Warning! SLASHY CONTENT, brief twincest, and snippets of het. This is rated not for explicit sexual content (some mentions of said content, but nothing too bad.), but for some language and underage drinking. If this does not appeal to you, then please do press your happy friend the 'back' button. Some OOC-ness, as well.
Say hi to my muses, too. Epros is on vacation, so I have Amiboshi from Fushugi Yuugi, instead!
Amiboshi: Hello. –smiles shyly-
C'mon, Ami-Ami, let's go find Suboshi to see if he's still in shock about that huge needle Nakago carved him up with on that bus trip to the Hot Spring Resort.
Amiboshi: -shudders in remembrance- Ooh, I felt that too. Ow.
Ah, go ahead and play the flute, Ami-Ami! Just remember, people, he can split your heads' open with one of his more threatening songs!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own Fushugi Yuugi. Harry and Co. are property of JKR, as I couldn't hold a candle to her talent, experience, wealth, etc. etc. Same with Yuu Watase.
Usual disclaimers apply.
True Concept
By CloudKat
The Great Hall was alight with holiday cheer. People from all houses mingled with the others (though many stayed away from the Slytherins and vice versa), chatting happily during their free period. This was a world blissfully rid of Voldemort, a world that was slowly recovering from the tarnish of war.
Ron Weasley gave his friend Harry Potter a slap on the back as he approached, planting himself next to a book-immersed Hermione. "Hey, Harry! Did you hear? There's gonna be an multi-house party tomorrow!"
Harry politely excused himself from a conversation with Seamus (who seemed to be instead making eyes in Blaise Zabini's general direction rather than actually listening) and gave Ron a grin and a raised brow. "Multi-house?" He regarded Ron's suddenly fallen expression with a confused blink. "What?"
Ron mumbled something incoherently, turning away.
"…what…?"
"Dumbledore found out," muttered Ron. "That bloody old man knows everything, I swear." He shot a sidelong glance at the 'senile' old coot over at the Head Table. Dumbledore waved jauntily back.
Harry said, "Er, he made you invite Slytherins, didn't he, Ron?"
Ron stood, eyes blazing with a fire as vivid as his hair. "Damn right, he did! I can't believe it! It was only going to be Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws, but Dumbledore convinced Fred and George it wasn't fair to everyone!"
Hermione said absently, "Language, Ron."
Ron sat back down heavily in his seat, sulking.
"Fred! I swear, if you don't have my wand back in my hands and this fake one back in yours in three seconds I will use a curse on you that will make the Cruciatus feel like a day at the spa!"
Fred glanced a Harry questioningly. "What's a spa?"
"Muggle thing," replied Harry with a shrug. Fred made an "oh" sound and scampered off, fearing the wrath of Hermione.
As said enraged resident know-it-all rushed past, the Boy-Who-lived caught her hand. "Hey, Hermione, what time is it?"
"Time for me to hurt Ron's brother in the most painful way possible," answered Hermione, eyes narrowed at the doorway that the Weasley twin had disappeared through.
Harry blinked, dropping her wrist and backing a couple of steps off. "Er… okay, 'Mione. I'll just let you go now."
"Thank you, Harry." She sprinted off awfully fast for someone who seemed to sit around and reading the library most of the time.
Harry sighed as he watched her leave. There was nothing to do now. Most of the decorations had been hung in the Great Hall (Dumbledore had insisted on the party being there as well, as Harry found out from an exasperated Ron) and many people had denied his help and instead told him to go get ready or something.
Begrudgingly, the dark haired Gryffindor stalked out the Hall doors and up to the Tower to change.
"Harry! C'mon, mate, the party's almost starting!" Ron called up the stairway to the boy's dorms. Some people from lower years helping each other dress glanced at the redhead curiously from their spot in front of the fire. He gave them a look back, before barking, "You guys are gonna be late, too! C'mon, hurry up now!"
The bewildered third years stared at the seventh year, then at each other before dashing out of the portrait entrance. Ron grinned just as Harry came down the stairs.
"I'm ready, Ron. Geez, I said I was coming down. You didn't have to nag and start screaming like a banshee."
"My mum would be proud, wouldn't she?" quipped Ron airily with the grin still plastered on his face.
Harry laughed, "Yup, Mrs. Weasley would definitely be proud."
Ron held out his arm and bowed mockingly. "My lady, may I?"
Harry pretended to curtsy back, saying in a high voice, "Of course!" and looping his arm through his friend's. Ron's grin was a mile-wide—he was really enjoying the little charade because Harry seemed to have finally lightened up some—as they waltzed off with an unnecessary flourish.
Harry laughed harder and with more exuberance than he could ever remember in his existence.
The Great Hall was blazing—literally. Darkly colored, scented candles covered entire tables (the new, circular, smaller ones transfigured just for the party) and hung from beautiful bronze holders charmed to float under the enchanted ceiling. House colors had abandoned their boldness and settled for more sensual shades that ran (somehow) tastefully rampant about the Hall. Food, drinks and other refreshments sat upon a long wooden table in the corner.
"'Mione!" shouted Ron as he rushed through the murmuring flocks of students waiting for music to start up. "'Mione!"
"I right in front of you, Ron." Ron jumped back, startled by his friend's presence right under his nose. He grinned sheepishly.
"Sorry 'bout that."
Hermione gave a dismissive wave of her hand, clucking her tongue impatiently. "Honestly, you don't need to apologize, Ron." She glanced around her, then she said, "Where's Harry?"
Ron shrugged. "I dunno. Some girl dragged him off. He seemed intent on clawing at me to try and get away from her, but I sent him off with my blessing."
He grinned as Hermione lightly smacked him on the back of the head—with some difficulty—and began to admonish, "You let our best friend get… get friendnapped by some annoying, giggly—"
"You need to hang out with your gender more often, Hermione," interrupted Ron.
Hermione glared at him, continuing her tirade without missing so much as a beat, "—little wenches!"
Ron stared at her, his grin lost. "Hermione! That's mean!"
"It's true," stated Hermione matter-of-factly. "You need to break free from your testosterone-swamped little world, Ron." Her bushy brown hair, tamed magically by Merlin-knows how many products into an elegant partially-up style, reflected dimly in the candlelight.
Ron smiled, "Hey, the twins are taking pictures…"
"Harry doesn't need to be found."
Ron sniggered behind his hand. Even his bookworm friend couldn't resist the temptation of a nice, embarrassing photo of the Boy-Who-Lived.
"C'mon, let's go get some butterbeer before they run out."
Harry sat upon one of the many stools lining the walls, watching as his friends and acquaintances paired off to dance. It had been hours since the party had first started, and many of Hogwarts finest were acting like drunken monkeys.
Off to the side, Terry Boot, Seamus Finnigan, and Dean Thomas were participating in a rowdy game of spin-the-bottle (without an actual bottle) and were beginning to giggle like schoolgirls. They smirked as Blaise Zabini sauntered by, Firewhiskey in hand (courtesy of the Great Fred and George), and tackled him to the ground, drawing him into the "game" area.
'Drunken, horny monkeys,' corrected Harry in his thoughts. He laughed, taking a small sip of wine. After all, he hadn't lost his ability to think rationally …but they all seemed to be having such a great time in their intoxicated, animal-like states. House rivalries seemed to disappear as alcohol sucked at their brains and temporarily relieved them of their modesty and morality—leaving behind hormonally charged, whiskey buzzed, sex-crazed idiots with way too much time on their hands.
Ginny Weasley was playing a round of Strip Chess, and was currently easing off her skirt, boys all around hooting at the sight. She winked. Ron was in the background, decidedly drunk and astonishingly confused—where was he again? He looked as if he barely registered that his baby sister was probably as plowed as he himself was. Next to him, Hermione seemed to be laughing uproariously at everything in sight, her cheeks redder than the Gryffindor common room. She had her arm slung over Ron's neck in a kind of sisterly fashion—which was truly a sight to see considering the pair's ridiculous height difference—and was jabbing him with her elbow every minute or so, pointing and snickering herself into a near coma. Ron stared at her foolishly as if he was trying his hardest to figure out if she was a figment of his imagination or not.
Harry grinned at them from afar, taking another swig of his wine.
"Sick, isn't it?" said a sudden voice from beside him. Harry glanced at the newcomer out of the corner of his eye, registering only that the person was male and had a smooth voice that seemed much too familiar.
"They are rather amusing, though, aren't they?" said Harry absently, his voice kept low, even over the wild music and suspicious moans. The newcomer chuckled silkily.
"It's like watching Veela males in heat."
"You've seen them?" asked Harry, his eyes on the delicate workings of his wineglass. "I never knew the males liked to attract attention to themselves." Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class had been informative after all. The half-giant had clearly stated that only Veela of the female persuasion came out into the open—they loved the attention. Male were more reclusive, but during the Springtime they would become wild and damn near uncontrollable in their search for a suitable mate. During this time, they took on many partners, and, what puzzled Harry most was that they were strictly gender-blind.
"Oh yes, my father has a full harem of male Veela. They're beautiful," said the voice softly. Harry scrunched up his nose. That was certainly a disturbing thought…
"Why aren't you out there with them, Malfoy?" questioned Harry hesitantly. He faced the pale blonde for the first time, and found he was swirling amber colored champagne about in his glass with a constant circular motion of his wrist. Malfoy shrugged, indifferent.
"I have never felt the urge to act like a bloody, raving, moronic lunatic, that's why, Potter. Why aren't you?" He answered, still in that soft tone that lacked all malice and scorn that had usually been directed at Harry over the past six years. Harry raised an eyebrow skeptically.
'He sure presented himself as one before this…' thought the Gryffindor sullenly. Wiping the sudden perspiration upon his brow—when did it get so warm?— and downing the rest of his wine, Harry began to observe Malfoy. The Slytherin Ice Prince carried absolutely no sign of drinking, and he had barely touched his champagne, if he had at all. His sleek flaxen hair fell free around his delicately high cheekbones. Harry admired his ability to radiate suave refinement among the masses of revoltingly hammered teens.
That prat.
"Well?" Draco stared intently at the Golden Boy, expression one of expectance, and, if one could differentiate the subtle differences of Draco Malfoy's facial expressions, innocent curiosity.
Innocent? Ha!
"Well what?" asked Harry defensively. Malfoy's leering was nerve racking… Harry crossed his arms over his chest, setting his empty wineglass upon one of the smaller, circular tables not far off.
Draco smirked. "You moron. I asked you a question earlier. Answer, please, I haven't all day."
"'I haven't all day,'" mocked Harry. "You are such an insufferable snob, you know that, Malfoy?"
Draco gave a small sniff of disdain. "Dodgy, are you? Let me repeat the question for your horridly selective memory: Why aren't you out with those sloshed barbarians we call classmates?" He smirked again, and Harry saw briefly that the blonde was enjoying the conversation, surprisingly enough.
Malfoy continued to stare at Harry, small signs of impatience appearing on his sharply fine, almost effeminate features (the eyebrow twitching was a definite signal.)
'Malfoy is such a girl sometimes. What is he—oh. Oh! Yes, the question.' Harry, contemplating Draco, had nearly forgotten to answer. "I'm not—out there because—er—I just—"
"Coherence would do wonders, Potter," said Draco dully.
Harry shot the Slytherin a nasty look, and in return, Draco's lips curved into a tiny, genuine smile. "Go on. Your stuttering is amusing," he urged in that voice completely rid of malevolence.
Harry felt his cheeks heat slightly. What was this?
"I'm here because it's fun to watch. Plus—"
"Plus?"
Harry ducked his head, flushing. "Idon'twannagetdrunk," he blurted.
Draco's pale sterling eyes glittered. "What was that?"
"I—" Harry gulped, "don't want to get—drunk."
How bright could the blonde's eyes get? "And why not?" asked Malfoy, delightfully tickled by the thought of The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Never-Get-Piss-Drunk. He grinned— the motion seemed unfamiliar, but right in this instance—at Harry, who seemed to be caught between paling and blushing furiously.
Harry was panicking. Panicky panicked panicking. "Bugger…" he said softly. "I— er—"
Malfoy remained smugly expectant. He smirked teasingly.
Harry took a deep breath. He started again, "Whenever I get—drunk, I'm impulsive. And stubborn."
Draco raised an eyebrow, as if saying silently, "You aren't already?"
Harry rolled his eyes in desperation. He stuttered out, eyes on his hands neatly folded in his lap, "Recklessly impulsive. Impetuous. Anything I want, I get, usually. N-no matter what it is. I follow—er— instinct— no inhibitions whatsoever. They, well, fray at the edges and then—"
"And?" Urged Draco, smirking gleefully. He looked about to burst with taunts and gloating.
"Completely disappear," murmured Harry, head down embarrassedly. 'Manipulative bastard.' Thought the dark haired boy grimly as he watched Malfoy process the information he had just been fed with a Golden Boy spoon.
Then Malfoy laughed.
Harry drew back, mutely shocked. He had never imagined the cold, sneering, indifferent Draco "Broomstick-Up-His-Arse" Malfoy (nickname courtesy of a bitter Ron Weasley) to be capable of laughter. Ron firmly believed that Draco Malfoy devoured other humans in his spare time, and Harry, coincidentally, was dragged along into his friend's vivid imagination and the redhead's prejudiced, extremely opinionated characterization of one blonde git.
In simple terms, Harry Potter had never before witnessed Draco Malfoy act as he did this evening, with the grins and the light teasing and the laughing that was not evil cackling and the utter shredding and contradictions of his originally portrayed persona.
And, damn, did it give him a headache…
"So, Potter," Malfoy started after he finished his peculiar laughing, "besides forming an uncontrollable libido,"—Harry blushed again—"what else happens when you get plowed?"
Harry sputtered, "I did not say I formed and uncontrollable libido!" He pointed an accusatory finger at the Slytherin, whose champagne remained completely intact. "Besides, Malfoy, who are you to talk? Why aren't you drinking?"
He grinned as Malfoy's eyes, for one short moment, widened in shock and embarrassment. Draco, true to his status, let a mask of indifference slip over his bewilderment.
Too bad it was too late.
"SO, Malfoy, why aren't you drinking?" asked Harry conversationally, inching his chair closer—only to unnerve the blonde, of course, of course…
Draco twitched.
Harry waited patiently for Malfoy to answer and watched as Ginny slinked by, drunk and extremely red in the face. Michael Corner was once again attached to her hip, apparently drunk as well, considering the circumstances of their break-up. Corner guffawed loudly and tripped over his feet, stumbling forward onto a table, jostling its candles. Ginny giggled and pressed her lips firmly—though, at the same time, sloppily—to his. Michael responded happily back to her action, completely unaware of his outer dress robe catching fire.
Harry chuckled darkly. He glanced around, once more taking in the disheveled appearances of his schoolmates. They seemed even more raucous than before when he began to first speak with Malfoy.
Seamus and Blaise were in some dark corner—Harry would rather not think of the possibilities as to what they were doing. Dean had Terry Boot pressed up against a wall, and seemed to be thoroughly ravishing the shorter boy. Terry didn't look like he was complaining. He was being quite pliant, actually, Harry thought for a second, dreamily. He rested his chin in palm, elbow propped up on the circular tabletop. Suddenly, he jerked away, stunned. Dean was bi? Wow. Must've been the Fire Whiskey… After all, Terry could look like a girl, if you squinted some. Dean must've been mistaken.
Entranced by the curiosity of every couple that had "come together" for this occasion, Harry failed to notice Draco lean over.
"Enjoying the sights, Potter?" He breathed.
Harry gave a start. "Damn, Malfoy, don't do that!" He scooted away. "No, you lecher, I am not enjoying the sights of my schoolmates snogging—and—er—…shagging. They've just sparked my interest because of some of the mismatched ones."
Draco surveyed the Great Hall like a hawk, reminding Harry eerily of Lucius. "Potter, are the Weasel twins… gay?"
"Not that I know of," replied Harry, perplexed. "Why?"
"Have they ever given off vibes of—incest?"
"WHAT?"
The Gryffindor looked about wildly, trying in absolute vain to find the source of Draco's inquiry. Fred and George? With Ron or—
Draco gestured vaguely to the left, and sure enough, Harry caught wind of what Draco meant by "incest".
"Merlin," gasped Harry.
Fred Weasley (or was it George?) was straddling his brother's hips, nearly dominating him completely. They were locked in a hard, bruising kiss; one would think they were welded together. George's hands roamed about Fred's (or vice versa) back as the other maintained control. George—Harry gave up hope on trying to identify who was who; he simply referred to the more submissive one as George and the other Fred—sighed as Fred began to trail his lips down his neck and suckled gently on his collarbone. He arched upwards under his twin, and Harry could've sworn upon his Firebolt that Fred smirked one of his devious smirks reserved for pranks. Fred began gently unbuttoning his brother's plain white shirt—Harry forced himself to look away. Instead he stole a glance at Malfoy.
Malfoy was running a pale, slender hand through his white-blonde locks, gel-free, thankfully, and was staring fixedly at his full champagne glass. A tiny shock of pink graced his high cheekbones.
'HA!' crowed Harry's mind triumphantly. Malfoy was flustered! Perfect time for…
"Having fun drinking, Malfoy? Oh, wait—you're not…" Harry snickered. "Any reason why? I'm just curious… of course," he continued in a voice heavily laden with saccharine.
Draco's mild blush soared to new heights; the angles of his cheeks hid themselves behind an attractive shade of magenta. "Stuff it, Potter," he murmured.
"What happens to you when you get drunk?" asked Harry bluntly, eyebrows raised. He was very proud of the conversation's turn.
Apparently gathering back the shards of his dignity, Draco scoffed and faced away from the Gryffindor, defiant. "None of your business."
Nearby, Ron and Hermione had begun to hold one another after a few more shots of alcohol. Ron no longer looked stupefied simply by his existence (though he kept squinting in his twin brothers' direction, trying to figure if the two were truly participating in the raunchy display of affection) and Hermione seemed to have calmed down some—in fact, she looked about to doze off.
"Draco," Harry purred mockingly, emphasizing the name greatly, "you're not afraid, are you?"
Malfoy looked affronted. "Certainly not," he snapped.
Harry happily danced a mental jig.
"I turn into a blathering moron when I get drunk," Draco admitted roughly, glaring at Harry. "And it doesn't take much, usually." His eyes narrowed further. "Happy now?"
"Yes."
Draco teetered dangerously on one of the newly Transfigured armchairs. "Shee, Potter? I tol' you I turn into a-a-a—umm… ah—a shenseless drunken id'ot." He raised his right pointer finger smartly, as if proving a point. It soon went slack and fell to his side.
Harry snorted with laughter.
Malfoy's clouded gray eyes crossed for a moment, then he shook his head (instantly regretting it—too dizzy). "W-what are… is ya' laughshing 'bout? I dun't shee anything funny. Potter—have you ever notished how odd that name shounds?" He made a sound similar to a small hiccup. "Potter—Potter—like a flower pot. I tried to make flowersh grow outta your head once—you know thatsh? Flower Potter, flower Potter…" he sing-songed ridiculously, swaying slightly to the lyrics.
Harry laughed harder, if possible. He clutched his sides, gasping, unable to halt his chuckles. He collapsed beside the intoxicated Slytherin, squishing into the armchair next to Malfoy, still laughing his Gryffindor arse off. Slowly, Malfoy began to laugh, too, quiet and wavering. It became louder as he crumpled against his rival.
Finally Harry brushed some tears of mirth from his lashes and glanced at Malfoy, leaning against him. "What were you laughing about?"
"I—" Malfoy seemed adorably puzzled. He blinked. "I don't know." There was a pause. "Who're you again?" He asked Harry, eyes wide.
The dark haired boy opened his mouth to answer, but was rudely interrupted (and not to mention elbowed) by Draco, who hazily pointed over to some Hogwarts orgy. "Look, Harry Flower Potter,"—Harry merely showed bafflement at the name—"they're fucking like rabbits." Draco, amazingly, giggled.
The Boy-Who-Lived absently noted that the statement contained no traces of a slur. He parted his lips to reply to the Slytherin's crude description, but was once a gain sadly interrupted by his companion.
"And looksh!" Draco gestured once more in that vague, hazy manner, smacking Harry in the face on accident. "The W-weasel-ery—Weezleez are getting' some action!" He crowed gleefully. He reminded Harry of a six-year-old with a dirtier vocabulary. "Yeash! GO Double Weasel-eez!" Here he pumped a fist as Harry watched on, staring down at the blonde using his shoulder as a pillow, torn between being horrified and amused at his behavior. "Lookie, Harry. It's not incesht! It's TWINCEST!" He positively howled with laughter; Harry was really, really, really started to believe Malfoy's earlier evaluation of his drunken antics.
There were a few minutes where Draco said nothing, contentedly lolling his head about on Harry shoulder. Harry peeked down at him through half-lidded eyes, his dignity firmly intact. Draco's definitely had no such thing, and Harry felt guilty for the blonde git—partly because Harry was the cause of his behavior, in a roundabout way. He, after all, was the one who had double-dared Draco to polish off the rest of his champagne (after explaining exactly what one was, of course.) He taunted the blonde for a bit, and Draco, ever the prideful one, finished it in one gulp, glaring at the Gryffindor smugly with his cheeks ballooned out. Only Malfoy…
"I've never kissed anybody, you know that Flower Pot?" said the drunken Draco sleepily.
"Really…" answered Harry, interest piqued. "And how did that come about?" He stifled a snigger, shifting slightly to his back to rest on the armrest. He winced uncomfortably as the sleepy Malfoy heir leaned further on him, his white-blonde head resting on his collarbone. Draco shifted too; his cheek on Harry's warm skin exposed by the partially unbuttoned shirt he wore.
"I don't like people touching me much," drawled Malfoy lazily. He had obviously calmed down some, though he hadn't fully come to his senses.
Harry quirked a skeptical eyebrow at the ludicrous statement. If Malfoy so disliked contact, why was he stretched across his rival? Ah, yes, he was drunk. Harry wondered if Draco would do this if he were sober. The utter ridiculousness of that was enough to make him chuckle, causing the near passed out Malfoy to bounce a very miniscule bit with the sudden rising of his chest. In fact, with every breath Harry took, Draco rose slightly and fell in rhythm, and oddly, Harry found this endearing. What he thinking, he didn't know. The alcohol had an effect after all.
He could feel Draco's heartbeat against his stomach, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. It roved steadily forward—th-thump, th-thump… It felt so alive…
Malfoy seemed right, snuggling, cuddling in his arms, mused Harry. It was as if the insufferable blonde had found a place in Harry's heart in that couple of hours they spent teasing one another. He was sure Malfoy had one before, but it now branched into unfamiliar territory and had nestled in that sort of spot, permanently. Harry didn't feel he could push it away, either (it probably bit, like Draco), for after a taste of this sheer, unveiled sense of comfort he had ached for, he wasn't sure if he could let it leave him.
Draco Malfoy completed a part of him that had long-since yearned to be filled.
But, surely, Malfoy would force him away himself. Once he recovered from his drunken haze, he would be mortified he had passed out on his enemy's chest, in his enemy's arms.
Draco stirred, and Harry snapped out of his thoughts.
"Potter?" He said groggily.
"Yeah, Malfoy?" Harry replied lazily, preparing for the outrage or the punch (or sissy-slap, whichever) and the shattering of his security all together.
"You bastard," said Draco quietly. "I have a pounding headache because of you."
"Sorry," apologized Harry tiredly.
Draco shifted upwards again, his hair brushing Harry's chin. He stretched out his legs and his arms gracefully, like a dozing cat, and curled back up immediately.
Silence between the two reigned as the sounds of rapid chatter, soft music, and vivid aroused grunts and cries waltzed all around their reclining figures.
Harry blinked in surprise. "Well, aren't you going to hex me for "molesting" you? Curse me for tricking you and being alive? Jinx me into a better pillow? Malfoy? Malfoy?" He nudged the slighter Slytherin with his shoulder.
"Oh, shut up, Harry," drawled Malfoy. He pushed himself up onto his hand, staring the still sprawled out Gryffindor Golden Boy in the face. He looked a bit annoyed at Harry's torrent of inquiries. "For one," he said as he eyed Harry strangely, "you are not molesting me. If anything, I would be molesting you." His pale face took on the mask of bored indifference as he sluggishly brushed a tendril of ebony that obscured Harry's eyes and tucked it delicately behind his ear. Harry shivered at the gesture, for it seemed less than innocent in his mind. "Two… well, I can get you back for that one later." He grinned impishly down at Harry's flushed face, then suddenly had a serious glint to his eye. "Why wouldn't I want you alive?"
Harry gazed up at the blonde, puzzled. "Well, you haven't given off the vibe of starting a "Potter protection program", now have you?" His thumb barely made contact with Malfoy's free hand, positioned so near. Draco grabbed it and gently trailed his fingertips over it and the rest of Harry's hand.
"True, true…" responded Draco thoughtfully. "Though you don't seem to need that, eh, Hero Boy?" He chuckled at Harry's dark glare and his lips curved into a gentle smile that was almost non-existent.
"Why are you being so nice, Draco?" asked Harry suddenly.
Draco's small smile never faltered. "Because I can be," he stated. The words were arrogant, yes, but their meaning was not unnoticed by Harry, who grinned tentatively back.
"Thirdly," Draco continued in a lazy drawl, "you make an excellent pillow, Harry." He emphasized his words by dropping back down to rest his head on Harry's collar, snuggling—though Draco was loath to admit such a thing—into Harry's neck.
"See?" he said sleepily.
"Yeah," said Harry contentedly. After a moment's hesitation, he reached he hand up and patted Draco's hair awkwardly.
Draco made a purring sound—but he would never admit to that, either.
Taking this as a good sign, Harry ran his fingers through silvery blonde locks to his leisure. Finally, he pressed his lips to Draco's temple in a chaste kiss.
Draco sounded pleased. He fell into a light slumber not ten minutes after.
So, here he was, Harry Potter, with his rival (ex-rival?) in his arms, the multi-house party raging around them.
They could be seen at any second by anybody. Doubt and insecurities crept stealthily into his mind, baring their teeth and wicked claws. But as Harry glanced down at Draco's peaceful features—the blonde Slytherin could finally be just that: peaceful. So could Harry.
And, true to his Gryffindor nature, he recklessly threw caution into the wind. Whatever came could come. He would deal with it tomorrow, and live his life today.
He smiled when he realized that it took none other than Draco Malfoy to finally get him to grasp the true concept.
Finite Incantatem!
Yay, another oneshot finished. It took me months, but another oneshot finished. I rather like how some parts of this turned out, but it is still plotless and poorly put-together. I didn't even plan this one out! I just let the keyboard scooter me away to some part of Harry and Draco fluffland. FORGIVE MY AMERICANISMS! I am, after all, American.
Hope you liked it, and that you bother to read my notes.
Review, please! The gesture does not go unappreciated!
REVIEW!