Author's Note: Just a spur of the moment thing; originally a text post of mine. SLASH SLASH SLASH. Mildly sexual slash. Just throwing that out there.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. On the contrary, they own me... Ahem. Anyways.

Parseltongue and Firewhiskey

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"Carrots, red potatoes, rum, Swiss cheese, apricots, pumpkin juice, those new self-cleaning towels Hermione likes…"

Hadn't there been something else? Harry absently shot a lustful grin at the panting man underneath him as he ticked off the items on his grocery list, still hissing a bit of Parseltongue in the process. The man — what was his name? Hunter? Hector? — was sweating like a pig and his greasy strawberry blond hair stuck to his forehead like over chewed gum. Harry shifted away in slight disgust with the pretense of palming the front of his trousers, and Hunter-Hector licked his lips and continued to toss himself off for Harry. Honestly, it was bloody difficult to find a classy trick these days. It seemed all it took was a bit of Parseltongue and a glass of Firewhiskey. Ah, wait, that was it!

"Firewhiskey," Harry hissed, low and seductive. "Ron told me to pick up a few bottles last evening."

Gum Hair let out a long, painful groan at Harry's murmur, wanking furiously into his hand with a few pathetic whimpers, signaling his completion. Harry stared at him with one eyebrow raised, his mouth only curving into a smile once the man had finished and looked up at him.

"Want me to fuck you?" Hunter-Hector breathed, his eyes gleaming with unbridled lust.

Harry leaned back and let the bloke zip up his trousers for him before getting up and patting him on the arm. "Maybe another time, Hunter," he said.

"It's Ryan. Come on, let me help you with that…"

"Like I said, another time. See you around, mate."

Harry strode away and disappeared quickly into the crowd of fluctuating bodies, weaving through the dancing sea to make his getaway. See, the thing was, Harry didn't let other men fuck him. He fucked them, and he fucked them senseless, and that was the end of it.

As soon as he had arrived at the bar on the other side of the club, Harry sighed and slumped against it. Merlin. Hunter had been his third bad job tonight. Harry didn't understand it; this was his favourite regular club, the Muggles were always eagerly charming and the wizards fiercely irresistible. He'd been going here for ages, seducing men with his trademark grin and line ("Can I buy you a drink?"), which would always result in some kind of sex involving Harry's skilled Parseltongue. The Muggles thought it a delicious, rare foreign language, and the uneducated wizards (which most were), believed the same. In these parts, Harry was a rarity. And sure, Harry was used to being a rarity — he was Harry sodding Potter, for Merlin's sake. But here, he wasn't the Boy Who Lived — he was sexy and mysterious, and that was just the way that he liked it.

Harry sighed and thought again of the grocery list he'd been reciting earlier, knowing that Ron and Hermione would want those items by the next morning, if not sooner. Well, he supposed they would have to deal with it themselves if he couldn't get to the grocery by the time it closed. Besides, it wasn't just his responsibility, really… of course, every time he stumbled into their shared flat with another drunken man on his arm, he'd leave the place in ruins rummaging through the Muggle refrigerator for a pre-romp snack, leaving nothing more than a few wrappers and a whole lot of racket. So perhaps he did owe them groceries. Granted, he probably owed them much more than that.

Harry could picture just how Hermione would purse her lips and stick her nose in whatever book she was reading at times like these, thoroughly ignoring him as he destroyed everything he touched... but the next morning, after the man had been ushered away, she would lash out at Harry like a lethal snake and often drag a sleepy-headed Ron from bed and into the confrontation as well. Hermione constantly argued that Harry was wasting his life away by having random sex at random clubs with random strangers, and that he should think about settling down already. What was wrong with Ginny? Or if gender was the problem, what was wrong with Neville, or Seamus, or Justin?

"Harry, you are supposed to be setting an example for the wizarding world," Hermione might scold. "You are the Boy Who Lived! Don't you want the children to look up to you? And why have you got to sleep around with anything that moves, for Merlin's sake?"

"Because," he'd say, in the same stern tone, "I am the Boy Who Lived. I can do whatever the fuck I want."

That normally ended up with him sleeping on the couch, as Hermione would spell his room shut from him for the rest of the day and the next, at which point he'd apologise incessantly (he always did). But in truth, he didn't want to apologise for the way he lived his life. He was tired of always being the proper role model, always 'setting examples' for the public. He didn't ask for that responsibility. And if Hermione (and Ron, if he was ever awake to say it) had a problem with his life, they would just have to deal with it. This was who he was now... This was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Fuck Around.

Harry now turned his attention back to the occupants of the club, scanning the crowd with disinterested aloofness while leaning against the cool tile of the bar. Well, guess he wasn't taking anybody home tonight. It was a shame, because he had so been looking forward to another lecture from Hermione. And now he really would have to retrieve the groceries.

"Hey!"

Harry whipped around, roughly colliding with a head of shimmering blond hair in the process. After a few muttered apologies on Harry's part, the owner of the head took a step back and Harry found deep pools of silver staring back at him, framed by baby porcelain skin that almost glowed, as if godly. The silk fabric of the man's black button up stretched pleasantly as it rubbed against the slight muscles in his arms and torso, and his matching black trousers seemed to be tighter than skin. Harry almost choked.

Now the man raised his eyebrows at Harry, as if in slight irritation for his incompetence. His silver eyes narrowed a little in a way that was eerily familiar.

"Clumsy, much?" the beautiful mystery man drawled. "Merlin, I would have thought you'd outgrow that."

Harry frowned. He'd recognise that arrogant, nasally voice anywhere. "Draco Malfoy?" he asked, gaping a bit now. "Is that you?"

Malfoy's thin lips stretched into an even thinner smirk, confirming his identity. "Surprised, Potter?"

Harry made a small noise of appreciation. Damn right, he was surprised. Malfoy looked different...Not only different, but an attractive different, nonetheless. Harry couldn't remember the last time his palms had gotten this clammy from the presence of another man — not since his school days when he'd get heated over fights with Malfoy, although he'd always assumed that had been a result of his anger. He took another look at Malfoy's immaculate physique. Perhaps he'd been mistaken.

Harry tried to shoot a genuine smile at the new and improved Malfoy. "Well, what brings you?" he asked. "I've never once seen you here in the two years I've been visiting. Hell, I haven't even seen you since school."

Malfoy gave him another uninterested grin. "You obviously haven't been looking very hard," he remarked.

"Obviously," Harry echoed, eyeing Malfoy up and down. "Perhaps it's time I start."

Malfoy laughed. "Please, Potter," he scoffed. "Is that all you've got?"

Harry smiled a little and glanced over at the bartender, who gave him a look and a nod before disappearing into the tiny back room and coming back with a bottle of Firewhiskey. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

"I'm not a peasant," Malfoy sniffed. "I can buy my own bloody drink, thank you." Harry rolled his eyes as Malfoy took the Firewhiskey from the bartender and slid over a few Galleons before Harry could reach into his own pocket. "Keep the change," Malfoy advised suavely. Harry rolled his eyes again.

"Still obnoxious and rich," he noted.

"And proud of it," Malfoy added.

Harry snorted. "I said obnoxious, didn't I?"

Malfoy cocked only one eyebrow this time, taking a small sip of his drink before setting it down on the bar. "You look different, Potter," he said. "I must admit, I almost didn't recognise you. However, I obviously spent much more time with my fist in your face than any of these simpletons here, so I suppose that it makes sense."

"Sure," Harry remarked. "Besides, you wouldn't have so easily forgotten the face of the man who always bested you. At everything."

Malfoy scowled a little at that. "Don't try me, Potter," he muttered. "It'd be a real shame to fuck up that pretty face of yours with my fist once again."

"Oh, so you think I'm pretty now?" Harry leaned back against the bar again. "Tell me, is it the lack of glasses or the lack of a scar?"

Malfoy grinned wolfishly. "What did you do, Glamour it?" He took another swig from his drink. "And no, actually. I like your scar, Scarhead. And I happen to be so very fond of those glasses; Four Eyes was one of my favourite nicknames of yours."

"You made up both of those nicknames, so you're biased."

"So I am."

Harry snorted a little and inched closer to Malfoy. "I still have glasses and a scar," he admitted. "Just not here."

"I know that, seeing as I still come across your picture in the Prophet looking the same each day." Malfoy paused. "Did you know that you were caught coming out of a grocery store just this morning? Positively scandalous."

Harry chuckled. "The best part is that it's a total lie. I'm never in there." He sighed. "I honestly don't understand how they could possibly find a new story about me every day. I hardly ever do anything."

Draco smirked. "Ah, I beg to differ, Mister of the Night." With that, he raised his drink and wriggled his eyebrows a little.

Harry grinned back, leaning in closer in an attempt to appear seductive. All of the sudden he wanted Malfoy, and he wanted him now. "Carrots, red potatoes, rum, Swiss cheese…" he hissed.

Malfoy's eyes widened considerably at Harry's spontaneous Parseltongue. "Excuse me?" he whispered, his voice now ten times raspier than it had been before.

Harry grazed his hand across Malfoy's upper arm. "I said, apricots, pumpkin juice, self cleaning towels…"

Malfoy let out a small whimper, surprising Harry a bit. The sudden change in atmosphere was almost unbelievable. He hadn't expected Malfoy to have a Parseltongue kink… although, maybe he had. Malfoy had been a Slytherin after all, and it seemed that the reaction to Parseltongue was universal, anyhow. Harry grinned, his plan forming.

"Malfoy…" he whispered huskily, temporarily switching back to English.

Malfoy only made another noise, clutching the cup of Firewhiskey in his hand and downing it in one gulp before slamming it back down on the bar. "Come on," he growled.

Harry let himself be dragged roughly into a dark corner of the club where the extra tables and couches were, and then shoved backwards onto one of the empty loveseats. All around them, he could hear sounds of other couples groaning and sighing in the secrecy of the shadows and he felt a rush of exhilaration knowing that anybody could see them if they looked this way. Malfoy growled again and straddled him, interrupting his thoughts, and then leaned in and tugged at Harry's ear with his teeth.

"Say it again," he breathed, voice hoarse. "Again."

Harry stared back at him for a moment, bewildered. He'd never seen Malfoy like this before. It was… horribly appealing. He felt his pants tighten, something they rarely did in situations like this at the club. Oh no. He hadn't wanted that. All he wanted a one-sided one-off, and that's it.

"Potter…" Malfoy encouraged again, his eyes glinting dangerously.

Well, it was too late now."Carrots, red potatoes, rum…" Harry had trouble thinking of the next thing, and the next, and the next. What was he saying? "Er, Firewhiskey… and you, covered in it…"

Merlin. Harry shook his head. His mind was just swimming in sinful, filthy thoughts concerning Malfoy and a bottle of Firewhiskey. No. Just stick to the list. It's easy. He always did it; it shouldn't be this difficult… He gasped a little as Malfoy popped Harry's trousers open and slipped a hand inside.

"Pumpkin juice, apricots, red apples—no, potatoes—mashed, no, red. Like the colour of your lips," Harry's gaze flicked down to Malfoy's full, pink mouth, moaning a little as the other man began to stroke him faster.

"Self-cleaning towels, Swiss, apricots—or had it been peppers? Spices… Hot…"Harry lost all concentration as Malfoy squeezed him slightly in his palm. He decided on a different approach."Ah, I've got laundry at home, loads of bills to take care of, Shacklebolt wants that report in by Monday, ah, gods, all that Firewhiskey going down your throat…"

It wasn't working. None of it was working. Harry had the intense desire to actually speak dirty to Malfoy like he'd never done before to anybody else. Lists and chores had always been enough for them, but not for Malfoy… never for Malfoy. Harry had wonder whether it was an old rival thing. He tried one more time.

"Carrots, red potatoes… Oh fucking hell, I need you," Harry veered off course from his list indefinitely, and he threw his head back — actually threw his head back! — as Malfoy tossed him to completion."Gods Malfoy, how are you doing this to me? I want to ram you into that table over there. I want to fuck you so hard you scream bloody murder and all you can see is a bright light exploding into thousands of little twinkly stars — A fucking night sky full. I want to fuck you right here in this club, then in the back alleyway, in the flat — Fuck, Malfoy, get on your knees. Suck me. Fuck me. I'll let you fuck me in my own fucking bed."

For the last few strokes, Malfoy's eyes were as large as saucers and he panted heavily — but not in the disgusting way that Hunter-Hector had. His panting was so delicious and alluring that Harry couldn't get enough of it. Harry almost doubled over, taking in the musky scent of lust and expensive cologne and Firewhiskey as he came violently into the palm of Malfoy's hand.

"Damn, Potter," Malfoy gasped finally, smirking a little and wiping his hand on the arm of the love seat. Harry muttered a quick Cleaning charm and zipped his own trousers for once, gazing at Malfoy expectantly.

"Want me to fuck you?" he offered, trying to keep a hold of Malfoy's silvery gaze.

"Maybe another time," Malfoy said, grinning now. He gathered himself and stood up from his place on the couch, clearly ready to depart.

Harry sat back, disappointed. Yes, this was supposed to be a one-sided one-off. But for some reason, he could actually see himself going home with Malfoy and not destroying the flat in turn, favouring his bedroom before all food-related desires. He could see himself fucking Malfoy, but also letting Malfoy fuck him, over and over, until they were both numb and had fallen asleep on top of each other in exhaustion. And then, in the morning, Harry wouldn't erase Malfoy's memory and make him leave—they'd have a proper breakfast and sit down to exchange crass, cranky jabs at one another's sexual performances with a side of coffee and scrambled eggs. Hermione wouldn't have a word to say about it. Harry could see it, he really could. And he didn't know why it was, or why he wanted it, or why with Malfoy, for Merlin's sake — all he knew was that it wasn't a fantasy he was willing to let slip from his fingertips so soon.

"Malfoy..." Harry began, as the other man turned away to leave.

"By the way, Potter," Malfoy announced abruptly, making Harry pause in his tracks. "You really ought to get those apricots quickly. I hear they're only in season for a short time."

Harry gaped at him. What the hell? Had he accidentally said some things aloud?

"And don't trust those self-cleaning towels, either," Malfoy continued, stumping Harry. "Load of rubbish, they are. My House Elf got a batch just last week and now I've got dirtied, stinking towels and nobody to do the laundry. An absolute atrocity."

"Wait a minute, you understood me?" Harry balked angrily.

Malfoy gave him an incredulous look. "Either that, or my skill for guessing has become awfully uncanny," he replied.

Harry glared at him. How dare he? Malfoy had just sat there and pretended as if he didn't know what Harry was saying! Was he a fucking psychopath or something? Of course, Harry had begun by simply ranting off grocery lists, but then he had started listing the things he wanted to do to Malfoy — oh gods, he must look like a complete arse! Harry shook his head. Was that why he felt so irrationally angry? All thoughts of the proper fuck-and-breakfast routine slipped from his brain. Obviously that wasn't going to happen... Malfoy would kill him first.

Harry took a deep breath. "Look, you could've just told me you didn't want to—"

"Who said I didn't want to?" Malfoy interjected again. "I obviously wanted to toss you off, or else I wouldn't have. Don't flatter yourself, Potter. You're not that forceful."

"But why didn't—?"

"Sometimes I like to entertain myself," Malfoy said.

Harry grumbled. "Stop doing that."

"Make me."

"Oh, shut up. Where did you even learn Parseltongue anyways?"

"I was in the Slytherin House, and I lived with multiple Dark wizards for years," Malfoy said, as if it were obvious. "And we mustn't forget the fact that Voldemort himself resided in my Manor and quite often shouted at his snake for no apparent reason. Honestly, there are too many reasons to count. It was inevitable for me to pick up."

"Right," Harry muttered. He wanted to kick himself in the face. "Inevitable."

Malfoy smirked. "Anyways..." he got up again, brushing himself off and glancing at Harry in brief appreciation. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got to run. How's Wednesday evening for you?"

Harry frowned. "Sorry?"

"I recall you saying that you wanted to ram me into that table over there." Malfoy gestured at it. "And then you were to fuck me in the alley, before letting me suck and fuck you in your own bed. And of course, I have my own wishes to fulfill, you must know that. Am I incorrect?"

Harry shook his head slowly in silent disbelief.

"Good. You'll take me out to dinner before," Malfoy commanded firmly. "Somewhere nice. Firewhiskey is not acceptable, Potter, I want the finest wine your uncultured brain can conjure. And I expect a home-cooked breakfast afterwards."

Harry nodded now. Malfoy let his shoulders slack a bit and he gave Harry a tiny nod back. Then he bent over and pecked Harry on the lips – something no other man had ever dared to attempt before – and actually smiled a little. Harry's heart began to do strange things inside his chest. He felt as though it was soaring in an infinite space, without any chance of it ever, ever coming back down.

"Will you join me for lunch as well?" Harry breathed quietly, in belated addition.

He didn't know what was happening, but somehow he knew that he wanted Malfoy to be there for it. Maybe Hermione had been right. Maybe he needed to start settling down, become the Boy Who Lived again... The Boy Who Lived with the scar and the glasses that Draco Malfoy was so very fond of.

Still smiling, Draco lifted a hand and flicked away the curtain of hair covering Harry's forehead, where Harry's infamous scar would have been. Then Draco straightened up and turned away with a roguish smirk and a wink. "We'll see."