Cobalt blue stains the late afternoon sky, long shadows appearing on the crowded streets as the sun dips deeper below the horizon. The edges of the city are alight with fiery orange and dusty pink, wispy clouds drifting along the dusk sky. The air is thick and muggy, the oppressive humidity of late summer seeping into Harry’s skin, beads of sweat forming along the back of his neck.
New York City is not all that different from London except that it is, wildly so; Harry finds himself lost among the loud honking of horns, francting chiming of bicycle bells and shrill screeching of trains from the grates below his feet.
He adjusts the strap of his bag and walks on, moving through the throngs of people rushing to get home after a long work day. The weight of his wand in his pocket is comforting. He’s tempted to slide his hand against the worn wood, grasp the handle in his palm, but he knows better than to draw any attention to himself whilst in the middle of Muggle New York City. He chose this neighborhood purposefully and will have to deal with the repercussions of that. Harry may not be able to perform any magic openly, but at least he has no chance of being recognised among these unfamiliar, swarming streets.
The slip of paper in his hand is well-worn by the time he reaches his destination, the scribbled address matching the number on the faded red door. There is no lift, of course, so Harry climbs the stairs to the third floor, looking forward to a cool shower to wash away the grime of traveling through this foreign city.
The hostel is a decent one, clean and sparse from its outwardly appearances. Hermione insisted it had received great reviews over the years since it opened. She didn’t quite understand why Harry didn’t spring for a fancy hotel, he certainly had the money for it, but Harry feels right at home as he approaches the door marked 3C in this cozy, low rise building. According to his reservation he will be sharing the room with only one other person.
Harry fumbles for the key he received at the welcome desk downstairs, inelegantly opening the creaky wooden door with a forceful shove, the wood having swelled in the humid heat of the day.
His roommate is already there, sitting cross-legged on his bed, a shock of white-blond hair falling over his bowed head as he rummages through an overflowing backpack. Harry tosses his duffel bag onto his bed and plops down on the stiff mattress with a sigh, glancing over again at his roommate who has paid no mind to his arrival.
“Hello.” Harry clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m Harry. It looks like we’ll be…”
Harry trails off as the other young man lifts his head to look at Harry with questioning eyes. Bright grey eyes, strikingly vivid against the black liner smudged around his lashes. He lifts a pale eyebrow, familiar pink lips curving into a smirk, pointy chin tilting upwards as his gaze bores into Harry.
Merlin, Harry hasn’t seen Malfoy in years, hasn’t heard a word about him since his very public trial at the end of the war. Honestly, he hasn’t given a spare thought about the other boy in a long time. Harry can’t help but feel the slightest twinge of guilt recalling his last conversation concerning Malfoy, sharing a pint with Ron several months ago and drunkenly wondering whether or not Malfoy was even still alive. He had been sentenced to six months house arrest after his trial and hadn’t been seen anywhere since, eventually fading from the public’s mind as well as Harry’s.
But here he is, returning Harry’s stare with intense eyes, the same pale skin and pointy features, and yet different somehow. He looks older, certainly, but less grey and gaunt than during the trials. His face has some colour. His hair is shiny and healthy, shaved short on the sides and long on the top, falling messily over his face.
“Potter.” Malfoy breaks the stunned silence, uttering Harry’s name slowly and cautiously.
“What are you doing here?” Harry stutters out, shock still settling into his bones.
Malfoy smirks at that, unfolding his legs and standing up. He stretches, arms reaching past his head and his loose white shirt lifts slightly, exposing a thin line of flesh along his stomach. He’s wearing extremely tight black trousers, a studded belt looped through the top, the dark fabric hugging his long legs and disappearing into clunky calf-high boots. The billowy t-shirt hangs off his slim shoulder, an intricate tattoo peeking out from beneath his collarbone. Harry realises with a start that Malfoy has several tattoos along his arm, different colours and styles contrasting with his pale flesh. He appears so very different—he looks... good. Malfoy looks Harry up and down, studying him intently. Harry flushes under Malfoy’s thorough inspection.
“Same as you I would imagine,” Malfoy finally drawls. Harry narrows his eyes at Malfoy’s nonchalant answer. “No need to look so suspicious, Potter. I’m only crashing here for a couple of nights and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I’m not,” Harry protests fiercely before clarifying. “Suspicious that is.”
“So you didn’t follow me out here then? It does seem a bit late to send a junior Auror after me, I’ve been gone for over a year now.”
“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” Harry scoffs. “I’m not here to track you down, I’m not even an Auror. I’m just here to… get away is all.”
Malfoy’s eyes sweep over Harry again and Harry shifts uncomfortably on the bed. Malfoy seems as sharp-tongued as ever, but otherwise his demeanor feels completely different. There is no fiery hatred burning in his eyes, no haughty lift to his nose, even the way he stands speaks of quiet confidence.
There had been no lingering malice the last time Harry had seen Malfoy, directly after the trials in the atrium of the Ministry. They had simply exchanged a terse greeting, Malfoy had uttered out a strained apology, and then was swiftly whisked away by the Aurors assigned to seeing him back the Manor. Malfoy’s spirit had been so dampened that day, his shoulders sagging and head bowed in defeat; it’s a vivid contrast to the assured way he stands before Harry right now.
“Well, Potter.” Malfoy slings his worn backpack, littered with various patches, over his shoulder. “This has been fun and all, but I really must get going.”
“Wait,” Harry calls after Malfoy as he walks towards the door.
“What?” Malfoy’s back stiffens. He reluctantly looks over his shoulder.
“I thought, well—”
“Listen, Potter,” Malfoy sighs heavily. “I left England and the Wizarding World for a reason. I don’t really fancy reminiscing with you about our school days or the choices we made or—”
“No,” Harry replies quickly. “That’s the last thing I want either. It’s just… I just got here and honestly I don’t know anything about New York, Muggle or otherwise, and—”
“So you want me to babysit you?” Malfoy’s voice is mocking but there is a lightness there, a playful spark in his eyes Harry has never seen before.
“Not exactly,” Harry responds dryly. “Maybe you can at least tell me what there is to do around here for fun.”
“Didn’t you do any research before showing up to foreign city?” Malfoy asks wryly.
“I have pamphlets,” Harry asserts, flushing in embarrassment. Hermione had been sure to write up a whole itinerary of tours and things to do in New York City, the list likely crumpled at the bottom of his bag. “But I don’t want to do the ordinary tourist stuff.”
Malfoy looks Harry up and down very carefully, chewing on his lower lip as he considers. “Do you like music?”
“Uh, sure. Yeah.”
“Well, some of it, yeah.” Harry blushes. “I found a few Muggle albums when cleaning out Grimmauld Place.” Malfoy raises a questioning eyebrow. “The place I was staying at in England. Anyway, the albums used to belong to my godfather. You know, The Clash and The Sex Pistols.”
“The classics, huh?” Malfoy nods thoughtfully. “Not a bad start. Alright, Potter. I’m in a good mood today, you’re lucky. Come along.”
“Where?” Harry asks, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. Malfoy’s answering grin is all teeth.
“I’m taking you to your first punk show.”
Dusk fully settles over the city, the streets saturated in hues of blue as Harry follows Malfoy through the dwindling crowds. Street lamps flicker on, the orange light glowing through the puffs of steam billowing from beneath the ground. There are less people out than before, but there is still a lively feel in the air, cars whizzing past and patrons chatting animatedly from restaurant patios.
“Come on,” Malfoy complains, pushing past a hoard of people crowded outside a bar. “You walk far too slow, Potter.”
Harry enters the pub after Malfoy, the heavy door swinging shut behind him and is shocked at his surroundings. The pub is dark and dingy, loud music blasting from old speakers and a beaten up pool table shoved in one corner. Malfoy makes his way through the eclectic crowd and Harry follows. Malfoy quickly finds them two empty stools at the bar and plops down unceremoniously. The floor is sticky, and the place smells of stale beer and sweat, but Malfoy looks right at home. He flirts with the bartender, a tall bloke with a shaved head and more piercings in his face than Harry can count, and orders two beers for them.
Malfoy takes a large gulp of his drink, foam clinging to his upper lip before a pink tongue darts out to collect it. He peers at Harry over his pint, eyes searching and inquisitive.
“So, are you wishing you stayed back at the hostel?”
“No way.” Harry shakes his head, taking a small sip himself. “I’m just surprised is all. I would have imagined you at some posh club, sipping a martini or something.”
“Do I look like I belong in a posh club?” Malfoy asks dryly.
“Not really,” Harry mumbles, nervously folding his beer mat. Malfoy chuckles darkly, turning his attention to the crowd. He nods and smiles at a few people in acknowledgement, but otherwise no one comes over. Harry’s eyes fall to Malfoy’s arm, a tattoo of a dragon twisting around his forearm, seamlessly blending in with the faded scars of his dark mark. Harry wonders just how many tattoos Malfoy has and where they all might be.
“Huh?” Harry blinks blankly. Malfoy rolls his eyes before repeating himself.
“Do you want another drink?”
Malfoy’s glass is empty. He’s already motioning over the bartender. Harry looks at the amber liquid in his hand, and quickly downs the rest before setting it on the bar.
“Yeah, sure.” Harry accepts his second drink with a polite nod and sips it slowly. Malfoy is watching him again. It unnerves Harry more than he’d like to admit. “You seem different.”
“Yeah?” Malfoy laughs gruffly, but his eyes dance with amusement. “Things change.” He shrugs as his gaze flicker back towards the crowd, eyes unfocused and faraway.
“How did you wind up here, of all places?” Malfoy turns back sharply to look at Harry. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”
“I took a Portkey.” Harry narrows his eyes and Malfoy sighs in defeat. “I couldn’t stay in England. I nearly went mad being stuck in the Manor for those six months. The house was no longer my home—dark magic lingered in every corner, haunted memories at every turn. It was torture. I thought once the house arrest ended, and I was free to roam the city, things would get better.”
“They didn’t,” Harry supplies, knowing all too well what Malfoy means.
“No,” Malfoy responds, raising his hand to the bartender, gesturing for two more drinks. “I could handle the dirty looks and muttered curses, but I still felt trapped. For better or for worse I was a Malfoy, and nothing was going to change that.”
The bartender drops the third round. Malfoy gratefully lifts the fresh beer to his lips. Harry struggles to finish his second one, half amazed and half intimidated with how quickly Malfoy is managing to drink. The couple of beers have already gone to Harry’s head, a gentle buzz vibrating through his body.
“So, why New York?”
“Aren’t you the nosy one Potter?”
“I’m just making conversation,” Harry mutters, but he can’t pretend he isn’t undeniably curious.
“Zabini had some connections in the Wizarding district. I stayed there for a few weeks and hated it. Sure, very few people had the same Malfoy bias as they did in England, but being around all that magic, it…”
“Hurt?” Harry’s heart pounds at the familiarity of this tale.
“Exactly.” Malfoy’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He shoots Harry a searching look. “I ran off to Brooklyn and left the magic world behind. It was… a bit of a shock really. But eventually I found a job at a collective book shop, met some people there and they sort of took me in. There’s a house we all stay at in Williamsburg, it’s a bit run down but it’s home. There are constant parties there, impromptu shows in the living room. That’s when I first got introduced to punk music.”
“So, why are you staying at the hostel now?”
“It’s only for a couple of nights,” Malfoy scoffs, sipping at his beer. “Stupid Alex trusted the wrong guy and the house got raided. Place got written up for quite a few housing violations, so I’m on the move for now. Damn the police and their ridiculous laws.”
“Ever the rebel,” Harry teases.
“Rebelling is the finest form of expression.” Malfoy turns to Harry, face shifting and tone serious. “It’s only through letting go and getting rid of constraining restrictions that we can be totally free. There is comfort to be found in chaos.” Malfoy smiles to himself, throwing some muggle bills on the bar and standing up. “Come on, Potter. You’ll see.”
“Is it always so humid out?”
“Welcome to summer nights in New York City,” Malfoy replies cheekily, guiding Harry through the streets towards the venue.
The sky has turned an inky indigo but despite the lack of clouds there is a hardly a star to be seen. The moon stubbornly peeks out from behind a tall building in the distance, but otherwise the night is awash with neon lights and fluorescent signs.
“The line at CBGB’s is always the worst,” Malfoy grumbles, petulantly eyeing the throng of people waiting outside the front of the venue. He turns to Harry with a sly smile and throws an arm over his shoulder. “Good thing I know some people.”
Harry ignores the warmth radiating from Malfoy’s thin arm draped so casually over his shoulder and follows him towards the side of the building. A young woman with spiky pink and purple hair stands by a door. She’s leaning against the wall taking a long drag from a cigarette. She shoots Malfoy a crooked grin when she catches sight of them. Harry’s heart painfully clenches as he is reminded of Tonks.
“Where’s Drea? I thought she was coming out tonight.”
“What, with Subzero playing?” Malfoy scoffs. “Not bloody likely. Unless they’ve decided to replace their bassist.”
“Damn, and I was hoping to see some fireworks tonight.” The young woman regretfully shakes her head. “That was one messy breakup.” Her eyes slide over, slowly looking Harry up and down. “And who’s this little heartbreaker? Did you pick him up on your way over?”
“I’m Harry,” Harry helpfully interjects.
“He’s cute,” she responds thoughtfully.
“Don’t even think about it,” Malfoy warns, rolling his eyes and tightening his grip on Harry’s shoulder. “He’s an… old classmate from England. I’m just showing him around for the night.”
The young woman gives Malfoy a knowing look but remains silent, dropping her cigarette on the ground and putting it out with a fierce stomp of her doc martens.
“You better hurry.” She nudges her shoulder against the side door, loud music spilling out into the alley as it slides open. “Leftover Crack has already started their set.”
“Thanks, Stone.” Malfoy flashes her a grateful smile and pulls his arm from Harry’s shoulder, pushing him through the open door and following behind.
Harry has little time to mourn the comforting weight of Malfoy’s arm—he’s quickly distracted by the boisterous crowd and ear-deafening music. Malfoy steers him towards the side of the stage. Harry covers his ears as the bass vibrates loudly from an amp.
“Can we get away from the speakers?” Harry shouts, voice barely audible over the noise.
“Shall we move towards the center, then?” Malfoy’s lips brush against Harry’s ear as he leans in to speak, the sensation sending tingles down Harry’s spine. “You’re in for a real experience.”
The song ends and the crowd roars in approval. Malfoy pushes past people and moves towards the center of the floor. The room is filled with the dissonant sound of a guitar tuning and then the next song begins. The crowd excitedly chants the lyrics in time with the vocalist, raising their arms and stomping their feet. Harry lets out a surprised laugh. He glances over to Malfoy, watching as Malfoy joins in with the rest.
The tempo picks up, the drummer twirling his drumsticks and banging them steadily against the cymbals. The crowd surges forward, wildly jumping and dancing—at least what Harry supposes might be called dancing. The previous drinks have fully made their way through his system; Harry feels intoxication take over. He surrenders to the sensation, allowing the music to flow through his body and claim control.
The song seamlessly transitions to a new one, the singer passionately belting into the microphone. Elbows and shoulders press into him as the crowd becomes more wild, shoving and pushing in time with the music. Harry has a brief moment of panic when he frantically searches out, unable to find Malfoy. The venue is dim, but the lights overhead flash in brilliant red, violet and yellow. Harry spots a shock of white-blond illuminated amongst the crowd. Malfoy thrashes with the music, slender hands raised high, his head tilted back and pale throat exposed. He looks as if he is offering himself to the taking, giving in to the music and his surroundings—it’s a compelling sight. Malfoy’s eyes flutter open and they slide over to Harry, a companionable smile spreading across his lips.
Harry returns the smile and closes his eyes, allowing the melody to enter his veins once again. The bass thuds in time with his pulse. He breathes deeply as he lets himself go and becomes joyfully lost in the music.
Harry takes an appreciative gulp of the city air, still muggy but a bit cooler than before and certainly cleaner than the acrid, smoke-filled venue. Malfoy has a huge grin on his face, his cheeks flush with excitement and a slow but steady understanding creeps into Harry. Malfoy looks much happier than he ever did back in school or in England—he looks free.
“Let’s go.” Malfoy moves quickly through the streets with Harry right on his heels. “You’re going to get your first taste of real New York City public transport.”
Harry’s vision is blurred at the edges. He roughly clings to the rail as he follows Malfoy down a set of stairs. He wrinkles his nose as the smell of stale urine permeates the air, the back of his neck prickling at the sudden rise in temperature.
“I need to put money on my card.” Malfoy shrugs apologetically, pulling a thin plastic card from his back pocket and walking over to a booth. “I’ll be right back.”
The air is thick and Harry’s pulse quickens as a new crowd of people come down the narrow stair way. They push and shove as a train pulls into the station, causing Harry to press against the wall. He’s lost sight of Malfoy, hidden somewhere in the aggressive crowd that loudly groans as the train doors begin to close. A tall man throws his shoulder into the sliding doors and attempts to force himself in, the other riders cursing at him the entire time. More people rush down the stairs and Harry’s breath catches in his throat. Elbows shove at him, pushing him further against the wall and his heart thuds painfully against his chest.
This is nothing like the wild crowd at the show, no pulsing music to lose oneself in. Panic rushes in and Harry trembles as screeching static fills the crowded station, the conductor shouting some inaudible words over the speaker. Everything becomes a blur and all Harry can do is taste the emotion in the air; frantic and chaotic. He’s achingly reminded of Hogwarts right after the battle—the hallways filled with heavy smoke, people rushing about in a heartbreaking frenzy. Harry can almost feel the grime against his cheek, blood dripping from his fingers, the distraught cry of students and parents alike. Harry’s vision begins to dim as he gasps desperately for air.
“Potter.” Harry nearly sobs in relief when Malfoy’s familiar face appears in front of him. “Forget the subway, let’s get out of here.”
Malfoy’s hand curls around Harry’s wrist and he pulls him up the stairs, back into the open, night air. Harry’s breath slowly steadies as they walk down the sidewalk in silence, Malfoy’s hand still firmly grasping Harry’s wrist. Harry attempts to pull his hand away, fighting to find the words to explain his earlier reaction and thank Malfoy for intervening, but Malfoy’s grip only tightens. Malfoy turns his head to glance at Harry, a small smile on his lips and understanding in his eyes. His hand slide down Harry’s palm, their fingers intertwining and locking together. Harry releases a relieved sigh at the comforting contact.
“I’m sorry about the subway.” Malfoy finally says softly. “It’s not usually like that at this time of night, but lately there’s always some kind of construction on the F train messing things up.”
“It’s fine.” Harry clears his throat. He tries to focus on Malfoy’s words, not the steady heat radiating from their joined hands.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not really,” Harry answers, surprised to find the words true. He should be hungry—his last meal was right before landing in JFK, but he finds his stomach is twisted in knots and has no interest in food.
“How about thirsty?” Malfoy smirks. “I think my buzz is wearing off, and I could go for a little refresher.”
“Maybe,” Harry replies carefully. “But I don’t really fancy going to another pub.”
“Don’t worry.” Malfoy steers them towards a small corner shop. “That’s not what I had in mind.”
They enter the brightly lit shop, garish fluorescent lights reflecting off colourful bags of chips and shiny glass surfaces. Malfoy opens one of the many fridges, grabbing two bottles of beer and a small carton of orange juice. Harry takes a moment to indulge in the cool air rustling his hair from the large box fan before Malfoy grabs his change off the counter and pulls Harry back outside.
“Where are we going?”
“My favourite spot.”
Street lamps glow muted orange, casting long shadows along the sidewalk as they continue to walk in silence. The streets are mostly deserted in this area, the air becoming cooler when they come across a low, broken fence.
“The East River.” Malfoy pushes back a section of tangled wire and steps pass the barrier, closer to the river’s edge. Harry dutifully follows. “Although apparently it’s a sound, not a river.”
Malfoy hops onto a cement block, swinging his long legs underneath him to sit cross legged. He offers a hand and Harry pulls himself up, sitting so close to Malfoy their knees brush. The location is far from glamorous, but there is a quiet beauty in the dark rushing water and gentle buzzing of the city not too far away. A large bridge is visible further down the river, its white lights glittering against the night sky and making fuzzy reflections along the rippling water. The moon hangs low in the horizon, competing with the bright lights of the city as it glows a faded yellow.
The silence is broken with a sharp click as Malfoy opens one of the beers and hands it over. Harry accepts the drink with a nod, taking a large sip and grimacing directly afterwards.
“This stuff is disgusting.” Harry wrinkles his nose, peering at the label.
“We aren’t done with it yet.” Malfoy explains with a smirk. “Take one more sip and then give it to me.”
Harry steels himself and takes a large gulp, coughing in the aftermath as he hands the beer back to Malfoy. Harry hears a moment of rustling before the drink is handed back and he tentatively takes a sip. Surprisingly it tastes much better than before.
“This is actually good, did you spell it?” Harry regrets the question as it falls from his lips. He hasn’t seen Malfoy practice any magic all evening. He vividly recalls the Ministry snapping Malfoy’s wand in half after the trials. “Er, what is this?”
“It’s called a Brass Monkey.” Malfoy answers, taking a long sip of his own beverage, his eyes fixed on the city skyline in the distance. “You can thank the Beastie Boys for that.”
“Nevermind, Potter.” Malfoy rolls his eyes.
They drink in silence for a few minutes, the only noise the faint sound of cars in the distance and the gentle waves that lap along the river. The streetlamps are dim in this area. Malfoy is mostly cast in shadows, his profile just visible from the faraway lights and glowing moon.
Malfoy reaches into his pocket, fiddling with a carton. A great spark of light ignites in front of his face. A long, thin cigarette dangles from his lips, the flame of the lighter flickering blue and yellow as it touches the tip of his cigarette. He takes a great inhale, sighing in relief as puffs of smoke escape from his mouth.
“Do you want one?” Malfoy offers, his eyes sliding over to Harry.
“No, I’m fine.” Harry responds, and he really is. He’s more than fine to watch Malfoy; captivated by the smoke curling into the air, the way his pink lips wrap around the cigarette, the tattoos that wrap around his arms, vivid against his pale skin.
He’s gorgeous—likely always has been if Harry were to really think about. He’s always had those striking grey eyes and pretty pale hair. His skin has always been creamy and smooth, his features sharp and refined. And yet Harry has never seen him like this, so content and at ease with who he is. It’s utterly compelling.
Before he even realises it, Harry is leaning in, removing the cigarette from Malfoy’s lips and pressing his mouth against Malfoy’s. He tastes like citrus and smoke, the flavour vivid against Harry’s tongue as he swipes it against Malfoy’s lips. Malfoy chuckles softly, a warm gust of air against Harry’s mouth, before he pulls back.
“You’re drunk, Potter,” Malfoy states, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“So are you,” Harry protests, his lips curving into a smile. “And I’m not that drunk.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes but he leans in, capturing Harry’s lower lip between his teeth. He bites down sharply, a flash of pain spreading through the sensitive flesh, before his tongue swipes over the same spot. The pain subsides, a gentle throbbing as Malfoy sucks and licks his way into Harry’s mouth. Harry’s tongue slides against Malfoy’s, slippery and warm, and shocks of pleasure travel through his body. Harry groans as Malfoy’s hand slips into his hair, fingers curling tightly around his locks and pulling him closer. He feels as if he is being devoured—maybe he is—but in this instant all he wants to do is surrender. Malfoy’s mouth is hot and wet, his lips soft as they press against Harry’s.
Harry has had his fair share of passionate kisses before, but nothing like this. He’s never felt his entire body shudder in pleasure, tremors of desire dancing right below his skin. He feels on fire, flesh feverish and ready to burst into flame. Malfoy flicks his tongue across Harry’s lower lip and abruptly pulls back, his face flushed and his pupils dilated. Harry bites back an aggravated groan at the sudden loss of contact.
“Come on, Potter.” Malfoy stands up and turns his back to Harry. “Let’s go.”
“Where—Why…” The words die on Harry’s lips. He walks behind Malfoy, following him in stunned silence.
Harry stares at the back of Malfoy’s head, his gaze fixated at the pale blond hair that curls softly against his neck. His eyes travel further south, to the lean flesh of his back, nearly visible through the thin white t-shirt Malfoy’s wearing. Harry’s gaze moves lower, nearly salivating at the curve of his lower back, the swell of his arse beneath those tight black jeans.
“I can feel your eyes on me.” Malfoy’s voice is strained, his shoulders stiffening with tension.
Malfoy stops suddenly. Harry nearly walks right into him, startled when Malfoy quickly spins around.
“Fuck it,” he exhales shakily, grabbing Harry by the waist and pulling him into the nearby alleyway.
Malfoy’s lips are on his once again and Harry groans into the kiss, mouth opening readily for Malfoy’s eager tongue. Malfoy shoves him against the wall, the cool bricks digging into his back. His hands slide up Harry’s arms, pulling them above his head with force. One hand presses his wrists together, bound tightly against the wall, the other slips down to rub at his stiff nipples. Harry’s cock throbs in his pants, and he arches against the wall, desperate for some friction.
Malfoy’s mouth is on his jaw, placing bites along the stubbled flesh, his tongue tracing a hot, wet path down his neck. His teeth sink into the juncture between his shoulder and neck and Harry releases a needy whine. Malfoy looks up, peering at Harry beneath pale lashes. He offers the most devilish grin before he releases Harry’s hands and sinks to his knees.
Harry bucks forward when Malfoy’s knuckles brush against his growing erection, nimble fingers quickly undoing his flies and pulling out his prick. Harry gasps as Malfoy’s mouth opens, his cock surrounded by delicious, wet heat, that clever tongue running along his shaft.
He rocks his hips into Malfoy’s mouth, giving in to the pressure building in his groin. He looks down and is rewarded with the most gorgeous sight: Malfoy’s mouth is wet and shiny, wrapped around Harry’s hard cock, his face flushed and eager. Yellow light from the streetlamps seep into the dark alleyway, highlighting Malfoy’s pale hair. White-blond locks glow beneath the artificial light, contrasting beautifully with the dark shadows falling across his face.
Harry’s hands sink into Malfoy’s hair, guiding his head in a steady pace as he thrusts his cock further into Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy releases an appreciative moan, picking up speed; he opens his eyes and looks up and it’s all over for Harry. That lust addled gaze pushes him over the edge. He’s gulping for air, his cock spurting pulse after pulse into Malfoy’s waiting mouth. Malfoy swallows it all, his tongue still licking at Harry’s spent prick until it’s so sensitive it nearly hurts.
Harry leans his head back, fighting to regain his breath and not give into the urge to slide bonelessly against the wall and collapse onto the ground. Malfoy slowly picks himself up and presses his lips against Harry’s, his greedy tongue seeking entrance. Harry readily opens his mouth, tasting himself against Malfoy’s tongue, bitter and sharp.
Malfoy thrusts against him and he feels the heavy weight of Malfoy’s hard cock against his thigh. Harry returns the pressure, allowing Malfoy to rut against his leg for a moment before reaching down and undoing Malfoy’s jeans. Harry slips his hand inside, fighting back a pleased grin when he realises Malfoy isn’t wearing any pants. His fingers curl around Malfoy’s thick cock, the flesh feverish beneath his hand.
Malfoy arches into his touch, tilting his head back and exposing his long neck. Harry’s mouth latches onto that pale flesh, sucking and biting as he urgently tugs Malfoy’s cock. Malfoy is muttering incomprehensible words, his thighs trembling and hips rocking towards Harry’s hand. Harry’s thumb swipes over a bead of pre-come collecting at the tip and he spreads it along the swollen head.
Malfoy captures Harry’s lips in another kiss and then he’s shouting his release into Harry’s mouth, sticky strands of come spilling over Harry’s fingers. Malfoy’s lips spread into a sated smile. He presses one final, kiss against Harry’s mouth before leaning back.
He settles himself against the wall beside Harry and hastily tucks himself back into his jeans. Harry follows his example, redoing his flies and grimacing when he realises his fingers are still covered in Malfoy’s come.
“It’s not a spell, but it’ll have to do.” Malfoy hands Harry a folded bandana from his back pocket. Harry chuckles softly, gratefully accepting the cloth and wiping his hands thoroughly. Malfoy chews his lip thoughtfully. “I miss magic at times like these.”
“Do you?” Harry asks, voice turning serious.
“Sometimes,” Malfoy sighs, pushing away from the brick wall and heading back towards the street. Harry shoves the used bandana into his pocket and follows Malfoy. “I used to feel so powerful when I cast a spell, used to love the feel of magic pouring out of my body. But power can quickly become a burden, especially when it’s so heavily regulated.”
“I’m sure if you went to the Ministry and explained—I could even talk to them and see…” Harry’s words die in his mouth at the dark look that crosses Malfoy’s face. “Sorry.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Malfoy responds tiredly, “but I have no desire to be beholden to the Ministry or any form of government. Honestly, Muggle or not, it’s the same corrupt politics and self-serving interests. I’ve found a place here—I’m free… and happy.” Malfoy utters the last part softly, almost as if he’s surprised by the truth of the words.
“I understand,” Harry replies, and he does—he completely gets it. The same longing for freedom and escape is what led him here, to New York City, and somehow to Malfoy.
“We’re not far from the hostel,” Malfoy says walking away from the river and back towards the busier streets. “We can just walk back, unless you’d prefer a taxi.”
“No,” Harry responds, walking quickly to catch up with Malfoy’s brisk pace. “Walking is fine.”
Harry enjoys the less crowded streets, and the once too muggy air is now comforting against his skin. The storefronts buzz with bright, fluorescent lights, casting flickering shadows along the pavement. Laughing patrons spill out of pubs, drunk and loud as they wrap their arms around one another and zigzag across the sidewalk.
Harry walks quietly next to Malfoy, observing his surroundings in silence, allowing the noises of the city to fill the empty space between them. The silence is not uncomfortable, however, and Harry feels a sort of peaceful euphoria seep into his skin. The sidewalk narrows and they move closer together, their fingers continuously brushing against one an other’s. Harry bites back a smile when Malfoy’s hand catches his the next time they make contact, intertwining their fingers together.
Harry could hardly have imagined just barely twenty four hours ago, checking his bags back in London, that he would find himself here now, holding hands with Malfoy and walking down the street in companionable silence. It seems absurd when he really thinks about it, and yet somehow also inevitable, like a strange jagged puzzle piece he didn’t even realise he was carrying, the mysterious edges finally coming together and clicking into place.
They arrive at the hostel, and Malfoy pulls his hand free in order to grab the keys and open the door. Harry mourns the loss of contact, but he follows Malfoy up the stairs and into their shared room without complaint.
A heavy sigh escapes Malfoy’s lips and he collapses onto his bed, leaning over to undo the intricate laces on his boots. Harry’s fingers feel clumsy as he hastily removes his own trainers, his eyes never leaving Malfoy. Malfoy’s movements are casual as he continues to undress, pulling his t-shirt off and tossing it on the floor, but there is something utterly sensual flittering right below the surface.
Harry’s eyes dance over his exposed chest, the creamy pale skin stretched thinly over lithe muscles. He has another tattoo across his chest, thick black lines twisting in a fascinating pattern, blending seamlessly with the thin white scars that cover his torso. Harry swallows roughly and looks away.
He removes his own shirt and trousers, rustling through his bag for a sleep shirt, when he hears Malfoy rise off the bed and step closer. Harry’s eyes turn towards the sound. He inhales sharply at the sight of Malfoy standing right in front of him—completely nude. Merlin, Malfoy’s hard as a rock, his thick cock swelling between his thighs. Harry’s mouth waters in response and his hand falls to his pants-covered prick, squeezing his own growing erection.
Malfoy’s eyes are penetrating; a vivid grey that glows with the artificial lights that spill through the open window. His mouth curls into a devious smile. He arches one pale eyebrow, an unasked question lingering on his lips.
Harry can only dumbly nod his head, hands trembling as they scramble to pull off his pants. Malfoy’s hands are cool against his skin as he assists Harry, tossing the article of clothing across the room. A predatory looks crosses Malfoy’s face and in an instant Harry is on his back, his legs falling open as Malfoy seamlessly fits between them.
Warmth spreads through Harry’s body, his cock desperate as he arches against Malfoy, seeking more friction. Malfoy presses back against him, rutting into the hollow between Harry’s groin and hip, his hands tangling into Harry’s hair. Malfoy’s tongue traces a wet, hot path from Harry’s chest to his jaw, leaving shivers of want and anticipation in its wake.
Malfoy’s hair is silky and soft between Harry’s fingers, and he pulls roughly as Malfoy’s teeth sink into his neck. Harry’s body is on fire; embers of desire spark in his stomach, igniting flames of undeniable need that rise into his chest. His fevered flesh burns with arousal, his cock twitching against Malfoy’s and the heat building between their grinding erections.
Malfoy places hot, biting kisses along Harry’s chest and sinks lower, grabbing Harry’s legs and hosting them over his shoulders.
“Potter,” Malfoy pants and it sounds almost like a question, one that Harry already knows the answer to.
“Yes, Malfoy,” Harry groans, voice brimming with impatience and need. “Yes.”
Malfoy licks a long line along his cock. Harry bucks forward in response, hips rising off the mattress. Malfoy’s lips brush against Harry’s bollocks and his tongue travels further south, tentatively licking before he pulls back.
“Please,” Harry whines.
“Have you ever even…” Malfoy’s voice trails off.
“Yes,” Harry stutters out.
“I don’t mean with a girl, Potter.”
“I’ve been with both,” Harry scoffs, and if he weren’t so damned aroused he would roll his eyes as well. Still, his heart pounds anxiously all the same—a few one offs with blokes in a club isn’t the same as being spread out and exposed to his former school nemesis.
“So open-minded,” Malfoy chuckles softly. Harry would be frustrated at his teasing but all he can think about in this moment is how badly he wants Malfoy.
Malfoy’s tongue dips lower, and suddenly Harry can’t be bothered to think at all. His mind buzzes with pleasure as Malfoy’s tongue glides between his spread cheeks, the tip tracing teasing circles around his rim. The only words that penetrate through the thick fog of Harry’s mind is yes and more. In fact, he’s certain he pants the words aloud, shamelessly grinding his arse back against Malfoy’s probing tongue. His hole flutters against Malfoy’s ministrations, the wet sounds of his mouth loud in the quiet of their room.
Harry feels bereft when Malfoy pulls away, the air cool against his spit-soaked arse. Harry is soon satisfied, however, when Malfoy’s finger circles his wet hole before pressing inside. Harry mewls in response, wantonly rocking his hips against Malfoy’s fingers as he slips another inside.
It’s not enough though, and Harry needs more. He needs Malfoy to be inside him, needs to feel Malfoy filling him whole. He wants Malfoy so badly, likely wanted him the moment he walked into that hostel and saw those striking grey eyes meet his.
“I’m ready,” Harry chokes out, voice laced with desperation. “Please.”
Malfoy growls low in his throat, his face dark with desire. Harry nearly whimpers when he feels the head of Malfoy’s cock nudge against his entrance. He does, in fact, cry out when Malfoy pushes inside, the burning pressure overwhelming and intoxicating.
Harry’s passage is tight—it’s been so long since the last time he’s done this—and he grips the sheets tightly between his fingers when Malfoy finally bottoms out.
“Alright?” Malfoy asks, his lip trembling with barely reigned in control. There is a sliver of concern reflected in his eyes, and it makes Harry’s stomach flip pleasantly at the sight.
“Yes.” Harry rocks back against Malfoy. “Fuck me.”
Harry’s uttered permission sets something loose in Malfoy. Soon his arse is positively burning with the fervor of Malfoy’s thrusts. It’s a most exquisite pain, and Harry gives in to it—surrenders to the pleasure building in his body. His hands slide over Malfoy’s sweat-slick back, fingernails digging into the damp flesh.
“Fuck, you’re so tight Potter. Does it feel good? Do you like feeling my cock stretch you wide open.”
“Yes,” Harry moans, head falling back onto the pillow. “Give me all you got.”
Malfoy’s pace quickens and he lifts Harry’s hips, adjusting his position. White hot pleasure shoots through Harry’s spine as Malfoy’s cock brushes against his prostate again and again. The sensation builds, pleasure swelling in his cock and vibrating through his senses.
“Go on,” Malfoy whispers, hand reaching between them and curling around Harry's neglected cock. “Come.”
The simple command is Harry's undoing. He cries out as Malfoy pumps his spurting prick, his release coating Malfoy’s fingers.
Malfoy’s hand releases Harry's spent cock and falls to Harry's hip, tightening his hold in a bruising grip. Malfoy pounds into Harry with vigor, his strokes erratic and fierce. Harry's nerves are alight with post-orgasmic bliss, tingling in response to Malfoy’s intense onslaught.
“Fuck,” Malfoy groans. “You and your tight, perfect arse.”
Malfoy’s hips still and Harry can feel the throbbing of Malfoy’s cock deep inside as Malfoy’s orgasm rips through him. He collapses on top of Harry, the weight of his body warm and comforting.
“That was…” Malfoy lifts his head and brushes a damp curl from Harry's forehead. “...pretty good.”
“That was great.” Harry rolls his eyes playfully pushes at Malfoy’s chest.
Malfoy coyly grins and carefully pulls out of Harry, eyes scanning the room. Harry beats him to it—he reaches off the bed and pulls out his wand, casting a quick cleaning charm on them both.
“Sorry,” Harry mutters immediately after, realising what he's done. “It's just quicker and easier.”
“It's fine. You don't have to tiptoe around me, Potter.” Malfoy rises off the bed and stretches, his naked body on glorious display. He takes a step towards his bed when Harry's calls out to him.
“Wait.” Malfoy turns around. Harry slowly lifts his blanket in a silent invitation.
A few indiscernible emotions flicker across his face before he nods and climbs into bed with Harry. Malfoy’s body radiates a steady heat and Harry shuffles closer, resting his face against Malfoy’s chest.
“Figures you'd be a cuddler,” Malfoy mutters, but he wraps his arm around Harry's shoulder and holds him tightly.
Harry sighs peacefully and closes his eyes, drifting off to the soothing sensation of Malfoy’s fingers in his hair.
Harry turns over and reaches his arm out, but finds the bed empty, the sheets cool beneath his palm. He sits up slowly and looks over to Malfoy’s bed, but also finds that unoccupied. Harry swallows down the disappointment churning in this stomach and rising in his throat, wishing he had some hangover potion.
He collapses back onto the bed, head sinking into the soft pillows and throws an arm over his face. Harry considers briefly going back to sleep, but despite the fatigue that clings to the edges of his mind he stays awake, images of the prior night flooding his memories.
Harry wonders how much of it was real—he knows he wasn’t that drunk. Still, the events from yesterday seem surreal, like an inevitable colliding of two forces that, instead of combusting, somehow melded together into a bright and pleasurable union. His hand trails down his throat. The flesh is tender beneath his fingertips, bruises and bitemarks littering his neck and chest. Harry shifts slightly on the mattress and feels the gentle throbbing of his arse, sore and abused from the night before.
“Definitely not a dream then,” Harry mutters under his breath.
Harry’s arm swings off his face, and he sits up abruptly, instantly regretting the quick movement as his head pounds in protest.
“I bring gifts.” Malfoy smirks and holds up two steaming paper cups. “The best coffee in New York City.”
“No,” Malfoy scoffs, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing Harry one of the cups. “But they sell it right on the corner, and it’s cheap.”
“Ah, well thanks,” Harry murmurs, hiding his face from Malfoy and blowing on the hot coffee, pretending to have a great interest in the ripples created along the surface of the dark beverage.
Malfoy takes a small sip from his own cup, watching Harry carefully from beneath lowered lashes.
“So,” Malfoy begins, breaking the strained silence. “Where are you off to now? What’s the next city you’re visiting.”
“Oh,” Harry responds, setting the coffee down on the windowsill. Harry’s travel itinerary—crafted carefully by Hermione, of course—still lays at the bottom of his bag. The words form on his lips before he’s fully thought them through, and they suddenly spill from his mouth. “Actually, I think I might stay in New York for a bit longer.”
“Really?” Malfoy arches an eyebrow, a faint flush spreading across his cheeks. Harry’s stomach does an odd little flip at the sight.
“Yeah. I mean, you showed me tons last night, and I had a great time.” Harry’s gaze flicks up and he catches Malfoy’s eye. “But I imagine there’s still a lot to discover.”
Malfoy bites his lip, trying to hold back a smile perhaps, but fails in doing so. Harry leans forward and presses his mouth against Malfoy’s, his breath warm against his face.
Who knows where the future may lead, but for the first time, in a very long time, Harry feels grounded and comfortable. He feels free.