Meadsbreth
A Harry Potter Fan-Fiction
Written by RCA7

DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor do I claim to own, Harry Potter or anything of relation.

His head felt as if someone was smashing his temples with a sledge hammer. He could see through his closed eyes that the sun had risen, but he didn't open them out of fear of intensifying the pain.

He couldn't remember what exactly he did last night. He considered, for a moment, sitting up so that the sun wouldn't fall directly into his eyes. He found that he couldn't; it felt as if someone had dropped a bowling ball—or several—into his stomach.

He rubbed his forehead, but it didn't alleviate any pain. He wondered if this is what it felt like to die. He was Harry Potter; after everything, surely he could get out of bed. He would just have to grit his teeth and do it.

He opened his eyes, and his head immediately filled with searing pain. He shut his eyes again and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. The bowling balls in his stomach rumbled around relentlessly.

His body felt heavy and his arms tingled when he tried to lift himself. He rolled onto his back again—the bowling balls now doing what felt like somersaults.

There was a cool breeze that traveled though the dormitory, if that is where he even was. The air felt refreshing on his face, arms, and legs. The nausea subsided a bit, and Harry's senses began functioning correctly. He could now feel the breeze on his chest and thighs…he became suddenly aware that he was naked.

Not certain where he was, he took his appearance's vulnerability as a bad thing. He rolled over to lie on his stomach again, but instead of stopping, his body kept moving. For a split second it was a very curious feeling, until he landed sideways on the floor.

Now, with fresh pain in his left shoulder and hip, he decided to open his eyes again. There was no direct sunlight where he was on the floor, for which he was grateful. He was pleased to see that he had fallen out of his own bed in his own dormitory. He could see nothing out of the ordinary to suggest what had happened the previous night; his mind refused to give him any clues. He could only assume he ingested a large amount of an alcoholic substance.

After much effort, he was able to stand up. The world around him was shaking, but it was no matter. Realizing he had nothing to cover himself, he desperately searched for clothes. He opened his trunk and began digging through it. If he couldn't find anything else, he hoped to at least find some pants.

Everything that was colored brightly was vibrating. Harry tried not to think about the pounding sensation behind his ears as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants he had found. The bowling balls in his stomach now felt as if they were doing a cakewalk.

Harry looked out of the window, which he instantly knew was a mistake. The grounds seemed to be dancing; the grass was swirling around and changing between various shades of green, the lake was jumping up and down, and Hagrid's hut was rotating in place.

"Oh God," said Harry. He pulled on a robe he found (he wasn't entirely sure that it was his) and left the dormitory with every intention of going to the Hospital Wing. "Madam Pomfrey can sort this out."

He half-crawled half-fell down the stairs into the Common Room and was happy to discover that no one was in there, and that the curtains had yet to be drawn back. The world didn't spin as much when things were dark. The bowling balls were doing cartwheels, and the pounding behind his ears had grown so intense he could taste it. Or, at least, he tasted something.

He stumbled through the Fat Lady's portrait. "Oh, my dear boy, are you alright?" she asked concernedly.

Harry merely grunted at her as he gripped his way along the wall. He was now ignoring the pounding behind his ears, the bowling balls doing back flips in his stomach, and a new burning in the back of his throat.

He continued running his hand along the wall, knowing that eventually he would find the door, when he grabbed something that felt very different from stone.

"Watch your hands, Potter!" sneered the familiar voice of Draco Malfoy, the very last person Harry wanted to deal with when he was in this state. Harry removed his hand from whatever body part of Draco's he happened to grab. The world was spinning again.

"Well, aren't you going to apologize? Or at least say something witty?" Draco said with a smirk.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but immediately shut it again. He looked up, but there were now three Dracos staring down at him. The burning in the back of his throat suddenly lurched forward, and he tasted the pounding in his ears again. The bowling balls in his stomach felt like they were climbing up through his body.

"Now," Harry said, very aware that he was unable to stand up straight, "I have many a wit to share with you, but, as there are three of you, the odds don't add up, Maffy." It took a great deal of the little strength Harry had to say those words. He swallowed, hoping that it would be enough to keep the bowling balls down…

"Yeah," said Draco slowly, "let me help you out there."

Harry felt a hand slide underneath his arm and stretch across his back. Then he felt something push at the back of his knees. Suddenly, he was up in the air, and the world was shaking and spinning all over again. Everything around him was vibrating, and the curious bowling balls in his stomach were rolling into his throat. He could taste something awful on his tongue. Before he could warn the Draco that was carrying him, before he could do anything to prevent it, his stomach gave a painful lurch, and he vomited all over the front of the robe he was wearing.

"Oh, joy," said Draco sarcastically. "Potter puke. Just the way I wanted to start my day."

Harry wanted to tell the Draco carrying him that if he hadn't swept him off his feet, he wouldn't have been sick in the first place, but he couldn't open his mouth. His eyes grew heavy, and then the world was dark.

When Harry awoke, his head was throbbing. He was afraid to open his eyes; he didn't want to risk exposing his temperamental headache to the light.

He could hear someone shuffling around and bottles clinking together. There was the sound of a thick liquid being poured, followed by a distinct bubbling.

Curious, Harry opened his eyes a bit. Seeing no light, he opened them fully. Draco was sitting beside him, kneeling over a cauldron. He dropped what looked like a small leaf into the bubbling concoction, and great puffs of smoke billowed into the air.

Ignoring the tightness in his stomach, Harry sat up, once again feeling the pounding behind his ears.

"Ah, you're up," Draco said, picking up a goblet and scooping some of the potion into it. "Here, drink this," he added, handing the goblet to Harry. It was filled with a questionable emerald green substance.

Harry tried to ask what it was, but he wanted to avoid vomiting again. Thinking that things couldn't possibly get worse, he drank it in one gulp.

Considering Harry was nauseous, it went down surprisingly smooth. It cleared the burning in this throat, settled the tightness and restless bowling balls in his stomach, and restored his legs to their normal, non-jellied state. The pounding in his ears shrank away, taking the insufferable pain in his forehead with it. He looked at a brightly colored tapestry that hung on the wall, and he was pleased to see it wasn't vibrating.

"Do you feel better, then?" asked Draco as he lay back on the floor. He crossed his leg over his knee and rested his head on his hands.

"Yeah," said Harry, lying down beside Draco.

There was a magnificent mural painted on the ceiling; warm oranges and reds depicted a fire blazing around a phoenix, whose spread wings were expelling the ash from its body. Harry, of course, knew that newborn phoenixes weren't as beautiful as the one peering down at him from the ceiling. In fact, in his opinion, newborn phoenixes were quite ugly.

"Nice painting, isn't it?" said Draco casually, tapping his foot in the air. Harry turned his head towards Draco, who was staring, transfixed, at the mural. Harry had never noticed how Draco's white-blond hair fell over his forehead, threatening his grey eyes. He wanted Draco to look at him with those eyes…

"Yeah," mumbled Harry, his mind elsewhere. Draco absentmindedly scratched his chest and Harry had to resist the urge to grab his hand.

"I've always wanted a pet," said Draco serenely. "You know, something more than just an owl. I hear that Dumbledore's got a phoenix. I bet they're extraordinary." He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He then rested his arm at his side, his hand dangerously close to Harry's…

The incredible craving to feel his fingers interlocked with Draco's was overwhelming. Where did this come from? Was this attraction? Harry wasn't sure what he was feeling, but he had an idea that it may have had something to do with the previous night.

"Yeah, Fawkes—Dumbledore's phoenix—is fantastic," assured Harry, trying in vain to stifle a yawn.

"Tired?" asked Draco, grinning. "Last night was…well, pretty crazy."

So Draco must have been there, Harry thought. His memory of the previous night was coming back in small waves, but what he was remembering was ridiculous. That couldn't have possibly happened…

"Last night?" asked Harry timidly, "So you know what happened?"

Draco looked into Harry's eyes and smiled (Harry melted a bit). "Yeah, of course," said Draco, obviously content that he knew something Harry did not.

"Ravenclaw threw a party—just for the hell of it, as far as I can tell—and you attended, of course. They had all sorts of imported drinks, Doxy's Blood, Troll Cider—stuff like that. You started off with just shots, then you were mixing, then there were more shots, and some Drunken Exploding Snap. It wasn't long before you were gone.

"I doubt anyone's told you, because I don't know how often you've been wasted, but you're very flirtatious and affectionate when you're drunk. You were kind of…well, you were all over…someone," Draco finished lamely. He fidgeted with his hands and looked away from Harry.

Harry's memory was clearer now; he remembered the gentle touch of someone's hands caressing his face, and someone's soft lips brushing against his own, their tongues intertwining. He remembered laughing well into the night, curled up next to someone warm and comfortable. He remembered being the happiest he'd ever been as he stared into those grey eyes…

Abandoning all pretenses, Harry reached over and grabbed Draco's hand. Harry's heart was fluttering, and Draco was wearing an unsuppressed grin. They lay there for what seemed like forever—a blissful forever—comfortable in each other's company, not worrying about what was happening outside of their moment.

"What was that potion you made for me?" Harry asked, turning to lie on his side, resting his head on Draco's shoulder. "It was absolutely wonderful."

"Meadsbreth," Draco answered, "the hangover potion. Wizard hangovers, especially after multiple shots of Doxy's Blood, tend to be terrible. As I'm sure you've noticed." He kissed Harry on the forehead before standing.

"So," began Harry, also standing and noticing he was shorter than Draco, "did we—er—did we do it?" He smiled awkwardly, realizing how stupid his question sounded.

"Nah, you got as far as getting your clothes off and then you fell asleep," explained Draco.

Harry had to admit, he felt a little relief about this. Draco must have noticed the easing in his facial expression, because he continued, "I'm glad, though. I wouldn't want something as special as that to happen under those circumstances."

Harry grinned stupidly; how could someone possibly make him feel so wonderful? Was this just heat-of-the-moment lust and hormones? Or was it something more?

"So you didn't stay in my bed?" asked Harry, noticing there was slight disappointment in his voice. He imagined spending an uninterrupted night with Draco.

"Actually, I did," he answered. "I had left and was on my way back to check on you when I found you in the hall. I was a little bitter, because I was worried that you would forget…"

Ignoring how Draco planned on re-entering the Gryffindor Common Room, Harry smiled. "Remind me not to drink that much again. I'd hate to forget any time that we spend together," Harry said sweetly.

Draco pulled Harry into a hug and kissed him on the cheek. "We better go," he whispered, walking towards the door, "our friends will start to worry."

Harry took his hand and pulled him back, kissing him again. "Let them worry."

A/N: I'm a terrible writer, but practice makes perfect, right? I think my favorite pairing is Harry / Draco, and hangovers are hilarious, thus this fic was born. Please review it, and feel free to ridicule my vocabulary and writing style, even if it's a minuscule mistake or error. I could definitely use some improvement.