. . .


theodore nott x luna lovegood


"Little Drunken Boy"

by optimise


He wonders how he found himself in this position — bright-eyed and half-sloshed on apricot flavoured brandy and mid-groan — while digging through the hummus and peeled carrot platter with palpable interest, at best.

Theodore Nott was not one of those people who attended Christmas parties. Or any parties for that matter. Too many piss drunk people getting sick all over the Persian imported rugs, too many half-hearted attempts at mingling, and too much fucking hand-made decor that makes him feel the need to vomit or gouge his eyes out with those ribbon-wrapped, tiny fucking toothpicks staked on sour pineapple platters.

So, as he's mid-dip into the chilli speckled hummus with his half-bitten carrot (yes, he's a double dipper, sue him), Theo ponders how much force it would take to chuck himself off the wobbly coffee table with enough power mustered to break a leg or bruise his eye or something of the sort. At this point, he would do anything — no, really, anything — to get him the hell out of Draco's 'Merrily, Berrily, Christmas Bonanza Bash' with half his mind still intact — and before Blaise makes another appearance in his birthday suit midway through the party.

It's the same fucking thing year after year, he supposes. The stupidly ornate Christmas soiree at Malfoy's way-too-fucking-pretentious and way-too-fucking-big-for-one-man house. Like clockwork, almost, the way that Draco sends a holiday card wishing everyone well — and an exclusive invite to his once a year party to get smashed under the excuse of celebrating a holiday for the birth of Jesus. Except this time the self-proclaimed ladies' man sent the holiday card beside his girlfriend of eleven months' name, Hermione fucking Granger.

He thinks the couple hosting the party are already off ripping each others' clothes off in some dark and dank closet — one of many in this enormously sized penthouse — because they're nowhere in sight. Not that Theo's actively searching for them — those two are way too touchy feely and cuddly wuddly and handsy for his taste. He's not bitter about losing his best blond friend to a short, feisty woman with a weird fucking fetish for helping three-legged dogs and freeing abused elephants in the goddamn circus. Nope. Not bitter at all.

Theo takes a hearty bite of the carrot dolloped in hummus, chewing way too vigorously for a not bitter man, before scanning around the humungous parlour room, which was dimly light with the auburn burnt crystal chandelier, hanging directly over Theo's head. Maybe if he rattled the walls enough, the Christmas miracle of the glass slamming into his already pounding head would come true. Maybe. He would take the chance.

He stands up a little too excitedly, getting ready to fist the wall with closed palms before a small voice from behind him stops him in his tracks.

"Lovely wallpaper, isn't it?" the voice — a girl's voice — says with a wistful glance behind him.

Theo, gaping and blinking furiously, sets his fist down, turning around with a look he deems innocent enough for the occasion.

A blonde, dressed in the most vibrant peachy coral dress down to mid-calf, raises her eyebrows, glances between his white-knuckled hand and the wall with mild interest.

"If you like the virgin grandmother look, I guess," Theo says, rubbing sheepishly at his neck. Then he clears his throat, loosening the snowman tie that adorned his crisp cut collared shirt. The Christmas themed article of clothing seems too petulant to make a good impression at this point.

"I like it," the girl replies, smiling dreamily, before stepping forward immediately, running the back of her knuckles on the wall.

There's a brief thought running through his now fiercely pounding head that tells him he'd like her knuckles running across his back, but Theo quickly shoos it to the back of his mind before his cock gets the same thoughts with renewed interest.

"Great party, don't you think?" the girl asks, her fingers drumming small taps along the ugly vintage and vomit-inducing beige floral walls. "Draco Malfoy has a very quaint home."

"It's utter rubbish, really, how much he loves this place of his — in all its old money glory," Theo replies, stiffly stuffing his fists in the pockets of his ironed scarlet grey trousers.

"Mm," the girl hums, smiling almost predatorily, with way too much teeth. "I'm Luna. Like moon, but in Latin because my father hates the way English sounds bitter on his tongue. He describes it almost tangy, but not quite salty, you know?"

Theo tries to smile, but it comes out as a close-mouthed grimace. It's tight and sloppy and very objectively gross, he thinks, but Luna grins back anyways.

"Theodore," he offers back, using his full name in what seems like for-fucking-ever — even though he hates the familial name passed down from his father and grandfather and great-grandfather — because he can tell that she's one for brief formalities and distinguished meanings and kind of teddy-bear sounding names.

She sits down — gracefully in one fluid motion — on the velvet cushioned couch then, crossing her legs and blinking up at him. Theo repeats her movement, taking the seat next to her; he can feel her flushed warmth and smell her cider perfume and see her milky and blue-veined wrists.

And he almost wants to touch her then — just to feel something tangible running under his fingertips — or pull Draco out of that hidden closet mid-shag to kiss him fully on the lips for inviting him to his Christmas party this year. Either one would work.

"Do you like jazz?" she questions, staring straight at his pale blue eyes without a quiver of fear shivering through her bones.

Theo laughs, an honest one for the first time all night, and it sounds right coming out of his throat. "Love it."

"Me too."

She proceeds to discuss the absolutely essential difference between a blaring trumpet and a brassy french horn for the rest of the night.

Theo doesn't mind. Nope. Not one bit.


a/n: is it too early for holiday stories lol