Harry had expected the next constellation to lead them somewhere impressive, like the London Tower or Buckingham Palace. But instead, it led them to Upper Street, Islington, and a random dingy club.

A club where they now sat, drinks in hand, while the music pounded around them and neon lights shimmered across their faces.

"We're not going to be able to see a fucking pinprick of light in here," Harry pointed out moodily.

Draco cupped his ear, squinted, and leaned in close.

Harry waved his hand, exasperated. "Fucking forget it," he snarled, covering his mouth with a drink as he took a long pull of his beer.

He should be enjoying this place. It wasn't his kind of music, sure, but the vibe was right. It was similar enough to a gig. Close enough to how the music pounded in his veins and the energy of the crowd fuelled him.

But all he could think about was the glint in Draco's eye as he caught that one traitorous thought in Harry's mind. A thought that even Harry hadn't been aware of.

What was he going to do with it?

What was he going to do to Harry?

Because a glint like that in Draco Malfoy's eye, historically speaking, had never been a good thing.

He glanced over at Draco again, taking in the way the flickering pink lights highlighted the line of his jaw, arching along his neck and over his collar.

He was wearing Harry's borrowed clothing, which meant he was wearing Sirius's old clothing, which meant he was wearing leather pants.

Tight, black leather pants that hugged his arse and kissed his skin all over in ways that were doing something to Harry's brain. It didn't matter that Harry was wearing the second pair, and that both of them had made use of a stolen stick of eyeliner at the back of the bathroom cabinet. All that Harry could think about was Draco.

Somewhere along the way, he'd procured a cigarette off another patron. Harry wasn't sure that he even smoked, but he seemed to be managing fine now, blowing smoke rings into discreet bubbles of magic that floated up, one by one, toward the ceiling, to vanish harmlessly into the air vents.

If anyone looked over and somehow managed to catch sight of the magic, they would think he was blowing bubbles. Harry knew better.

He also knew how moronically stupid it was to smoke at all, and yet he was transfixed by the sight of it.

He hadn't known he wanted to fuck Draco, and yet, now that he'd realised it, he wondered how he could have ever been unaware.

Draco had always been attractive, in a pointy, mean sort of way. And while the meanness and the pointiness hadn't faded, they'd been joined now by other things. By a cool, meticulous attention to detail. By sharp-eyed interest in the world around him, rather than dismissal of it. By remorse, evident sometimes in the way he said certain words, in the places he chose to look, in the way he'd greeted Hermione—shaking her hand and holding it for a beat too long, as if trying to convey something silent.

By vulnerability.

These things had probably always been there, but they'd previously only been shown to Draco's friends, and Harry was now considered one of them.

And because Harry had never been able to do anything by halves, or to enter a competition he didn't want to win, the second he'd been included in Draco's circle of friends, he'd found himself wanting more.

He took another swig of his beer, licking his lips to catch the errant drops. Draco glanced over, his eyes flicking down and up again so quickly Harry wasn't sure he didn't imagine it. Draco raised his arm and flicked his wand free from its holster to surreptitiously cast a Muffliato over them. The wand retreated.

"We shouldn't hide in here for too long," he said, his words suddenly audible. "We won't be able to rely on sight to find the constellation, so we need to keep our senses open."

"We can't rely on anything to find this constellation," Harry pointed out, gesturing to the dark, pounding club around them. "You really expect us to find anything in here? Are you sure it's actually inside the building and not up on the rooftop?"

"I'm sure," Draco said tightly. "And we'll find it."

His words held an undercurrent of something fierce and tight. They reminded Harry of the pinched expression on Draco's face before a Quidditch game.

"You sound so sure," Harry said.

Draco darted a glance at him. "I am. It's what you brought me here for, isn't it? To know the ins and outs of this quest?" He tilted his head. "You need me, and I intend to earn my place."

"Oh, I need you, do I?" Harry asked with a smirk, reaching out to take Draco's cigarette and pull a drag from it. Draco's eyes watched the movement. "Maybe you just want to be needed."

Draco scoffed. "Everyone wants to be needed, Potter."

But despite the confidence in his voice, something flashed in his eyes. Something that made Harry pause before handing the cigarette back, wondering if he'd said the wrong thing.

"You know, I was thinking," Draco said, grinding his cigarette out on the metal seat of the stool beneath him and dropping it to the ground where it joined all the other rubbish at their feet. "About the magic and why it's resisting us. And I'm not sure that Occluding any better will actually fix anything." His brows drew together,

Harry waited for him to continue. When he didn't, Harry prompted, "And?"

"And..." Draco drummed his fingers against the seat. "I think it's more about..." He trailed off, shaking his head before saying in a very different tone, "Never mind. I think we should focus."

Before Harry had a chance to reply, he'd flicked his wand again and the Muffliato had retreated.

Harry winced, clapping his hands over his ears as the sound returned at full volume. Christ, it was loud in here. He took it all back. This was nothing like his gigs. This was unhinged.

The energy in a mosh pit had this kind of community beneath it. That was what drew him back again and again, he realised—that sense that somewhere, through time and space, he was connected to Sirius once more. By tracking down the bands on his t-shirts, or ones similar enough, Harry could reach out and grab hold of a part of his godfather. And this time, it wouldn't slip through his fingers.

But this... the pounding energy of this club... Harry couldn't connect with it. And whether the problem was him or the club itself, he didn't know, and he was beyond caring. He gritted his teeth, hoping it wouldn't take long to find this fucking constellation, throw it into the crystal ball and get out of here.

Harry leant one elbow back on the counter behind him, angled his body away from Draco—away from distraction—and looked out over the club. A pinprick of light, the scent of ozone and lightning, a phantom touch... He kept his awareness relaxed and easy, waiting for any one of those things or more to appear and guide him to this constellation.

But all that happened was the people around him grew drunker and drunker, sweat beading on their collars as the music rang through them. And as Harry downed a second beer and then a third, he found himself listening to the music. And then listening to one song in particular as the lyrics, against his better judgment, sank in.

His eyes widened.

"What the fuck?" he muttered under his breath.

He could have sworn the singer, sultry and airy, singing in a way that suggested she wasn't talking about anything significant at all, had told him to throw some arse.

The beat pounded. The sultry voice returned, even lighter and more crooning than before, but she was definitely, definitely saying 'throw some arse'. And because he was three beers deep and had been on edge ever since that conversation, all he could think of was Draco's arse and how it looked in those tight, tight leather pants.

He groaned, dropping his head against his fist and rolling the cool glass of his beer bottle across his forehead. But the singer was relentless. She kept going.

Throw some ass.

Turn around, can you make it clap?

Was she fucking serious?

Give the old man a heart attack.

And that was it; Harry lost it. He began laughing hysterically, eyes closed as he pressed the beer bottle to his face, acknowledging that—despite his own eyeliner and leather-pants-clad look, and his frequenting of less than savoury venues at the very centre of mosh pits—in this particular context, he was, in fact, the old man.

He looked up and, without meaning to at all, caught Draco's eyes. Draco tilted his head in curiosity, registering the shock and hysteria on Harry's face, but obviously not having been paying enough attention to work out why. Then his eyes turned distant and he appeared to be listening.

He always had been far too quick.

A wicked gleam appeared in his eye and the smile froze on Harry's face, all the laughter dying as he swallowed thickly and tried to ignore the sudden flicker of heat that coursed through him.

Draco very deliberately, very slowly, set his gin and tonic on the counter and stood up. Harry's lips parted. What was he about to do? Whatever it was, it wouldn't be good. And he knew, he just knew, it was going to be the culmination of everything Draco had overheard in his mind yesterday. The punishment that Harry had known was coming was here. It had arrived and it was going to be bad.

Then Draco turned and began to dance.

Harry's mouth went dry. Quite unbidden, his attention dropped to that leather clad arse he'd just been imagining. Merlin, he looked good in Sirius's pants. And even the thought of his godfather didn't douse the arousal that shot through him from head to toe, lighting a fire in his navel.

He'd been convinced earlier that this was Draco's first time in a club as well, but looking at him now, at the way he slid the shirt up his torso, fingers clasping almost as an afterthought as he let the fabric fall and reveal sweat-soaked abs, Harry had to admit he'd been very, very wrong.

Draco hit every beat, somehow turning the sultry, fierce lyrics of the song into a prelude—but to what, Harry didn't know. And when Draco spun and landed between Harry's spread knees, a hand placed on either one as he stared down into Harry's wide-eyed expression, he didn't protest, didn't say a single word at all when Draco took Harry's hand in his and led him out into the middle of the floor.

Then Harry was dancing, limbs loose, heart pounding, mouth so very dry, he kept searching for a drink—searching for something to ease his thirst and knowing there was nothing that could.

And somehow, in amongst those moments, he found it. He found where his whiskey-encrusted floorboards and screaming guitars met with the pounding bass and the scent of vodka in this club. It was right here, with Draco's hands on his hips and the bead of sweat that fell from his neck into the hollow of his throat.

The song ended, moving seamlessly into another, but Draco slowed his movements until he grew still and then the two of them were simply standing there, together, in the middle of the undulating crowd.

Draco's eyes met his and Harry spluttered on reflex, "You look ridiculous," the words so unconvincing that he didn't even challenge the answering slow, smug curl of Draco's lips.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Draco purred. But then the grin widened, the wickedness fading into genuine amusement as he lent in and whispered, "I'll let you in on a secret though: I feel ridiculous."

Draco pulled back as if to leave, and Harry couldn't let that happen. He reached out, hand curling around the back of Draco's neck—

And then he didn't know what to do next. Didn't know if he could do this next thing that he wanted so desperately to do. Because this was them and it was impossible, wasn't it?

Why did he even want this? He was risking missing a sign from Sirius's Will right now, and yet even knowing that, he couldn't bring himself to look away. Couldn't bring himself to think of anything but the pounding of his own heart in his chest and the way that Draco's tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips.

"You know," Draco said, so close to Harry that he barely had to raise the volume. "What I was saying earlier... I think the magic— I think it's responding to us. It can sense our emotions toward each other." His eyes dropped to Harry's lips. "It can sense how messy they are. How conflicted." When they darted back up, it was like a lightning bolt. "So we should get it out of our system then, right, Potter?"

For the space of a heartbeat, Harry didn't move. And then he pulled Draco to him, crashing their lips together.

It was everything and nothing like he'd imagined.

Draco kissed like fire. There was nothing serpentine about him. Nothing sneaky or cunning. It was pure selfishness, the way he dragged at Harry, the way his hands fisted in Harry's shirt and pulled him closer. His leg lifted and hooked around Harry's hips, dragging him in there too, as Draco pressed his entire body against the length of him.

Harry moaned, the sound captured by Draco's mouth, as he felt an answering hardness press against him. Draco's hips began to move; Harry caught his thigh and held him there.

When Harry realised Draco was still moving to the beat, he nearly broke into hysterical laughter once again, except there was nothing hysterical about it.

Draco writhed against Harry in a way that matched the pounding bass of this new song, kissing him deeper and deeper, like he'd been waiting for this. Like it was all he'd ever wanted, when that was impossible, wasn't it? Because even Harry hadn't realised he wanted this until it was suddenly right there in front of him.

Draco pulled back, a furrow in his brow. But before Harry could speak, he saw it—above their heads.

The stars were in the fucking ceiling.

His head tipped back and after a moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Draco do the same. One by one, above their head, pinpricks of light lit up. And if they weren't wix, if they didn't feel that magic calling to them, Harry knew he wouldn't see them among all the other lights. But since they were, those stars burned so bright they outshone every other light in here.

One, two... a third, a fourth... until there were eleven pinpricks of light above their heads, shining in the darkness.

Harry wet his lips. Draco was already holding up the ball, both legs planted on the ground once more, waiting.

Harry took the ball without looking at him, without acknowledging what it was they'd just had, what it meant.

"Cygnus," he said—the name of the swan.

The lights burned, growing, as an earthquake rumbled the club. A couple of people screamed, but most didn't notice. Most didn't feel it beneath the music. Didn't feel the rush of magic as those lights flew one by one, pinging into the crystal ball in Harry's hand.

But Harry did. Harry felt it all.

The lights settled, the crystal ball giving one final rumble—like a cat purring—and the lights faded. Once lost, and now found.