Title: "Did You Know I'm Naked Underneath This T-Shirt" And Other Great Hits
Author: 
bribitribbit
Team: Team Fanon
Prompt: The Moon
Wordcount: ~8700
Rating: R
Warnings: Crack!fic, Muggle boarding school AU, underage boys
Summary: I know for a fact that Goyle's a drummer.
Author's Note A silly, literal interpretation of "The Moon." Love and thanks to my betas and anyone who helped me figure out British education. None of the musical works referenced are mine.
The impact was unexpected. One minute, Draco was minding his own business, trying to get to his French lesson before he got yet another detention, maybe even the cane, and the next, Harry bleeding Potter had landed a good one on his jaw. Draco landed on his arse in the middle of the corridor, holding his chin and glaring up at his attacker.
"What the fuck was that for, Potter?"
Potter's face had the same unreadable expression on it that he always did. Right now, Draco thought that he could possibly read a few tinges of triumph there, but who knew for sure. Potter was possibly the most twisted of all of the students here at St. Brutus's, and they were all supposed to be criminals or something. You just never really knew what Potter was going to do or what he was thinking or why.
Before the usual circle of chanting spectators had completely formed, Potter was already walking away.
The bell rang. As he handed Draco the detention slip, Professor Arnold raised an eyebrow at the bruise quickly forming on Draco's chin but didn't say a word. He, like the rest of the faculty of St. Brutus's, thought a few scraps and scuffles here and there built character.
He knew why Potter had punched him. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out. St. Brutus's music program was difficult to get into, meaning it didn't really exist unless you had parents willing to donate enough money to the school. Which Draco did, and Potter didn't. Draco had just found out last week that he'd qualified for the program, which meant that Potter must have just found out that he hadn't.
Didn't give him the right to punch him in the face, though. Draco pressed his palm against his chin again, and was only too grateful that he hadn't lost any teeth.
Though he was always getting in trouble for being late to his real classes—particularly French and Geography, the ones he hated the most—Draco actually tried not to be late for his bi-weekly piano lessons.
It wasn't exactly that he was guilty about spending his parents' money. He didn't care what they spent it on, and he knew that they had enough of it anyway. And it wasn't that he particularly liked the piano. Eighty-eight bloody keys were far too many. He much preferred his guitar: still complicated, but in a relaxing way. He was also ten times better at it.
Draco didn't particularly like his instructor, either. He supposed she was nice—a bit on the old side with an affinity for green tartan—but she smelled odd and he was sure she was at least halfway to certifiably insane. She sometimes went on these rambling little rants that just didn't make any sense, and if Draco happened to play the wrong note she'd slap the side of the piano with a flat palm. She wasn't all bad, though. Last week she had brought biscuits.
It might seem a conundrum to an outside observer why Draco would want to continue with piano lessons, then, if he seemed to dislike it so much. He did have a reason. The GCSEs were coming up—in three and a half months, to be exact—and Draco wanted to ace the music GCSE. Needed to ace it, even. And he couldn't play guitar for it, either, because guitars were for shirtless hoodlums sweating all over haphazard stages in Liverpudlian pubs, not well-bred society gentlemen like the one Draco was supposed to come out of St. Brutus's to be.
"Mr. Malfoy," said his instructor when he got to the music room, twenty seconds past four, "you're late."
He knew better than to defend himself. "I'm sorry."
"Never mind—come sit down." She looked at the bruise on his chin with disapproval but made no comment. "Have you been practicing?"
"Yes," he said robotically, though he hadn't, at least not Franz Joseph Haydn's "Andante with variations in F minor." He had all but perfected the Kinks' "Everybody's Gonna Be Happy" on his guitar, on the other hand.
"Well, then, from the top."
Draco rolled his eyes very imperceptibly, placed his fingers in the right places, and began to play. It was only a few bars before he made a mistake, and nearly fell out of his seat when McGonagall slapped her hand on the piano. "Again!" she barked.
He reined in his desire to slap her and started from the top. He made it a bar further than he had before when he made another mistake. And the cycle repeated for the next two hours, during which time he very deeply regretted having begged his parents to pay the extra money to allow him to take piano lessons. It was a privilege, after all, one not normally given to St. Brutus's boys—but Draco was a special case, wasn't he, being so bright or at least wealthy.
At six o'clock, McGonagall stood and began to gather her things. Draco stopped playing. She tsked and said, "Did I tell you to stop, Malfoy? I think not. I expect you to stay here for another hour at least until you've gotten that piece right, do you understand?" He didn't manage to suppress his groan.
Draco debated whether he should just disobey and leave when he was sure when she was gone, but he thought once again of the GCSE. It was the only one he had any chance at, except for maybe Maths. Hating his life a tiny bit, he began playing.
He was still messing up, but it was better without McGonagall there. He didn't have to restart every time. He closed his eyes and fell into the music, which was what he thought it was supposed to be like.
When he'd finished the piece, he opened his eyes and found Potter standing there with a frown on his face and a guitar slung around his back.
"What do you want?" said Draco, recalling the sharp pain of the morning's attack.
"'S my turn in the music room, actually," said Potter. He rubbed the thin, straight scar on his forehead. "I've got it reserved."
"McGonagall told me I could have it for an extra hour," replied Draco. "Looks like you're going to have to wait."
"Except I reserved it a week ago. It doesn't matter what McGonagall said, and the music room is open to anyone, whether they're in the program or not. Get out, Malfoy."
"I said you're going to have to wait. Why don't you get out?"
Draco wasn't sure what it was about Potter that brought out this side of him, but it always happened. Potter was so unrelentingly vicious, for no clear reason. Draco had heard the rumors, knew you weren't supposed to antagonize Potter because he'd killed his own grandmother three years ago, did you know, but he found himself always rising to the bait anyway. He turned back around and began to play the Haydn piece again.
"I don't see what you need it for anyway," said Potter, "seeing as how you're complete crap at that." He pulled his guitar around and strummed loudly. It was out of tune. Draco stopped playing.
"Don't think you could do better."
"Yeah? You wouldn't have to try hard to do better than what you just did."
Draco rolled his eyes and began to play again. Potter strummed his out-of-tune guitar and began to sing nonsense words. Draco stopped, stood up, and grabbed his bag from its place by the door. "Fuck you, then," he said to Potter's smirking face, and stormed out.
He was almost too wrapped up in his anger to hear the notes emanating from the music room behind him as he left. It was the Haydn, and it was beautiful. Draco almost considered going back and saying so—but that would mean acknowledging that Potter was better than him. And that was just not going to happen.
Draco managed to avoid anymore run-ins with Potter for the rest of the week. Creevey—a weedy upper fourth boy whom Draco had no particular liking for—had peered closely at his bruise and asked several times what it was like to be in a fight with Potter. Draco said it was stupid and nothing more and would Creevey please leave him alone, but similar questions came from many more of his classmates. Even Nott, when sharing a clandestine cigarette with him on Wednesday, had asked, "What's with the war wound, then, Malfoy?"
Draco had replied, "None of your business, actually," and that had been that.
The next time he saw Potter was after his Thursday piano lesson. Draco was trying to gather sheets of music from where the wind had blown them when it had come in through the tiny window. Potter arrived at exactly half past six and it was the same argument as last week.
"Once again, Malfoy, the music room is mine now."
"I'm going! If you were a normally-functioning person, you would give me five seconds."
Behind Draco, Potter sat down at the piano. The song he played sounded familiar.
"Is that Darth Vader's theme?" said Draco after a moment.
Potter stopped playing. "Malfoy, I'm surprised. Descended to see a film like the rest of the working class?"
"It's Star Wars, Potter. Hasn't everyone seen it?"
Neither of them said another word. Potter changed from Darth Vader's theme to something more complex, something older. It was gorgeous.
"What's that?" said Draco.
"Rachmaninoff," said Potter, not stopping. "I'm surprised you don't know him, with all your upbringing."
"Shut up, Potter. I do know him."
Potter snorted. Draco had stuffed his music into his bag but he didn't want to leave, at least not until the song was over. When it was, he asked, "Where'd you learn?"
"Taught myself. My aunt had a baby grand in the living room and I wasn't allowed to touch the telly or anything, so I'd get bored and mess around on the piano."
"You're, er," said Draco. He coughed. "You're quite good."
"Gee, thanks, Malfoy," replied Potter. "Didn't I say the room's mine? Why are you still here?"
Draco ignored him. "What else do you play?"
The music stopped. Potter looked up at him, appearing as if he wanted to punch him again. For some reason, he restrained himself and answered, "Guitar. Not much else. Trying to learn the bass from Finnigan but he's a shit teacher."
"Know anyone who can play the drums?" An idea was coming to him.
"No. Why? So we could start ourselves a cute little quartet? Get out, Malfoy."
Draco bristled. "It could be cool."
"Sure it will. I'll call myself John, you can start going by Paul. Get out."
Four days later, there was a note tacked to his bedpost. Draco opened it eagerly. There, in thin, spiked handwriting: I know for a fact that Goyle's a drummer.
He grinned, and couldn't sleep for all that he was busy dreaming: him on a stage, sweating as if he'd run a marathon through London, drowning in the screams of his adoring fans. They could really do this, couldn't they?
One thing that Draco hated more than French, Geography, and piano lessons combined was parents' day. A couple Saturdays a year, parents were invited to the school to see how their incurably criminal boys were coming along, and whether they were any closer to being proper members of society.
Everyone had been sent to St. Brutus's for different reasons, and for the most part, those reasons were pretty stupid. Sure, there really were some incurably criminal kids—it was likely Potter was among them—but a lot of the students just happened to have parents with frustrating expectations of their children.
Draco had been set down for Eton himself until the day his father found him and his childhood friend Pansy in Draco's mother's bedroom when Draco was nine. Pansy was eagerly painting his lips with his mother's lipstick, and Draco was drowning in a dress he'd found in her closet. It didn't help that they were talking about how handsome Patrick Swayze had been in Dirty Dancing.
You see, Draco's problem—at least in the eyes of Lucius Malfoy—was not so much that he was incurably criminal as he was incurably homosexual. So, of course, he'd been sent to an all-boys' school to beat it out of him. This logic had never quite made sense to him, but he was still a virgin after sixteen years so something must have been going right.
Draco led his parents into his room and sat them down. He'd gotten tea and biscuits ready just before they arrived, and he offered them both some. "Welcome," he said. "Not that you've never been here before. How are you?"
"Quite well, thank you," said his mother, sipping at her tea. "Your room looks lovely. Where's your roommate?"
Draco's roommate was named Vincent Crabbe, and probably he was out getting stoned out of his skull like he always was. "Don't know," said Draco. "Probably showing his parents around the grounds."
"How's school treating you, son?" said his father, looking as if he were above visiting his son in such a place. His eyes flickered towards Draco's guitar, propped up in a corner.
"Fine. Our football team won a tournament last Saturday."
"That's nice, dear." His mother smoothed an invisible wrinkle in her skirt. "But we want to know how you're doing."
"Yes," agreed his father. "Have you felt yourself—changing, lately, Draco?"
Not bloody likely. "Actually, I really do think I'm getting better. There was a dance about a month ago, and I met a girl named Cho who I've been seeing ever since."
"Well, isn't that exciting!" His mother put her teacup on the table and stood up for a hug. "What's she like?"
"Lovely," Draco said, lying through his teeth. The real Cho was common and made of plastic. She was a St. Sophia's girl, which was a sure sign that she was only in it for the money. "Wish you could meet her, but she's in Costa Rica for the next week and a half with her parents."
"I'm sure we'll see her next time," said his father, standing up. "And how are your studies going? How do you think you'll do on the exams at this point?"
"Fine," said Draco again. "I think I'll ace the music and maths ones for sure."
His father looked as if he was going to reply to that—and not favorably—but there was a knock at the door. "Oi, Malfoy! Unlock the door." It was Crabbe.
"The door's not locked."
Crabbe pushed and stumbled in, very obviously high. "Cheers. What's going on, then?"
"Mum, Dad, meet Crabbe. He's my roommate this term."
His mother and father exchanged a glance. Draco reminded himself to thank Crabbe later.
The rest of the day passed with relatively little event. Draco showed his parents around the school the same way he had done every parent's day since his first year. They did ask him several more questions that he didn't necessarily want to answer, and his mother got into a conversation with Nott about Cho. Nott spent the entire time with a straight face but kept smirking over at Draco behind his parents' back, smirks that told Draco he was never going to live this down.
He was glad to say goodbye to them at the end of the day. His mother kissed his head and smiled at him, and told him to be good. His father just nodded, and that was that. He watched them get into their black Rolls Royce and drive away.
Nott stood next to him. "Cho Chang, eh? Thought you was bent like a nail, though."
"Shut up," replied Draco. "Just be glad I didn't say anything about Daphne."
"You should be the one who's glad."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Supper?" asked Nott.
"No," said Draco. "I'm actually going to go practice. See you."
"All right, see you."
Draco turned and walked towards the music room, his hands in his pockets. He didn't normally practice in the music room, because Crabbe was never in their room long enough to care whether Draco spent a few hours strumming and picking and tuning. But he wasn't going to play his guitar, as much as he would like to.
His plan to perfect the Haydn piece once and for all, however, was spoiled when he heard the sounds of someone singing and playing guitar coming from the room.
Because a St. Brutus boy didn't solve his problems with others through politeness and patience, he pushed the door open to see Harry Potter sitting on the piano bench with a worn acoustic guitar. He was shocked to find that Potter was actually quite a good singer, although perhaps it shouldn't have been so shocking, considering he never really spoke to Draco unless he was shouting obscenities. He was, as Draco already knew, also very good at playing music.
Draco waited until the song was over before he said anything.
"What's that?"
Potter looked up and his face closed. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Wanted to practice."
"Well, it's my fucking turn—"
"I know, I know. What were you playing?" Draco sat down next to Potter on the piano bench. They hadn't spoken since Draco had gotten the note about Goyle, and he had a few questions.
"You seriously don't know? It's Cat Stevens. 'Wild World.'"
"It's nice."
"Thanks," said Potter balefully. "Why are you still here?"
"I got your note."
Potter didn't reply. He strummed his guitar.
"What do you think? Could we start a band?"
"Well, Malfoy, for one thing, you're shit at the piano," said Potter. "Don't reckon you're much better at guitar."
"I am too! Just because you're a huge music snob—"
"Well, let me see then."
"What?" Draco frowned.
Potter pushed his acoustic at him. "Here, have a go on my guitar, and we'll see how good you are."
Draco strummed a C chord. "What do you want me to play?"
"I dunno. What do you know?"
Draco began to play "Everybody's Gonna Be Happy."
"What's that?"
"The Kinks, you moron," said Draco. "Can't believe you don't know them."
"Well, play a different song."
He began to play "Moon River," accompanying the music with his comparatively mediocre vocal skills.
Potter just sat there listening. He closed his eyes and didn't move. His expression was unreadable again, but in a different way. It was more peaceful. Potter had long eyelashes that you didn't always notice, with those glasses. They were easy to see now, when they were lying there on his cheek. He also had lovely lips when he wasn't curling them in disgust or anger, as he was so often was in Draco's presence. He also had that scar, that scar that was so appealing. Draco remembered being obsessed with it during the first few years of school. He'd ask Potter about it and get an annoyed grunt in return.
Draco became so interested in watching him that he got a chord wrong. Potter's eyes flew open.
Draco stopped, turning red for more than one reason. "I always mess up at that bit."
For a long moment, Potter scrutinized Draco, not saying a word. Finally, he said, "You're not bad."
"You think?" said Draco, trying not to show his pleasure.
"You're still shit at the piano, though."
"I know," said Draco. "It's stupid, but I'm doing piano for my GCSE."
"Why don't you just play guitar?"
Draco shrugged. Potter didn't wait for a real answer. "I spoke to Finnigan last night. He said a band would be ace, if we wanted to start one."
"Did he?" Draco continued trying to keep up his nonchalant front. "Yeah, that'd... That'd be cool."
"You need to learn a few things about playing guitar, though. I guess I'll have to teach you."
Draco didn't acknowledge that this was clearly a thinly-veiled insult. "Do you think you'd have time, then?"
"Thursdays?"
"After my lesson?"
"Fine, whatever. Now go away, Malfoy, I'm trying to practice."
Draco stood. He was at the door when he turned around and said, "What about Goyle?"
Potter's answer made Draco smile as brightly as if he'd aced the music GCSE. "Already spoke with him. He's said he's in."
Draco couldn't stop grinning for another hour, at least.
"It's the fifth fret, second string," Potter nearly screamed.
"I fucking know!" Draco yelled back.
"Then why can't you bloody well play it?"
"I can't fucking play anything with you shouting at me!"
"If you're going to play lead, you're going to have to at least look like you know what you're doing—"
"I do know what I'm doing, it's just I can't concentrate when you're barking instructions at me like that—"
"Come on, mates, let's be civil about this," tried Finnigan, in vain as usual.
The quartet, currently unnamed because Draco and Potter could not agree on anything, had been practicing for a month and a half now, on Saturday and Wednesday afternoons, and most of the practices ended up in screaming matches while Finnigan and Goyle looked on, not quite sure what to do.
Draco's guitar "lessons" often turned out much the same way. Sometimes, he felt like he and Potter were possibly getting on and that it wasn't a completely terrible idea that they might be friends, but then he'd make a mistake (as he was always doing, it seemed) or Potter would criticize Draco's non-extensive knowledge of classic music, and they would get into another petty row.
To everyone's amusement, including Draco's own, they had managed to write a couple of songs. They were pretty damn good songs, too, at least in Draco's opinion. The one they were arguing over at that moment was called "Sloaney Bird at My Window" and it was about a pair of girls who woke up one morning to discover they were Barbies. The band as a whole felt it was a very interesting commentary on teenage society. Draco was sure the NME would be all over it.
The problem was, Potter had this unfortunate habit of ad-libbing the rhythm bit every so often and confusing Draco, who was already nervous enough when he was playing. So then Draco would get something wrong and Potter would criticize him, and Draco would tell him he was stupid or something, and Potter would scream about how crappy a guitarist Draco was and then it descended into No, you, an insult to Draco's mother, you shut it about my mother, Potter, an insult to Potter's mother and the rest of his dubious genealogy, etcetera, etcetera.
Goyle came in from where he'd been having a fag. "Just got off the mobile with my cousin Pete," he said, stuffing his phone into his pocket as he made his way towards the drum set. "Well, third cousin. Anyway, says he reckons he can get a gig for us."
This news was too good to continue with their argument. Finnigan was wide-eyed. "Really, Greg? Where? When?"
"The Cuckoo, two weeks from today."
Draco grinned, forgetting that just five seconds ago the only thing he had been feeling was complete anger. "That's fantastic!"
"Like hell it is," said Potter sullenly. "We're not half prepared for a real gig."
"We've got 'Did You Know I'm Naked Underneath This T-Shirt' and 'I Wear My Wellies When It Isn't Raining' right," said Goyle.
"We can do covers for the other ones," added Seamus.
"Yeah, and if you stopped changing things on me," said Draco, "we could play 'Sloaney Bird at My Window.'"
"It's called fucking artistic license," said Potter, sparking back to anger, "and if you had any sense—"
Goyle hit his bass drum with force. Draco and Potter stopped quarrelling. "All right!" he said loudly. "Let's do 'I'm Naked,' then, from the top, lads."
Two Thursdays after that—the last before the gig—Potter came to the music room looking dark. Draco knew better than to make any remark about it, as much as he dreaded working with him when he was like this. Draco stayed on the piano bench and watched as Potter pulled a chair closer, strapped on his guitar, and just started playing.
It was yet another song that Draco did not really know, although there was some dim recognition. Potter didn't sing as he normally did. He just closed his eyes. Draco watched him.
It was nice to see Potter like this, when he wasn't fit to burst with all the anger he was always carrying, remnants of a past Draco did not entirely care to know about. When he was playing, he was calm, even if the song was angry or sad or whatever. That tranquility allowed Potter to let some of his guard down, although Draco doubted whether he'd ever see a truly vulnerable Harry Potter.
When the song ended, Draco asked quietly, "Which was that?"
Harry opened his eyes. "More Cat Stevens."
"It was good."
"Thanks. Did you look at the piece I put under your door, by the way? I wrote it a couple nights ago."
"Yeah, I did—can't understand your handwriting on some of the bits..." Draco turned and pulled a few wrinkled sheets of paper out of his bag. "Is that a three there or a five?"
"It's a zero, actually," said Potter. "Here, let me play it for you." Draco nodded, handing over the tabs. He swallowed when their fingers brushed.
Potter strummed his guitar lightly. It was quiet, this one, unlike any of the songs they'd written together. "If I can sleep tonight," sang Potter, "that might be all right, that might be all right. Drink wine with me, lay down with me, help me sleep tonight."
It was kind of a depressing song, but perhaps what the band needed was a few depressing songs. Couldn't always be songs about Finnigan's yellow Wellies. Draco picked up his own guitar and followed along, playing the rhythm part. He managed not to mess up, not even once.
They sang the last few lines together. "If I can sleep tonight, that might be all right, that might be all right."
Draco looked up at Potter. "That was good too."
Potter rolled his eyes. Neither of them said another word. They only sat there, messing around on their instruments but not making any real music. It was peaceful. Once again, Draco had a tiny flickering hope that perhaps the pair of them would stop fighting and be able to make friends.
"You all right?" asked Draco after about forty-five minutes.
Potter glared at him, his defenses up again. "What does it matter to you?"
Frowning, Draco replied, "Sorry if I'm worried about one of my mates when he comes in and doesn't say a single word when usually he can't shut up—"
"I'm not one of your mates, Malfoy," said Potter, his voice drowning in venom that was almost surprising in its intensity. "Don't ever think that I'm one of your mates."
"What are you then?"
"I'm just a bloke who happens to be in a band with you."
"You know what, Potter? I don't understand what it is you have against me. You act like you hate me, but you come here every week, plus there's the band, and every time I think we might be able to, you know, act like normal human beings around each other, you have to go and fucking bollocks it up!" Draco was standing now.
"And why would you want to be friends with me, Malfoy? Considering I'm not a pristine little upper middle class boy like yourself," said Potter, also standing up angrily and looking like he wanted to slam Draco's head into the keyboard.
"I don't fucking care about that," said Draco, "as if I haven't made that clear enough. And I'm sorry I got into the music program instead of you—"
"No, you're bloody well not! You're just like the rest of them—you only care about yourself! The only reason you even tried for music is so you could hold it over me—"
"Yeah, that's it, Potter—I planned it all—wanted to lord it over you—you're pathetic, you know that?"
This time, Potter did slam his face into the keyboard. It made a loud, discordant thunk, and Draco's lip got caught in a pinch between two keys. He recovered himself and pushed Potter backwards over the chair. Potter almost fell but caught himself by grabbing onto the chair's arm. As soon as he regained balance, Draco got a hook to his jaw and fell sideways from the force of it. Potter was upon him immediately, and they were rolling on the ground—Draco's foot hit one of the guitars and he could hear a few strings snap—both of them were throwing blind punches—
"Boys!" said a voice Draco recognized as belonging to the headmaster. "What's going on?"
"Is that you, Harry?" said another voice, female. Potter froze when he heard it. Draco looked upwards from his upside down position and saw the headmaster, a thin, blonde woman, a large man, and an even larger boy standing there.
"Did St. Brutus's turn you queer, then, Potter?" laughed the boy.
Potter scrambled off Draco. "Hi, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. And Headmaster. And Dudley."
Draco looked sidelong at Potter. His nose was gushing blood and he was holding his arm tight to his chest. He looked diminished here, in the shadow of—his family? Draco felt an unexpected surge of pity, and perhaps even a little sympathy.
"Didn't you know we were coming today, boy?" gruffly asked Potter's uncle.
"No," said Potter, eyes cast down. "I knew."
"Why weren't you in your room?"
"Was practicing."
"Practicing your martial arts skills in the music room?" said the headmaster, not completely unkindly. The boy sniggered, and Draco knew already that he didn't like him. "Perhaps not the best place for it."
"We'd been planning to go to supper, Harry," said Potter's aunt, "though now I suppose we'll have to wait longer for you to get yourself cleaned up."
"Let's go, then, Potter," said the uncle.
Harry turned and grabbed his guitar. "See you later," he said to Draco in an undertone.
"See you later," Draco replied, although he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to after having his face slammed into a piano.
The headmaster looked knowingly at Draco before he shut the door behind him, Potter's family whispering remonstrations at him while the boy, presumably a cousin, sniggered as he looked on.
Draco sat down on the piano bench and tried to plunk out a few notes from "Claire de Lune" but he suddenly felt blood running down one corner of his lip. He pressed his fingers under his nose and they came away red.
That fucking Potter.
By Saturday, Draco still didn't know what had sparked their fight two days ago, and his lip was still partly swollen. He and Potter didn't speak to each other the entire day, though they would be practicing from about six PM until the gig at eleven. Every time Draco accidentally brushed against Potter's arm, Potter would pull back quickly. Draco grew irritated every time Potter would lean over to see the guitar tabs.
Draco wasn't sure whether this made playing easier or harder. On one hand, they weren't shouting at each other at every other second. On the other hand, both of them were in such terrible moods that even Potter kept screwing up easy bits.
Finally Finnigan, frustrated with both of them, stepped in between Draco and Potter and said, "What the fuck's wrong with both of you, then?"
"Why don't you ask him?" said Draco sullenly, nodding his head at Potter. Finnigan looked at Potter expectantly.
Potter shrugged. "Nothing."
"All right, so we can start playing music, right?" Both Potter and Draco nodded. Finnigan shook his head. "The pair of you," he muttered, walking backwards.
They behaved fairly well for the rest of the day. Around half past nine, they packed up all their things—except for Goyle, who was not pleased to have to leave behind his drum set—and as soundlessly as possible, made their way down into the school's basement and through one of the tiny windows. The punishment for sneaking out of St. Brutus's was a month's worth of detention and probably a caning from the headmaster. Draco would get sacked from the music program.
Goyle had gotten his cousin to arrange for a cab to wait round the corner for them. They all fit their guitars into the boot, while Finnigan threatened certain death upon anyone who harmed his bass.
The pub was small. There were would be fewer people to embarrass themselves in front of, then, should Potter stop brooding and start screaming at Draco.
The boys sort of stood there awkwardly, not knowing quite what to do. The woman behind the bar took pity on them and bustled over, wiping her hands on her apron. "You'll be the St. Brutus Boys, then? Come on, over here." She led them to the tiny stage at the other end of the room, and told them to leave their guitars behind a curtain. Finnigan seemed reluctant, but the woman smiled and said that she'd make sure nothing happened. It was difficult not to trust her.
She then sat them down at the bar and asked what they wanted to drink. Finnigan grinned. "Jameson's, neat?"
Potter shrugged. Goyle looked like he was falling asleep.
"Four of them," said Draco, even though he hated whisky.
The bartender took good care of them until it was time for them to play, at which point they were pretty much mostly pissed. Finnigan took three bottles to the stage with him and set them down at the bases of the three guitarists' microphones.
"Good evening, all," slurred Draco into the mike. "We're—what are we again?" He turned to look at his bandmates.
Finnigan stepped up to the mic. "We're a fucking good band, is what we are."
"We're the Criminally Incurable!" said Draco. He paused. That sounded wrong, but it also made a good name. Someone in the audience cheered. They were probably just as drunk as the boys were, but it was encouraging nonetheless.
They played their set, and the only real mishap was when Finnigan overbalanced and tripped over a few cords. Potter didn't change anything, Draco didn't mess up too epically, Goyle—well, he was just always good. By the end, they had a small crowd gathered around the stage, and it was calling for an encore.
Draco made his way over to Potter, trying not to trip over anything although the world was spinning. "What should we play?" he muttered.
Potter shrugged. "Do we have anything good enough?"
"That song you wrote, maybe—"
"No."
Finnigan came over. "Why don't we do a cover?"
"Of what?"
"Just follow me?" said Draco.
Potter shrugged again. He looked at Finnigan, who shrugged, too.
"All right. Tell Goyle we don't need him to do anything."
Draco went back to the microphone and took the last swig from the bottle of whisky by his feet. "All right. We've got a cover for you." The thirty or so spectators cheered. "It's called 'Moon River.'"
He strummed the C chord and looked at Potter, who began playing the rest. Draco let go of his guitar and held onto the microphone with both hands. "Moon River," he sang, "wider than a mile..."
It was a lovely song, sure, but it was also the first time Potter had told him that he was "not bad." Potter, the apparent musical genius. Draco looked over at him. Their eyes met and neither of them looked away as the lyrics finished out. "We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' round the bend, my huckleberry friend—Moon River, and me."
When the song ended, the audience burst into applause. Draco smiled at the audience, and turned around to share the job-well-done feeling with the rest of the band, but Potter had gone. Goyle nodded at the back door, which was falling closed.
"Thanks again, everyone," Draco said, before unstrapping his guitar and following Potter through that door.
Potter was standing there, his arms crossed, staring at the ground. He looked up only when Draco stood exactly in the spot Potter's eyes were fixed upon.
"What do you want?" he spat.
"They liked us," said Draco, too happy with their small achievement to take Potter's anger issues personally.
Potter rolled his eyes and began to walk away. Draco grabbed his arm. Potter swung his fist at him and missed.
"What the hell," Draco yelled. "I just wanted to see if you were all right!"
"I am! Not that I know why you care!"
Draco rolled his eyes. "I don't care if you hate me but I actually think of you as one of my friends. I don't see why that's so bad, Harry." The name felt unreal and uncertain in his mouth but he liked it better than Potter.
"Because I don't want to be your friend." Harry took another unsuccessful aim at Draco's face. "I don't want to fucking be your friend. And don't call me that."
Draco pushed him against the wall to avoid more additions to his collection of bruises. "What do you want, then?"
Harry fought off Draco's grip, reached up to take Draco's face between his hands, and kissed him.
Draco was shocked at first but then, realizing he might never have another chance to do this, he was kissing back. Draco could taste on Harry's lips the whisky they'd both been drinking. He was grateful that tonight was balmy; he didn't have to worry about being shirtless should Harry start pawing and just take the damn thing off.
Harry ran his tongue along Draco's lips and Draco opened his mouth willingly. Draco had had his tongue in one other boy's mouth in his entire life, Dean Thomas's two years ago, and that had ended badly. Thomas hadn't been half as good as Harry, though, who bit and licked more than he really kissed, and made tiny hushed noises.
Harry mouthed along Draco's jaw, scraping his teeth along the stubble Draco hadn't bothered to take care of, pushed his shirt up to do the same across his nipple; Draco ran his fingers through Harry's hair.
It hurt. It hurt a lot. It was something more like fighting than kissing, and they were both feeling everything through the haze of alcohol and the buzz the gig had inspired. Harry grabbed onto Draco's arms and pushed him into the fence opposite. His fingernails dug into Draco's skin and his elbow accidentally dug into Draco's ribcage.
How he had not realized that Harry wanted to do this, Draco didn't know. He would have certainly been willing, with those lips, the ones that were sucking on Draco's ear at just that moment.
Maybe he should have been expecting it, but Draco was still surprised when he felt Harry's fingers press into his hips, just underneath the elastic of his underwear. "God," he whispered, and covered Harry's mouth with his own again. Harry was rubbing his own erection on Draco's thigh, pressed between Harry's legs. Harry kept gasping. Draco liked that.
Harry unzipped Draco's trousers and pushed his hand into his underwear, wrapping his hand around him and squeezing, almost enough to hurt. Draco could hardly breathe.
"Fuck fuck fuck," he muttered over and over, coming all over Harry's fingers, leaning his head in the juncture between Harry's head and shoulder. Harry came about ten seconds later, all over his jeans. Draco kissed him wetly once more before he was being pushed away.
"Harry—" he began.
"Just—" said Harry, and just like that, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Draco stared after him. It was impossible to figure out Harry Potter. He shook his head and zipped up his trousers. Nothing could be done for the mess.
Back inside the pub, he found the rest of his bandmates gathered around a tall, animated man with a baseball cap. Upon getting within earshot, Draco could hear him telling about how well they'd done.
"In fact, boys, I've been wondering all night—do you have some kind of demo you could get to me? I'd love to show this to my boss. He's a producer, you know, always looking for new sounds."
"We don't got nothing like that, sir," said Finnigan, "but I'm sure we could have that in a couple weeks for you."
"There's a recording studio not far from here, actually," said the man. "Wouldn't cost you more than sixty, seventy pounds."
"Do you have a business card? We could phone you when we're ready," said Draco. He didn't meet Harry's glance, though he could see it in the corner of his eye.
The man reached into his jeans pocket and pulled one such card out. He gave it to Draco with a wink. Draco read it: Daniel Franklin appeared to be his name. "That's that, then. Guess I'll be seeing you lads around. Ta."
"Bye," said Finnigan. Daniel Franklin walked away.
"Cool," said Goyle, summing up exactly the way all four boys were feeling.
The ride back to the school was painful. Draco was forced into the backseat, smooshed between Harry, who was doing the untouchable thing again, and Goyle, who was just uncomfortably fat.
After Finnigan and Goyle had said their goodbyes and gone separate ways, Harry and Draco were left alone. Draco coughed, strapping his guitar around his back. "Harry—"
"I told you not to call me that."
"I," said Draco.
"Don't mention it," said Harry, and stormed away.
There was only a week left until the GCSEs. Draco kept having nightmares of failure, tinged with traces of Harry Potter's face and his parents disowning him. His life was split between three things: studying, perfecting the piano, and practicing with the band. Sometimes he ate, and very rarely he slept.
He was fairly certain by now that his GCSEs would go okay. He was finally going to make his parents proud. McGonagall had remarked during the last lesson that she was "astonished by your progress, Mr. Malfoy." He'd learned all the keywords, knew all the tricks of composition, everything. And it wasn't just music he was sure he had down; he was even pretty confident about maths and social science.
It would have all been okay, if he wasn't constantly being plagued with the memory of that whole post-gig incident he'd shared with Harry not so long ago. Ever since then, the tension had been building again—but it was different this time. Rather than wanting to punch Harry in the face, Draco had this unfortunately perpetual desire to push him up against the wall and kiss him until the world ended.
Draco wanted to ask Harry about it, the incident. But every time they were alone (since the gig, Draco could count those moments on one hand), Harry would either grow very quiet and not say a single word or just glare threateningly at Draco until he closed his mouth.
Draco also really, really wanted to do it again. Possibly several times. And not just behind pubs, but maybe in the library, or in a classroom when nobody was around—perhaps even in a real bed. But with the way Harry was acting, it was probably only going to be a one-off thing. Which fucking sucked, considering how Draco had been walking around with a constant hard-on since it had happened.
But for those three times when Draco had caught Harry alone (twice in the loo, accidentally, and once after band practice, through much effort), Harry was doing a good job of avoiding Draco. He wouldn't even look at him if they were walking past each other in a corridor. It was driving Draco insane. Once again, he'd been thisclose to making friends with Harry, and once again, he'd fucked it up royally.
Harry hadn't showed up for two Thursday sessions in a row, claiming that he reckoned Draco had gotten the hang of the guitar by now. When it was the band all together (having now decided upon Criminally Incurable as a name), they both made stupid mistakes when one touched the other or turned red when someone accidentally made some kind of innuendo. Even Finnigan and Goyle were beginning to notice that something was up. It was bad.
Last Wednesday they had sneaked out of the school again and recorded the demo. Four songs, all live, including the depressing one Harry had written. That one was Draco's favorite, although he wouldn't say so. It had been difficult being in such close quarters with Harry for that long, but it went well, for the most part. They were waiting for the producer man's response.
The call came on the Saturday after the GCSEs, when they were all conveniently together, worried about the exams, too nervous about those and what the producing company would think to actually practice. It would be their last Saturday together, really, at least within the confines of St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, now that they were slightly less incurably criminal. Even Goyle was wired and kept talking about the latest episode of Doctor Who.
Finnigan was the one who answered the mobile. "Yeah?"
The volume was turned up and Draco could hear the man speaking. "Is this Seamus Finnigan of the Criminally Incurable?"
"Er—yeah. Who's this, then?"
"This is Daniel Franklin from the producers'. It's about the demo you sent us?"
"Oh!—Well, yeah?"
Finnigan was not exactly the best telephone conversationalist the world had ever seen.
"Figured I should just get out with it—I don't think it's what we're looking for, son. I'm sorry."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Not to say it isn't good. It's just a bit too amateur for us."
"Oh."
"Tell your lads to keep working on it, though, all right?"
"Yeah. Well, thanks."
"See you, son."
"See you."
Finnigan closed the phone and looked at the rest of them. Goyle shrugged and sat down at his drum set. Draco took a deep breath and tried to remember that they had really started this out of nowhere, and that this wasn't such a big deal. Behind him, he heard the door open and slam shut.
Harry had a thing for slamming doors.
Draco stood there for a few moments, while Seamus picked up his bass guitar and began to play the bassline from "Under Pressure" and Goyle kept hitting the snare, before he followed Harry.
Harry was standing there with his arms crossed and leaning against the wall. It was probably the surliest Draco had ever seen him. "All right?" he said. It was probably a stupid choice to say anything at all.
Harry just looked at him.
"It's not so bad, really," said Draco. He just wanted to get words out of Harry, to finally figure out this enigma he'd been puzzling over for so long. "I mean, it's not like we're a real band—"
"Music is the only thing I'm good at, you know," said Harry. "I mean, actually good at, not something I get by."
It was Draco's turn to look, and look he did. Harry's hair fell over his scar and bright green eyes—the greenest green Draco had ever seen, he was willing to bet—and his lips were pink and slightly chapped. Once more, Draco found himself wanting to press his own lips against them.
"You are really good," said Draco, unsure what else there was he could say.
Harry smiled wryly. "Thanks. You seem to be the only one who thinks so. Is that why you wanted to be my friend, because you think I'm good at music?"
Draco shook his head wildly. "No! I just—I don't know. I think you're... cool. Or. I don't know. You're just interesting."
"Interesting," Harry repeated. "My aunt and uncle put me here for the stupidest reason. Once I got into a really huge fight with Dudley—my cousin. Was tired of taking his shit so I finally gave him a black eye. That was round the time I was... eleven? Almost twelve. And either my aunt and uncle thought I was, you know, actually violent, or they just didn't want to deal with me anymore, so they put me in this stupid school where it's just like any other place, really."
"We're all here for stupid reasons," said Draco, but Harry wasn't listening.
"And I hate it here. And the only reason I stayed was so I could get proper music training—knew I wasn't going to be able to get it at Stonewall if I went there. So I saved up all my money—and then you came along and you can't even play guitar."
"I play okay!"
"Now you do." Harry met his eyes. He was smiling a little. "You're pretty okay now."
"Gee, thanks," said Draco. "Just because one producer didn't like our music, doesn't mean we completely suck. Or if we do, then there's someone out there who'll like the way we suck." He hadn't exactly meant to say it that way. He swallowed. "Why is it you walked away, that time we—uh... That time?"
"I don't really know, actually," said Harry, running a hand through his hair. Draco watched it fall back into place. "I guess I thought you'd—use it as something else you could lord over me."
Draco made a loud noise of disgust. "I told you, I don't want to lord anything over you. I didn't even know you'd been trying for the music program, all right?"
"I know that now, I guess," Harry admitted. "Anyway, I'm the better guitar player."
Draco couldn't really argue with that. There was a brief, intense glance. Draco stepped closer to Harry, and Harry placed his hands on Draco's hips. Draco leaned down to kiss him, softly, so much unlike the anger of the pub. It was more than enough for both of them, and they stayed like that, breathing in each other, pressing their lips against each other's.
"Harry," sighed Draco.
"I don't have to call you 'Draco,' now, do I?" Harry grinned. "Your name is fucking stupid."
"Yeah, well, my parents have a thing for elegance," replied Draco, rolling his eyes. "I'd like it if you called me by my first name, yes, but no, you don't have to."
"Seamus probably thinks we've died." Harry paused and added, "Draco."
"Probably not," said Draco, trying not to smile as wide as he wanted to. "He's been playing that Bowie song since we've been out here, though, and I think I am going to murder him."
Goyle and Finnigan were still playing the stupid song when Harry and Draco walked back inside. "All right, Harry, Malfoy?" asked Finnigan.
Draco shrugged. "Guess so," he said. "Ready to play?"
"Let's do 'Moon River' to warm up," said Harry. Draco, smiling to himself, willed himself not to look over.
"That's a stupid warm-up song," muttered Goyle.
The GCSE results arrived in mid-August. Draco was home for once, though he was about to go back on the road on the Criminally Incurable's first tour across England, secured for them by Goyle's mysterious third cousin.
His parents were mostly appalled, he was sure. He'd gotten an A* for music, maths, and social science each, but B's on everything else. It wasn't his marks that received the worried glances of his mother and the disapproval of his father, however, at least not that day.
It was the fact he'd asked Harry over for dinner.