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Pretty Fond of Not Very Good Ideas

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"Hi, I'm Harry. Harry Peterson."

"Potter."

"Yes, that."

"He knows you, Harry. You're friends. This is Neville. Remember?"

Harry scoffed. "Well, clearly, no. Good to meet you, Neville. Ray's told me so much about you."

"Ron," said the redheaded bloke in the booth next to him.

"Right. Sorry."

There were several people here now, and they all seemed to be trying to cover their worry for him with an overly effervescent joviality. Harry supposed it was good, to have so many well-meaning friends.

That was the point of him being here tonight, actually. He'd been encouraged to maintain daily and weekly routines after the accident in the hopes that this spell would wear off or get somehow expunged by a sudden onslaught of memories. Harry wasn't to drink any alcohol, Healer's orders, but she'd thought the Friday evening trip out to the pub with friends would be good for him so long as he didn't imbibe.

As though they were afraid it would rub off on him by some sort of pub-booth osmosis, most of his friends weren't drinking either, though Harry had insisted he was perfectly all right with it.

It was odd, come to think of it, to remember a word like 'osmosis' but not remember his own name. Harry also knew he was a wizard but had to be told what a Healer was and that he's an Orderer. Whatever that meant.

"Auror," the bushy-haired woman corrected, and Harry realised he must have muttered the word aloud.

She seemed the most worried about him, so Harry presumed they must be close. He'd gleaned that she and the redhead were shagging just from the way they looked at one another, but it could have been one of those chaste we've-never-admitted-our-love sort of things too, he guessed.

Harry sipped his beverage and answered people's questions to the best of his ability, but he thought maybe he'd become boring, because they'd begun conversations amongst themselves that he'd have been hard-pressed to follow. He'd have been more alarmed and concerned about the loss of his memory if he'd had any idea what he'd actually lost. As it was, he just… Well, he supposed he was waiting. Waiting for something to hit him over the head much like the spell had and give everything back to his empty brain.

While he waited, Harry decided to peruse the pub. Maybe the posters on the walls of famous Quidditch stars would jar something loose. The ginger chap had regaled him with stats from the Cannons and assured Harry that, despite their three-century losing streak, Harry was a fan of them too. Harry was sceptical. Not that he thought his friend would lie to him, but maybe he saw this as a harmless opportunity to stretch the truth to some minimal degree.

The woman – Hermione – seemed a good source for facts about his life, and she'd been open with the information, but hearing he had saved the world… well, he assumed that either her boyfriend had told her that and it was, thus, semi-fabricated, or…

Or perhaps he truly didn't want to know.

In fact, a lot of the stories they'd all told him had uncomfortable things in common, namely the risk of Harry's life and limb, the death of people he's been told he loved, and the responsibility of the wizarding world on his shoulders. They couldn't all be lying, so Harry was forced to concede that maybe he was just the unluckiest bloke in England.

At least he knew they were in England.

Small victories.

Harry sighed and scanned the bar, looking for a familiar shot glass or a bottle of gin that would remind him of some night he'd got pissed and vomited up his socks. He figured it would be better than the vast nothing ricocheting meaninglessly against the insides of his echoing skull.

What – or who – he saw instead, though… It was the aristocratic laugh that drew his eye, and the toss of a very blond head that held it. And 'very blond' didn't really cover it, Harry decided. Nearly white, as though it had been bleached or drained of warmth. But no, not that white. There was a golden glimmer from the lights above the bar that lent its warmth to the pale strands as they slipped back down into the man's face regardless of his flicking them away. The face, in profile, was sharp without being hard, the jaw like a blade, the eyes intelligent and slightly cruel. And the way he was dressed… He clearly patronised the finest shops, yet that wasn't what Harry found himself impressed by. Rather the snug fit. The grey suit was tailored as to resemble a second skin, though the crisp white shirt he wore open at the neck, leaving throat and the beginnings of collar bone bare. Harry watched the man laugh again and sip a whiskey, licking thin, smirking lips.

It was then that the man's eyes shifted and, as though he'd known right where Harry sat the whole time, landed on him, locking their gazes.

It was only a moment, a breath (which Harry felt incapable of drawing), and then the bloke's already hard jaw stiffened a fraction further and he turned back to his companion.

"Huh," Harry grunted, blinking. "Ray?"

"Ron."

"Sorry."

"No problem. What is it, Harry?"

Harry dragged his eyes away from the vision on the barstool. "You didn't tell me I'm bent."

Ray blushed, his eyes going wide. He stammered, "Uh. You… Bent? As in…?"

"Gay, yes." Harry watched his expression hawkishly, waiting for confirmation. To be connected in this way with something of himself, something real, would be like a lifeline. Or, well, it would be something.

"Well, we, uh, didn't…" Ray looked at Hermione for help.

"Are you remembering something, Harry?"

"Doesn't feel like a memory really. It's just… Well, I know I'd shag that blonde at the bar in about five seconds flat, you know?" He couldn't help a little laugh at that. But the others, when they turned to see where his gaze had wandered, looked less than amused.

Ray, bless him, must not have known at all because he literally spat his drink across the table.

"Him?"

"Yeah."

"HIM?"

"Well," Harry shrugged. "Look at him."

"I'm not bent!" Ray spluttered. "And even if I was… Malfoy?"

"Oh, so you know him!" Harry brightened. Then he laughed. "Merlin, what kind of name is that?"

Ray looked a little green around the gills. "Yes. You could say that I know him."

"And you? You know him as well? Do I know him?"

The bushy-haired woman nodded with what appeared to be reluctance.

"Well?" Harry asked. He had to know, even if her look already spoke volumes. "What do you think of him, Hermione?"

The redhead looked at him aghast. "You can remember 'Hermione', but 'Ron' is just too difficult?"

Harry shrugged.

"It's three letters!"

"You just look like a Ray to me."

"I—" Ron shook his head, whatever words he wished to say getting, presumably, stuck in his throat. He looked to Hermione for assistance. She shrugged, too.

"Well?" Harry prompted again.

"Draco Malfoy is not the nicest person."

Harry rolled his eyes. He'd already read that off him in the few seconds he'd spent gawking. "I'm not talking about an arranged marriage here. I just want to go…" Harry felt himself blushing a bit. "You know, chat him up."

At their blank stares, Harry went on.

"Look, if I know him too, maybe it'll jog my memory. Let's call it an experiment, hmm?"

They exchanged looks, and then Hermione placed her hand over his on the table in a way that felt entirely too patronising for Harry's taste.

"I don't think it's a very good idea, Harry."

He slipped his hand sharply from beneath hers. "Something tells me I'm pretty fond of not very good ideas." He stood, his heart pounding, and then evaded their hands scrabbling for his sleeves as he walked away from the safety of the booth and made his way to the bar instead. To him.

He heard them arguing in hushed tones behind his retreating back and smiled. It felt liberating, being out of that booth. It felt good to use his legs, to feel his magic moving under his skin, to be free of all that concerned care.

Something good was going to come of this memory loss; maybe giving not one fuck would be it.

And merciful Merlin, this Draco Malfoy was even more beautiful up close.

"Hi," Harry said with a smile.

The man turned not-quite-wide but certainly incredulous eyes Harry's way. "Er, hello?" He scoffed and then turned his attention back to his friend on the opposite barstool, picking up his drink once more.

Graceful hands. Clean fingernails. He was wealthy, obviously. That much had been clear from the moment Harry spied him. But it only now occurred to Harry that this might be why Hermione and Ray thought they wouldn't work out. They'd told Harry how he'd grown up, after all. But hell, not even for a one night stand? Harry could handle the silver cufflinks, thank you very much; they wouldn't be staying on all that long. Harry smirked at the thought and tried again.

"I'm Harry," he said. "I'm told you already know that, but… just to be safe."

This time the bloke's eyes got a bit wider, and Harry most certainly had his attention. "You think I've somehow forgotten you?"

"Well, I've been told I saved the world, so I suppose that's not altogether likely, is it?"

The man scoffed again, but this time there was a hint of a smirk along with it. Harry had amused him. It was a start. Harry sat himself on the empty barstool to the man's right and then scooted it a bit closer to him. The action didn't escape the man if the trailing of his gaze down Harry's body and back up meant anything.

It felt like it meant something. Harry's prick swelled a bit in his trousers.

"Would you, ah, like a drink, Potter?"

Harry slapped his hand down on the bar. "Potter!" he exclaimed. "I think I've been saying Peterson all night." He laughed, and this Draco Malfoy bloke now appeared sort of puzzled verging on alarmed. "And I can't drink yet," Harry informed him. "I've gone and got myself—"

"Spell damage!" Ray shouted, having finally made it over, sent, no doubt, by Hermione to save Harry from himself. "Malfoy, he doesn't know who he is, who you are; he's been calling me Ray."

Harry frowned. "What's your actual name again?"

"RON!" he bellowed. "Anyway, he'll be coming back to the booth now, won't you, Harry?"

"Ron," Harry enunciated, getting a bit peeved with him now. "I'm comfortable right where I am, thanks. I'm not a child. As you've so frequently asserted, I'm an Auror. I get the impression Aurors can take care of themselves."

"Under normal circumstances, yes, but—"

"But I think I'll be fine with Draco here. Right, Draco? May I call you that? I'm having a bit of trouble with names, so…"

"Draco's fine," his companion said with a quirk to his lips and a particularly deviant-looking sparkle in his eye that made Harry's mouth water. "You can go now, Weasley."

Ray looked between the two of them, threw up his hands in a huff, and left.

Harry smiled at Draco, and Draco blinked, his gaze roaming over Harry's face momentarily, like he was searching for something.

"So… You were Obliviated?" He took a sip of his drink. When his friend tried to get his attention, Draco merely waved his fingers dismissively in her direction.

"Not exactly," Harry said. "They said it's not as strong as that, and they're hopeful I might regain some of my memory."

Draco frowned a bit. "Hmm."

"You'd rather I not?"

"I didn't say that, Potter."

"Why do you call me that? Do we work together?"

"Are you sure I can't buy you a drink?" Draco asked. "It doesn't have to be a real one."

"Well… I don't actually know what I like."

"Clearly," Draco said. But before Harry could ask what he meant by it, Draco had waved the bartender over and was ordering for Harry. A small thrill worked its way over Harry's skin. He let his legs relax some so that his knee neared Draco's without quite touching it.

"There. Try that." He nodded at a plain-looking clear liquid over ice.

Harry sipped and then licked his lips in appreciation. "It's sort of… lime. And sweet. But with a kick."

"You like it then?"

"Yeah. I think I do."

Draco's gaze was back on his, studying him but seeming tentatively pleased with what he found. Harry moved just a hair on his barstool, so that their legs barely touched.

Draco glanced down at the contact but didn't pull away. "So, what do you remember?"

"Good question. Let's see. I remember that we're wizards. I remember magic. Like, that didn't come as a shock like everything else. I obviously remember how to speak. I think I remember social niceties, but who knows? Maybe I've bollocksed them all up."

Draco smiled just slightly, just with the one corner of his lips. Harry decided it was the sexiest bloody thing he'd ever seen.

"How do we know each other then?" Harry asked him.

"They didn't tell you?"

"I figured you could tell me."

Draco sipped his drink and gave the bartender a wave for a fresh one. He cleared his throat. "School. We met at school."

Harry nodded. "Okay. And… I take it we didn't get along?"

Draco nodded his thanks to the bartender for the new drink and then gave a little laugh. "Not even once, Potter." He took a deep swallow before turning his gaze back on Harry's face.

"Huh. Are you saying we actually hated one another?"

Draco blinked at him, a muscle in his jaw jumping erratically for a moment. "Most of the time."

A strand of silky hair fell into his face, and Harry had the strongest desire to touch it… to stroke it back so he could see the complexity of eyes that at first had appeared blue but now he saw were a silvery grey. He stopped himself with a gargantuan effort. "And the rest of the time?"

Draco looked at him from beneath that fall of hair. Just looked at him, his gaze hot and hard – and yet something underneath it, less confident, so that it wasn't quite suggestive. Maybe it was entreating. Maybe he wanted Harry to find the answer in himself.

Harry's blood raced through his body, his heart speeding to catch up. He found himself leaning forward a little, moving his knee so that it brushed along Draco's thigh an inch.

"Why aren't you over there," Draco jerked his narrow chin in the direction of the booth, "asking them these questions?"

"Because they didn't even know I was gay until tonight – when I told them," Harry said. He moved his knee another inch.

Draco swallowed. "You are?"

Harry's gaze had fallen to Draco's lips. "Yeah."

"You… remembered?"

"No," Harry said. He met Draco's eyes again. "I saw you."

Draco's lips parted. A small frown sat on his sculpted brow. "Potter," he said. "Are you coming on to me?"

"Well," Harry reasoned even as his cock swelled against his thigh. "If you're telling the truth, and we hated each other, I suppose I'd better. Before I remember. Right?"

Draco frowned at him, and Harry noticed the way his chest rose and fell with his more rapid breaths… the slight flush on his pale skin. His gaze went to Harry's lips, intense and hungry, yet conflicted. But then in the next breath, he said, "Come with me."

Draco slid off his seat, and started making his way through the bar. Harry hurried to follow.

"Oi!" the woman Draco had been sitting with complained.

"Not now," he snapped back at her, as Harry made to keep up with his purposeful strides.

He led them toward a door at the back, which Draco promptly burst through. Harry followed him into the delicious chill of the autumn night. It felt wonderfully dangerous, following this beautiful man who'd admitted to hating him into an empty alley. Harry didn't know if he should be anticipating an argument, a drawing of wands, or…

His back was suddenly pressed to the wall. Draco's hand sank into the hair at the nape of Harry's neck, and their lips met. Harry sighed a groan at the pressure of warm lips against his own. Electricity jolted between them. And Harry hadn't felt this right about something since… well, since he could remember.

Draco's tongue pushed into his mouth as they jostled against the wall, Harry's hands going to Draco's hips and yanking him in. Draco panted in his face, his teeth coming down on Harry's bottom lip enough to make Harry gasp, before he was again kissing him, and kissing him, and bloody good god kissing him.

It was everything he'd imagined in those moments spent checking him out at the bar. In fact, it was more. Much more. It was the sort of kiss you'd expect after a long separation. Like not even breathing mattered as much as lips touching lips.

And it turned Harry on to no end. He reached for Draco's belt and began unfastening it.

"Fuck, Potter, you'll kill me," Draco breathed, grabbing his wrist, but then sort of ruining it with another deep, hard kiss.

"Doubtful," Harry told him, slipping the leather from the band holding it in proper place.

"You don't know."

"Maybe I'll never know."

"Don't say that." And through the arousal, Harry heard the regret in his voice, the unwanted longing for someone Harry didn't know.

"Draco," he breathed, still working on the belt but slower now. "Even if I remember everything tomorrow, I'll also remember that you tried to warn me. Bully for you, right?"

"That's a good point."

Harry smiled. "Yeah?"

Draco kissed him hard again, opening Harry's lips so their tongues touched as he yanked Harry's jeans open and shoved them and his pants down to free his cock. He then slapped Harry's hands away from his own trousers, still kissing him, and pulled his zip down. He pulled his cock out and grabbed Harry's wrists, pinning them roughly to the wall. Then Draco's body pinned him there as well as he kicked Harry's feet further apart and pressed their cocks together. Draco thrust, and Harry's head dropped back, his eyes closing, wrists flexing in Draco's fists as his cock dribbled pre-come down its shaft.

Draco panted against his lips, hips rolling so that his cock stroked along Harry's.

Their gazes met, Draco's face so close to his own that Harry felt the warmth of his frantic breaths. Draco thrust against him, and the intimate slide of their cocks made Harry gasp. Draco gritted his teeth and groaned, and then he sought Harry's mouth again, licking inside and then breathing, fast and warm against him while their bodies rocked. Every pass Draco's hard cock made against Harry's own brought him closer to losing his mind.

Which was rather funny, since it was already gone.

Harry found himself smiling. Draco leaned back just enough to frown at him. "What the hell, Potter."

"Shut up, I'm going to come."

At that, Draco's hands tightened almost painfully around Harry's wrists. He started thrusting into him harder and faster, his hips whipping between Harry's now-trembling legs. Harry moaned, his balls tightening up. "Fuck yes…" And then he came. He came loudly, shaking, his cock shooting between them and making an obscene mess of them both.

He hardly had the chance to process any of it because Draco pressed his face to the side of Harry's neck, that white-gold hair tickling his jaw, and he made the most aching, gorgeous sound just before Harry felt the warm splash of come across his stomach and over his own cock, Draco's hands slipping down Harry's forearms, loosening enough that Harry was able to wind his arms around his neck.

Draco stayed against him a moment, catching his breath, palms braced against the brick at Harry's back.

"Merlin," Harry breathed, Draco's lips lingering at the side of his neck and the pulse of his hot breath making Harry shiver. In the next moment, though, he'd moved back out of Harry's arms with a slight flinch and began diligently fastening his trousers.

Harry followed suit, though it felt like his limbs were weighted down, and it took his stupid fingers a couple of tries to button his jeans.

Draco drew and waved his wand, cleaning them both up perfunctorily.

"Ugh, I've never liked Scourgify."

Draco looked at him sharply, frowning. "What?"

Harry had to concentrate for a moment, because that ridiculously sexy fall of hair was back in his face.

But then he cottoned on. "Oh. No. I didn't mean… I don't… I just mean, I don't like how it feels. Scourgify."

Draco looked sceptical, but in all honesty, Harry couldn't find within himself anything that felt like true recollection.

"Are you… going back in?" he asked.

"If I don't want Pansy to kill me."

"Pansy," Harry mused. "…Peterson?"

"Parkinson," Draco corrected. "But it was a good guess."

"I have to go back in, too," Harry said.

Draco buckled his belt. "I'm surprised your friends aren't already out here holding me at wand-point."

"You can't really be that bad," Harry snorted.

Draco just looked at him, a slight frown darkening his gaze. For a moment, they just stood there. Then Draco said, "I'll see you around, Potter." And he opened the door and strode back inside.

 

Harry spent the rest of the night dodging Ray and Hermione's questions about where he'd disappeared to. He got into a very strange but conveniently engrossing conversation about Merpeople with someone named Luna Lovegood who Harry was certain wore her jumper inside out and backward.

Once Ray and Hermione left, Harry let himself peer back over to the bar. But there were just two empty barstools where Draco and his friend had sat. Harry's stomach sank at the sight.

He hadn't even got the git's Floo.

And if he came back to himself enough to remember, he might no longer want it.

"Fuck," he sighed, throwing some money onto the table to cover his tab and then walking out.

Harry tossed and turned in his bed that night, the unfamiliar walls closing around him. But somewhere between sleep and waking, a pair of knowing grey eyes found him. A tumult of fresh memories of frotting against a brick wall with a stranger subdued the strangeness around him and let him sleep.

 

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The Tibetan singing bowls rang the silence around him full. He made quick fists and released them, shaking the tension from his fingers and then dutifully turning his hands palm up on his knees. It was still such a foreign pose, even six weeks into his meditation class. It was his least favourite of the Unspeakable training, he had to admit. And not only because it asked him to turn his Dark Mark up for the room to see – even though they all presumably had their eyes closed.

No, Draco disliked meditation because he knew he'd never master it. It was supposed to help them learn to See. Hell, Draco couldn't See a bee before it stung him.

He certainly had never seen Potter coming. So to speak.

A new tone was struck, and Draco took yet another deep breath, trying to clear his mind.

As if.

All he'd been able to think about the last week was him and Potter in that alley. He'd caught himself remembering when he should be studying, when he should be working. Remembering how Potter looked at him, sitting at that bar. He'd never so much as hoped Potter would ever look at him like that. Fantasies didn't count as hope after all. Fantasies held, by their definition, no expectation of being realised.

Draco had never expected Potter to turn up, sit next to him at a bar, and so obviously and openly want him.

He hadn't ever expected to beat a quick path to the nearest exit, to shove Potter against a wall in anything other than anger, to feel Potter's body against his own, to feel his cock, to bury his face in Potter's neck, to feel his strong yet pliant wrists in his hands, to thrust between Potter's willing legs and—.

Gong!

"Shit," Draco muttered beneath his breath. When Andrews cleared her throat next to him, Draco sighed, fidgeted briefly on his mat, resisted the urge to cast a Cushioning charm, and tried to empty his mind once again.

That lasted all of two seconds.

Fucking Harry Potter.

The class droned on, an odd mix of illicit fantasy interrupted by meditative singing bowls. Draco was trying so hard not to think about Potter's cock, and failing, that a sliver of sweat slipped down his bare chest even though the room wasn't overly warm. When the instructor finally rang the chime that meant it was time to come out of meditation and then dismissed the class, Draco sighed, ran his hands through his hair, and took his time rolling and packing up his mat.

When he turned to the door, the last few of his classmates were exiting, and behind them, leaned back against the wall in the hallway, arms crossed over his Auror-uniformed chest, stood Potter. Draco blinked, the towel he'd just used on himself dropping to the floor as he stared. Potter shoved off the wall and came into the room, walking slowly toward him.

"Malfoy," he said, arms uncrossing, his hands shoving into the pockets of his trousers.

Draco couldn't help it; his gaze travelled down Potter's body and back up, admiring, against his will, the way his uniform fit in all the right places. And if Potter was back in the uniform, that could only mean one thing: that he'd remembered.

That he remembered everything.

"Potter. What brings you down to Mysteries?" Draco swiped up his towel and tossed it into his bag, turning and setting his hands on his hips.

Potter moved across the room at a maddeningly unhurried pace. He shrugged. "I've always wanted to see what you people got up to down here." His gaze took in Draco's bare chest, the loose trousers and bare feet, and Draco managed to give him a bland eyebrow raise in return.

"That all? No pertinent Auror business?"

Potter walked up to him, leaving a foot of space between them. "Nope. Nothing official anyway."

Draco fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest. He lifted his chin. "Mm. Something unofficial then?"

Potter somehow managed to smile and frown a little both at once, the crease between his eyebrows battling with the upward curve of his generous lips. "Aren't you going to ask me?"

Draco disguised the quickening of his breath with some effort. "Ask you what?"

Potter took one more step. They were so close they nearly touched, and Draco slowly lowered his arms to his sides, ready for whatever it was Potter's invasion of his space promised.

"Ask you what?" Draco repeated when Potter didn't answer and the silence grew frustratingly suggestive.

"What I remember," Potter said smoothly.

Draco held the eye contact. "I think you've just told me."

Potter smirked at him.

"So," Draco continued. "What else are you here for, Potter?"

Potter's gaze went briefly to Draco's lips. "I thought I'd ask if you'd like to buy me a drink sometime. A real one, that is."

Draco's pulse beat so hard he felt sure it flashed like a beacon at the base of his throat, an undeniable confession of the adrenaline pumping through his system at Potter's words. Yet he managed to keep his voice unaffected. "That so."

Potter nodded. "I'm supposed to grab a pick-up Quidditch match with Ray tonight, but I could cancel – if you're not busy."

Draco frowned at him.

Potter waved a hand lazily. "I decided to keep calling him that. You know, just to screw with him." He smiled. And it was bloody dazzling.

Draco couldn't help the mirthful twitch to his own lips. "Dick move, Potter."

Potter shrugged. He leaned in just so. Close enough to kiss but refraining. "So… About that drink, Draco."

Draco simply stood there barely breathing for a moment. He let Potter's gravity sway him slightly forward so that they nearly pressed together. He could practically feel the scratch of the heavy uniform material over his chest. Draco tilted his head, placing his lips at Potter's ear. "I get off at six."

He heard Potter gulp. Saw his hands, out of the corner of his eye, clench and release, wanting to touch him. "Meet you there?"

Draco smiled. He exhaled against Potter's neck, and Potter shuddered, his head turning. Draco felt the brush of his lips against his own neck for a tantalizing split second. And then Draco forced himself to move away, bending to pick up his bag. "Same place," he said before walking away, amazed at how successfully he'd not jumped Potter's bones. Merlin, he was getting hard underneath his very flimsy trousers.

"Malfoy?" Potter called.

Draco stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder.

"If it comes to it…" Potter began.

"Yeah?"

"I always prefer a hot shower to a Scourgify."

Lust pulsed under Draco's skin like magic. "So do I, Potter."

Potter smirked at him, and it was all Draco could do to turn his back and walk away – and wait for six o'clock.