Title: The Secret's In The Telling
Authoress: Sakuri
Rating: T
Summary: Draco Malfoy, pureblood and Slytherin prince, suffers the unthinkable when he is attacked and bitten by Remus Lupin. How is he supposed to live any kind of life afterwards, especially when Potter continues to stick his unwanted nose into things? HPDM, SSRL
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one
Chapter 28: The Morning After the Night Before
xxx
Somehow, Harry was managing to hold his own. He wasn't one for drinking excessively, especially not strong liquor, but that didn't seem to prevent him from matching his Slytherin counterpart in shot after shot of the burning liquid that Draco unsteadily poured for them both. There were now small puddles of it on the table around where their glasses sat, either from uncoordinated hands entirely missing their mark as they grew steadily more inebriated, or an even more undignified result of one of them laughing unexpectedly while attempting to drink.
Currently, Harry was grinning like an idiot at something one of them had just said – though for the life of him, he couldn't remember what that had been, or who had said it. Somewhere in the back of his head, there had been a voice insisting that he'd regret this when he found he couldn't move due to a hangover of epic proportions in the morning, but he thought he'd managed to drown it several shots back. Now, he drifted pleasantly, mind and body both buzzing as Malfoy prattled on in the background. The Gryffindor was completely failing to pay attention, but that didn't seem to matter to either of them, so long as he nodded in the right places.
"…and Nott! That absolute p-pre-preten – that idiot! How dare he? Do you know what he said to me? He said I'd fallen!"
"Did you?"
"No, I was perfectly graceful. The point is… The point is…" But Draco couldn't seem to recall exactly what the point was, so substituted by pouring out the last drops of Firewhiskey into the tiny shot glasses. He frowned regretfully when the last of it had drained from the bottle.
"We should toast something," Harry said suddenly, as Draco picked up his drink, ready to toss it back without thought.
"Why?"
The Gryffindor shrugged. "Dunno. Something to do."
His companion blinked cluelessly for a few moments. "Uhm… To what?" he finally gathered himself enough to ask, ignoring the way the world lurched as he shifted slightly, rearranging his legs more comfortably beneath him. He sat cross-legged on the floor, the other boy opposite him in the same position, the coffee table between them.
From the corner of his eye he caught movement, and turned to glance at Vanima, slithering her way onto the warm hearth of the lit fireplace.
Inspired, he turned back to the Gryffindor, momentarily forgetting himself and allowing a similarly idiotic grin to pass over his face. "Toast something in Parseltongue for me!" he insisted, remembering how the sibilant words had fallen so nicely from the other's lips.
Green eyes blinked in surprise, but it didn't take long for Draco's enthusiasm to catch. "What do you want me to say?" he asked, grinning. It was odd, knowing someone else appreciated the language. Even Ron and Hermione were made uneasy by it, and half the school still considered it Dark.
But then, he supposed that explained why Draco liked it, with his fixation for all magic just this side of legal.
The blond shook his head. "Anything," he breathed, already leaning forward with anticipation. He'd probably regret showing such eagerness later, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Yes, he'd heard Potter speak the snake language before, but he wanted to hear it spoken directly to him…
The Gryffindor cast around for ideas, before seeming to think of something satisfactory and picking up his glass. He turned to glance at Vanima, concentrating for a second, before beginning to speak.
And yes, there it was. That sound that Draco would never admit he couldn't get enough of; soft, flowing whispers that he could never grasp, never understand, but certainly admire. Green eyes lost their sharpness when he spoke it, glazed as they imagined he was addressing a serpent, even as he directed the words at the blond.
Draco wasn't really aware of deciding to move. Only that, abruptly, he was halfway around the table, crawling, trying to close the distance between himself and the beautiful language. Harry looked startled, for a moment, then smiled and finished whatever speech he'd just made with a flourish, tipping back his head and finishing his last shot. Draco had forgotten all about his, and didn't care to remember it, either.
Instinctively, he reached out and grasped the other's wrist, demanding, "Don't stop!" in his best spoilt brat tone of voice.
Harry looked amused. "I have nothing else to say," he responded, quite reasonably. "You don't even know what I said in the first place."
"I don't care," the Slytherin insisted, shaking his head. "I don't want to know. Just… do it again." He rose up so that he was on his knees, intending to stare commandingly down at the still seated Gryffindor.
Unfortunately, the world chose that moment to pitch sideways, and without any decent warning, Draco found himself tumbling inelegantly straight into the other boy, who, unhelpful as ever, offered no resistance and the pair ended up sprawled across the floor, only just missing the table corner on the way down.
Flat on his back, Harry looked up at the blond peering down at him, Draco's weight solid and comfortable on his chest. His vision swam and wavered, a combination of his intoxication and the fact that his glasses were now severely askew. It made a pleasant image, the Slytherin's pale, sharp features softened and illuminated attractively. Indulgently, without any real thought about what he was doing – something that was to become his legacy, it would seem – he reached up and ran his fingers through the feather-soft strands of hair, brushing them away from the other boy's eyes.
Draco positively purred – which should have been impossible, Harry thought distantly, since he was supposed to be a wolf, not a cat – and practically melted against him with the petting. Ordinarily, the reaction might have startled him, so unreserved, so patently un-Malfoy. But right now, in these moments when neither were in their right minds, he revelled in it and repeated the motion, hoping to hear the blond respond with that noise of contentment again.
He did just that, sighing a little, and his breath was sweet with the whiskey. Grey eyes closed partway, thoroughly relaxed, and he even leaned toward the hand buried in his hair. Really, Harry thought, Draco might well have been a werewolf, but this was like dealing with an overgrown cat. Not that he minded, of course. In fact, he quite enjoyed the low, pleased purring that sent waves of vibration through him.
He didn't realise the blond had moved until he felt his glasses gently being taken from him. He blinked in mild surprise, trying to refocus his eyes without success, and heard Draco deposit the lenses somewhere off to the side.
"Harry…?"
It didn't seem odd to hear the other use his first name – and, for that matter, it now seemed perfectly normal to be lying with him like this – so Harry merely smiled lazily to show he'd heard. "Yeah?" He was growing drowsy, his voice slurring more than ever. Soon he'd sleep, and he hoped Draco wouldn't feel the need to move. He was comfy like this…
"Harry…" The name came as a puff of breath against his mouth, barely audible, barely there.
The Gryffindor sighed, his eyes closing of their own accord. He was so tired, and so dizzy, and so warm. Happy, he let his hand trail away from the blond hair, over the vague jut of a shoulder blade, coming to rest on the small of Draco's back.
It woke him up considerably, however, when he felt another mouth descend against his own.
Green eyes flew wide, but Draco was oblivious. He acted on a whim, not quite tentative, but curious, and with all the hesitancy of heading into the unknown. It was an experiment, something that had been in the back of his mind for longer than he cared to admit, and which was now impossible to deny. Beneath him, Harry hissed in surprise, and it was so reminiscent of the Parseltongue he'd spoken only moments ago that Draco shivered happily. Fingernails scraped his back through his shirt as the Gryffindor's hand clenched convulsively, but other than that there seemed no response other than frozen shock from his partner. Rather disappointing, frankly.
Determined to achieve some sort of reaction before he was through, the Slytherin deepened the kiss insistently. Lips moved with only a hint of uncertainty, communicating his curiosity and a muted desire he hadn't thought existed, sharing secrets, awkward only when he happened to open his eyes and was met with a stunningly green gaze, unshielded for once behind glass lenses, and still pinned wide with astonishment.
It was the brief, almost shy flick of Draco's tongue that finally gained him the effect he wanted. Harry's breath came sharp all of a sudden, and lashes lowered dazedly. His back arched seemingly against his will, and both hands rose to grip the blonde's waist tightly.
Of course, with their mutual states of drunkenness, it was a kiss that would seem clumsy and slightly cringe-worthy in retrospect, but for the moment it was more than satisfactory.
The frustration that had been bothering Harry for weeks finally peaked, and without warning he found himself moving in a surge, not giving the Slytherin time to protest as he flipped him onto his back and rolled so that he was on top. Grey eyes blinked in surprise, but a flicker of a smirk had appeared, and remained as Harry lowered himself and resumed what Draco had started.
Neither knew what they were doing. Harry was copying the half-remembered fragments of the Dream that were currently lurching around his memory and making his heart hammer with excitement. Draco, on the other hand, was obeying the victorious howl of the wolf that sounded throughout his head, and was oddly okay with that fact. It wasn't bad, he conceded, this whole kissing Harry Potter thing. This in mind, he allowed his fingers to tangle in the incessantly untidy strands of hair as the Gryffindor broke away, only to trail uncoordinated kisses over his jaw and neck.
No, not bad at all, Draco thought distantly, seconds before he closed his eyes and promptly passed out, his hand up the Gryffindor's shirt, and Harry's face hidden in the crook of his neck.
xxx
It was the sound of the shower that eventually woke the unconscious Gryffindor, hours later. He stirred as the last remnants of sleep left him, and immediately felt more muscles than he knew he owned stiffen and tense. Good God, what horrendous position had he slept in last night?
Cringing, he groped blindly for his glasses, which were found only after an inelegant crawl around his blurred surroundings. Dazed, he fumbled to replace them, his hands oddly stiff and not quite as deft as usual. A dull, irritating ache had begun to build behind his eyes ever since he'd dragged himself upright, and suddenly surged into ridiculous proportions as he attempted to rise to his feet. Horrified, he pressed his fingers tightly to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, staggering and disorientated.
In the background, the sound of running water suddenly stopped, and he froze with it. The presence of another person became too obvious to ignore, as well as the creeping sense of trepidation he couldn't quite put a name to.
Something was wrong, he just couldn't remember what. Looking around, he spent a few dazed moments trying to figure out where he was. It was the sight of a carelessly thrown Slytherin tie across the back of the nearby couch that finally tipped him off – and also what caused memory to come rushing back.
It seemed something very heavy had just hit him in the gut. He whirled around to stare at the spot on the floor he'd slept on, remembering – with an odd mix of horror and delight – how he and Malfoy had snogged and, in the blonde's case, even stolen a quick grope before collapsing there.
No. That had been a dream. It had to have been!
As he stood there, stunned into motionlessness, there came the sound of the bathroom door opening, causing flighty panic to erupt in Harry. He scolded himself for the reaction – reminding himself that he was Gryffindor after all, and shouldn't he be facing this head on? – but still, it didn't stop his expression from resembling something like terror as Draco appeared.
The blond sauntered into the room as if it was perfectly normal to have a half-awake and fully hungover Gryffindor rival blinking back at him with the imprint of his carpet on his left cheek. He'd obviously had more time than Harry to compose himself, and was now dressed in an extremely flattering muggle outfit, consisting of black jeans and polo neck that made his skin and hair look shockingly pale. In a good way, of course, as he'd determined several times over in the mirror the day he'd bought it.
Upon laying eyes on Harry, however, his expression swiftly went from casual to incredulous.
"Surely you don't intend to show yourself in public like that?" The Slytherin actually looked a little disgusted, his mouth twitching as if he was longing to sneer. "Merlin, Potter, go get a shower!"
Harry blanched. "In… in there?" He gestured vaguely to the room Draco had just vacated.
"No, I was thinking the lake. I hear it's refreshing this time of the morning. Yes, in there. God." It seemed sarcasm was very much a morning thing with the blond, his small reserve of patience not having kicked in yet. Rolling his eyes and looking thoroughly scornful, Draco turned and disappeared again into his bedroom.
At a loss, Harry scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. There was always a chance – a slim, hopeful little chance – that the other boy didn't remember what had happened. He had seemed pretty out of it. Maybe–
"Potter, I told you to get a fucking shower so I can take you seriously! We need to talk."
Maybe not.
xxx
God Malfoy was a girl. This was the solitary unhelpful thought that repeated in his head as he entered the bathroom and took stock of the amazing amount of soap-related products. Shampoo, hair conditioner, moisturiser, bubblebath, for Christ's sake, shower gel, hair gel... The list went on, all of them lined neatly on a shelf near the shower in brightly coloured bottles. Harry eyed them sceptically as he shut the door behind him and cast a casual locking charm. Maybe he shouldn't really be so surprised that the Slytherin might indeed be gay…
Pushing this thought from his head, he undressed quickly and turned on the shower, stepping under the warm water as the air began to chill his skin. From then on, he moved like an automaton, using shampoo and soap mechanically while his thoughts raced along very different paths.
What the hell had happened?
No, scratch that. He knew what had happened. Perhaps the question should be how had it happened? He was sure he hadn't been the one to initiate whatever it had been. Malfoy – well, he supposed he really should call him Draco now, having swapped spit and all. Draco had been the one to move first. He definitely remembered that much.
So what did that mean? There was no way the Slytherin had been serious. What if…?
Though Harry dreaded the very thought, he suddenly found himself racking his memory to make sure he hadn't inadvertently ordered the blond into something he hadn't wanted. Again.
Oh God, what if he had? What if he'd taken advantage of not only that power, but the fact that Draco had so obviously been pissed beyond rational thought last night? Was that what the boy wanted to 'talk' about? Merlin, he was probably furious.
Cringing to himself, Harry covered his face with his hands and let the water wash over him. He didn't want to leave the bathroom for fear of what would follow. The Slytherin was going to kill him, and Harry couldn't really blame him. After promising not to use compulsions again, he'd gone and done… that!
But no, surely he hadn't said anything open to interpretation. What could he possibly have said? "Oy, Malfoy, pour me another glass – oh, and then make out with me on the floor, if you don't mind."
As unlikely as it seemed, what other explanation was there?
xxx
Dressed, Harry edged back into the front room, plucking self-consciously at the rumpled clothes he'd worn last night. Draco turned from where he'd been standing by the mantelpiece, watching one of the moving ornaments march up and down, and eyed him expressionlessly. Any Gryffindor courage fled, and Harry was abruptly glad that he'd spent most of his shower planning what he was about to say.
"Malfoy," he started, bracing himself against the nerves and embarrassment threatening to build up. "Draco. About what happened… Look, I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd said anything that the magic could take as an order, but maybe…" He broke off, shrugging awkwardly. "If you just want to forget this ever happened… I mean, let's face it, I'm pretty much your only friend right now. To complicate that…"
"You didn't compel me, Harry."
"And, besides, you were really drunk last night. Well, we both were, to be honest– What?" Well, Harry thought distantly, there went his pre-prepared explanation.
Draco stared at him evenly, his expression so blank that the Gryffindor felt certain he wasn't the only one who'd tried to plan this conversation.
Harry shook his head, deciding to start from scratch. "But… but you're… you're not gay. I mean… are you?"
The blond frowned. "No. I'm a pureblood."
As easy as that answer made things, Harry just had to question it. "…So?" he asked incredulously, unable to follow the logic.
"God, Potter. There aren't any gay purebloods."
Harry blinked, and couldn't quite restrain the sarcasm that escaped him. "No, just those straight ones who happen to kiss boys on occasion." Exasperated, he rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of the blonde's statement.
"Don't mock me."
"I'm not, I'm just… pointing out that it was you who started it." Harry lifted one shoulder sheepishly, regretting the comment almost as soon as it left his mouth. What happened to apologising? he asked himself, as Draco's eyes hardened and he folded his arms defensively.
"I hope you're not flattering yourself, Potter." He put particularly spiteful emphasis on the use of Harry's last name. "No, you didn't compel me, but I was hardly in my right mind, either. I'm sexually deprived since this entire werewolf thing started, if you must know. You happened to be there, okay? And we were drunk, and it felt good at the time. I'm not gay, I'm just… desperate." Apparently realising what he'd just said, the blond scowled at his own words and shoved away from the mantelpiece. Defeated, he dropped onto the couch and covered his face with his hands.
At a loss, the Gryffindor hovered awkwardly, reluctant to move any further into the room. His headache had yet to dissipate, and still throbbed behind his eyes, shortening his already strained temper. Still, he watched Draco's confusion with sympathy, even as he tried to ignore the sting of those words.
Finally, he sighed and moved to sit next to the other boy, though he made sure to keep a comfortable distance between them. "Alright. I get it. But, is it… is it any better to be that desperate…?"
Furious, Draco turned on him. "And what about you? You didn't object. You didn't put up any decent fight, so you can't claim you're so innocent –"
"I wasn't going to." Despite his furious blush, he managed to say it calmly, looking straight ahead all the while.
The Slytherin's eyes went suddenly wide as he gaped at the Gryffindor, new understanding developing from a vein of intuition that ran in him. "You wanted that!"
"So did you –"
"No, I mean you've thought about that! Before last night!" He looked vaguely incredulous. "Potter! Did you seduce me?"
"What? No! I – God, of course I didn't!"
Embarrassment was equal on both sides now, as colour tinged the Slytherin's pale skin. "Well… I mean, it's just that… That's not something I do!" He made vague hand gestures, apparently meant to encompass their session last night.
Harry snorted. "I thought Slytherins were all about casual sex."
"Oh I do hope you're not so naïve that you thought that was sex –"
The Gryffindor glared warningly, but there was no real malice there. He was too tired to be really angry, and suspected the same of Draco. Now that they'd both sat down, exhaustion seemed to pounce, and Harry found himself slumping backwards in the couch with the vague feeling that he should feel weirder about what had happened than he actually did.
Next to him, the blond rubbed his eyes, the previously hidden signs of a similar hangover beginning to show in the way he winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. They sat like that for some time afterwards, in perfect silence, neither really knowing how to breach the looming issue that had formed between them.
Eventually, after about twenty minutes of mutual wordlessness, the Slytherin sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
"I didn't know you were bent," he commented, quietly, as if this was a totally normal conversation topic.
Harry glanced at him. "Really? I always figured you were."
That earned him a narrow eyed glare, and they resumed their silence, unsure about what had actually been established, if anything.