at twenty-three he was still a virgin.

It wasn’t for a lack of offers, but Harry had never been able to stomach the idea of sleeping with someone he didn’t have feelings for- couldn’t stomach the idea of being used just so someone could say they’d slept with the Boy Who Lived.

Demisexual is what Hermione had softly told him the Muggles called it a few months after the war when Harry had drunkenly confessed that he thought something might be wrong with him because he didn’t want sex the way everyone else did. Someone who didn’t experience sexual attraction without a strong emotional connection was how she’d explained it. He’d shaken his head, insisting he didn’t need to label himself, that maybe he was just weird. But the next day after an exceptionally potent sobering potion and several cups of tea strong enough to stand his spoon upright in them, he began to look it up. A feeling of rightness washed over as it occurred to him that he wasn’t broken, that there was nothing wrong with him.

It wasn’t that he had trouble finding people attractive; he’d come to accept that he found both men and women attractive a long time ago. It was just that after the war he’d realized that finding someone attractive and wanting to have sex with them -to being sexually attracted to them- were completely different things for him. So he’d filed away the knowledge, not as a secret but as something precious. He didn’t need the world to know, to understand him, so long as he understood himself.

So when, because of Luna’s burgeoning relationship with Pansy, Draco had suddenly become part of their group of friends that regularly met for pub night and got together for celebrations well, Harry hadn’t thought too much about it. He’d accepted Draco’s apology and worked hard to put the past behind them both, mostly for Luna’s sake, but also for he and Draco. It had taken a while for Harry to feel comfortable around Draco, but eventually, he had come to understand that just like with Pansy, there was far more below the surface than he had ever realised. Which meant that one day, when Harry closed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around his aching cock after a long night of drinking and laughing at the pub, he wasn’t entirely surprised that it was Draco’s face he pictured.

The problem came the next morning, though, in the bright light of a new day. It wasn’t that Harry had a problem wanting Draco like that. It was just that he wasn't entirely sure what to do with the information. Draco was still prickly and sarcastic and intensely private, which meant that while Harry knew exactly how much ice the other man liked in his vodka on the rocks or the kinds of crisps he wanted to eat after a few too many shots of firewhiskey, he had no idea if Draco might be interested in him. There’d been a few looks Harry thought might have meant something, a few lingering touches as Draco handed Harry a beer, but nothing solid enough that could convince Harry he was right. So Harry had gone along for months thinking and wanting, but not doing a damn thing about it because he wanted Draco’s friendship enough to be too scared to lose it.

And truthfully, Harry hadn’t planned on doing anything about his feelings- at least not until last week when Draco had drunk a fair bit too much. He’d leaned into Harry’s space and whispered, “I sure would love to see you on the dance floor, Potter,” before Pansy had wrapped an arm around him, quickly making their excuses and apparting Draco home before he could say another word. Harry hadn’t seen Draco since, but he also hadn’t been able to get the mental images out of his mind.

“Fuck, I hope this is a good idea,” Harry mumbles to himself, eyeing the flashing marquee sign above the club and pulling his jacket tighter around himself as he walks through the door to Malfoy’s club.




The second Harry enters the club, he’s assaulted by blaring music and swarms of people. Even if he didn’t know this was Draco’s club, he thinks it would’ve been obvious the moment he stepped inside: the sleek decor and casual elegance practically screams Draco’s name.

It takes him a good half hour of winding his way through crowds and shrugging off offers to dance before he spots Draco. He’s not entirely sure what he expected him to look like inside the club -maybe drinking or dancing, decked out in leather- but instead Draco is sitting in a private booth above the club, a bodyguard blocking him from other clubgoers. Even from Harry’s vantage point across the club he can tell Draco’s pressed linen trousers and button down shirt are impeccably tailored, molding to his long legs and broad chest. It makes Harry wish he’d worn jeans a bit less tight.

What’s most surprising, however, isn’t Draco’s clothing, or the fact that he’s situated back away from the commotion of the club floor, but the fact that he’s reading. He’s too far away for Harry to be sure, but Harry would swear it was a book of Muggle Poetry. The surprise he feels is stirring up all kinds of new emotions as and cementing the reality of how deeply he wants to know Draco, emotionally and physically.

Draco doesn’t even appear to be aware of what’s going on in the club, and Harry briefly wonders what he needs to do to get his attention when someone bumps into him. The someone turns out to be an impossibly tall blond, and while there is something about him that reminds him of Draco it's not enough, so he declines the offer to dance. The man looks disappointed but nods easily, turning to walk away when Harry reaches out and grabs his arm.

“Wait, just one dance. I’m meeting someone, but-”

The other man just smiles. “Must be one lucky man. Don’t worry, I promise to let you go.”

Harry tries not to blush under the weight of the other man's stare as a new song comes on, the bass deep and intense. Harry closes his eyes, letting the pulse wash away and allowing himself forget everything and everyone. He has no idea what he looks like when he dances, hopes he’s a bit better than he’d been at the Yule Ball given the fact that he’s had a bit more experience, but it's not something he spends too much time contemplating. When Harry dances its not for anyone else, it's for him, to feel, to forget; to just be.

“Fuck, are you sure you have to meet someone else?” The other man groans into Harry’s ear, pressing himself up against Harry’s back and undulating his hips. Harry doesn’t open his eyes, just nods as he leans back into the other man’s chest, swaying his hips and letting his arms fall back around his neck. He can feel the other man’s cock pressing into his back, and Harry’s cock is rapidly hardening, but it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Harry hoping there’s a certain grey-eyed blond who might be watching him.

By the time the song ends, Harry’s shirt is sticking to the sweat on his stomach and he’s feeling a bit breathless, almost euphoric. It's been a long time since he’s gone dancing.

“See you later,” Harry starts to shout but the other man is already walking away. The man doesn’t seem too disappointed though doesn’t look too disappointed as he immediately zeroes in on a new dance partner and Harry shrugs, turning his attention back up to the private booth in the corner to look for Draco.

His stomach drops in disappointment when he realises it’s empty, that Draco hadn’t seen him.

The feeling doesn't last long though because seconds later he hears a familiar, posh drawl in his ear. “Looking for someone?”

Harry tries not to blush, but Draco is standing there looking almost out of place in the middle of the dance floor even though it is his club. Harry can feel his hair already sticking to the back of his neck and he’s sweating buckets inside his jacket, unsure if it was actually a good idea to wear it dancin., He’s pretty sure he probably looks a mess.  And then there’s Draco, his Italian loafers and perfect clothing ten steps above what anyone else is wearing. His hair is the only thing out of place, a few loose strands falling into his eyes and Harry feels an overwhelming sense of lust crash into him.

Fuck, but this is either going to end up being best or worst idea Harry has ever had.

Draco looks amazing and Harry can’t think of a single word adequate enough to describe the sheer intensity of the ways in which he wants to own and be owned by the man in front of him. So Harry does the only thing that makes any sense in that moment and reaches out to grab at Draco’s shirt, yanking him forward and pressing himself flush against Draco and not letting himself think about it, forcing himself to act instead. Draco looks surprised for only a second before his face breaks out in a smirk that makes Harry’s cock twitch in appreciation.

Draco moves his hand round Harry’s body to cradle his lower back as he slides a leg in between Harry’s, his thigh pressed up against Harry’s cock, leaving absolutely no question to Harry’s current state of arousal. There is a flush spreading up Draco’s neck and Harry can’t remember ever seeing Draco look so close to abandon. “Fuck, were you hard before, or is that for me?” Draco hisses, lifting his leg with each sway of his hips and making it rub against Harry’s prick.

Harry bites his lip, willing himself not to come in the middle of the dance floor. “Both, fuck both...before, but,” Harry stops, choking out a moan when Draco's hand slides down the back of Harry’s jeans teasing along the top of his arse, ”Was hard before because I thought you might be watching me.”

At this, Draco groans, his veil of control slipping as he teases his hand even lower and leans down to lick his way from the base of Harry’s collarbone to the shell of his ear. “Do you like being watched?”

Harry tries not to pant but it feels so fucking good and he can’t help but clutch at Draco, their dancing beginning to feel a lot more like sex with clothing on rather than dancing. “Dunno. Never been watched. Never-” but Harry stops, unsure if this is the right time to reveal so much, afraid Draco might think differently about what they’re doing and wanting to make sure Draco never stops the rocking of their bodies or the teasing strokes down the crack of his arse.

“Never what, Harry?”

Harry’s name somehow sounds wicked and filthy and perfect coming out of Draco’s mouth and Harry huffs. “Never anything. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want,” he insists.

“Fuck,” Draco groans, his body stilling and Harry has a moment of panic, worrying that he’s made a mistake before Draco is crashing their lips together and kissing Harry in a way that makes his toes curl. When he pulls back Draco’s hair is a mess, and it's only then that Harry realises he moved his hands into at some point during the kiss, sliding his fingers into the silky locks and tugging roughly. “So what do you want?”

Harry has to take a few breaths, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart before he’s nudging Draco’s mouth with his own, running his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip before whispering, “You.”

Draco lets out an almost broken sound at that, pulling Harry in for another kiss. “Let me take you home. Fuck, I want to get you out of these clothes, except-” Draco pauses, a wicked smirk pulling across his face as he fingers Harry’s jacket. “Except maybe this. I think you should leave this on.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Harry says with a grin.




Later that night, Harry wakes up suddenly, surprised for a moment to find himself in Draco’s bed as a rush of memories flood him, of Draco bending him over the bed with nothing but his dragonhide jacket and fucking him, of Draco laying back and offering himself up and letting Harry fuck him.

Harry feels sore in places he’s never even been consciously aware of, his body somehow taut and relaxed all at once. He looks down at Draco, something warm and comfortable settling in his chest when Draco throws out an arm and pulls him back beneath the duvet. “Go to sleep,” he mumbles, voice groggy.

So Harry does just that, letting Draco pull him back down. He closes his eyes as Draco cuddles up behind him.

His last thought before falling into blissful sleep is that he definitely is not going to tell Ron and Hemione about his new found use for his dragonhide jacket.