AN: I love you guys. Full stop. Seriously, it is the most awesome feeling in the world to know that somewhere out there, people are responding well to something that I wrote. Aw, and I'm sorry about dropping Greyback in to ruin things. But I wanted a plot, and that was where the story took me. Just the usual reminder, I don't own Glee or Harry Potter. Because sometimes, dreams just don't come true.

The winter break passed in a flurry of cold wind and more holiday themed baked goods than even Puck could handle, and yet something wasn't quite right. Puck couldn't exactly put his finger on it. By all accounts, he should have been fairly happy. The holidays seemed to have been a sort of pick-me-up to his exhausted, worn mother. She had color in her cheeks, had steered clear of the bar, and been home every evening in time for dinner. His report card came in the mail sometime before the New Year, and he'd actually not failed a single final exam, which was a personal first. He supposed it had something to do with the fact that he was now off the streets, and couldn't really summon the energy to give two shits about what people thought about him anymore. He hadn't picked any fights, had any disciplinary issues, and most importantly, had not been thrown back in the slammer. Noah Puckerman was mostly walking the straight and narrow, and wasn't miserable for it.

No, it wasn't any of the tangible things in his life that was upsetting him, for once. It was something that he tasted in the air, rather, like one could taste the gathering clouds before a storm. Discomfort. Fear. Watching eyes. Rachel Berry may have trumpeted her sixth sense to anyone who would listen, but Puck preferred to keep his private. The fact that he didn't trumpet it didn't mean that once in a while he didn't fancy that he had one. For instance, he could scope out every fluctuation in the tempestuous love triangle that was Rachel, Finn, and Quinn, and didn't even need anyone to tell him what was up. Hell, he usually knew what was going on before it hit the Facebook gossip rounds, or even the Glee Club gossip rounds. Granted, that may have had more to do with the fact that Finn's face was a billboard for his emotions, and whenever Rachel got pissed off she took to the spotlight in Glee Club with an angry Broadway ballad. But hey, the point was that Puck was a tad more perceptive than he cared to let on.

Right now, his gut was telling him that trouble was brewing. Puck himself was not the epicenter, though. Instead, that sixth sense was telling him that it was Harry. Despite being over at the Puckerman's regularly for dinner, Harry had been oddly distant. He'd skipped a few group outings that the Glee Club had planned, and had been definitely on the twitchy side during Mercedes' impromptu Christmas party. When Puck went out to run the occasional errand, he'd find Harry skulking around unusual parts of town, places that generally speaking he wouldn't have any business going. The most important clue was the way he held himself. Gone was the arrogant British prep-school bastard that had done such a neat job of baiting Puck at the beginning of the school year, and in his place was a taut, nervous guy spoiling for a fight.

Puck wanted to ask. He really did. If it was Finn, he'd just tackle him to the floor and hold him there until he got answers. It wasn't Finn, though; it was Harry, who was another person entirely. The fact that Puck would probably get his ass handed to him if he tried to tackle Harry was beside the point. The real point was that Harry, besides being somebody whose pants he'd love to get into, was a person that he actually respected. Harry had asked him to pipe down and respect his judgment, and he was going to have to accept that.

Finn had given up a long time ago on beating Puck at Super Mario and was now mashing at the buttons on his controller. Puck hoped that he wouldn't crush it by accident. Paying for a wedding and the Dalton Academy tuition probably didn't leave a whole lot left over to their family for shit like video games.

Presently, Finn sniffed the air, resembling nothing so much as an oversized Labrador retriever. "Is that cookies that I smell?"

Puck didn't take his eyes off the game. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

"I bet Kurt is making cookies," said Finn excitedly, throwing the controller to the rug. "He makes shittons of desserts and then takes it with him to Rachel's or Mercedes' and has a sleepover whenever he gets all worked up over what's-his-face. Blaine, I think."

"Does he?" Puck was still mostly absorbed by the game. It took him away from his own petty worries. "I bet those cookies are vegan and nonfat and full of Splenda, too."

Finn's forehead creased. "You think so? They tasted normal to me."

"You could eat a cardboard box and not notice the difference."

"So could you!" said Finn accusingly. "We eat all the same stuff."

"Yeah, we do, but the difference between me and you is that you don't know any better, while I know and just ignore it."

Finn paused, trying to work out if that had been a vaguely worded insult or not. "I'll eat those cookies and prove you wrong."

"You do that." Anyone who didn't know better would probably think that the two of them hated each other, but it was just how they were used to talking. Both knew without saying so that they were as solid as friends could be. Their friendship had survived Quinn, it could survive anything.

Finn lumbered downstairs and to the kitchen. Puck tossed his own controller aside and remained sprawled out on the floor. Presently, Kurt Hummel poked his head in the room. "Yeah, so don't bother mentioning it to Finn or anything, but I made the cookies to lure him downstairs so I could get in here and haul all the dirty laundry out. Seriously, it reeks. I can smell it from across the hall. Does Finn ever wash his clothes?"

Puck looked up. "No. There's a reason why his football locker smelled that way."

Hummel wrinkled his nose. "Gross. And he wonders why I quit the team." He wound his way into the room and began picking up scattered T-shirts and jeans, holding them by the tips of his fingers, as if Finn's sloppiness was somehow contagious. Puck watched him clean for a while, not moving from his place on the floor until apropos nothing, a question popped into his brain.

"How do you respectfully convince a dude to fuck you?"

Hummel dropped the pile of dirty laundry and stared at him, open-mouthed. Oops. Well, shit. He had said that out loud? For a taut moment, neither of them spoke. Typically, though, Hummel was the first to find his bearings.

"If you're planning some sick kind of Carrie prank on some gay kid, Puckerman, I'll rip your balls off and feed it to Mercedes' Chihuahua, and then I'll call up the ACLU and you'll be sued black and blue. I'm not kidding." One fist was on his hip and his eyes were narrowed.

"I'm not doing anything like that, I swear to God, Hummel. Haven't I been in Glee for like a year and a half now? Don't you think I'm a better person than that?"

Hummel's hand didn't move from his hip. His eyes were still fierce. "My beloved Marc Jacobs jacket hasn't forgotten the inside of the dumpster yet, Puckerman. Even the dry cleaner's couldn't take the stain out."

Puck held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Shit, man. Honest to God, it was never because you're gay. It's because you came off as a right fucking priss and nobody on the team liked you anyway."

"I don't know if I should slap you right now or not."

"I'm sorry about that! I really am. I did what I had to do to stay cool with the guys on the team. But I've got Glee now, and I haven't put you in the dumpster for like over a year now. And I'd seriously fuck up anyone who tries. Plus, you're not half bad. Actually, you can be kind of cool, when you're not bitching me out like you are right now."

Hummel's eyes were still suspicious, but his hands were folded across his chest now instead of at his hips. "Okay. So let's proceed under the assumption that you really are sorry and don't have any problems with the gays. Why do you want to know how to seduce a man?"

"Because I found a man I'd like to seduce? Duh."

"Since when are you up for fucking dudes?"

"Since always. I'm fucking Noah Puckerman, the hottest stud in this goddamn cow town. I can fuck whoever I want."

Hummel's eyes finally softened up a bit. "Alright. I can believe that. You always did seem like the 'anything with a pulse' type, anyway." He sat down on the floor across from Puck and crossed his legs.

"Shut up." Puck swatted at him, just like he would have with Finn.

Hummel's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Oh, don't even deny it."

Puck chose to ignore him. "So are you gonna answer my question or not?"

"It depends on the guy, you see? Is he a decent person, or is he a shameless man whore in the mode of one Noah Puckerman?"

"If he was like me, you think I'd be sitting here asking about it? No, we'd be fucking the daylights out of each other."

Hummel gave a delicate shudder. "You are so unromantic it's almost horrifying."

"I hope helmet-head watches as much Disney as you do, otherwise you're gonna be in for a nasty surprise."

"Shut up." It was Hummel's turn to smack him.

"No, and for your information, he's a decent person," Puck informed him. "Quite decent, in fact. Which is why I accidently consulted you. I don't wanna screw this up or insult him or anything like that."

"If you think he's such a great person, why are you only focusing on getting into his pants?"

"What do you mean?"

Hummel was giving him a look like you'd give a four year old who was particularly dense about learning the alphabet. "I'm saying, if you actually like him, why not go for a relationship?"

"A what?" Puck stared at him.

"A relationship, Puckerman," said Hummel, rolling his eyes. "You, those things that a lot of people like to have? Involving dates and boyfriends and girlfriends and monogamy and mutual respect?"

Puck scratched his chin. "Huh. Well, actually, I hadn't considered it. But now that you mention it…"

"I know, I know, it's a foreign concept to you and all. But if you like the guy enough, I think you should try it."

"I'll think about it."

Hummel patted his knee. "Don't give yourself an aneurism over it," he said. Their familiar bitchy dynamic slid back into place, and the sincere conversation was coming to a close. Hummel gathered up Finn's laundry and made to leave, but at the doorway, stopped and looked back at Puck.

"Oh, and you know, Puckerman? You're not so bad yourself. Harry did tell me how you were with the other Glee guys who went to jump Karofsky, so I guess I should thank you."

Puck gave a half smile up at the ceiling. Who would have known that it would feel so awesome to be the good guy for a change?

Rachel Berry was wearing the ugliest dress that Puck had ever seen, full stop. It was some frothy kind of aqua green and looked like it came straight out of those Little House on the Prairie television specials that his Ma sometimes watched. This was her idea of party wear? She was a damn sight lucky that Finn's vision was probably obscured by all the hearts that popped up whenever she entered the room. Finn was clearly still head over heels for Rachel, even if he was dating Quinn. That was, if you could even call it dating, given the fact that it was more a business arrangement than anything, what with Quinn's endgame plan of being Prom King and Queen.

She went around with a basket under her arm, as if determined to reinforce the Laura Ingalls impression. The basket was lined with gingham and filled with little stationary pieces neatly folded into squares. "Drink slips!" she said brightly, pressing two into Puck's palm.

"That's fucking stupid," he said. It really was, even if he wasn't planning to drink.

"Honestly, Rachel?" said Harry, from where he was sitting on the stage. No joke, a stage. In a fucking basement. No wonder Rachel was such a nut job. Her dads were obviously nut jobs themselves. "I think I agree with Puck here. You plan on packing the entire Glee Club in this basement, along with a mini bar full of alcohol, and you think drink tickets are going to do any good at all?"

Rachel's forehead creased into a frown. "Really? Is that what you think?" The ruffles in her dress seemed to wilt along with her posture.

"Absolutely," said Puck, as Finn lumbered down the stairs accompanied by Kurt and Blaine, that prep school fling of his that usually wore more hair gel than anyone needed.

"I guess…we can forget the drink tickets," said Rachel slowly, setting the basket down.

From the corner, Santana let out a raucous yell.

And so it began.

An hour later and more wine coolers than Puck believed anyone, even the entire Glee Club plus one lightweight Warbler could consume later, and Rachel's basement was utter pandemonium. Santana was busy licking margarita salt off of Brittany tanned and toned stomach, and if Puck wasn't so single-mindedly focused at the moment on figuring out what the hell he was going to do with the emotions and shit he was feeling over Harry, he'd have found that very interesting indeed. Mike and Tina were trying to suck face at the same time as dancing, while Mercedes was sitting off to the side and staring into the depths of her red cup, giggling, and ignoring a ranting and incoherent Quinn.

"Am I the only sober one in this place?" he wondered aloud, knowing that everyone else was too drunk to either care or answer.

"No," said Harry's voice in his ear, and he couldn't repress an involuntary shiver.

"Where were you?" asked Puck, trying to get his heart rate back to normal.

"Oh, you know. Around," said Harry, waving a hand vaguely.

"I didn't figure you to be one of those straight edge types," said Puck, hoping to distract himself.

"I'm not. The wine coolers are just bloody disgusting. Also, it would take a hell of a lot of them to get me plastered." Harry flashed him a disarming grin.

"You think these are weak?" asked Puck incredulously.

"I suppose you haven't had firewhiskey, so you wouldn't know any better," mused Harry to himself.

"Do I even want to know what firewhiskey is?"

"No."

And they passed another half hour or so with playful banter as everyone else in the room, bar Hummel, the designated driver, get even drunker.

"We should play a drinking game," slurred Santana, from her perch on Brittany's lap.

"Girl, please. There will be no beer pong in this venue, on pain of death," said Hummel, lifting his nose in the air.

"Spin the bottle?" suggested Tina, twirling the blue streak in her hair around one finger and ignoring Mike nibbling his way up her neck and towards her earlobe.

"What are we in, junior high?" demanded Puck to the room at large, but everyone was clearly too drunk to care about a word he said anymore.

They gathered in a lopsided circle that was really more of an egg shape, and Rachel somehow produced a wine bottle. It was a miracle that she hadn't dropped it and shattered it. Brittany gave it a tipsy twirl, and landed on Sam. She gave a sloppy grin and reached forward to mash their lips together. Even in her inebriated state, Santana folded her lips into a thin line. Artie took another swig from his red cup.

"My turn!" said Rachel, clapping her hands together and almost missing as she reached forward. The bottle landed pointing at none other than helmet-head. Without waiting to notice Hummel's disapproving frown, Rachel tangled her fingers through Blaine's un-gelled, curly mess of hair and commenced in giving him a rather sloppy kiss.

The kiss went on longer and longer, and everyone in the room began to shift uncomfortably until they finally broke apart. Hummel's ears were a faint shade of pink and Finn was starting to look murderous.

"Your turn, fairy boy," said Mercedes, giggling tipsily and pointing at Puck.

"What? Fairy boy?" He forgot the game, for a moment.

"It's a Shakespeare reference," explained Harry patiently. "We were reading a Midsummer Night's Dream in English, remember?"

"You were reading. I wasn't," Puck pointed out. He chose not to mention the fact that he'd spent the entire period watching Harry, and hoping he would stand up to get a tissue or something so that he could check out his ass.

"Just get over your own illiteracy and spin the damn bottle," said Hummel from the corner. He was in a cranky mood now, carefully ignoring a very drunk Blaine that was lolling on his shoulder and looking ready to pass out at any moment.

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Puck. He leaned forward and spun the bottle. It wobbled a bit as it started slowing now, and oh God no don't stop on Finn Puck thought, as it started slowing down precariously close to his best buddy. It didn't stop next to Finn, though. It stopped directly in front of Harry.

He could have sworn the atmosphere in that basement cooled by a few degrees, in contrast to the definite heat that was creeping up his collar. A few people were still sober enough to exchange worried glances with one another. The pause lengthened, until Harry broke it.

"Oh, loosen up, you people," he said. He rolled his eyes and grabbed Puck by the front of his T-shirt, pressing their lips together. Against his better judgment, Puck tangled his fingers through Harry's hair and deepened the kiss. He should have broken away several moments ago, but it was Harry, and they were kissing, and it was fucking awesome. His lips were soft, but they weren't all sticky and goopy with that lip gloss shit that girls liked to wear, and he didn't tease and play submissive either. He swiped his tongue once against the parting in Puck's lips, as if unwilling to overstay his welcome, and he pulled away.

Puck was about to argue and maybe pull him back in for a proper make out session when he remembered where they were, and realized that the entire Glee Club was looking on with befuddled expressions, and holy shit he'd just gotten a little taste, and damn if he didn't really, really want some more.

"What?" asked Harry. "You wanted us to play spin the bottle? Well, we played."

Mike broke the shock by reaching for the bottle himself, and soon Harry and Puck's incident was forgotten in the mayhem that ensued. Harry wandered off to the other side of the basement with a very tipsy Mercedes and Tina, one on each elbow, seemingly unaffected by what had passed. Hummel was eyeing Puck with a speculative look, though, and Santana spared him a leer before turning back to the game.

Puck stared at the basement's ceiling. Well, fuck. He desperately hoped that things wouldn't get awkward from here on out.

Enjoy the semi-fluff now, because shit's gonna go down in a chapter or two.