Unhook The Stars (Harry/Draco)

Part II

The third time Draco had a conversation with Harry Potter after the war, he was dressed in tight dragonhide trousers and covered in glitter.

Goyle always got them whatever tickets they wanted, complete with backstage passes. Draco didn't care much for the Weird Sisters (they were too tame, really; he preferred his music raw and angry), but they attracted a fair number of homosexuals considering their lead guitarist's well-publicised preferences. It was as good as any place to find some poor willing sod to drag home when business was slow.

Pansy went with him because she actually liked the music. She sang along with the crowd, attempting to get Draco to join in, but Draco was more preoccupied with the dark-haired vagrant currently using the excuse of a crowd to press a little closer. Thirty minutes later, Draco got bored (the bloke was far too skinny; Draco felt he might break him in half) and turned back to Pansy, who was whispering with some skirt ahead of them. When Pansy turned around, beaming, Draco lit up in anticipation. Popping the pills in her mouth, Pansy leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

Blaise probably wouldn't have approved, but it wasn't like they hadn't ever snogged before. Anyway, Draco cared less about her tongue and more about the tablets of pure essence of Billywig in her mouth.

Every nerve ending in his body was alive and throbbing as he trailed along behind Pansy after the concert, where a lot of groupies were bouncing around hoping to sneak into the aftershow, passes or no passes. Goyle rolled his eyes as he waved the pair of them through, but not before pulling Draco aside to mutter, "Duke's not your type."

"Right now," Draco informed him, running a hand seductively down Greg's expansive chest, "everybody is my type."

"Don't think I won't kick your skinny arse!" Greg yelled at his back as Draco slipped inside.

Everything that happened after that was kind of a blur — the good kind, one Draco would remember fondly, even if Pansy threatened to remove his reproductive organs if he blabbed (she snogged Heathcote Barbary for about twenty minutes before her sense of propriety overran her sense of Billywig-induced lust). In fact, Draco was quite content to spend the evening flirting his way into bed with Kirley Duke (the man seemed rather taken with Draco's antics, sparkly as he was); that was, until somehow Graves' cello got set on fire and, being the responsible, half- drunk, half-drugged group of rock 'n roll junkies they were, everybody panicked.

By the time Magical Law Enforcement showed up, half the building was in ruins. Draco was sitting on the kerb outside, disappointed that his chances at shagging a rockstar were out the proverbial window, but still too dazed to be unhappy and far too high to Apparate properly. A distinctly fuzzy sort of sensation was fluttering around his stomach, making him feel rather light-headed. Pansy got lost in the fray — Draco's pretty sure Goyle took her home after running damage control, and would be along shortly to collect him. Until then, he was content to watch as the maroon-robed officials interrogated the building manager and a couple of groupies still hovering, hoping to get lucky.

Goyle had yet to appear and retrieve Draco when a shadow loomed over him. Most of the excitement died down and people were either being sent home or, more often, detained for being under the influence. Draco sighed; he really didn't fancy Flooing his mother in the morning for gold to make bail. Then he looked up, and laughed. "Here to arrest me, Potter?"

"You're giving me plenty of reasons," Potter said, but he was smiling for some absurd reason. "Can you stand up?"

Draco considered it. "Probably not," he concluded. Mostly due to the Billywig, but the fuzzy feeling centering around his navel certainly wasn't helping matters. "If you want to lock me up, you're going to have to carry me."