Disclaimer: I am neither making profit nor passing these off as my own. They belong to whoever has the rights.
A/N: This short fic is a series of drabble done for a community. Not only do I know they're very fanon, but I also know that they're funny. They were intended to be for fun and not to be taken seriously. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
It's amazing, the things that happen when you're plastered. Somehow, you find yourself in situations you never would have dreamed of while sober. Okay, that's a lie, you might have dreamed of them, but you never would admit it in a million years. It's possible that even truth serum might not get it out of you. As it were, you've found yourself in this situation, the one you've fantasized about, or at least you've fantasized about the things that would happen if you ever made it into the Slytherin Common Room.
So here you are, Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Hero, the Saviour, drunk to near incoherency, and in the enemies' den nonetheless. You're not exactly sure how you ended up there, you just know that a lot of firewhiskey was involved. None of the Slytherins are trying to harm you, however, they don't exactly hate you anymore. It's not like you're their new best friend, it's more of they think the extremes have gone too radical and they're settling for the middle. Besides, your 'good-boy' persona was shattered that time you snogged a Ravenclaw in front of the whole Great Hall. How can you even think that clearly right now, you're bloody well drunk.
So as you stumble up the stairs to find some kind of bed to pass out in, you briefly wonder where you'll end up, and snort in amusement when you consider searching out Malfoy's bed just for the hell of it. You pass a group of the snakes, noticing that some of the girls are shirtless. Some of the boys are too, and you have to draw your eyes away as the defined lines of their muscles blur into deep crevices. Everytime one of them loses a piece of clothing, a word or words are magically tattooed onto his or her skin. The way the words swirling across the pale skin of Malfoy's stomach makes you ill, and you really have to look away as you continue to stumble noisily up the stairs.
You've made it to a bed and you allow yourself to collapse on top of the duvet. Immediately you pass out only to be woken some time later by another bumbling, fumbling, stumbling, drunk idiot in the form of one Draco Malfoy. "Oi," he slurs looking down at you. "You're in my bed, Potter." You smile ironically; you didn't even mean to find it, even though you'd nursed the notion. "What are you smiling about, you drunken fool?"
Sitting up, you ignore his words and push yourself to the side of the bed so there is room for him. He looks at you with a funny quirk to his brow before he throws himself down beside you, shirtless and trouserless. Now that you've noticed he is near starkers, you wonder why in all the hells you didn't notice before. Ah, that's right, you were too busy trying not to look. Propping yourself up on your elbow, you openly admire his body, shaking your head a few times so the lines quit blurring.
Malfoy fumbles for his wand and mumbles some charm on himself. "Tis a sobering charm, clears your head temporarily is all." You feel a stark coldness wash over your mind as you hear the charm spoken again. You smile goofily; now you can look and not have to shake your head because the definition of his muscles won't smudge. That's when you notice the words just above his pants line. You chuckle unashamedly as you read them aloud.
"Handle with care?" you ask incredulously, trying your best not to snort.
That familiar sneer covers his face as he sizes you up and down. "Bloody hell yes, handle with care," snorts indignantly. "I'm not having my treasure ruined by some..." but you cut off his words with your mouth.
As you bite down on his lip and he groans, you smirk. "You don't seem like you're one that likes to be 'handled with care'," as your hand slides down the front of his pants and squeezes his erection hard, eliciting a groan from those perfect lips. You might be able to see straight, but you're still drunk. Does it matter? No, not really, because this is the exact dream of the situation that would put you in the Slytherin Common room.