Just another typical weekend in the Slytherin Common room, you can remember things like this happening even when you were just a snotty first year. Of course you're still snotty, but your level of pureblooded snobbishness has matured greatly. Usual remarks are now below you, your wit and bites are much more sophisticated. You could think of more things to reassure others you have matured in your hatred, but as you take another shot of rum without a chaser and remove your shirt, those things become trivial to the matter at hand: you're losing the game tonight.
The tattoo doesn't hurt at all, the swirling effect actually tickles some. The feeling becomes a warming buzz on your abdomen as the alcohol warms your stomach. At one point, you noticed Potter milling about with the usual firewhiskey in hand. As a Slytherin, you don't hate the Gryffindor near as much as you used to. Hells, most of the other Slytherins don't either and that is probably because they took their lead from you, the Slytherin Prince. Yes, that's you, and you know it. It's not as if you're going to deny such a noble title, not when you're the most influential of the lot. You snort in irony when you realize Potter is Gryffindor's prince but would never assume to adopt such a title.
Continuing to imbibe an even greater amount of rum and other liquors is not helping your state any, but it is not as if you really mind at all. After all, that's what these Slytherin parties are all about: get trashed, plastered, smashed, having fun, and hopefully getting laid as you forget about the impending war, especially since most of you no longer want to join the Dark Lord's cause. Soon you find yourself trouserless, not exactly remembering what you lost this time to cause the removal of all but your boxer briefs. In true Malfoy fashion, you decided to quit and leave the game before you end up being the first in your birthday suit. As you stumble to stand up, you can't be bothered to search for your missing trousers and shirt, you just head for the stairs and hope you don't fall as you drunkenly make your way towards your own bed; so much for getting a piece tonight.
As you stumble towards what you assume is your bed (and soon remember it by its' immaculateness), you notice in a bought of irony that one passed out Harry Potter resides atop the duvet. You sneer at him once or twice as the two of you converse. You've already performed slight sobering charms so that you can think even more clearly. It doesn't seem to be helping much as he bites down on your lip and you groan. What's he saying? That's another thing you can't comprehend despite the sobering charm, as a firm hand on your erection is drawing away any attention and coherency that you had left.
"Well, Potter," you managed to force out in an even tone as his mouth moves down your throat, "I don't think you're much of one to be talking at this point. I've seen the marks on your body and I know those aren't from Quidditch." Bloody hell, you've just admitted to him you've been staring at his body in the locker rooms. It doesn't matter, you're drunk, that's your excuse for now at least.
In yet more pure Malfoy style, you take control of the situation as you climb on top of him, slide your hands up his untucked shirt, and dig your nails into the not yet marked skin of his chest. You smirk as he groans lightly and arches his back for more. "I am going to teach you what it means to…" Well, so much for control of the situation; your alcoholheavy limbs are to slow to keep him from rolling over on top of you. Amazingly, he finishes your sentence before you can even manage to realize what is happening.
"…be handled with care? I have one thing to say to that, Malfoy," he sneers as he moves his face closer to yours. His breath whispers over your lips, he's that close, and you briefly hope your mouth doesn't taste of stale alcohol. "May the better man win."
Leave it to Potter to make this a challenge.