Fic: Mr Potter Goes to Massachusetts - Part 4
Part four of "Harry goes to America" in which Harry arrives in Salem.
Harry stared at the spot Draco had disappeared from for a very long time, his inner rage blossoming at the other man for daring to just leave like that. It was the second time since Harry had arrived in America that Draco had just up and left, leaving Harry to ponder impatiently exactly how to tie someone like Draco down.
Draco was ... was so ... Harry clasped his hands into tight fists and clenched his teeth hard together ... infuriating and exasperating and....
The tension suddenly left him and his shoulders slumped ... and sexy and demanding and accommodating and just about everything he’d ever wanted in a lover. But why ... why ... was it that every time Harry had any dealings with him, Draco always seemed to end up getting the upper hand?
It was ... was ... bloody frustrating!
Harry’s problem was he knew Draco was the right person to spy on Voldemort and find out just what the Dark Lord had used for his Horcruxes, but that didn’t stop the visceral knot deep in Harry’s belly that wanted to grab at Draco and ... well ... shag him senseless.
Harry gave a mental shrug. Their relationship had been about more than just the shagging, but he wasn’t going to deny the fact Draco’s physical presence always turned him on and that somewhen in his sixth year at Hogwarts he’d become obsessed with the Slytherin. That was why it had been so easy for him to just let Draco toss him off the previous evening and, if Harry was honest with himself, he was more than a little turned on right now, the sensation brought on by the righteous indignation in Draco’s grey eyes when Harry had told him about the memory wipes.
Damn the man! Why did Draco have to volunteer in the first place?
Harry kicked absently at a pebble on the ground. It skittered across the labyrinth and bounced off one of the steps.
And why did loving someone have to hurt so much?
He stared down at the pavement at his feet and the curved pathway. Then, almost hesitantly he continued walking the labyrinth.
---
Two interminably long days later, just as Harry was considering how difficult it might be to contact Felix Singer again, he returned to his hotel to find a small package waiting for him.
It reminded him of the letters he’d received from Hogwarts as a child, but the envelope was a tasteful cream and the seal on the back had no markings beyond what could have been a dragon if he looked at it in the right light.
He didn’t open it until in the safety of his warded hotel room. The seal responded to his touch and inside was a matching sheet of parchment with the details of a reservation for the Hawthorne Hotel in Salem, Massachusetts. He turned the parchment over, expecting to see something else, but that side was blank and the envelope contained nothing else -- not even directions.
With an irritated sigh, Harry tossed the parchment onto the bed. Malfoy was playing with him (he had no doubt whatsoever that was who the message was from ... it had Malfoy magic all over it) and Harry didn’t like it one bit. He was tempted to remain exactly where he was in this non-descript hotel somewhere in Nowheresville, Massachusetts and wait for Malfoy to get back in touch with him. But the problem was Harry wasn’t sure Draco would come running after him if he didn’t turn up. The other man had made it quite clear he didn’t want Harry anywhere near him.
Dropping back on the bed, Harry stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. If he went to Salem, then this time he could make sure Draco didn’t just up and vanish. He could have a binding spell already in place which would stop Draco leaving and then maybe ... just maybe ... he could Apparate both of them away.
Picking up his Blackberry he quickly emailed Hermione.
---
The Hawthorne was everything the other hotel hadn’t been. Old world charm wrapped in a certain elegance compared to cheap and modern. A very pleasant young man registered Harry into the hotel with quiet efficiency, giving him a pretty devastating smile at one point. He handed Harry a card instead of a key to unlock his room along with an envelope with the Hawthorne crest on it.
“This was left for you, sir. Have a good day.”
Harry nodded his thanks and, picking up his bag, took a moment to study the lobby. It was full of comfortable-looking armchairs and sofas, and off to one side there was a rather large display of pumpkins. The whole of America seemed to be orange at the moment for Halloween and the sight of the large pumpkins brought a lump to Harry’s throat. They reminded him of the ones Hagrid had grown for Halloween at Hogwarts and Harry realised at that moment just how much he missed his first ever friend in the Wizarding world.
His room had one very large bed and sitting down on the edge, he took a moment to scrutinise the envelope. Apart from the Hawthorne crest, it was plain and nondescript with his name written in green copperplate script on the front. This time there was no seal and no hint of magic to it, and Harry wondered just who had written on the card inside The Tavern on the Green ... entrance is in the lobby - 8pm. Don’t be late. He was pretty sure it wasn’t Draco’s handwriting and he quickly checked it for Dark magic or any unpleasantness. It was exactly as it looked ... a small piece of card with a matching envelope.
Harry frowned. What if the message wasn’t from Malfoy? What if he was being set up? But then who else knew he was here in Salem apart from Malfoy and Hermione?
He glanced at the clock. It was only just after 4pm so he had time to check out the bar, scout out the general area and maybe call in at The Salem Witches’ Institute. He paused thoughtfully; he was, after all, meant to be here in secret, so to make himself known to the Institute might not be a very good idea.
---
Harry arrived at the Tavern at precisely seven-thirty, his plan being to find a table in the corner where he could keep an eye on the comings and going to a) not be taken by surprise by unexpected witches and wizards (Salem was full of them) and b) not to be taken by surprise by Draco Malfoy for a third time.
The lobby was much busier now and there was clearly a function going on in the Ballroom. Sidestepping a couple of children (the function must be a wedding because they were obviously a pageboy and bridesmaid), he quickly evaded the maître d' who was standing beside a rather impressive lectern with a sign which said Please wait to be seated and quickly entered the bar.
Harry had, for some unknown reason, expected The Tavern to bear some resemblance to an English pub ... they had, after all, called it ‘The Tavern’. Instead it looked more like a restaurant and he paused just inside the entrance looking for a suitably tucked-away table. Unfortunately his plans quickly started falling apart when he realised that all the tables were already taken. He ended up perched on a chair at the three-sided bar.
At least, he decided, he was facing the door and could see who was coming in.
Feeling just a little out of his depth and unsure what to order, he finally picked up what looked like a menu. It turned out to have a list of beers on one side and Martinis on the other. He turned it back and forth a few times and contemplated whether to just ask for a glass of water or maybe a beer, but the list of Martinis did look interesting and he’d never had one before.
---
The first Martini was called a ‘Scarlet Letter’ and Harry stared at the red Gryffindor colour as he picked up the glass. He was reminded of James Bond and considered asking for something ‘shaken, not stirred’, but instead he sipped at the drink. It slid down as easy as silk.
The second was a plain ordinary Classic Martini complete with an olive and the third seemed to be mixed with pineapple juice.
He now had the fourth in front of him (another Scarlet Letter) and was trying to decide on what his fifth might be when he realised he was having just a little trouble focusing on the menu. He thought he’d remembered seeing one with something called ‘triple sec’ in it earlier, which sounded interesting, but for the life of him he couldn’t find it on the list now.
He was reaching for the glass, which seemed a little further away than he’d expected, when another hand beat him to it. Long pale fingers coiled around the stem of the glass and lifted it from the bar. Harry watched, fascinated, as the glass rose and pale lips sipped at the redness. His gaze stayed on those lips as the glass was lowered again and he watched intently as they shaped words.
“Hello, Harry.”
Granted, Harry had had a few drinks, but he didn’t consider himself drunk, which was why he’d been positive Draco Malfoy hadn’t been in the bar all evening. So, to find the man standing at his side now did come as a little bit of a shock.
He stared up at those familiar grey eyes and managed a very simple. “Hi. You’re late.”
Draco glanced at the clock and then back at Harry. “Just a little. Why don’t we go to your room?” The long fingers that had held the glass curled around Harry’s arm.
“I was just having a drink.”
“I know,” Draco whispered close to Harry’s ear. “But I think you’ve had enough for now.”
---
Draco watched as Harry tried to get his room card into the little slot, mildly amused as it took Harry several tries to get it to work and when he finally succeeded he waved Draco inside with a flourish.
Harry had always had two levels of drunkenness. The first was as he was now ... slightly over the top and inclined to be just a little on the loud side. In fact, Draco always found the other man very amenable in this state of mind.
The second was to turn completely maudlin when Harry would become almost impossible to deal with, especially when he started reminiscing about the ‘good old days in Gryffindor’ and, if not stopped, sink into something akin to self pity. The only problem was that there was a very fine line between the two states and the last thing Draco really wanted at the moment was a maudlin Harry.
Not that he wanted a drunk Harry of any type. He had planned on having a long and rather involved discussion with the man about Voldemort, Horcruxes and just what memory charms the Ministry had carried out on Draco. But given Harry’s current condition, Draco didn’t think any sensible conversation was possible.
Then Harry did something that always had a very visceral effect on Draco.
Harry would sit on the end of the bed (or table or sofa) and then fell back in a boneless sprawl, his arms stretching above his head and a knowing look on his face. He would always keep his legs hanging down, which pulled his stomach taut and showed off his crotch. It was, and always would been, Harry’s ‘come fuck me’ look.
“I think,” Harry gave a little huff, “I might be drunk.”
Draco stared down at Harry, noting a flush from the alcohol coupled with arousal and decided at that moment he was feeling rather pleasantly disposed towards the other man. “I think you might be just a little.”
“Did you want to talk to me?”
He sat down on the bed next to Harry and touched a finger to the little expanse of bare skin exposed at Harry’s midriff where his shirt had pulled out of his trousers. “That was the general idea.”
Harry gave a lop-sided grin and made a little giggling noise. “I don’t really want to talk much.” He shifted his hips a little, the invitation obvious.
Draco continued to watch Harry, trying to decide whether taking advantage of a clearly drunk man was ethical. He was hard just watching Harry and he considered for a moment whether to ask the man to toss him off as Draco had done for Harry in the grounds of The Breakers. There was also the possibility Harry might go down on him, but the chances of any success in Harry’s current state were pretty slim.
Slowly he traced a finger down the line of hair leading from Harry’s navel to the point it disappeared into his trousers. There he flicked the little button at the waistband and it freed itself from the hole. The material gaped and he could see the strain on the zip, which started to pull a little at the top. He tugged at the zip watching as the white of Harry’s underwear slowly revealed itself.
“Are you going to put me to bed?” Harry’s voice was just a little gruff and slightly slurred from the alcohol.
“Do you want me to?” Draco pushed his hand into the tight opening of the trousers, relishing the way his fingers squeezed in and around Harry’s clearly hardening cock.
“Depends,” Harry groaned and reached absently for his glasses. He tugged them off and, clearly not caring where they landed, flung his hand to one side. They clattered to the floor beside the bed. “Depends on whether you’re going to come with me or not.”
“Do you want me to?” Draco repeated as he leaned forward licking at the line of hair.
Harry whined almost pitifully as he reached for Draco’s head, tugging at his hair. Then suddenly, just when Draco thought he might get exactly what he wanted, Harry pushed him away. “Wait ... wait.”
Draco straightened and watched as Harry suddenly kicked himself from the bed and wobbled a little on his feet. Still muttering to himself, Harry pushed at his trousers. They fell obligingly to his knees from where Harry struggled to kick them off. Then, with the strange patience of a drunken man, Harry set about the buttons on his shirt, swaying slightly as he struggled to see them without his glasses.
Finally, out of pity as much as impatience, Draco reached for the buttons and began unfastening them himself.
Now dressed only in his white briefs and socks, Harry crawled onto the bed and sprawled again, this time lying on his front. “I haven’t had any since you left me.” There was an edge to Harry’s voice and Draco knew that any moment now Harry might cross over that fine line and into his maudlin phase.
“Okay.” Draco reached for the fastening of his own trousers and quickly took them off. He was already hard, but he stroked himself briefly relishing the feel of his fingers against himself. “I hope you won’t regret this in the morning.”
---
Harry stared at the spot Draco had disappeared from for a very long time, his inner rage blossoming at the other man for daring to just leave like that. It was the second time since Harry had arrived in America that Draco had just up and left, leaving Harry to ponder impatiently exactly how to tie someone like Draco down.
Draco was ... was so ... Harry clasped his hands into tight fists and clenched his teeth hard together ... infuriating and exasperating and....
The tension suddenly left him and his shoulders slumped ... and sexy and demanding and accommodating and just about everything he’d ever wanted in a lover. But why ... why ... was it that every time Harry had any dealings with him, Draco always seemed to end up getting the upper hand?
It was ... was ... bloody frustrating!
Harry’s problem was he knew Draco was the right person to spy on Voldemort and find out just what the Dark Lord had used for his Horcruxes, but that didn’t stop the visceral knot deep in Harry’s belly that wanted to grab at Draco and ... well ... shag him senseless.
Harry gave a mental shrug. Their relationship had been about more than just the shagging, but he wasn’t going to deny the fact Draco’s physical presence always turned him on and that somewhen in his sixth year at Hogwarts he’d become obsessed with the Slytherin. That was why it had been so easy for him to just let Draco toss him off the previous evening and, if Harry was honest with himself, he was more than a little turned on right now, the sensation brought on by the righteous indignation in Draco’s grey eyes when Harry had told him about the memory wipes.
Damn the man! Why did Draco have to volunteer in the first place?
Harry kicked absently at a pebble on the ground. It skittered across the labyrinth and bounced off one of the steps.
And why did loving someone have to hurt so much?
He stared down at the pavement at his feet and the curved pathway. Then, almost hesitantly he continued walking the labyrinth.
---
Two interminably long days later, just as Harry was considering how difficult it might be to contact Felix Singer again, he returned to his hotel to find a small package waiting for him.
It reminded him of the letters he’d received from Hogwarts as a child, but the envelope was a tasteful cream and the seal on the back had no markings beyond what could have been a dragon if he looked at it in the right light.
He didn’t open it until in the safety of his warded hotel room. The seal responded to his touch and inside was a matching sheet of parchment with the details of a reservation for the Hawthorne Hotel in Salem, Massachusetts. He turned the parchment over, expecting to see something else, but that side was blank and the envelope contained nothing else -- not even directions.
With an irritated sigh, Harry tossed the parchment onto the bed. Malfoy was playing with him (he had no doubt whatsoever that was who the message was from ... it had Malfoy magic all over it) and Harry didn’t like it one bit. He was tempted to remain exactly where he was in this non-descript hotel somewhere in Nowheresville, Massachusetts and wait for Malfoy to get back in touch with him. But the problem was Harry wasn’t sure Draco would come running after him if he didn’t turn up. The other man had made it quite clear he didn’t want Harry anywhere near him.
Dropping back on the bed, Harry stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. If he went to Salem, then this time he could make sure Draco didn’t just up and vanish. He could have a binding spell already in place which would stop Draco leaving and then maybe ... just maybe ... he could Apparate both of them away.
Picking up his Blackberry he quickly emailed Hermione.
---
The Hawthorne was everything the other hotel hadn’t been. Old world charm wrapped in a certain elegance compared to cheap and modern. A very pleasant young man registered Harry into the hotel with quiet efficiency, giving him a pretty devastating smile at one point. He handed Harry a card instead of a key to unlock his room along with an envelope with the Hawthorne crest on it.
“This was left for you, sir. Have a good day.”
Harry nodded his thanks and, picking up his bag, took a moment to study the lobby. It was full of comfortable-looking armchairs and sofas, and off to one side there was a rather large display of pumpkins. The whole of America seemed to be orange at the moment for Halloween and the sight of the large pumpkins brought a lump to Harry’s throat. They reminded him of the ones Hagrid had grown for Halloween at Hogwarts and Harry realised at that moment just how much he missed his first ever friend in the Wizarding world.
His room had one very large bed and sitting down on the edge, he took a moment to scrutinise the envelope. Apart from the Hawthorne crest, it was plain and nondescript with his name written in green copperplate script on the front. This time there was no seal and no hint of magic to it, and Harry wondered just who had written on the card inside The Tavern on the Green ... entrance is in the lobby - 8pm. Don’t be late. He was pretty sure it wasn’t Draco’s handwriting and he quickly checked it for Dark magic or any unpleasantness. It was exactly as it looked ... a small piece of card with a matching envelope.
Harry frowned. What if the message wasn’t from Malfoy? What if he was being set up? But then who else knew he was here in Salem apart from Malfoy and Hermione?
He glanced at the clock. It was only just after 4pm so he had time to check out the bar, scout out the general area and maybe call in at The Salem Witches’ Institute. He paused thoughtfully; he was, after all, meant to be here in secret, so to make himself known to the Institute might not be a very good idea.
---
Harry arrived at the Tavern at precisely seven-thirty, his plan being to find a table in the corner where he could keep an eye on the comings and going to a) not be taken by surprise by unexpected witches and wizards (Salem was full of them) and b) not to be taken by surprise by Draco Malfoy for a third time.
The lobby was much busier now and there was clearly a function going on in the Ballroom. Sidestepping a couple of children (the function must be a wedding because they were obviously a pageboy and bridesmaid), he quickly evaded the maître d' who was standing beside a rather impressive lectern with a sign which said Please wait to be seated and quickly entered the bar.
Harry had, for some unknown reason, expected The Tavern to bear some resemblance to an English pub ... they had, after all, called it ‘The Tavern’. Instead it looked more like a restaurant and he paused just inside the entrance looking for a suitably tucked-away table. Unfortunately his plans quickly started falling apart when he realised that all the tables were already taken. He ended up perched on a chair at the three-sided bar.
At least, he decided, he was facing the door and could see who was coming in.
Feeling just a little out of his depth and unsure what to order, he finally picked up what looked like a menu. It turned out to have a list of beers on one side and Martinis on the other. He turned it back and forth a few times and contemplated whether to just ask for a glass of water or maybe a beer, but the list of Martinis did look interesting and he’d never had one before.
---
The first Martini was called a ‘Scarlet Letter’ and Harry stared at the red Gryffindor colour as he picked up the glass. He was reminded of James Bond and considered asking for something ‘shaken, not stirred’, but instead he sipped at the drink. It slid down as easy as silk.
The second was a plain ordinary Classic Martini complete with an olive and the third seemed to be mixed with pineapple juice.
He now had the fourth in front of him (another Scarlet Letter) and was trying to decide on what his fifth might be when he realised he was having just a little trouble focusing on the menu. He thought he’d remembered seeing one with something called ‘triple sec’ in it earlier, which sounded interesting, but for the life of him he couldn’t find it on the list now.
He was reaching for the glass, which seemed a little further away than he’d expected, when another hand beat him to it. Long pale fingers coiled around the stem of the glass and lifted it from the bar. Harry watched, fascinated, as the glass rose and pale lips sipped at the redness. His gaze stayed on those lips as the glass was lowered again and he watched intently as they shaped words.
“Hello, Harry.”
Granted, Harry had had a few drinks, but he didn’t consider himself drunk, which was why he’d been positive Draco Malfoy hadn’t been in the bar all evening. So, to find the man standing at his side now did come as a little bit of a shock.
He stared up at those familiar grey eyes and managed a very simple. “Hi. You’re late.”
Draco glanced at the clock and then back at Harry. “Just a little. Why don’t we go to your room?” The long fingers that had held the glass curled around Harry’s arm.
“I was just having a drink.”
“I know,” Draco whispered close to Harry’s ear. “But I think you’ve had enough for now.”
---
Draco watched as Harry tried to get his room card into the little slot, mildly amused as it took Harry several tries to get it to work and when he finally succeeded he waved Draco inside with a flourish.
Harry had always had two levels of drunkenness. The first was as he was now ... slightly over the top and inclined to be just a little on the loud side. In fact, Draco always found the other man very amenable in this state of mind.
The second was to turn completely maudlin when Harry would become almost impossible to deal with, especially when he started reminiscing about the ‘good old days in Gryffindor’ and, if not stopped, sink into something akin to self pity. The only problem was that there was a very fine line between the two states and the last thing Draco really wanted at the moment was a maudlin Harry.
Not that he wanted a drunk Harry of any type. He had planned on having a long and rather involved discussion with the man about Voldemort, Horcruxes and just what memory charms the Ministry had carried out on Draco. But given Harry’s current condition, Draco didn’t think any sensible conversation was possible.
Then Harry did something that always had a very visceral effect on Draco.
Harry would sit on the end of the bed (or table or sofa) and then fell back in a boneless sprawl, his arms stretching above his head and a knowing look on his face. He would always keep his legs hanging down, which pulled his stomach taut and showed off his crotch. It was, and always would been, Harry’s ‘come fuck me’ look.
“I think,” Harry gave a little huff, “I might be drunk.”
Draco stared down at Harry, noting a flush from the alcohol coupled with arousal and decided at that moment he was feeling rather pleasantly disposed towards the other man. “I think you might be just a little.”
“Did you want to talk to me?”
He sat down on the bed next to Harry and touched a finger to the little expanse of bare skin exposed at Harry’s midriff where his shirt had pulled out of his trousers. “That was the general idea.”
Harry gave a lop-sided grin and made a little giggling noise. “I don’t really want to talk much.” He shifted his hips a little, the invitation obvious.
Draco continued to watch Harry, trying to decide whether taking advantage of a clearly drunk man was ethical. He was hard just watching Harry and he considered for a moment whether to ask the man to toss him off as Draco had done for Harry in the grounds of The Breakers. There was also the possibility Harry might go down on him, but the chances of any success in Harry’s current state were pretty slim.
Slowly he traced a finger down the line of hair leading from Harry’s navel to the point it disappeared into his trousers. There he flicked the little button at the waistband and it freed itself from the hole. The material gaped and he could see the strain on the zip, which started to pull a little at the top. He tugged at the zip watching as the white of Harry’s underwear slowly revealed itself.
“Are you going to put me to bed?” Harry’s voice was just a little gruff and slightly slurred from the alcohol.
“Do you want me to?” Draco pushed his hand into the tight opening of the trousers, relishing the way his fingers squeezed in and around Harry’s clearly hardening cock.
“Depends,” Harry groaned and reached absently for his glasses. He tugged them off and, clearly not caring where they landed, flung his hand to one side. They clattered to the floor beside the bed. “Depends on whether you’re going to come with me or not.”
“Do you want me to?” Draco repeated as he leaned forward licking at the line of hair.
Harry whined almost pitifully as he reached for Draco’s head, tugging at his hair. Then suddenly, just when Draco thought he might get exactly what he wanted, Harry pushed him away. “Wait ... wait.”
Draco straightened and watched as Harry suddenly kicked himself from the bed and wobbled a little on his feet. Still muttering to himself, Harry pushed at his trousers. They fell obligingly to his knees from where Harry struggled to kick them off. Then, with the strange patience of a drunken man, Harry set about the buttons on his shirt, swaying slightly as he struggled to see them without his glasses.
Finally, out of pity as much as impatience, Draco reached for the buttons and began unfastening them himself.
Now dressed only in his white briefs and socks, Harry crawled onto the bed and sprawled again, this time lying on his front. “I haven’t had any since you left me.” There was an edge to Harry’s voice and Draco knew that any moment now Harry might cross over that fine line and into his maudlin phase.
“Okay.” Draco reached for the fastening of his own trousers and quickly took them off. He was already hard, but he stroked himself briefly relishing the feel of his fingers against himself. “I hope you won’t regret this in the morning.”
---