Potter was drunk. Not pleasantly tipsy, but the sort of drunk that caused one to lean against the nearest vertical surface in order to avoid toppling sideways. The surface Potter had chosen was a Transfigured marble column that would likely morph back into a plain stone by morning. I debated sidling away before he saw me, being not-quite-sober myself, but then those green eyes lifted and fixed on me. For a moment they seemed clear and intense, giving lie to his apparent drunkenness, but then a grin quirked his lips and he beckoned to me.

I hesitated, but the champagne I had imbibed seemed to propel me forwards. "Potter," I said.

"Malfoy," he replied and then added, "Draco. Dra-coooooh." He giggled.

I was not amused, but felt no urge to snarl at him. My mood had been strangely light all day, no doubt fuelled by my mother's evident happiness. A row with Potter would mar what had been a rather brilliant day. I turned to take my leave.

Potter's hand snatched out and gripped my arm. "I'm sorry," he said. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Just… um. Stay. Will you?"

I sighed and detached his hand by lifting his index finger and depositing it several inches away. "Why?"

"'Cause everything is spinning," he replied. "Except you."

I sniggered. "How drunk are you, Potter?"

His head bobbed up and down several times. "Sooooo drunk. Firewhiskey's good stuff. I prolly shouldn't have had. So much." He lifted a finger and held it before his lips in a shushing gesture. "Don' tell H-mione. She tole me to stop." It was that moment, strangely, when I noticed Potter had nice lips, perfectly bow-shaped. I wondered that I had never seen it before.

I glanced around, looking for his friends. They usually stuck close enough to act as Potter's appendages. "Is that why you're hiding here?"

"Not hiding," he corrected and pushed away from the pillar in an obvious attempt to stand straight. "Resting. From people."

Resting from people. It should have made no sense, but in Potter's case it did. I had been somewhat surprised to find him in attendance. My aunt Andromeda had astonished everyone by falling for a wizard from an ancient pure-blooded family. They had embarked on a very public courtship followed by a gigantic wedding. To everyone's surprise, my mother had welcomed Andromeda back into the family as though she had never left. I think much of the surprise came from my father's lack of response—although he seldom responded to anything these days. I knew my mother had been lonely.

Potter's success in standing upright came to an abrupt halt when he tried to take a step. His foot caught on something—probably air—and sent him sprawling over me in a flurry of flailing arms and wide eyes. Surprised, I caught him and just kept us both from tumbling.

"What. Are you doing?" I demanded.

He stared up at me and his lips were not only kissable, but his eyes were huge and his lashes unbelievably long beneath his ridiculous glasses. One of his hands rested on my shoulder whilst the other clutched my bicep. His torso pressed against mine as I bore half his weight. Potter was slender, but no lightweight. There was muscle on his frame and the thought of it crushing me, naked and sweat-slicked, nearly caused me to shove him away with an oath. The image was so powerful and lust-inducing that I wondered if he had learned some mental-manipulation tricks during Auror training.

"You're pretty," he said.

I snorted, but he reached up to pat a hand on my hair. My breath caught.

"And soft," he said and stroked my hair once before thrusting a hand into it. His fingers grazed roughly over my scalp and my heart skipped a beat. I had always loved having my hair touched, one reason Pansy had risen so high in my favour in school; she had never been able to resist brushing and touching my hair. Feeling Potter's hand there brought an entirely different response than any caused by Pansy.

I want him, I thought with a clarity that cut through my alcoholic haze like a Severing Charm. It was sobering and somewhat terrifying. The scandal would be immense if we were even seen together in such proximity. My aunt's wedding would be ruined and my mother would be disappointed. That alone caused me to push Potter away.

"Hands off, Potter," I said, trying for stern. I feared that I might have sounded regretful.

The push was only partly successful. Potter's hand left my hair and the other one detached from my arm, but only long enough for Potter to sway away and then pitch forwards again to clutch at me even more tightly.

"Ground is moving," he explained.

"The ground is not moving, you oaf. You're drunk. Where are your annoying friends when you need them? Are you petting me?"

"Robes are nice," Potter said, stroking his hand over my chest again. I was thankful for the thickness of the white fabric that kept my rapidly hardening nipples from becoming visible. Potter's hair brushed against my face and I shut my lips on a groan. The idiot even smelled nice, a tantalizing mixture of earthiness and musk that went straight to my addled brain.

"Yes, they are. Now stop touching me."

"Need your help Malffle… Malfff… Dra-coooooh."

"You definitely need help. But not from me."

"I jus' need you to get me to a Floo," Potter said. "Can't App-rate. Splinch."

"I am not so sure you can Floo, either," I said dryly, but resolved to do my good deed for the decade. Perhaps it would even cancel one of those pesky Life Debts, since Potter would likely Splinch himself and die without assistance. It was a slender chance, but potentially worth the risk. And if we stayed to the shadows and avoided everyone, then no one would know but the two of us.

"Fine, but you owe me."

"I owe you," Potter said and nuzzled my neck.

Day Two

I jerked awake. The memory of Harry's hair brushing against my face was almost tangible. I reached out desperately, hoping to encounter another body, but there was nothing except empty space.

I sat up, feeling a lump of panic. What if he never returned? I stumbled from the bed and did not bother with a dressing gown. I walked to the living room and dropped to my knees before the fireplace with a handful of Floo Powder.

"Ron Weasley's residence," I stated.

The fire flared green and then orange. I gnashed my teeth. Blocked. Had it always been closed to me, or was this a recent development? I had never tried to contact Weasley and Granger before. For the first time I wondered why I had never bothered to befriend Harry's friends. I had told myself that they would never accept me, but perhaps the opposite was true.

I deflated with a sigh of frustration. I hated the way my mind always raced in the early hours of the morning, making each tiny problem seem insurmountable and panic-inducing. The fact that this one might actually be insurmountable made my palms cold with sweat.

I walked to Harry's desk and opened drawers until I found a stack of parchment. I held it pensively for a moment and touched the initials at the top with a fingertip. I had purchased the stationery for him, complete with a gold-embellished HJP at the top. He seldom used it.

I Conjured a quill and jotted a quick note. A small magically-expanded cupboard off the living room housed our owls. My owl stared at me with an expression that seemed accusing. Did he miss Harry's owl? I thought it likely.

I attached the message to his leg and avoided a nip. Oh yes, he was angry at me. "Take this to Harry," I said.

The owl flapped his wings with more force than I thought necessary and flew through the owl-sized opening into the night sky.

I shut the door resolutely and went back to bed.

When I awoke at a more decent hour, the owl was back in the cupboard and my note was still attached to its leg. Perhaps sending it in the middle of the night had been a bad idea? I gave Titan an owl treat and sent him off again. Harry was at work by now and a trip to the Ministry should not take long.

Titan returned an hour later. The message was gone, but there was no reply. I wanted to grab the bird and shake it. Had Harry even read the message, or had he simply taken it and incinerated it without bothering to open it?

In the kitchen I made a cup of tea and then sat at the table without drinking until it grew cold. I replayed our argument over and over, although my memories of it were hazy. What had I said that had made him so angry?

ooOOooOOoo

I should have known better than to attempt a plan. For some reason known only to the fickle gods, my plans seldom worked out. On the rare occasions they had, they typically ended in disaster, so even success could be measured as failure. At any rate, the plan was to smuggle Potter into my aunt's house and sent him home via the Floo Network.

It might have worked had Potter not decided to pass out. One moment he was staggering next to me, leaning most of his not-inconsequential weight upon me, and the next he was limp as a sack of hippogriff droppings.

"Potter! Wake up!" I snapped, trying to keep from toppling beneath his weight.

I should have left him there, drunken and insensible, for his friends to find. Chances were good he would not have recalled meeting me and everything that came after… would not have happened.

Instead, I heard footsteps on the gravel path and panicked. I can only blame too much drink on the stupidity of my actions, but it had seemed the only recourse at the time.

I Apparated Potter and I away. Straight to my bedroom at Malfoy Manor.

Amazingly, we made it without injury. I can only assume it was part familiarity with the location on my part, and a dash of Potter's amazing luck. I dragged Potter to my bed and shoved him unceremoniously thereon. He sprawled, looking lifeless, but I ignored him and headed for my bathing chamber. I intended to be the victim of no more stupidity that night and meant to make certain of it by purging the alcohol from my system.

A bit of haphazard sorting through my potions cabinet finally revealed a Sobriety Serum. The tiny vial was half as large as my thumb, but it packed a punch. I wrinkled my nose, sorry to see my pleasantly inebriated state depart. Still, I had a very drunk and apparently amorous Harry Potter passed out on my bed. Sobriety was far preferred to Azkaban should I find myself unable to behave rationally.

I tossed the potion back and then cringed and gripped the edges of the sink. Bloody hell, but the effects were unpleasant. Not for the first time, I wondered at the identity of the sadist that had invented it. Surely there were less excruciating ingredients? I made a mental note—possibly the thousandth—to check into alternatives when time permitted.

I had just relieved my too-full bladder and towelled the sweat from my face and neck when the door opened to reveal a shock of messy black hair with enormous green eyes beneath. I blinked at Potter for a moment and wondered at the attractiveness of his face without the ugly dark-rimmed spectacles.

"Malfoy?" he asked.

"How blind are you, Potter?" I asked. "And where are your glasses?" Perhaps there had been an Apparition accident, after all, and I had Splinched the glasses from his face.

"I see you," he said and walked closer. "You're just a bit… fuzzy."

"That could be short-sightedness or the large quantity of liquor you consumed."

"Both, I think," he said and then latched onto me. The light in his eyes was mesmerizing. "I'm going to kiss you now."

"Potter—" I began, but then his lips were on mine, alcohol-flavoured and determined. As kisses went, it was not the best, but it was by far not the worst. I shoved him away when his tongue prodded at my lips, urging them to open. "Stop it, Potter. You're drunk and have obviously gone mad. You probably don't even know who I am."

"Do know," Potter said and peppered kisses along my jaw. His hands found my hair again and weakness stole over me, weakness that had to be fought at any cost. His voice vibrated against my throat when he reached it. "Dra-coooooh."

I shut my eyes as my knees threatened to give way. I felt drunk again, particularly when Potter's thigh thrust between my legs, gently, as though asking permission prior to intruding. I struggled to speak, to halt Potter's madness. Just… oh, his leg felt so good rubbing against my balls; and my cock was suddenly hot and heavy.

"Potter, stop," I whispered.

His thigh pressed closer, grinding the vee of his leg into my cock. I wanted to rut against him. I wanted to tear his clothing off and feel every inch of him, right there in my bathroom.

"Stop?" he asked in what sounded like a puzzled whimper. He pulled away slightly, and stopping seemed like the worst idea in the history of ever. "Oh god, you don't want me. What am I doing?"

Potter backed away as if I had become poisonous. I lamented the loss of his warmth and his hands in my hair. He looked tragically lost, his eyes magnified by his lack of spectacles.

"That's not—" I lifted a hand, unwilling despite the lust coursing through my veins, to draw him back again. "Look, Potter, you're terrifically drunk. You likely won't even remember this in the morning. Can we just…?"

Potter kept backing away until he bumped into the sink. He buried his face in his hands and made a sound almost like a sob. Salazar, please don't let him cry, I thought desperately.

"Yes. Drunk. I should go home." Thankfully, his voice was steady and not tearful. I nearly sighed with relief until Potter turned to march out of the room.

I caught him halfway across my bedchamber. "No! No, Potter, you don't want to wander around the manor. That would be…" Well, Father would kill him on principle and make up some story about trespassing or being startled from sleep or… My mind shied away at the possibilities and I gripped Potter's shoulder tightly. "How about you just… sleep here?" I gestured at the bed.

"With you?" he asked and I had to pray for strength to avoid the pornographic images conjured by his words and earnest expression.

"No," I replied. "But I will be right here if you need anything. And I shall send an owl to Granger and the Weas—to Ron Weasley to let them know you are alive and well. All right?"

Potter looked at the bed and then sighed heavily. "I am tired."

I relaxed my grip and patted his shoulder. "Excellent. You get into bed and I will pop off to the Owlery to send a note. Acceptable?"

To my relief, Potter nodded and trudged back to the bed. Pausing only to kick off his shoes, he pulled back the blankets and crawled into my bed. I shook my head and went to send an owl, making certain to triple-lock my door upon exiting to prevent Potter from wandering.

ooOOooOOoo

I was in a snit by noon. I blocked the Floo and ignored several owl messages sent by Blaise, no doubt railing at me for closing the Floo. Every so often I would pull out my wand and point it at the fireplace, certain that Harry was trying to return only to find the way blocked… until reality intruded and reminded me that Harry could always Apparate in. I hadn't changed the wards to keep him out.

By late afternoon my annoyance had turned to self-disgust and I vowed to get out of the flat. I decided a trip to Diagon Alley was in order. I was not planning to show up at the Ministry—tempting though it was—and take the chance of Harry throwing me out of his office in front of curious onlookers. But occasionally the Auror department would convene at a seedy pub on the corner of Diagon and Addition Alleys. Despite several invitations from Harry, I had never joined them in their departmental bonding, so I would be out of place dropping in unexpectedly. However, there would be no harm in casually walking past at a certain time.

I wasted an hour in Flourish and Blotts examining their stock of parchment. Harry might never use his stationery but I used mine to excess, and frequently needed to replenish my supply. The clerk on duty was a bored teen, probably just out of Hogwarts for the summer. He calculated my purchases and wrapped them haphazardly with barely a glance at me. I told him to send them to my flat, unsure whether to be grateful or irritated by my anonymity. Soon there would be generations of people to whom the war would be nothing more than a tale told by their elders.

I glanced out the window, populated with people who would not so easily forget the war, nor the Dark Mark and what it had meant. I tugged at my sleeve reflexively and exited the shop. Two steps brought me to a near-collision with an unwelcome pedestrian. She stopped short and her eyes widened before narrowing to slits.

"Malfoy. What are you doing here?"

My hands were inside my robe pockets and one curled tightly around my wand. I itched to hex her, even surreptitiously. Instead I affected a bored stare, mimicking the teenager I had just left in the bookstore. "Ginevra," I replied politely with barely a twist of my upper lip, "my business is none of yours."

She sneered and tossed her red hair over one shoulder. Her robes were elegant, much too elaborate for a simple afternoon of shopping, although I would not expect a Weasley to know better. I wondered where she had acquired them. Generally the Weasleys could not afford robes of Twilfit and Tattings' quality – the filigree bore Madame Twilfit's distinctive touch. Perhaps the brother with the joke shop had purchased the robes for her.

She said, "If you're looking for Harry, don't waste your time. He's done with you."

My fingers tightened as six different spells nearly choked me in an effort to escape, each more gruesome than the last. I fought them back and curled my lip at her. "I prefer to let Harry speak for himself. Gossips carrying tall tales do not interest me."

Her eyes were like flint, but she laughed and then shook her head. "In denial, are you? Poor thing. But they say actions speak louder than words, don't they? I suppose the fact that Harry is taking me to La Trombe di Vite tonight is a statement loud enough for even you to understand."

The urge to hex her grew stronger. She had to be lying.

"Face it, Malfoy," she said with a smirk, "Harry finally came to his senses and tossed you aside, just like everyone knew he would. Don't embarrass yourself by throwing yourself at him. It's pathetic."

I thought of Azkaban and its cold cells, filled with the screams of mad prisoners. I imagined the iron bars shutting me in. That alone kept me from taking her down with something deadly. A slow count of twenty steadied my shaking hands.

"You should get your facts straight, Weasley," I said finally. "Although I'm not surprised he didn't tell you the truth. It wouldn't be the first time he lied to you, now would it?" I forced a nasty chuckle and then bypassed her, close enough that a quick jab of my shoulder would have knocked her into the side of the building—how I resisted even that, I will never know. "Have a lovely evening."

I walked briskly away from her and did not stop until I rounded the corner and was well out of her sight. Only then did I duck into the shadow of an ivy-draped alcove. I leaned against the wall, shaking. I could barely see through a haze of rage.

If she wasn't lying—and her robes hinted that she was not—then Harry was taking her to the finest restaurant in wizarding London. A romanticrestaurant. I thought I might be sick.

Harry came to his senses and tossed you aside. Her words played over and over in my head, delivered in her caustic, smug tones. Like everyone knew he would.

I Apparated home.

Pacing seemed to magnify the frantic beating of my heart and my eyes lit on the photograph of Harry and me on the mantle. It had been cut from the Daily Prophet, of all things, an illicit photo of a stolen moment. Harry had been laughing and leaning close to me. My expression had been severe at first, but my stoicism had been no match for Harry's brilliant mood. A smile had quirked my lips and Harry's kiss had pressed against them a moment later, mouth still open and laughing. Even now it nearly made me smile, until the memory of Ginny Weasley's smug face returned.

I snatched the photo and hurled it across the room. The glass shattered as it bounced against the wall and slid across the floor, ending up somewhere beneath the sofa.

The bar was my next target. A silver tray stacked with glasses sailed across the room and clanged against the painting of an autumn landscape, denting the wooden frame. The glasses hadn't made it far, falling in a cascade and smashing on the hardwood floor. One survived, landing upon the woollen rug, until I pulled out my wand and pulverized it with a spell.

A slashing spell cut across the painting, ripping the canvas in three places. Harry had loved that painting. I had, too, except now I could only see the red of Ginny Weasley's hair in the leaves. Another spell sent his favourite chair across the room to thud against a small table. A lamp thereon toppled and fell to the floor. It did not break, but the shade deformed with a pleasant crunching sound.

Breathing hard, I surveyed the mess. My fit of destruction had done nothing to abate the tight fist that seemed to be clenched around my heart.

I turned on a heel and walked to the bedroom. I stood in the centre of the room for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. I wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. I wanted to go back in time and stop myself from bringing Harry Potter home that fateful night.

The latter was not possible, so I located a vial of Dreamless Sleep, drank it, and shed my clothing before falling into bed.

~TBC~ - that means to be continued... :D