Just The Thing

Just The Thing.

The air of the nightclub was slightly hazy, probably due to the remnants of smoke that wafted in from machines designed to heighten the appeal to anonymity. The heat pouring in great waves off the dancefloor didn't help either, and the acrid smell of the man-made smoke combined with a heavy hint of male sweat to catch in the back of Harry's throat. He had needed this, after everything. Time alone - if Harry Potter could ever be said to be 'alone' - to relax, and there was no place better in which to lose himself than the Muggle.

The Muggle was Diagon Alley's most exclusive nightclub, and if Diagon Alley was the heart of Wizard London, than the Muggle was probably its genitalia. Flocks thronged outside for hours, just to guess at the identity of the cloaked celebrities who arrived in couples or groups - no-one was ever so unfashionable as to turn up alone - as they walked onto the red carpet, and after a discreet checking by the bouncers (armed with the latest detection spells) they made their way inside.

No magical objects were allowed in the establishment, so customers just deposited them safely in the cloakroom, which was guarded by wards that would make Gringotts' seem as about as secure as a child's playhouse. In the basement, a series of incantations was uttered every night which prevented any magic being used, apart from the wards designed to protect the security of the cloakroom, and the patrons. It was, in many ways, the perfect place for the powerful and burnt out wizards to escape. Here they could forget they even were wizards, and see what life was like on the other side of the fence. For the muggle-born, it was like returning home. The bar only served muggle beverages (no butterbeer allowed) and a muggle DJ was hired to pump music (taken from muggle hit parades) through the decidedly mechanical sound system.

Thanks to the smoke, Harry figured he would remain reasonably undetected, and besides, in the past few months it had become almost fashionable for young male wizards to die their hair black and wear glasses (even if they didn't need them). He could spot a few in the crowd as it was, and would probably fit right in with all the other would-be Harry Potters. Sometimes he felt about as real as those aping him now. Maybe they had a better right to his reputation than he did. Besides, the Hero of the world, both wizard and muggle wouldn't be here right now, clad in tight, faded blue jeans and a somewhat sparkly bottle green short-sleeved shirt. Harry was aware of the fact he probably looked more suitable to a gay nightclub, but the wizard world had never restricted itself to easy definitions, and that was one holdover the Muggle kept. There were as many women dancing with women in the crowd as there were man dancing with women, or men dancing with men - although Harry preferred to watch the latter.

The song changed, but the rhythm kept constant, and Harry found himself gently tapping a foot to the insistent beat, part of the crowd yet not. Kylie Minogue - typical really, considering it was London - blared around him, and Harry let himself be carried into the throng by the beat, trying to remove the invisible distance that always lay between him and others - well, except for him, and in the end, it wasn't enough - and lose everything that he was in the dance.

All too quickly the moment was broken, as Harry's attention was taken, grabbed and trampled all over by two men who made their way towards him through the crowd, wide smiles on their faces, the sandy-haired one with his arm loosely draped around the red head's neck, and other hand waving madly above the crowd. He almost groaned, and then smiled in spite of himself. Just when he thought he might be through with the world, with who he was, it seemed the world was not quite ready to let go of him yet. They made their way steadily into the heaving mass of dancers, the red head attempting to dance (very badly) as he moved, the other man looking at him fondly. They were both in their own way as camp as a row of tents, even if one of them did not admit it.

Harry nodded to them both when they finally reached them, greeting them in turn. "Ron, Seamus." He really should have expected they might be there, and cursed internally. This wasn't what he needed, not now. He was trying to lose himself, and they would bring up reminders just be being here, of what he'd been and what he'd lost. Next thing, he knew half the fucking finishing class of 1998 would be turning up, and he would find himself drowned in the past.

They nodded back, without mentioning his name, and for that Harry was grateful. At least they understood the reasons he was here, the reasons for his relative anonymity. They could provide some comfort and support, when he was desperately on edge, and perhaps protect him from the crowd. Or even himself, he admitted ruefully.

A slender young man, perhaps a year younger than Harry, with long black hair pulled back in a ponytail gyrated into Ron, bumping into him, and turning around to apologise. His eyes brushed across Harry on their way to Ron, and immediately snapped back.

"Are you-" he began to ask, before Seamus opened his own mouth in reply.

"Nah, he's not," he replied in that lilting accent, "so fuck off why don't you?"

The man - little more than a boy really - glared at the Irishman, but his hatred was reserved chiefly for Harry. "Fuck you then, Mister. I know who you are," he stated, all too clearly, and still glaring, was absorbed back into the crowd.

Ron shrugged; there was little he could do. He and Seamus smiled apologetically and moved towards the dancefloor, Ron calling out "we'll be here if you need us!" before they were both swallowed by the sound.

Harry shook his head, looking after them. Ron, who insisted he wasn't gay, and Seamus, who insisted he wasn't Ron's boyfriend. Because Ron wasn't gay. It was a farce in the making, really, although what right did he have, commenting on the love lives of others? It took him a few moments to pick up the beat - some standard dance anthem, loud, pounding and with a barely understandable lyric - and he slowly moved into it, dancing on his own. There was a small space between him and the rest of the heaving mass, and he liked the isolation.

He closed his eyes and became one with the sound.

After what seemed like an eternity - he had lost himself in the rhythm - Harry heard a loud hooting off to one side, and craned his neck to see what was going on. The crowd parted for a moment, to reveal Ron and Seamus, dancing with each other. Or at each other might be a better way to describe it; Ron had pulled his shirt off and was whipping it around his head and both the crowd and Seamus certainly seemed appreciative. He rolled his eyes, dismissively, and nearly jumped at the voice in his ear.

"Hi."

Harry turned, opening his mouth to tell whoever it was to go away, but he paused, considering the situation. It wasn't completely fair for his friends to have all the fun, and ultimately, what had he come here for? Another night of mournful looking, to return to an empty bed and be alone? It had been two weeks since the break up, and Merlin knew that it wasn't getting any better. So he lowered himself to responding. "Hello."

The man was probably around Harry's age - early twenties, with close cropped ashy brown hair and brown eyes. He was cute, in that boyish kind of way - when he smiled, as he was now, Harry absently noticed, he looked all of fifteen, until of course, one looked down. He was dressed in a white wifebeater that showed off the kind of muscled torso that no fifteen year old could have. Faded blue jeans, and black boots completed the ensemble, such as it was. He was on his way to being a true muscle mary, and ordinarily, Harry wouldn't have even bothered to talk to him, let alone reject him.

The guy was trying it on, really. "Has anyone ever told you you look like-"

Harry shrugged it off. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

He moved closer, grinning now, curling one around Harry's shoulders, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. "I've always had a thing for him, you know."

Harry found himself responding, despite himself. "Really? Well, you know, if you're wanting to live the fantasy..." He let one hand smooth down the man's side, to rest on his hip, and grinned back. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted pale hair and smooth skin untouched by the sun, grey eyes that looked at you as if they were mocking you, and you didn't even know how you'd failed. But what he wanted he couldn't have, not with harsh words and fighting all the time and finally the horrible realisation that sometimes love was not enough.

The guy licked his ear, his name still unknown. "So...Harry...we could back to my place, if you wanted."

A moment passed as Harry scanned the crowd. Ron and Seamus were far too even interested in each other to notice what he was doing, and on an impulse he pressed his lips against the other man's, entwining their fingers. "I think I should know your name first."

"Jeffrey," the bloke replied, somewhat started by the immediacy of the response. "And you are...?"

"Call me Harry," he said, and winked.

Jeffrey chuckled. "Course. My place it is then?"

Harry nodded, and let himself be pulled towards the door. "Certainly."

There were no great hopes in this, no raging desire or eternal love. No expectations to disappoint, no promises to break, no people to let down. Harry even doubted if the sex would be half-decent. He'd never done the casual thing before, never slept with anyone till his ex, and then he'd been swept away so quickly there hadn't been a chance for anyone else. Never slept with anyone but his ex, come to think of it.

As the cool night air hit them both as they left the Muggle, Harry knew in his heart this wasn't what he wanted. But it might be just the thing he needed.