Disclaimer- I don't own anything. This story was really just an excuse to get out all of the profanity I have to stifle all week at work. Somehow, "Oh, fudge" doesn't have the same effect. So, prepare for the naughty language.
No Class Today
A regular Tuesday morning. It always felt too early, no matter that it was the same time they'd woken up at every morning for the last couple of years.
Still, the sun was shining, and the scent of warm bacon and fresh fruit drew them down from the dorms, through the castle, and into the Great Hall.
Ron piled his plate high, as he had every other morning, and as usual, Harry marveled that not only would his friend be able to eat it, but that he managed to balance it all, precarious piles of sausages on top of eggs, buttressed with pastries, and supported by crumpled pancakes. Syrup and tomato sauce were added in strategic locations and the red-head bent his head once, reverently, before he began to eat.
Hermione's plate was more organized. A bowl of porridge at the upper left corner, a goblet of pumpkin juice on the corner opposite, and in the middle, a well-rounded breakfast arranged like the face of a clock. From twelve to three was ham, from three to seven were eggs, from seven to eleven were two slices of toast, and in the final hour, a slice of melon, fresh and damp.
It looked tempting, but Harry had his own breakfast regimen. First course would be a piece of toast and a few slices of bacon. Hedwig usually came with the mail early in the meal, and if he had any more than that on his plate, he'd have to tithe it over. Once she left, he could get more food. Maybe some of the melon, or the green grapes that gleamed wetly in the artificial sunlight of the enchanted ceiling.
Just before the rush of Post owlswere due to arrive every morning, Draco staggered into the Hall. This was actually a change. The blond-haired Slytherin had strutted, stalked, slinked, and sometimes just plain walked in, but this is the first time he'd staggered in, late and disordered. Smooth black robes that usually swung and settled around him like the wings of a birdwere crumpled and disordered like dead leaves. His hair, tossed out of place, was almost as messy as Harry's own, and purple bags stood out under the grey eyes, visible from across the room.
"Goodness, Malfoy looks like hell."
Through a mouthful of something, Ron managed to snigger. Swallowing quickly and noisily, he said, "I heard there was some sort of party last night."
"How did you hear this? You got here the same time we did."
Harry was happy Hermione was doing all of the talking. Ron always looked at him queerly when he brought up the blond Slytherin.
"Seamus told me. Said Malfoy left early, though. So I don't know why he'd be so sick."
Seamus, talking to Dean at the end of the table, found himself caught in Hermione's assessing stare, as she spoke to Ron. "And how does he know?"
With no thought to his friends welfare, Ron said, "He was there."
"At a Slytherin party? On a school night?" Hermione's stare promised nothing but bloody vengeance on the Irish boy, but Harry noted that her tone was surprisingly civil.
Still, Harry couldn't help himself, "I'm surprised Snape didn't give him a hangover potion. I mean, Malfoy is his favorite?" His voice trailed off as the surprised and disappointed glares of his friends centered on him. He sighed in relief when shouting broke out at the Slytherin table, distracting them, and everyone else from him.
"Fuck you, Crabbe, fuck you, Goyle, and you, Parkinson? You can go fuck yourself! Hell, you can fuck Zabini for all I care!" With that and a swoop of his robes, Draco left the great hall. Pansy collapsed, weeping, against the brown-haired boy while Crabbe and Goyle stared at each other in confusion.
"Well, that's hardly behavior fit for a Head Boy. I think Dumbledore should speak to him."
Torn between laughter and pity for the confused boys and ignoring his friends questioning looks, Harry got up and left the hall.
He found the blond tucked behind a suit of armor, resting his forehead against the cool stone wall.
"Draco? Are you alright?"
Turning away from the wall, Draco slid to the floor, rubbing his eyes, "Do I look alright, Potter?"
"Honestly, no. You look a mess. Why didn't you go get a hangover potion from Snape?"
"He didn't want to give me one. Said I needed to 'learn the consequences of my actions.' I think he's just pissed at who I got drunk with."
"Hey, I didn't dare you to finish that bottle of cognac. As I recall, your exact words were, 'screw that weak muggle liquor, Potter.'"
"Fuck you, Potter."
Harry helped the boy to his feet and led him to the Room of Requirement, picturing cool sheets and a fresh pot of coffee, "Maybe later, love."