-A Couple of Drinks Later-
It had taken two shots of bourbon, one of whiskey, two more of vodka, a couple of something Hermione called "White Russians" on the side, and one very large mug of mead, but Harry Potter was utterly and completely drunk.
He was sitting in the Room of Requirement on a large plush sofa, watching everyone else dance and party away their last night as students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A pleasant warmth permeated his whole body and a light buzzing noise was humming gently in his head, but Harry felt wonderful.
Well, no, that was a lie. Harry never really felt wonderful. He felt happiness, sure, and joy as well. But in the back of his mind, he would always remember. And when he remembered, the happiness of the moment didn't seem so happy anymore. So Harry never really felt wonderful, but since his brain was currently occupied with all of the alcohol swimming around in it, Harry was left to his own devices. He was left to his own memories.
No else really noticed these lapses. Ron had asked once, when Harry was visiting the Burrow and everyone was having dinner. Fred and George and Ginny were arguing about some new invention, Charlie was going on about a new dragon they had just received, and Mrs. Weasley was talking to Bill and Fleur about possible grandchildren while Mr. Weasley looked on, a gleam of pride in his eyes.
Ron was listening enthusiastically to Charlie's story, but his eyes kept straying back to Harry. Harry was playing with the food on his plate, staring into oblivion and only occasionally raising his head to smile a bit wistfully at the family, before turning his eyes down to his food again.
"Are you okay, mate?" Ron had asked. "You seem a bit down."
"I'm fine, Ron," Harry answered, plastering on a fake smile that he hoped would redirect Ron's questions, even if only for a few minutes.
"Alright, but…" Ron lowered his voice, "I know I'm not very good at this stuff, Harry, this is more Hermione's bit, but if you want to talk…"
"I'm fine, Ron, really," Harry repeated. "I'm just tired."
And Ron had given him one more look, before shrugging a bit and turning back to Charlie, who was raving about the wing span of some Norwegian Ridgeback.
Hermione had also noticed, before Harry learned to wear a happy mask on his face, so that she would stop needling him about sharing his feelings and all of that rubbish. Now she just threw him worried looks every other day, but she remained blissfully silent on the subject.
In truth, however, she had never really stopped worrying. She just knew that Harry wouldn't talk about it until he was ready. Harry was like that. He never really asked for help; why should he? He spent ten years of his life wanting someone to help him, to care for him, and no one ever did. So why should things change now?
Sure, now he had friends, and adults around him that showed that they were concerned, but Harry still never went to anyone for help. He just figured it out on his own, or sometimes help would just appear, like with Dobby and the Gillyweed during the Triwizard Tournament. Granted, that was a ploy by a Death Eater who had carefully ensured that Dobby would help Harry, but that's not the point. The point is that there Harry was, night of the Second Task, and he had no idea what to do. Did he ask for help? No. He struggled along by himself, just like he had done everything else in life.
So here Harry was, sitting by himself on a couch in the Room of Requirement, watching everyone else. Ron and Hermione were dancing somewhere in the middle of the crowd. He was happy for them, he really was. They had all gone through so much with the war, and now it was over, and they had finally finished their schooling that had been delayed for almost two years. Harry was glad that they could find something within each other. He just wished he could find that as well.
When the war finally ended, and Voldemort pronounced dead by Harry's hand, Harry had not felt any happiness. He had felt only relief. Relief that he had not let everybody down, that he was still standing there on his own two feet. Harry had not really expected to survive the war. He had seen so much, done so many things, and he was sure that in the end, Voldemort would take him along to whatever death had in store for them.
But he hadn't. Here Harry was, alive. And he didn't know what to do with himself. He was no longer a child, he had legally been an adult for two years now, but it felt like so much longer. His schooling was over, and his purpose was lost. He was the Boy Who Lived, and no matter how much he hated that title, it had defined his identity in the Wizarding World. What was he supposed to do now, now that his purpose was finished? He had defeated Voldemort, he had finished his schooling. Now what?
Harry was just thinking along those lines, when a certain blonde Slytherin made his way over and collapsed next to Harry on the couch.
"Hello, Potter," he slurred, smirking just a bit even in his drunken state.
Harry took the opportunity to study Draco Malfoy in that moment. He had changed a lot since he had been that scared sixteen year old, not knowing whether to commit murder or suffer at the hands of the Dark Lord. Running away had probably been the best thing Draco could have done. He had returned mid-way through the war, and while no one wanted him, he hung around, providing them information from some mysterious source. Some whispered that he wanted redemption, others just thought that he was trying to save his own skin. In the beginning they had ignored him, thinking he was full of shit and just trying to screw them over. That's what Harry and Ron thought, anyways. But as time went on, it became obvious that his information was good.
So Harry and the others accepted Draco as an ally to their side, however reluctantly, and they used his information whenever they could. After the war ended, the Ministry decided that he had paid his debt to society, and declared him a free man. Draco had returned to Hogwarts to finish his education, as had the majority of the students who had participated in the war. He was still an arrogant ass, and he still carried his prejudices, but he kept them to himself, and set about reaffirming his position as the head of the Malfoy house.
"Hello, Malfoy," Harry answered, slightly amused to see someone else possibly drunker than he himself was.
"What are you doing all the way over here, Potter?" Draco asked. "No one wanted to dance with the great defeater of the Dark Lord?"
"Of course not, everyone knows I'm a horrible dancer, Malfoy," Harry answered, alcohol dimming his dislike of the boy-- no man, in front of him.
"Now that is true, Potter," Malfoy agreed. "You are an absolute crap dancer."
"Hey! No need to rub it in, Malfoy," Harry protested, running his hand through his hair.
That gesture caught Draco's gaze, however, and his eyes immediately focused on the scar that Harry had unwittingly exposed.
"Malfoy, what are you doing?"
Draco shushed Harry as he leaned in, face inches away from Harry's, eyes still locked on his scar. Slowly, a very long pale finger came into Harry's view, and before he could even think about maybe pulling away, Draco had already reached out and delicately brushed a fingertip over Harry's scar.
Harry shivered slightly. The only other person to have ever touched his scar had been Voldemort, and that time he hadn't been off his ass drunk and highly sensitive to any and all touch. He felt the beginnings of an arousal at the delicate touch and the sight of Draco's handsome features so close to his face. Harry let out a shuddering breath, not comprehending how he could be entertaining such thoughts about Draco Malfoy of all people.
Draco had already pulled away, but not before his eyes dropped down to Harry's lips, before going back up to meet that emerald gaze.
"Does it still hurt?" Draco asked softly, glancing up at Harry's scar quickly, before reestablishing eye contact once more.
"No," Harry said softly. "But there are many types of scars."
Draco looked up sharply again, dilated eyes narrowing just a bit. "What do you mean, Potter?"
"Nothing, Malfoy. Go back and dance with your Slytherin friends. Leave me alone," Harry sighed, turning his head away from the blonde.
"No, Potter," Draco snapped, swaying a bit as he stood up to tower directly over Harry. "We've spent the last eight or nine years with me talking and you not listening. Well, this time, you are going to listen to what I say, and I say that you are going to tell me what's wrong."
Harry sighed again, looking up at Draco's face that was screwed up in his concentration to not fall on his ass, he was so drunk. But behind all of the grimace, Harry thought he saw a bit of concern, and that shocked him more than anything. Shocked him enough, that he reached up to pull Draco down to sit again so he wasn't swaying so much. But of course Harry was quite drunk as well, so what ended up happening was that instead of Draco landing next to him on the sofa, Harry pulled him directly into his lap.
Harry grunted slightly from Draco's weight, before deciding the blonde really wasn't that heavy at all. He didn't know what to do with his hands, which he could either rest awkwardly on his sides or perhaps put onto top of Draco's, which were curled on his lap. Draco solved the problem for him, however, by almost falling off of his lap, forcing Harry to catch him and wind his arms around that lithe body. Steadying Draco once more, Harry just shrugged to himself and kept his hands clasped around the blonde's waist, telling himself it was only to ensure that Draco didn't almost knock them to down to the floor again.
Now there he was, lap full of Draco Malfoy, and Harry couldn't help but gaze up into those startling gray eyes, so unexpected in that pale face. Draco's eyes were in turn searching his, and Harry let them, for once not minding that piercing gaze.
"What are you so afraid of, Potter?" Draco asked, eyes still looking into Harry's.
"I…" Harry started, but found that he couldn't continue. He looked down, ashamed for some inexplicable reason. He was surprised to feel the gentle touch of a finger at his chin, gently coaxing his gaze upwards once more, where they met with silver seas after a storm.
"I want to kiss you, Harry," Draco said matter of factly, eyes never looking away from Harry's, even as Harry blinked several times in surprise.
Even as Harry felt the other boy lean down to gently press their lips together, and his eyelids fluttered shut at that breathtaking feeling, Harry knew that those gray orbs would still be watching him, looking past even that physical barrier to still see the emerald green underneath.
Harry concentrated on the feeling of having another boy's lips pressed against his, moving slightly to create little sparks of friction wherever they connected with his own. It was nearly overwhelming, the alcohol heightening the already mesmerizing sensations, but Harry couldn't stop himself. As Draco brushed his wet, hot tongue against Harry's bottom lip, he couldn't help but let out a shuddering gasp, allowing Draco to plunge his tongue into Harry's warm and waiting mouth. That velvety tongue was massaging his now, exploring his mouth with every flick and caress that Draco seemed inclined to perform, making Harry moan with want. Draco answered in kind, grinding his hips down on to the Gryffindor's before his hand trailed a river of fire down Harry's stomach, before stopping to finger the waist of his jeans. Those fingers never even stopped, merely started to unbutton and unzip those jeans while that hot tongue still devoured Harry's mouth.
And then Harry panicked. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this to Malfoy…Draco…whatever. He couldn't do this to anyone. So Harry pulled back, avoided eye contact with the eyes that he knew were staring at him in confusion, and pushed Draco out of his lap and back onto the couch.
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled. "I can't do this." He tried to stand up, but stumbled a bit and fell back down onto the couch. Trying again, he only got halfway up before blonde Slytherin was in his way.
"What's wrong? Harry?" Draco asked, confusion and lust still clouding his eyes. "I know something's wrong, something other than this," he gestured between them. "Tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing, I'm fine. Leave me alone," Harry said, tears starting to come again. He tried to stand up, tried to push Draco out of the way, but the drink was too much and even though he was taller, the truth was that he couldn't handle his liquor that well, and any strength that he had was now paling in comparison to the strength that Draco Malfoy seemed to suddenly possess. Draco grasped Harry by the upper arms and shoved him back into the couch before taking a seat next to him and lifting Harry's legs so that they were laid across his lap. Taking both of Harry's hands into his, Draco gave a small kiss to each palm before laying them down atop of Harry's legs.
"Harry, tell me what's wrong. I know something is. I feel like maybe you don't want to kiss me, because you're afraid of what will happen in the morning. But you do want me, I can tell. You don't have to be afraid of tomorrow."
Silence met his words.
"Harry, I'm not going to leave you in the morning. I'm not going to kiss you tonight and scorn you tomorrow. I wouldn't do that. I know that you probably don't believe it, but it's true. To be honest, I'm content just sitting here with you like this. I never…I never thought I'd have even this. But I can tell something is wrong Harry, and I know it's not just me. So why don't you just tell me what it is?"
"How can you say all these things? You hate me," Harry asked.
"I don't hate you. I thought I did, and maybe when we were younger it was true, but right here, right now, I don't hate you Harry. I couldn't hate you," Draco promised. "If I swear to you that this isn't some sort of con, that I really just want to know what's wrong, will you tell me?"
"You'll just use it against me tomorrow," Harry shook his head heavily.
"And you could just say that I was a gay pervert who molested you, if you wanted," Draco replied.
"But you--you didn't! You didn't molest me, I wanted--" Harry drunkenly protested.
"Yes, I know," Draco murmured. "And I want, too."
He leaned in again and brushed their lips together. He couldn't help but moan at the sensation, loving when Harry gasped slightly which allowed him to swipe his tongue along Harry's bottom lip and pull it into his mouth, sucking and biting sensuously. Harry felt his desire return, despite his previous feelings. The alcohol burned within him, or maybe it was Draco causing that fiery feeling. Hands had reached down under his shirt again and lips were devouring his, and though Harry was answering back in kind, he could not go through with it.
Abruptly he pulled back and turned his head to the side so that Draco could no longer tempt him. The hands under his shirt stilled, and then came back out again to grasp his own hands. They stroked lovingly over his fingers, swirling patterns and soothing his heated flesh.
"Hey, hey. I'm sorry," Draco whispered. "I won't do that again until you want me to, okay?"
Harry nodded, still looking down and refusing to meet Draco's eyes. The silence grew between them, not awkward but not exactly comfortable.
"Harry, what's wrong?" Draco said quietly.
"Nothing. It's stupid," Harry muttered, trying to twist out of Draco's grasp but failing miserably as he merely tangled their bodies even more so.
They continued this dance for many more minutes; Harry trying to pull away and insisting he was fine, and Draco grasping his wrists and not letting him go, pleading with Harry to tell him. Finally, Harry cracked.
"I don't know! I don't know, alright? I just feel so numb all the time! I don't exist. I'm invisible…I don't exist," Harry sobbed, pulling desperately away from Draco before the blonde simply pulled Harry to his chest and wrapped his arms around him in an iron grip.
"Hush, why would you say that? Of course you exist, I'm touching you right now. Silly Gryffindor," Draco murmured. "You're just as solid as I am. I'm right here, holding you. You exist."
Harry just shook his head in the cradle of Draco's neck, mumbling over and over again, prompting Draco to gently ask what the brunette was saying.
"I don't deserve it. I don't deserve it," Harry whimpered.
"Deserve what? What don't you deserve, Harry?" Draco asked soothingly.
"Love." A whisper.
"What?" Draco asked, shocked.
"Love," Harry said, louder this time. "I don't deserve love." He turned to face Draco and the Slytherin stared at the expressionless face in front of him, at the eyes that were filled with such certainty and truth that he almost didn't trust his eyes.
"Why do you think you don't deserve love, Harry?" Draco asked slowly.
Harry didn't answer right away. He just stared at the boy in front of him, eyes darting back and forth across Draco's features, before he took a deep breath.
" 'Tell me the truth,' I said. 'Tell me the truth. Did you ever love me?'… And she just looked at me. She didn't answer. I was crying and screaming at her. 'I'm so broken. I'm dying, I'm dying, and I just want to know. Now. I want to know now. Tell me the truth, the truth! Did you ever love me? Did you? Did you!'… She wouldn't answer me. She wouldn't answer me!" Harry screamed in pain, tears pouring down his face and soaking the front of his shirt.
Draco just stared at Harry in horror, not knowing how to deal with this depressed and hysterical young man in his arms. Harry was hauntingly beautiful in his sorrow; clear green eyes brightened by his tears, mouth red from where his teeth had worried his lips, a faint rouge on his cheeks that contrasted with his pale skin. A part of Draco was sickened with himself that he still found Harry devastatingly attractive, even in the middle of a drunken nervous breakdown. Luckily, that part was outweighed by how horrible he felt watching Harry fall apart and being completely and utterly unhelpful in any way.
"I'm sorry sweetie," Draco said helplessly, not understanding who Harry was talking about or why he would say such things. "I'm so, so sorry." He didn't understand why, all he knew was the overwhelming desire to tell Harry the truth. He gently placed a finger underneath the boy's chin, raising Harry's head up so he could look directly into those eyes as he spoke:
"Harry, you deserve love. I think you probably deserve it more than anyone else in this world. You saved us; not because you had to, but because you loved us, loved our world. You gave yourself to us, wanting nothing in return. You do deserve love, Harry, you deserve all the love that anyone can give you. You deserve the love of Granger and the Weasel, the type of love that friendship brings: loyalty, faithfulness, joy. You deserve the love of a mentor, of Dumbledore and Lupin: that which cannot replace the loss of your own mother and father, but can come pretty damn close with its guidance and never ending acceptance, of all that you may do, no matter what. You deserve the love of the community, of the Wizarding World: they should accept you as their own, not as their savior, but as a fellow member of the magical world. And most of all, you deserve the love of a lover: of someone that you can give your soul to, and accept theirs in return; of someone that will know everything about you, and love you not despite of your flaws, but because of them; a companion that you can take to the end of the world and back, who will never leave your side, even as our universe turns in on itself. You deserve love, Harry, and don't let anyone tell you different."
Draco drew in a couple deep breaths, trying to process all that he had said, said aloud, to Harry bleeding Potter, no less. But tonight, the boy had become so much more than Harry Potter. He had become Harry, and for the first time, Draco was finally seeing him for who he truly was. And Harry could see that for the first time, someone truly did understand him, know what he was going through, and cared about him enough to set the record straight.
Harry raised one hand and gently brushed the back of it against Draco's cheek. Draco raised his hand in answer, cradling Harry's head and wiping the remaining tears from his face. Harry's hand moved from Draco's face to the back of his neck, pulling his head forward so that their lips touched, barely meeting in space. The kiss was slow, haunting, almost nonexistent, but still there, pulsating with a radiant heat that neither of them had expected would come from such a gentle touch. Harry sighed into it, feeling the remaining negative emotions draining out of him, finding catharsis in his confession and in Draco's kind words.
He finally drew back, leaning his forehead against Draco's and simply taking comfort in the other boy's presence. Draco's hand was still cradling his face, but the other had snaked in between them and was now tightly clutching Harry's hand.
Harry sighed again. "I'm tired."
"It's past three. We should get you to bed," Draco murmured.
He let Harry climb up off his lap and stand, using the couch for support while Draco stood up, stretched, and then wrapped an arm around Harry's waist. They walked out of the room together and made their way to Gryffindor tower, pausing every few flights of stairs to exchange a kiss or two, or to make sure they didn't stumble over their own footsteps.
When they finally reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, Harry was reluctant to go in. "I can't hop over the wall, Draco," he complained.
"Potter, the wall comes up to maybe your knee, if that," Draco snorted.
"Oh. Didn't seem like it first year."
"Harry, you were about two feet shorter than you are now, of course it seemed different!" the blonde laughed, eyes shining at the vaguely surprised look on Harry's face.
"Yeah, I guess I was short then," he mused, still staring down at the wall. With great concentration, he lifted up one leg over the wall and planted it firmly on the other side. Grasping Draco's shoulders for support, he maneuvered his other leg over in the same careful manner and then straightened up, a smile stretched from ear to ear.
"I did it!" he cried happily.
"Bother, you sure know how to forget nervous breakdowns pretty fast, don't you, Potter?" Draco shook his head.
At the crestfallen expression on Harry's face, Draco immediately backpedaled. "Shit, I'm sorry. That's the drink talking, making me say stupid shit. I'm sorry, Harry."
Harry didn't say anything, just stared down at Draco with tears pooling in his eyes once more.
"Oh, come on, you've cried enough for one night! Let's get you to bed," Draco said, navigating his way over the wall as Harry had done, and reacquainting his arm with Harry's waist.
"Bed?" Harry asked, voice a bit shaky.
"Yes, Harry. Bed."
Draco helped him up the stairs to his dormitory and deposited him on the only empty bed. Harry immediately let his head fall on the pillow, curling up on his side and watching Draco through his hair as the other boy gently took his glasses and placed them on the nightstand beside the bed.
"Go to sleep, Harry. It will seem better in the morning. Everything's always better in the morning."
Harry nodded slightly before he finally fell into a deep sleep, mouth open and hand reached out to where Draco's had been on the soft sheets.
Draco stood there a moment, watching Harry sleep. He looked so peaceful lying there, unlike the raging heartbroken child that he had rocked in his arms a mere hour ago. Brushing back a lock of hair from Harry's face, Draco leaned over and gently kissed the top of his head before pulling back and closing the bed curtains. He made his way over to the door and stopped, lingering in the doorway and staring back at those red curtains.
Draco knew himself very well. He also knew his drunk and sober states very well. He knew that when he passed out in his bed tonight, as usual, that he would wake up in the morning parched and with a tremendous headache…and with no knowledge of his actions the night before. And in the years spent studying the other man, Draco knew that Harry would be as ignorant as ever come morning.
So Draco took a moment, reveling in the knowledge that for just a few hours, he had held Harry in his arms, had calmed him, and made him whole again. Smiling slightly, he reluctantly turned away from the sight of Harry's bed, and quietly shut the door behind him.
Fin.