Written For:

- RAK for DarkPhoenixAscending

- The Investment Building Challenge/Dialogue: "I'm not sure that I want to know the answer."

- Hogwarts Summer Funfair/Hook-a-Duck: (location) The Three Broomsticks

Word Count: 1,352

Harry opened his eyes groggily, instantly snapping them shut again as the bright light streaming through the windows attacked his vision. His head was throbbing painfully, and he reached up to rub his temples roughly. Slowly, he forced himself to sit up in his rumpled sheets, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyebals.

When he finally forced himself to blink through the burning sunlight, he glanced down at his chest. What on earth? he thought to himself absently, hitching the sheets around his chest. He was naked, which wasn't how he often chose to sleep. As he shared an apartment with Ron and Hermione, he didn't want to risk being caught on his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night without his drawers on.

As he pulled the sheet over him, a disgruntled moan sounded from beside him. Harry's head whirled around so fast he nearly snapped his neck: the lump of another person was completely obscured by the bedsheets, and judging from the clothes that scattered the bedroom floor, whoever was under there was naked as well.

Harry felt colour rising to every exposed bit of flesh. What the hell happened last night?

oOo

It was out of mere boredom that Harry had gone to the Three Broomsticks. Ron and Hermione were having a 'date night', and he didn't really fancy being a third wheel (even though Hermione had expressively told him he was welcome, ignoring Ron's pointed glances). He vaguely recalled enjoying spending his weekends at the Hogsmeade pub, knowing that they sold a good Butterbeer—though realistically, he was looking for something stronger.

Madam Rosmerta looked just the same as she had a few years ago, and she recognised Harry Potter immediately—though, not many people didn't. She called over to him the minute he walked through the door. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Potter, returning back to his small town dwelling," she jested, earning a rumble of laughter from the patrons of the bar. "Can I get you a Butterbeer, or are you going to take advantage of your ID?"

"Firewhiskey, please," Harry requested, ignoring Rosmerta's raised eyebrow. He handed over his change, swallowed his drink in one quick mouthful, and hastily ordered another. "Keep them coming."

"Potter," a familiar voice sounded behind him. Harry turned around slowly, almost not daring to. He would recognise that voice from anywhere.

oOo

Harry carefully peeled back the sheets, exposing the person who was in bed with him, and resisted the urge to gasp in shock. He quickly covered his bedmate back up as he heard the distinct sound of someone clearing their throat outside the door.

"Be quiet, Ronald!"

"I can't believe he would bring that bloody git into our house, Hermione!"

"Stop being so ridiculous. Just go in and ask if they want breakfast."

"I'm not going in there! What if they've got no pants on? I don't need to see that, thanks!"

"Well, I'm not going in! That would be inappropriate."

Harry rolled his eyes and pulled on last night's jeans quickly, before pulling the bedroom door. Hermione and Ron stood right on the threshold, mid-argument. They quickly shot a wide, false smile at Harry, and he closed the door behind him. "Now you don't need to go in," he muttered, trying not to make eye contact with either of his best friends. "Lets go into the kitchen."

He followed Ron and Hermione into the kitchen, running a hand through his dishevelled hair as he did so. He hadn't picked up his glasses as he left the bedroom, so his vision was slightly blurred—which was probably a good thing, as he knew that Ron was giving him a judgemental glare. He sat opposite Harry, his arms folded silently.

Once Hermione had wandered over to the stove to start preparing eggs, Ron finally spoke. "Are you going to explain what happened last night? What were you doing with that bloke?" he demanded to know, keeping his voice low enough for Hermione not to hear him. "Actually, ignore that last part. I'm not sure I that want to know the answer."

Harry resisted the urge to groan. He had no desire to explain himself to Ron or Hermione. He just wanted to forget about the whole thing, but unfortunately a grim reminder of his night out was lying in his bed. "I went out for a few drinks."

"You were absolutely obliterated when you came in," Hermione suddenly piped up. Harry glanced over to her—she was pushing an egg around the frying pan carefully, making it quite clear that she could hear everything they were saying. "We don't mind Harry, but it would have been nice to have a bit of warning if you were bringing over a guest."

"Especially the type of guest you decided to bring home," Ron added, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Harry did his best to glare over at his friend, as well as he could do without his glasses on. "Are you annoyed because I brought over someone and didn't tell you?" He asked, folding his arms. "Or because I brought over Draco Malfoy?"

"Hello." Harry was startled at a voice behind him, and he turned to greet the person who had entered. Through his blurred vision, he could see a pale blob dressed in black and navy. He pressed something into Harry's hand—his glasses—and Harry put them on gratefully. Draco Malfoy was stood in their shared kitchen, not looking any bit as dishevelled and bedridden as Harry had done.

He must have jumped out of bed the minute that Harry left the bedroom. He was dressed in the same clothes as last night, a button down navy shirt and black jeans, and his pale blond hair was hanging over his face, into his icy blue eyes. Harry had a sudden memory of the night before, and he shuddered.

oOo

"Shh," Harry giggled as he fumbled with the lock. When he finally managed to get it open, he stumbled into the apartment, with Draco close on his tail. "We've got to be quiet. Ron and Hermione will be in bed."

Draco sniggered and followed Harry up the stairs, tip-toeing along the corridor and falling into his bedroom. They both stumbled and fell backwards onto the double bed, laughing loudly as they struggled to sit up. They were both terribly drunk—Madam Rosmerta had served them one too many Firewhiskeys. Not that they were complaining.

Harry turned onto his side and watched as Draco struggled out of his shirt. He observed the ethereal paleness to Draco's skin, the way it seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. There was something distinctly non-human about Draco. Something beautiful.

When Draco was shirtless, he laid down besides Harry so that he was facing him. Those impossibly blue eyes bored into Harry's green ones, and Harry felt like he was getting lost in those orbs; drowning in a freezing cold ocean in the most enjoyable way possible. "What are you thinking about?" Draco whispered, and Harry smelt alcohol on his breath.

"How weird this is," Harry mumbled back. He started to say something else, but he got lost in a blur of hazy drunkenness. The next thing he was aware of was warm lips on his, the sensation of a strangely sharp tongue sliding across his, and cool hands gliding up the front of his shirt.

oOo

Harry flushed at the memory, and tried not to make eye contact with Draco. Ron remained silent, leaving Hermione to break the ice. "Good morning, Draco," she said politely, though Harry could tell her tone was strained. "Are you staying for breakfast?"

Draco leaned on the back of Harry's chair. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll pass," he paused, and reached down to press a chaste kiss to Harry's cheek. "I'll be in touch. I'd like to see you again, Potter," he added in a mutter.

He stood up and waggled his fingers in Harry's direction as he walked out of the apartment, leaving Harry's face burning.

It seemed the night hadn't been quiet the disaster he had thought it had been.