Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note:Thank you, thank you to Separatrix and snottygrrl for early beta assistance on this chapter and to Sansa for reviewing this for me after my fifth rewrite.
For the fifth time, Harry tried to flatten his hair. It was, of course, a lost cause. He shot a glance at Draco who was polishing his shoes across the room. Ignoring him. Harry sighed as he smoothed his jeans and brushed invisible lint from his black cashmere jumper. The jeans felt too tight, as did the jumper really, but Blaise had assured him that everything fit properly. However, Blaise had also told him to stop trying to flatten his hair and, instead, ruffle it further, because "girls go wild for the rebel look," making Harry rather dubious about his fashion advice.
"Are we ready to go?" Blaise asked as he strolled into the room.
"Er," Harry said, reconsidering his decision to go.
"Stop being such a baby," Draco snapped. "Let's get out of here," Draco said to Blaise, brushing past Harry as if he didn't exist.
Harry wanted to push, or kick, or scream at Draco as he stomped out of the room. But Blaise was staring at him, as if daring him to do any of those things. It would have been easier if Harry could simply forget Draco, pretend he didn't exist, but Harry found he couldn't do that. Not again. He cared for Draco. He missed his friend.
"Still in a snit, I see," Blaise said as he studied his fingernails. "Whatever you did, you pissed him right off."
"I didn't do a damn thing," Harry said as he whirled around. "Draco Malfoy is a spoiled brat and can sod off for all I care," Harry called out, hoping Draco had heard him.
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Listen, we're leaving in five minutes. If you're not downstairs by then, you're stuck," he said as he pushed off from the wall. "You should come, though. The best revenge is having a good time," Blaise said with a wink before leaving.
"Right," Harry said to his reflection. "Because I'll be able to have a good time at a party where I'll feel self-conscious, surrounded by people I don't know, but who already know each other, and wondering all night why in the hell my best friend is acting like a sodding git."
Blaise didn't make it very far before he was pulled into a small alcove by Draco. "Why Draco, I had no idea you felt this way about me," he teased with a flutter of his lashes.
"Stop being stupid," Draco spat. "Look, I've already had a talk with Ron, now it's your turn."
"Okay . . . is this the one where you tell me about how boys and girls can play special games but should only do so while wearing their special protective gloves? Need practice before you have to have the talk with ickle little Harry?"
"Fuck you, Zabini, I'm being serious."
"Really? It's so hard to tell with you. Your older brother routine with Harry the last few weeks has been a bit over the top and, frankly, a bit disturbing. And now you're not talking to each other. What's got your knickers in such a twist, anyway?"
Draco huffed. "That's none of your business."
"Of course not," Blaise muttered. "So what is it? What do you want?"
Draco tugged at his sleeve, a nervous gesture he hardly ever resorted to. Blaise noticed it right away. "Is everything okay? Seriously, Draco, what's going on?'
Draco dropped his hands and took a deep breath before looking up. "Promise you'll look out for Harry tonight."
"What?"
"Promise me you'll look out for Harry. Keep him from getting too arseholed. Keep Pammy or any of those other girls away from him. That sort of thing."
Blaise blinked, and blinked some more. "I'm sorry, but I thought I just heard you ask me to take Harry to a party, but prevent him from having any fun at the party. Getting drunk and laid is what we do at these things, Draco. And Pammy's quite taken with our Harry Potter. Why deny her carnal delights? You certainly didn't turn her down when she picked you. Care to tell me why he's a special case? Or is it that you don't want to see Pammy with anyone else?" Blaise asked with a sly smile.
"Harry's not like that," Draco blurted.
Blaise's eyes narrowed. He hadn't missed the fact that Draco wasn't answering his questions. "And just what is Harry like, Draco?"
"I just mean. Look, he's lived a really, uh, sheltered life. He's never been to a party like this and you know those she-sharks will gobble him up if they can. I want—look, I'm just asking you to look out for him, that's all. I just don't want to see anything bad happen to him."
Blaise laughed. "And getting a good buzz and kissing girls are bad things?"
"That's not what I said. And you know as well as I do that's not all Pammy's interested in. Just watch out for him, all right? Keep him from getting into too much trouble. That's all I ask."
Blaise shook his head. A million questions were flying through his mind, but he knew Draco wouldn't answer any of them. "Why us? Why not you?"
"I thought it obvious that Harry and I were having a disagreement at the moment."
"Yeah, Draco, we noticed. It's a bit hard not to notice when there are only four of us living together and two of the four pretend each other don't exist."
"Sorry about that," Draco said, beginning to fiddle with his sleeve again. "It's complicated."
Blaise snorted. "Complicated doesn't even begin to describe what's going on here. No offense, Draco, but if you're too upset to talk with him, why do you care what happens to him?"
"Look, just because we're not talking doesn't mean I want anything bad to happen to him. What's with all the questions, anyway? Are you going to do as I ask or not?" Draco demanded.
"Yeah, sure," Blaise said, confused by Draco's reactions.
"Well then, we're perfectly clear, aren't we?" Draco asked before sauntering from the alcove, leaving an incredulous Blaise behind.
"You okay?"
Blaise swung around. Harry was there, staring at him with an odd expression while simultaneously pulling at his jumper as if repeated pinching of the fabric would make it enlarge a size or two.
"Stop that," Blaise said automatically. "You'll make it pucker. Trust me, not a good look, mate."
Harry sighed and ran his hands through his hair, making it poke in every direction. "I won't know anyone."
"Lie. You'll know me, Ron, and Draco."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. This isn't—I've never—Look, this is a bad idea. I'm just going to go back. I've got some studying and stuff to do."
Blaise studied Harry and thought back to what Draco had said. Decision made, he walked over to Harry before he could get away and slung his arm around his shoulders. "Listen carefully. Hardest lesson you'll learn. We're going to a party. Parties are fun. You must have fun. If you're not having fun, it will be my duty to ensure that you have fun. There will be drinking, and dancing, and tipsy girls at this party. Do you know what's best about tipsy girls?"
Harry shook his head.
"They like to kiss."
"Oh," Harry said softly as he pulled at his jumper.
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Relax, Potter. They won't suck out your soul or anything."
Harry bit his lip and nodded. "Right. So. Party. Fun. Drinking—er, I don't drink really. Well, ever, actually. I mean, I haven't. Not yet, I mean."
Blaise chuckled. "Ah, such a sweet little lamb. Don't worry, Harry, we'll get you sorted out tonight. You'll have fun. Promise. Okay?"
Harry blew out a long breath. "Yeah, okay."
Blaise squeezed his shoulder and let go. "That's what I like to hear. Come on, now. Let's get a move on—my brother Kevin is the antsy sort. Ready to go, I'm sure. Don't worry, Potter. We'll take care of you."
Harry nodded again and wondered just what he'd gotten himself into.
As Harry lolled on the couch and greeted passers-by with a crooked grin, he still wondered what he'd gotten himself into, but found he didn't particularly care at the moment. He felt like he was drifting in a warm pool of water, the small waves gently lapping at the edges of his mind. He dragged his fingers through the soft channels of the chenille upholstery, marveling at the way it made his arms feel tingly. He felt relaxed, and everything seemed a bit funny.
He'd been annoyed when Blaise had forced him out his hiding corner and thrust a cold bottle into his hand an hour or so before. The annoyance seemed silly now.
"It'll help," Blaise had said.
"With what?" Harry had replied.
"You're too tense. Can't have fun when you're tense. And I've got to say, the smallish grim reaper thing you've got going on, what with huddling in the shadows, scowling, and staring at everyone, isn't helping you or me. So drink up, Potter. I promised you a night of fun, and there's nothing quite like liquid courage."
Harry finished that bottle. And then he'd had another. And after that, the other guests didn't seem nearly as frightening or intimidating. He'd strayed from his corner and chatted with them. He'd even smiled at some of the Collenton girls when Pammy had waved in his direction.
Now, he was splayed on the couch, observing the mad things everyone else was doing, giggling about chenille. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt comfortable.
And then he saw Draco standing in the far corner of the room, his arm around some twiggy brunette. A sharp ping in Harry's gut distracted him from his happiness. He'd successfully avoided Draco thus far—hoping that Draco would seek him out and talk to him—but it seemed the only thing Draco was interested in was chatting up some silly girl. Harry couldn't tear his eyes away. He watched as Draco leaned in and kissed her. Harry's mouth went dry and he looked away. Draco, it seemed, didn't have a care in the world.
"Hiya, Harry!" Ron said as he and Blaise approached. Both were pleasantly ripped, if their bloodshot eyes, slurred speech, and sniggering were anything to go by.
"Hey, Ron, Blaise," Harry said, feeling as though the room moved a bit as he stood.
"Having a good time?" Blaise asked.
"Yeah," he said with a lazy grin. "Great time."
"Good. Here," Ron said as he held out a cup of amber colored liquid to Harry, nearly sloshing it all over him in the process. "Blaise said that. . . that . . . wait . . . what did you say?"
Blaise laughed and doubled over. "I said that—that—that . . wait, what did I say? Oh! I mem . . . rem . . er, rememberer now. I said that Harry was only having two lagers tonight."
"So," Ron picked up, "we brought you some juice to drink instead. You looked sad a minute ago, Harry. Can't be sad at the cottage party. Time for happy juice!"
Harry took the cup and sniffed warily. It smelled like apple juice. "Apple juice?" he asked.
"Yeah. Juice. Apple juice, and soda and . . . happy juice," Ron said. "Only, you gotta . . . you gotta drink it fast."
"Why?" Harry asked, still sniffing the contents of the cup.
"Why? Why? Cause it's tradition. A toast between mates," Ron said as he brandished his own lager.
"Oh," Harry said, feeling a bit out of sorts. "Should we get Draco, then?"
"No!" Blaise cried, before shushing Ron while Ron shushed him. "No," Blaise whispered. He toddled forward and cupped his hand over Harry's ear. "He's busy," Blaise whispered solemnly.
Harry looked over and saw Draco and the brunette girl were still kissing. "Yeah, I suppose so," he said with a frown.
"Promsmed . . . er, I promised him I'd take care of you," Blaise said in Harry's ear, obviously thinking he was whispering. "And you need a drink."
"You promised what?" Harry asked, trying to parse through what Blaise had said.
"Shh!" Blaise admonished before holding up his drink. "Come on then. It's tradition."
"Fine," Harry said raising his cup, his attention split between Draco and the toast. "To mates," Harry said, as he clinked his plastic cup against the necks of Ron and Blaise's lager bottles.
"To mates!" they cried as they knocked back the rest of their lager and watched with conspiratorial glee as Harry gulped his "juice."
Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and frowned. "It burned my throat," he rasped.
Ron and Blaise exchanged glances. "Er, yeah. It's the soda water."
Harry, distracted by Draco leading the brunette to another room, just nodded his head.
"How 'bout I get you some more?" Ron asked as he took the cup from Harry's hand and scurried away.
Harry turned back to Blaise and the room lurched a bit around him. "Whoa," he said, falling back into the couch.
"The lager getting to you, mate?" Blaise asked with a smile.
"Yeah. I think so," Harry said, feeling a pleasant wave of dizziness wash over him. He smacked his lips, which felt a bit numb. His throat felt parched, too.
"Thirsty?" Ron asked, returning.
Harry nodded and reached out for the juice. He gulped it down again, noticing that it hardly burned this time. Shrugging, he held out his cup for more.
Ron and Blaise exchanged glances. "Er, you might want to slow down on the juice, mate."
"Why?" Harry said, wondering why things sounded so far away. "It's just juice and soda, yeah?"
"Sure," Blaise chirped as he and Ron shushed each other and stumbled away, leaving a confused and disoriented Harry on the couch.
It seemed to Harry that someone had put a large wall of wavy glass between him and everyone else. Everything he saw—everything he heard—had a distorted quality to it. He'd have gotten up and complained if he thought he could. As it was, Harry was content to sprawl on the couch, his eyes half-closed. He'd had a few more cups of "happy juice," wondering why the lager seemed to be affecting him so much. After a while, he stopped caring and just enjoyed the cozy chenille couch.
And then he felt soft hands squeezing his arms. Someone had managed to get behind the glass. He rolled his head over to the side—an act that seemed to take an incredible amount of effort—and opened his eyes.
"Hello Harry," Pammy said with a giggle.
Harry's eyes fluttered closed for a second. "'lo Pammy," he slurred, wondering why it was so hard to make the words he wanted to say come out. He looked her over with glassy, over-bright eyes. "Where's your hat?" he asked with a frown. "You're not wearing a hat." Harry let his head fall to the back of the couch. "Pammy always wears hats. Hats of doom," he giggled and murmured to himself.
Pammy curled into his side and snaked her arm around his shoulders. "No hats tonight, Harry," she whispered in his ear. "They might get in the way."
Harry tried to lift his head and open his eyes. He found it impossible to do both. He settled for opening his eyes. "Get in the way of what?" he asked.
"This," Pammy said, as she leaned forward and hovered for a second. Harry went cross-eyed staring at her, wondering what she was doing. Her lips began to pucker as she tilted her head. Harry was assaulted with the cloying smell of over-ripe gardenias. He opened his mouth to cough, but was silenced as cold, plump lips pressed against his. The press was soft and chaste and tasted of cherries. It was over before it began.
She pulled back and gave Harry a calculating look. Harry stared back, his lips caught in a delayed pucker as he caught up to the realization that he'd just been kissed—for the first time ever. Pammy Smythwick had kissed him. Harry was thoroughly unimpressed.
"Did you like that Harry?" Pammy whispered.
"Yeah, sure," Harry said, wondering why he felt so nonchalant about the whole affair. It hadn't felt at all like he'd thought it would. There were no sparks or fireworks or any other feelings that people used to describe first kisses. It was just a press of lips—cold, plump, and sticky lips. "What . . . what was that for?" he slurred.
Pammy shrugged. "I felt like kissing you, so I did. Don't you ever do things just because you feel like doing them, Harry?"
"Er--"
"Things like this?" Pammy asked as she leaned in and kissed him again, only this time with a little nibble to his bottom lip, inviting him to open his mouth.
Harry pulled back, quite puzzled. "You bit me. Why'd you bite me?" he asked, as he looked around, hoping to spot Blaise, or, more importantly, Draco. He was in over his head. He had no idea what he was doing. Independence wasn't feeling quite as smashing just then.
Pammy giggled. "I didn't bite you. I nibbled. That's what people do when they kiss. Surely you know that?" she asked with an arched brow.
"Well . . . I mean . . . erm, what?" Harry stammered.
Pammy rolled her eyes and got straight to the point. "I like you, Harry. Don't you like me? Even just a little?"
"Sure," Harry said. "My friend. Like you. Esp . . espepcial . . . especially without the hats," he said with a laugh, thinking himself terribly clever. Perhaps he'd overreacted. He could handle Pammy Smythwick.
"You're very cute, Harry. Did you know that?" Pammy asked as she cuddled closer to him and rubbed her hand across his stomach.
Harry's breath caught in his throat. It was weird to have someone so close and touching him that way—a pleasant way. He focused on the soft hand grazing across the front of his jumper, moving back and forth, back and forth. A strange fluttering feeling bubbled up and made him squirm a bit and make strange choking sounds.
Pammy leaned in and kissed the side of Harry's neck. It tickled and Harry tried to move away. "Yes, very, very cute. You know all the girls here think so. But I'm the only one you like, isn't that right?" she asked as her hand dipped lower and cupped Harry's cock.
"Holy fuck!" Harry exclaimed, nearly jumping off the couch. It was like every nerve ending in his body had come alive. He'd never felt anything quite like that. No one had ever touched him there. Harry knew then he couldn't handle Pammy Smythwick—she moved too fast and knew what to do to make him feel like it was both the hottest and coldest day on earth. He looked up again—hoping to see Draco. He wasn't there. Harry didn't know what to do, and both his brain and legs—which he noticed to his horror were spreading a bit to give Pammy better access—weren't at all interested in his confusion or distress. When she squeezed again, Harry whimpered and tossed his head back. He gave in.
Pammy giggled. "You like that, do you?"
Harry "hmmed" in response. "No one's ever touched me like that before," he admitted, his concentration, along with the rest of him, focusing on his hardening cock.
"I knew it. I knew you were a virgin. None of the other girls believed me. And, to think, I've got you all to myself," she said in a sing-song voice as her hand rubbed and squeezed in some frustrating rhythm that Harry couldn't puzzle out.
Harry gasped out a garbled tangle of sound as he resisted the urge to cover her hand with his and make her go faster. So what if he was in over his head? Whatever Pammy was doing felt great, and nothing bad could possible come from something that felt that good.
"I think it's time you had a lesson, don't you, Harry? Hmm? Would you like a lesson?"
Harry wished—desperately wished—Pammy would shut up. Her talking and giggling and cherry flavored lipgloss and fetid gardenia perfume were getting in the way of the most incredible feeling he'd ever experienced. "What?" he said eventually when asked, again, if he wanted a lesson of some sort. "We're at a party. Don't have my journals," he muttered, willing Pammy to squeeze just a little harder and a hell of a lot faster.
"That's okay. You don't need your books for this lesson. Come on. Let's go somewhere a little more private," she said as she stood and tugged Harry from the couch.
Harry mewed and felt very cross that her hand had been taken away. Pammy must have understood, because she giggled and promised that Harry would like what she was going to teach him much, much better. So Harry staggered from the couch and followed Pammy dumbly, his brain fogged with lust and alcohol, not paying attention to where he was going.
"Here we are," Pammy said as she guided Harry to a small bed and shut the door behind her. She watched as Harry sprawled on the bed. She shook her head and snickered. She suspected that Blaise and Ron had given Harry the twins' happy juice to drink—a potent combination of soda water, apple juice, and grain alcohol. He was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning, but she was going to enjoy him while she could. There was nothing quite so wonderful as a cute and compliant boy. She sauntered over and undid his belt and trouser buttons.
"What . . . what are you doing?" Harry slurred as he tried to sit up. The kissing and the touching and walking were making him feel all funny. His mind was all fuzzy and the lazy dizziness from before seemed more pronounced.
Pammy pushed him back gently and shushed him. "I promise you're going to like this. You liked it when I was touching you, didn't you?" she asked as she squeezed his cock in reminder.
Harry's eyes rolled back and he moaned. "Oh, fuck," he whispered under his breath, his body becoming slack.
" I thought so," Pammy said, as she began pulling Harry's trousers down.
Draco was having a miserable time. Even his pleasant buzz couldn't break him out of his funk. He was still angry with Harry. How dare he shove him aside once they got to school? Draco should always come first, didn't Harry know that? Draco put him first. He purposefully arranged his study schedule around teaching Harry to ride. He'd even made introductions for Harry—made it clear that Harry was his friend and, as such, deserved respect and deference. And what had Harry done? Gone behind his back and joined study groups, accepted invitations for engagements that Draco wasn't invited to, and made friends that Draco didn't know. He acted as if he didn't give a toss about Draco. He growled and shook his head. He didn't want to think about Harry anymore. Thinking about Harry hurt. Besides, Harry wasn't his responsibility that night.
He swiped another lager from the kitchen and scanned the crowd. The brunette had already moved on, he saw. He'd tried chatting her up, had even gone so far as to kiss her a little, but—try as he might—he just couldn't get himself in the mood. Good riddance, he thought to himself. He took a long pull and looked for someone else that might catch his fancy. That was when he noticed Harry was nowhere to be seen. 'So much for not thinking about Harry,' he thought, as he swore under his breath and looked for Blaise.
"Blaise," Draco said when he found his friend.
"Wha?' Blaise said as he listed to the side, attempting to turn around. "Draco," he said overloud and with a ridiculous smile on his face. "Draco, Draco, Draco . . . my bestest friend," he crowed as he pulled Draco into a bear hug, ignoring his indelicate squawk.
"Let me go! God, you smell like you've bathed in ale," Draco said as he pulled himself out of Blaise's grasp. "Where's Harry? I thought I told you to keep an eye on him."
Blaise made a big show of swinging around, looking for Harry, calling for him as if he were a wayward kitten. "Nope. Don't see Harry anywhere."
Draco growled in frustration. "I know that, you idiot. I asked you where he was. Where's Harry?"
Blaise looked around again. "Dunno."
"For the love of fucking Christ," Draco swore under his breath. "When did you last see him?"
Blaise put down his drink so that he could think. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face in deep concentration. "Pammy!" he said finally. Blaise leaned forward, catching Draco by the shoulders for support. "She was kissing him," he said with a conspiratorial giggle.
Hot, undefined anger roiled through Draco. "Damn it, Blaise. How could you let that little trollop anywhere near Harry?"
"Harry didn't seem to mind, mate," Blaise said, almost appearing sober at that moment. "What do you care, anyway? It's not like you're interested in her. Are you?"
"Fuck you," Draco spat as he turned on his heel, insistent on finding Pammy and Harry before things went too far.
It didn't take long to find them. The cottage wasn't that large and there weren't too many places they could go. Draco had a fair idea what Pammy meant to do, but that still didn't prepare him for the shock and rage he felt as he walked into a small bedroom and found Harry sprawled on a bed, drunk out of his mind, and Pammy poised to give him a blow job.
"What do you think you're doing?" Draco screamed as he charged over to Pammy and pushed her out of the way.
"What's your problem, Malfoy?" Pammy spat, no longer the giggling school girl. "You'll have the room soon enough. Give the rest of us a chance," she said as she got back up.
"Don't even think about it," Draco snarled, getting in between her and Harry.
Harry was not feeling well at all. His stomach was making strange gurgling sounds, his heart was pounding, and the dizziness was far worse than before. And time seemed to be playing funny tricks, as well. One second Pammy was talking to him on the couch (not caring about his inability to respond coherently) and the next he was laying on a bed in a room he didn't recognize. One second he was wearing all of his clothes; the next, he wasn't. He had no idea what Pammy was doing, or what was happening. Every time the fog in his mind lifted enough for him to ask, Pammy distracted him with delicate touches and pulls. Reduced to whimpers and mews, lacking rational thought, Harry just let things happen.
There were loud voices that made his head hurt. Pammy had stopped touching him—stopped making him feel good. Why wasn't Pammy making him feel good? She was talking to someone else. It sounded like Draco. Draco! Draco would know what to do. He'd tell Harry if he was doing this wrong, or whether he needed to be doing something else, or why he was no longer wearing shoes, trousers, or pants. Why was Draco there? Did he want Pammy to touch him too? Was he mad that she was touching Harry?
Harry tried to sit up and ask, but the world—which had been spinning somewhat pleasantly only moments before—became a vicious herky-jerky that made Harry want to sick-up. He tried to roll into a fetal position, hoping that would make him feel better, but he only succeeded in twisting the upper-half of his body to one side. He groaned. All he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep. "Draco? Pammy?" he called, but neither paid attention to him.
"Why, Draco," Pammy said with a flutter of her eyelashes, "I didn't know you were still interested. Let me take care of Harry here and then we can have a go. He'll be quick, I'm sure," she said with a giggle.
Draco was furious. "You cheap little trollop! Taking advantage of Harry and then thinking I'd let you touch me? What do you take me for?"
"A horny fifteen-year-old boy who won't see another girl until fall holiday," Pammy said matter-of-factly. "Besides, Draco, last time I checked, Harry didn't need a minder."
"Harry's drunk, Pammy. And he's never done anything like this."
"I know! Poor thing. Can you imagine, Draco? Fifteen and a virgin? Don't worry, I'll set him to rights," she said as she, again, made a move to get back into position.
"The hell you will," Draco bellowed, pushing Pammy away.
The loud voices hurt Harry's ears. "Ow," he cried as he again tried to shift into a more comfortable position. This time, though, he rolled to the wrong side and fell off of the bed with a solid thump. "Fuck," he blurted, clutching at his head and wondering, again, where his pants and trousers were. Nothing else about the surreal situation he was in struck him—the only mystery worthy of his focus was his missing pants and trousers. Where on earth had they gone?
Draco and Pammy turned at the sound of Harry falling from the bed. Draco ran over. "Get out," he called over his shoulder to Pammy. "Tell Blaise and Ron I want to see them. Now."
Pammy rolled her eyes and sighed. "Freak," she muttered under her breath before straightening her skirt, smoothing her hair, and walking out of the room as if she'd just had the best sex of her life.
Draco didn't pay attention to Pammy, he was focused on Harry. "Harry? Harry? Can you hear me?" he asked.
"Draco?" Harry mewed pitifully. "Hurts. Don't have pants. I . . . I can't feel my lips. Why don't I have pants?" he asked.
Draco sighed and pulled Harry into a more comfortable position. "Fucking Christ, Harry. What am I going to do with you?"
"Find m'pants?" Harry asked, his eyes finally open and his expression dazed.
"Damn it," Draco swore. "Lie down and pull up your legs." Harry complied and Draco began to pull up Harry's pants and trousers, both of which were wound round Harry's ankles and the likely reason he'd fallen off the bed.
Draco's eyes drifted down and noticed that Harry was still half-hard, his erection flagging in the wake of Pammy's departure. It bobbed to and fro, almost winking at Draco, as Harry tried to pull up his legs. Draco's hands stilled. He stared at it, silently comparing it to his own, as he'd done with other boys, and as other boys had done with him. Harry's was pink and seemed about the same size as his. The way the light hit it, Draco imagined that it was velvety soft. He had a little bit of black, wiry hair nestled around his scrotum, which, in its own way, looked equally soft. Draco had quite a bit of hair in the same place, but there was something about the black—the virility of it a sharp contrast to Harry's innocence.
Draco stared—not paying attention to Harry's half-hearted wriggling, the thump of the bass from the stereo in the other room, the brassy chatter or boisterous, drunk revelers, none of it. It was like the world had narrowed into that moment, that room. Time stretched until it stopped moving altogether. It was surreal. Therefore, in that context, and ensnared as he was in the pleasant haze of alcohol, there seemed nothing wrong with reaching out and touching Harry's penis to see if it felt as velvety as it looked. Draco's hand reached out. His fingers began to curl in anticipation. His breathing sped up. He was almost there.
Harry's voice stopped him as his fingers hovered at the head of Harry's penis. "I'm cold. Have you found my pants?" Harry asked in a soft, sing-song voice as he shifted his legs to a more comfortable position.
Draco snatched his hand back. The thump of the bass and the brassy chatter from the other room struck him like a cacophonous gong. He gasped, incredulous at what he'd almost done. "Fuck, I must be drunk," he muttered under his breath as he hastily pulled up Harry's pants and trousers, keeping his head turned to the side the whole time. He told himself that he'd simply had a lapse of judgment. After all, he'd always been a curious child. It only made sense that he'd been curious about Harry.
And now he had to focus on keeping Harry from hurting himself. He was trying to roll onto his side and curl into a ball, his eyes squeezed shut.
"How much did you drink, Harry?" Draco asked as he tried to keep Harry still while finishing his task.
"Two lagers," Harry bit out. "Stop it," he muttered. "Gotta roll over."
"Not yet, you don't, and that's impossible. How much did you really drink?"
"That's it. I swear. And then, and then, . . . hey, you smell nice," Harry said with a giggle. "Better'n Pammy."
Draco rolled his eyes, but was secretly pleased that old "Pammy" hadn't impressed Harry as much as she thought she had. "And then what, Harry," he prodded as he finished doing up Harry's trouser buttons and buckled his belt—all with clinical precision.
"And then, and then. . . . juice. Had juice. I didn't like it much at first. Hey, hey, hey," Harry said, smacking Draco with his hand, trying to get his attention.
"Stop it. I'm right here. What do you want?" Draco asked, trying to twist away from Harry's smacking palm.
"Did you know that apple juice is fizzy? Does it burn your throat at first, too? I don't think I like apple juice anymore," Harry said with a frown. He rolled over and clutched his stomach. "Draco? I don't feel so good," he moaned piteously as he got up on all fours and dropped to his haunches, as if he was going to attempt to stand up.
Just then, Blaise and Ron staggered in, looking rather morose.
"What the fuck did you do to him? Did you give him the juice? Did you?" Draco roared as he stood up and faced his dorm mates.
"Draco?" Harry called as he pulled on Draco's trouser leg.
"Just a little bit. He was like the fucking grim reaper when he got here. How were we supposed to know he was a bloody lightweight?" Ron asked, feeling far more sober in the face of Draco's bewildering anger. Pammy had forewarned them that Draco was acting like a deranged lunatic. He was grateful that Hermione had insisted he stop drinking an hour prior. He could never have dealt with Draco if he'd been three sheets to the wind—like Blaise.
"You told us—told us to look out for'm," Blaise slurred as he listed from side to side. "He wasn't happy. We made 'm happy," he said.
"Draco?" Harry moaned, tugging insistently.
"You knew he'd never been to a party like this before. I told you to keep an eye on him. And what do you do? You get him arseholed and leave him in Pammy's claws. Do you know what that bint was about to do to him before I found him? Do you?" Draco asked, ignoring Harry's clumsy pawing.
"He's fifteen, Draco. He can take care of himself. He's not some little kid. Besides, he probably needed whatever Pammy was going to do to him, and, if I were him, I'd be right pissed that you pulled me away from that tart's mouth. You know how Pammy operates. As I recall, you were one of her first "selections." She picked Harry this year; good for him. I'm sure he was panting for it," Ron said, Blaise nodding vigorously in support.
Draco lunged forward, dragging Harry with him. "You take that back, you son-of-a-bitch. Harry isn't like that!"
Ron's brows shot up. "Wait. You're defending Harry's virtue? Not Pammy's? Is that even allowed?" he asked Blaise, who stammered and blinked and tried to appear as though he had something thoughtful to add to the conversation.
Before Draco could respond, Harry pawed at his leg again and moaned, "Draco," as loud as he could.
"What?" Draco snapped, finally looking down at Harry.
"I think . . . I think . . . oh, fuck," he said before he threw up all over Draco's brand new, very expensive shoes. "I think I'm going to be sick," he whispered as he fell on his side and passed out.
Harry was going to kill whoever had done this to him. How dare anyone stuff dirty socks in his mouth, clamp a steel vise around his forehead and cover him with lead blankets? And what was with the smell? Had he fallen asleep in a brewery? And why was it so hot? He wrinkled his nose and moaned—the sound was entirely too loud and made his head hurt even more. He cleared his throat—regretting it in an instant. The sick bastard had poured acid down his throat as well. That was the only thing that could explain the awful taste in his mouth, the way his stomach roiled and twisted, and the raw feeling in his throat.
"Come on Harry, roll over," someone altogether too close snapped.
Harry recoiled from the voice and tried to burrow into the blankets nestled around him. Perhaps if he hid from the noise and the smell and everything else, the vicious churning in his stomach would go away? His stomach seemed to find this idea very funny as it wrung itself inside out and pushed up its contents into Harry's throat—at least that's what it felt like.
"I'mgonnabesick," Harry mumbled as he kicked at the blankets and tried to roll over.
"You make everything so damned difficult," the voice muttered as practiced hands quickly turned him on his side and guided his head over the side of the bed, just as he began throwing up.
"That's it. Right into the bucket," the voice murmured, sounding a bit gentler, "Any more?"
Harry shook his head and the bucket was pulled away. He shuffled over a bit and curled up. He wanted to go back to sleep, but those damn hands wouldn't let him. Now they were trying to pull him up into a sitting position. Those hands had a death wish.
"Stop it," Harry mumbled.
"Come on. You have to drink this," the voice said as it shoved the lip of a glass between his lips.
Harry turned his head away. "No," he moaned, his stomach threatening mutiny if anything ever passed his lips again.
"Harry, you have to drink this. It will make you feel better."
"No," Harry moaned again, trying to wrestle away when the hands turned his head and tipped the glass, forcing him to swallow its contents. It was fizzy and cold and tasted a bit like chalky lemon water. He slurped some of the water down, not caring that most of it dribbled down his chin.
"More?"
Harry shook his head and tried to slip down under the covers, but was thwarted once again.
"Oh no, you don't," the voice said as the blankets were snatched away. "You need to get up. You'll feel better if you do."
Harry whimpered. He pulled his knees up and curled his arms around them. He heard a sigh and the sound of the glass being set down.
"You're such a baby sometimes."
And that's when Harry recognized who was talking to him. Draco. Draco was there. Talking to him, making him drink chalky water, and holding a bucket so that he could vomit. As portions of the previous night came rushing back, Harry moaned and dropped his head to his knees. "Please tell me I didn't throw up on your shoes," he croaked as he pressed his face further into his knees.
Draco snorted. "I didn't think you'd remember that. You were far gone by that point."
Harry raised his head slowly and opened his eyes for the first time that morning. The sunlight hurt his eyes and he turned his head to let them adjust. He heard Draco mutter something under his breath about "Harry and windows" before the room darkened. Harry turned back and blinked. He instinctively sought out his glasses on the small bed stand, knocking things about, until Draco pushed them into his hand.
"Thanks," Harry said as he slipped them on and looked up. Draco's hair was mussed and his clothes rumpled. Pain marred his features, creating lines and shadows on Draco's face. "What happened to you?" Harry blurted, wincing at how loud his voice sounded in the small room. He looked around. "Where are we?"
"Someone had to stay up all night and keep his best friend from sicking up all over himself. And we're still at the cottage." Draco cocked his head. "Don't you remember coming in here last night?"
Harry looked around. "Erm, no."
Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. "Figures," he mumbled. Draco fiddled with his sleeve. "Er, what do you remember?"
Harry pressed his heels of his hands against his eyes. His head throbbed and forcing himself to remember wasn't helping. It was like trying to untangle a metaphysical piece of string, he thought, as he pushed through his memories. "I remember drinking the lager Blaise gave me. I, uh, felt good, you know. Relaxed and happy. Um, I remember sitting on the couch and thinking that the upholstery was fantastic." Harry snorted. "That should have been my first clue that I'd had a bit too much to drink, I think."
"Bloody lightweight," Draco mumbled as he sat on the bed near Harry's feet.
"Then Blaise and Ron came by and we toasted . . . mates, or something. I dunno—don't remember exactly. They gave me this juice to drink."
"Yes, I heard all about the fucking juice," Draco barked.
Harry winced and covered his ears. "Not so loud. Please."
"Sorry. Well, go on."
"They told me it was just soda water and apple juice—like at the Smythwicks—only . . ."
"Yeah?"
"Well, it burned my throat at first."
Draco sighed in exasperation. "Why'd you drink it, then? Honestly, Harry. That should have been your first clue that you shouldn't drink so much of it."
Harry looked down and brushed his fingers over the sheet, Draco kissing that little brunette trollop while ignoring him flashing before his eyes. "I saw . . . I thought . . . I guess I didn't much care after that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Harry sighed and looked up. "Why are we fighting?"
Draco blinked. "Sorry?"
"Why are we fighting? It's stupid. You're my best friend and I feel like we're practically strangers."
Draco snorted. "I can't imagine why," he said.
"What?"
Draco crossed his arms and looked out the window. He wasn't sure what to say, really. "Ever since you got to Wolsford, it's like you've gone out of your way to disregard me and my advice." Draco sniffed. "You're my best friend, and you'd rather spend time with nervous Neville than me. It hurts, you stupid prat."
Harry's mouth flopped open and his eyes grew wide. "What? Ever since I got to Wolsford, it's like you have to run my life—dictating who I can be friends with, how I can act, what I can wear. Honestly, Draco, I'm capable of sorting out things on my own." Harry pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. All of this talking wasn't helping his headache. "Look, this—all of this—is new to me. Parties, girls, fancy clothes, fancy school, posh classmates . . . friends. I don't—I'm not sure who I am, or who I'm supposed to be, most of the time. I'm just trying to figure it all out, Draco. I'm not trying to hurt you. And you of all people should know that I'm not . . . I'm not . . . good at, you know, reaching out to people," Harry finished in a whisper.
Draco looked down at his hands. "I just want you to fit in. I want you to have an easy time of it."
"Yes, but on your terms," Harry admonished lightly. "I'm not you. I'm just . . . well, I'm just me, just Harry. That's all I want to be, Draco. You make me feel like that's not enough."
"Of course it's enough! I just want a little consideration, you know. I feel like we have so little in common sometimes, and, well, like the riding lessons--" Draco trailed off.
The room was silent as both boys thought about everything that had happened.
Harry broke the silence first. "How can you say that? We've loads in common. We're the gypsy kings, remember?"
Draco snorted, but didn't look up.
"I'm serious," Harry said as he shuffled down the bed, closer to Draco. "No one knows the shite we've been through. And, look, I'm sorry. I should have been more considerate. I just . . . I don't know. Professor Snape told me I needed to be more independent and I guess I just took that to heart too much." Harry bit his lip. "About the riding lessons. I'm really sorry about that, too. I understand why you don't want to teach me. I—I can sign up for lessons next term, or something."
Draco sighed. "You're bloody thick, you know that?" he grumbled.
Harry's head was cocked to the side and his nose was scrunched in concentration. Draco almost laughed. "Of course I'll still teach you. And, Sorry. I'll, er, I understand about Neville and everyone else. I get that you're not the same as me—and I don't care that you're not—Really. I just . . . I just don't want that to keep us from being friends."
"It won't. I like that you're different from me. So, erm, friends again?"
"Friends already. I mean, I let you throw up on my shoes, didn't I?"
Harry winced, more of the night before coming back to him. He held his head in his hands and moaned. He felt movement on the bed and was about to snap at Draco to stop jostling him, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and saw the edge of a bucket.
"You okay? Do you need to sick up?"
Harry shook his head. "No. I still feel bloody awful, but I'm okay. Er, sorry about your shoes, and about you having to stay up all night and take care of me. I really didn't mean to drink so much—I really thought the juice was just juice."
"I know. Have I mentioned that I'm going to kill Blaise and Ron?"
"Can I help?"
"Wouldn't do it without you." Draco returned the bucket to the floor and turned away from Harry. He fiddled with his sleeve. "So, er, remember anything else from last night?"
Harry closed his eyes and tried to remember anything else. After his toast with Blaise and Ron, everything else became a bit fuzzy. He remembered hands touching him. Pammy's hands. Pammy's lips. Fuck! His first kiss and he'd been too arseholed to remember it properly. Oh, and then there was more—something about lessons . . . bloody hell! Harry inhaled sharply and his face turned a bright crimson.
"What? What!"
"Pammy kissed me," Harry began slowly. "And then . . . well . . . she, uh, she touched me, I think."
"Touched you," Draco repeated, as if coaxing Harry to say more.
"Yeah. You know . . . uh, down . . . down there."
Draco snickered. "Down there? Jesus, Harry, she had your pants and trousers around your ankles. I think you can say penis, or cock, or dick, or something."
Harry sputtered and turned red while Draco continued to snicker and come up with other euphemisms for his penis.
"Stop it," Harry hissed.
"All right, all right," Draco said with a chuckle. "Drink that," he mumbled, pointing to the glass when the silence stretched a bit thin.
"Oh, yes sir," Harry snarked, but did as he was told. "Ugh. What is this, exactly?"
Draco grinned. "Old family recipe. I never share it with anyone, but I figure you were a special case. And I really can't afford to lose any more shoes."
"Ha bloody ha," Harry mumbled as he settled back into the bed, grateful that Draco wasn't insisting on him getting up or anything else equally ridiculous. Now that he was remembering things, he couldn't get Pammy's kiss out of his head. He was having a hard time reconciling how unremarkable it was. "What was your first kiss like?"
"What?" Draco asked, startled.
"Your first kiss. What was it like?"
"Why do you want to know?"
Harry shrugged. "Just curious."
"Was that—do you mean to say that Pammy was your first kiss?"
"Yes, all right! Going to make more jokes now?"
"No jokes. Promise. I'm just surprised, is all."
Harry shrugged again and started picking at the blanket's edge.
Draco sighed and tried to remember his first kiss. He'd been thirteen, he thought. "It wasn't anything special. A press of lips, our teeth knocked. There was too much spit involved. Pretty standard as far as first kisses go, I guess."
"So no fireworks, then?"
"Fireworks? What have you—who told you—bloody hell, Harry. Have you been reading romance novels, or something?"
Harry blushed and looked down. "No. It's just that everyone says that your first kiss is, like, brilliant or something."
Draco snorted. "Only girls say stupid things like that. It's just kissing, Harry. There's nothing magic about it. It doesn't do much for me, anyway. I'd much rather have the touching down there," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Harry burst out laughing. "Yeah, that part was pretty nice. What I remember of it," he said with a frown. "She's rather forward."
Draco chewed the inside of his cheek and turned away. "Pammy would have taken advantage of you, you know. I mean, she would have—"
"I understand, Draco. Thank you for whatever you did. I may have been ready for some things, but I wasn't ready for that—especially when I wouldn't have been able to stop it."
Draco nodded.
"Do you think that's normal?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"I mean, do you think it's normal that I'm glad she didn't do—well, you know. It seems like most guys would be gagging for it."
"You aren't most guys. And before you get all tetchy about your lack of experience, or whatever, you can't discount that. I mean, last night was a whole new experience for you. You can't do everything in one night."
Harry nodded. "So, do you think that means I'm normal, then?" he prodded.
Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes, Harry. I think that means you're normal. There'll be loads of other times to have sex."
"Yeah. Suppose we should get up," Harry said, changing the subject.
"You feeling up to it?"
Harry huffed. "I'm not an invalid."
"No, but that first hangover can be a right killer."
"Well then, I suppose now's as good a time as any to learn to work through the pain," Harry said with a cheeky grin as he stretched out his legs and made to get out of bed. Draco's hand on his arm stopped him.
"Don't say things like that." Draco's expression was serious—so much so that it threw Harry off balance.
"What?"
"I mean, don't say it like you're used to it. I know you're used to it. You're not supposed to have to deal with that anymore."
Harry smiled. "Thanks. That's not what I meant, but I understand where you're coming from. It means a lot. But if I'm going to be attending more of these things, better get used to the morning after."
A sly grin spread across Draco's face. "Sorry, Harry, but there are only so many things I can prepare you for." At Harry's quizzical glance, Draco laughed and waved him away. "You'll understand one day. Now let's go. I was thinking of making a huge breakfast of fried eggs and bacon."
Harry turned a bit green. "Fuck, Draco, have you lost your effing mind?" he rasped, eyeing the bucket in the corner.
"Nope. You'll be okay—I've given you my secret cure-all already," pointing to the empty glass. "Sadly, though, neither Blaise nor Ron will be so lucky. Care to bang some pots and pans around?"
Harry caught on and grinned. "Absolutely," he said as they made their way to the kitchen.