"I am in so much trouble," Harry Potter breathed nervously as he peered cautiously around the corner and blinked, attempting to adjust his eyes to the dimness of the hallway. He took a cautious step forward, hoping against hope that no one in the castle had been roused by the awful, clanging sound of him tripping over one of the rusty suits of armour that lined the walls.
It was late -- nearly three in the morning, hours and hours past curfew. Harry had never been much for rules, nor was he ever what anyone would call a stickler for punctuality, but he doubted any teacher discovering him in this situation would be merciful. He was nearly five hours late returning to school, he was drunk, he was dirty, he was disorderly and he could hardly stand up. His fingertips traced along the cold walls in an attempt for balance as he moved slowly and unsteadily down the hall.
Suddenly he froze. Panic rose up in his throat and his stomach felt like ice. He could hear someone moving. He was about to be caught! Not the slow, shuffling footsteps of Filch; whoever was moving towards him was stealthy. Professor Snape! Without moving, as if by his stillness he could become invisible, Harry slowly closed his eyes and bit his lip. Yes, definitely Snape from that purposeful stride. Harry could almost taste the bitter disapproval radiating from him, could feel Snape's bony fingers digging into his shoulder like claws...could feel the hot breath raising the tiny hairs along Harry's neck as Snape bent and traced along Harry's neck with his tongue, then moved upward to suck Harry's earlobe.
Whirling around, Harry saw with an intense relief that it was not Professor Snape standing behind him. It was Draco Malfoy, and that was almost worse. Draco, his pale face heated, little red spots high on his cheeks, breath absolutely reeking of the finest Muggle vodka. His grey eyes were like silver coins that had been dropped into clear, cold water, rather unfocused and blurry but oh, so shiny. Was he...smiling? Harry wondered. He gaped. Draco was indeed smiling.
The hand that had been holding Harry's shoulder in a vise-like grip relaxed as Draco slipped his arm casually over Harry's shoulder as if they were best mates instead of mortal enemies. Harry's jaw dropped a little further. He was still sober enough to wonder if it was all some delusion brought on by his first real venture with serious drinking, but then Draco moved in for the kill, his tongue licking Harry's lips and then darting skillfully between them. Draco's tongue was probing Harry's mouth. Harry's eyes widened and he stepped back, or stumbled really, crashing into the wall.
"Shh!" Draco hissed, but the hiss turned into a smirk and the smirk faded as Draco bent again, licking his own lips like a lion at prey, deftly lifting Harry's chin with one finger. His tongue darted out from behind his pale lips -- a red tongue the colour of a cherry lollipop -- and he pressed against the hinge of Harry's jaw lightly with his thumb, smiling a little as Harry's lips parted. The kiss was all wet heat and Harry found himself opening up to the warmth, sliding his own tongue across the barrier of his lips and meeting Draco's. Despite the liquor breath, Draco tasted sweet -- a mix of peppermint and cinnamon Tooth-Flossing Stringmints -- and he smelled good too. Harry could detect the scent of some pricey cologne beneath the smell of spilt drinks and smiled, remembering how he had spilled his own beverage on Draco accidentally when they had been dancing. Dancing, he wondered, mystified. Had he really been dancing with Draco Malfoy, in the middle of the Hogs Head, for anyone to see? Apparently so.
"You smell good," Draco murmured, echoing Harry's thoughts. He pressed his face against the unruly tangle that was Harry's hair. "Lemon and shampoo."
Silently, Harry congratulated himself on taking a shower before heading out to the Three Broomsticks that night. He nodded slowly, running his hand through Draco's hair. The pale strands were smoother then silk, weightless and slippery, nothing like Harry's own hair. He smiled, his breath escaping in a rush as he pulled away. He was holding Draco Malfoy in his arms, he realised with amusement and a little unease. Draco, who was flushed and flustered, pulling at the clasp of Harry's cloak.
Draco glanced up, his eyes meeting Harry's for a moment. Harry's stomach dropped as if he was on a roller coaster ride, and his own green eyes widened with shock as he stepped back. Draco Malfoy? But how...?
Harry frowned. He should have left Hogsmeade when Ron and Hermione did, he had known that, but of course, knowing the right thing was not the same as doing it. The night had been doomed from the get-go. The concert at the Three Broomsticks had been boring and the non-stop butterbeer had made Harry a little sick to his stomach, but worst of all had been Ron, who was pouting and being moody about the Quidditch game the previous day. That should have been his first sign.
Maybe it was because of the distinct queasiness he felt, or maybe because Ron had talked non-stop about the stupid Quidditch match for twenty four hours, but instead of once again nodding and patting Ron's back consolingly, Harry had heaved a weary sigh and opened his big trap to start a grim monologue. He was sick of Ron's endless complaints, and they were supposed to be having a good time, for Merlin's sake, and couldn't Ron shut up about it for a bit and enjoy the music? What was he complaining about, anyway? There would be another match against Slytherin the following day and Gryffindor was still in the running for the cup. Why was Ron acting so much like Oliver Wood? Did he think just because he was Quidditch captain now he had to drive everyone mad with unending litanies of complaints about the bloody match? Ron didn't know what real problems were, Ron had a family while Harry had lost practically everyone he'd ever come to care about. Finally, at the top of his voice, Harry had declared it was all Ron's fault anyway, that Gryffindor might have won if Ron hadn't let all those Quaffles in.
Ron had jumped up from his chair, at once as angry as a wet hen and as hurt as...well...as someone who had just been terribly insulted by his best friend. He had shouted and Harry had shouted. They had both said some very mean, below-the-belt things to one another while Hermione had nervously tried to break them apart and shush them before they were tossed out of the Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta had actually been looking at them in a very threatening way as Harry had pushed back his chair with a scrape and stormed outside, on the premise of getting some air.
Hermione had emerged ten minutes later with Ron, who stood very stiffly next to her looking at Harry's shoes. Some feeble, half-hearted apologies had been made. Harry said he hadn't meant it, and Ron said Harry had been right, and they had both assured one another that the Gryffindor-Slytherin game would be great, and then Ron and Hermione had left. They had asked Harry to come with them, but he couldn't. He was still angry -- lately it seemed his temper was always near the boiling point -- and he wanted nothing more then to breathe in the icy night air and mentally flog himself.
What had he been thinking when he walked into the Hogs Head? About everything, and nothing. Thinking of Sirius, because it always came back to that. Harry blamed himself for Sirius, for Sirius's death, and no matter what else happened it was always Sirius on Harry's mind. Shouting about the Quidditch match was just some way to release a tiny fragment of that pain, to let someone else feel the anguish and hurt and guilt he was always feeling. Miserable, Harry had approached the bar, eyes down, and he was not the least bit surprised when the barman gave him glass after glass of Firewhiskey in exchange for a handful of Sickles. He drank each burning, horrible glass down in gulps, relishing the warmth in his stomach, until the stuff had ceased to have any flavour at all. Then Harry had retreated to a corner of the bar intending to nurse his last drink and enjoy the feeling of numbness a while longer before trudging home.
But then...Draco. The thought brought Harry back to the present, where he was stroking his hands down Draco's back and kissing him with a ferocity that was startling, especially coming from him. Harry had kissed people before, of course -- twice, in fact. There was that time with Cho, of course, but that had been...odd. Then there was the time he and Ron had drawn one another in a game of Spin the Bottle, but that did not really count. It had just been a peck. But this, this was entirely different then anything Harry had ever experienced. Draco was deft, skillful. Snogging seemed his natural talent as much as flying was Harry's.
"Mmm..." murmured Harry. He hands slipped through Draco's hair, down to his shoulders where he traced Draco's collarbone, lower. It had to be the alcohol rushing through his veins that warmed Harry so, but he couldn't help craving Draco's body heat...closer...closer. He pulled Draco closer, his every nerve ending focused entirely on Draco's touch, which was smooth and commanding. Draco knew what he was doing.
Of course, Harry thought to himself. Even Gryffindor had a gossip mill, and there wasn't a week that went by where Draco wasn't mentioned at least once. "The Slytherin sex god," the Ravenclaw girls always announced seriously as they pushed up their spectacles and followed Draco's progress across the Great Hall. Hufflepuff girls always giggled and seemed faint when Draco brushed by them, entirely oblivious. Even Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown could occasionally be seen looking at him dreamily. Draco and rumours went together like Harry and heroism. Harry had heard the one about Draco as a third year scoring a date with a seventh year Ravenclaw so many times he could recite it by heart.
A strange feeling surfaced in Harry, one that was not wanting or lust but something closer to jealousy. Was he actually jealous of Draco and all those girls, Harry wondered? He shook his head, pulling away from the kiss Draco was giving him. Never, no way...he couldn't possibly care, could he? It was the alcohol, Harry convinced himself, remembering how emotional Sirius and Remus had been the single time Harry had seen them drinking.
Harry opened his eyes. The room was blurry. Draco looked rather wavery, as if Harry was staring up at him from the bottom of the lake. He felt dizzy, as if he and Draco had just been spinning in circles over and over again the way little children sometimes do, to make themselves fall. He stepped back, his hands releasing their hold on Draco's belt.
"Good thinking," Draco remarked calmly. He looked carefully up and down the hallways, his eyes narrowed into slits as if he believed he could see better that way. "We don't want any professors to come across us." He tried to nod, but apparently he was dizzy too, for he lost balance and had to lurch to keep from falling. Harry, who had never before seen Draco in a good mood, was amazed with Draco smirked and uttered a little laugh before righting himself. "We should go to the dormitories."
The roller coaster slid off the tracks. Harry slid down the wall, dizzy and stricken, landing on the cold marble of the floor and wondering how on earth he would get up again. His legs, he decided, had been magically transformed into great hunks of wood. He would never be able to drag himself up the stairs like this. He looked at Draco, his eyes woeful, but Draco was laughing.
"Come on," Draco urged, still grinning with shockingly white teeth. The brilliance of his smile was unnerving. He looked rather mad, his teeth canine. That reminded Harry of Sirius, and he expected a wave of sadness and guilt to flood him, drowning all the lust and good feelings, but nothing happened. The drinks, Harry decided, taking Draco's hands and letting Draco struggle to pull him up.
Draco, equally if not more drunk, was not in a position to balance them both. He tumbled down, falling grandly into Harry's lap, his pale hair all in his face and his hands still tightly clasped by Harry's. Both boys smiled. Harry released one hand and smoothed Draco's hair out of his eyes before giving him an affectionate nip. Draco tilted his chin up towards the ceiling and elegantly tossed back his hair in a gesture Harry could never imitate. So that was what being a pureblood was all about, Harry marveled. Sirius had been able to do the same thing, to look glamorous and haughty without the tiniest expense of effort.
Draco slid his legs out before him and twisted in a complicated movement, half-rising from the floor before sliding back down again. Harry laughed. Draco frowned. "We must get up, Potter! Even" -- he tried again -- "even you can understand how dire this is. If we're caught out of bed and drunken we'll be expelled." He fell forward on all fours and pushed himself into a standing position, swaying regally for a moment. "Up!"
Nodding made the room start spinning, so Harry settled on mumbling something incoherent and giving a half-hearted attempt to get to his feet. It didn't work. Finally Draco whipped out his wand and did some sort of levitation spell. Harry was still slumped, but he was five feet in the air. Cautiously, Harry got to his feet, his arms out, grabbing Draco's cloak in handfuls.
"I think...that you...belong in bed," Draco said between breaths as he kissed Harry's throat, gently kissing a trail from Harry's throat down to the exposed flesh peeking between the two unbuttoned top buttons of his shirt. "And that," he added emphatically after tearing himself away from Harry, "is my final word."
"Right," Harry said slowly, sobriety flooding through him at the thought. It was a very heavy feeling to have reality crashing back in, a reality that warned of impending Quidditch games and having to hate Draco the following day. So brief and it was already over. He would return to Gryffindor Tower and in the morning he would have to go back to the taunts and teasing and petty rivalry, and Ron's bloody ceaseless Quidditch chatter. He loved Ron, he loved Quidditch but...it was too soon. "Back to the dorms," he agreed, heaviness on every syllable.
Nodding, Draco brushed dust off of the back of his trousers. His grey eyes, which Harry had previously thought were only for glaring, sparkled and he winked. "So, your dorm or mine?"