"Let's start with scotch" turns out to be Harry's new favourite phrase.
It's late now, late enough that Harry is definitely drunk on scotch (and Draco) and he thinks Cheryl probably is, too. He knows he's supposed to be worried about something, paying attention to the time for some reason or another, but he can't be arsed to remember why that is at the moment. He knows that he hasn't got to teach tomorrow, and that's, well. That's definitely good considering his current state.
And he's so glad he brought Cheryl along, fairly certain that he would've thrown the towel in way before now had she not been here. She's keen on Draco, thinks he's gorgeous, and probably thinks a thousand other dirty things about him. She hasn't said as much, Draco's barely left them all night. But Harry can tell. There's no sign of Carol or Charlie, and even Rosemary has left them. He likes Rosemary, likes her sparkly eyes and her blonde hair. He loves blondes. He loves everyone.
That might be something to do with the fact that his dinner was cheesecake (Cheryl's idea) and he thinks she said it was something do to with it sopping up all the scotch he drank (and the whiskey and the rum) but he's also pretty sure that only helps when you digest the food. And he's almost certain that his slice of cheesecake is floating in his stomach in Scotch Sea.
Scotch sea. Scotch sea makes him think of Hogwarts, of bonny Scotland. And yup, he's definitely drunk. It's been ages since he's been this loaded; he tries to remember the last time and all that surfaces is a grainy memory of him and Ron sitting in Grimmauld Place a few years back drinking Firewhisky in front of the fire and trying to think of words that rhyme with 'orange.' Anyway, he can't think of any now, either, and his eyes hurt. They hurt and they're blurry and he thinks it's probably time to call it a night.
He turns to Chezza to tell her as much, going to use some excuse like 'if we have one more drink it'll be very hard for me to pretend to be your superior on Monday' and as soon as they make eye contact she makes a weird little squeak. It's a very funny squeak to Harry, and he feels his face spreading into a grin.
Cheryl winks at him, and that just doesn't make sense to Harry.
"Chezza, I told you, I'm gaaaaay." He draws it out for emphastats. Emulance. Emphasis. That's the one. "You don't need to wink at me, save your winks for someone who will appreciate 'em! Pretty eyeballs, though, Chez. Very nice."
"Er... maybe I should get you home."
Harry shrugs happily, not really minding what happens next. His face feels kind of like clay and he thinks that probably isn't good.
"Whatever you say, Cheryl. Cause you're old enough to be my mum so you're the boss. The boss with your winking and your strange squeaking. But really I'm your boss."
He watches her lean into Draco, stage whispering into his ear like Harry isn't sitting right here.
"You know, some guys just can't hold their arsenic."
Harry thinks that's a pretty stupid thing to say since he was drinking scotch, but he lets her have it.
"Alright, Taylor?
And yup, that sets off the bell in Harry's fog brain. Polyjuice, polyjuice doesn't last forever. That's why his eyes are fuzzy, he needs glasses again, he needs to go soon- now, before he starts to change back. He feels like Cinderella. Not because he did all the chores for his evil step family, because he's going to turn into a pumpkin. A Harry pumpkin. Suddenly the fogginess isn't fun anymore, because he can't think right, can't think how to leave without falling over and embarrassing himself, because that's Draco and Draco never falls over and Harry doesn't think Taylor falls over either so he just has to wing it.
"Yeah, mate, yeah. I'm ready, I'm just thinking about Cinderella, you know."
He thinks Cheryl should understand that, knows she was raised Muggle like him and the reference isn't lost on her. She nods a little and backs her stool up, standing far too gracefully for the amount of wine she drank. He needs to take lessons from her.
He puts a few more pounds on the table, trying to count them out right when he hears Draco ask "Cinderella?"
"Yeah," he says, stacking up the pounds into little columns, "she's a princess."
Draco barks out a laugh, and it's short, over before it even started, but Harry loves making Draco laugh.
"I know who she is, Taylor. Why are you thinking about her? Fancy a glass slipper for yourself? I can be your fairy godmother, if you like."
And Harry's vision might be blurring, but he can still tell when he's being smouldered at and now is one of those times. He can almost feel the heat reverberating off of Draco. And here he is, talking about Cinderella. Fuck.
"It's just my train of thought... have you ever seen Anastasia? It's another princess movie and at one part they're in a train and Rasputin sends these little green demons to derail it to kill Anastasia, you know, cause he wants to kill all the Romanovs, and anyway the demons set it on fire and derail it and that's what my train of thought is like. It's on fire and completely derailed and driven by little green demons."
Draco just nods. He thinks he hears Cheryl laughing into her hand, but he can't look away from Draco to check. Harry is such a bloody idiot.
"Well anyway, I was thinking about Cinderella because she isn't a very good princess. She complains too much. No one likes their families and everyone has to do chores. Unless they have house elves. There are people that aren't even as well off as her, she's just the worst princess. Proper awful."
Draco smiles again. Harry really likes it when he does that. Draco also seems to be leaning in to whisper into Harry's ear. He's never done that before, but Harry is very, very certain that he's going to like that as well.
"Well, Taylor... you probably should get home. Before you out the Wizarding World to this bar full of Muggles."
Harry can't breathe, Draco's breath is so hot on his ear and he's mad at himself for letting it get this out of hand, he can't believe he's drunk enough to bring up house elves, Merlin. He watches Draco pull back, makes eye contact with him before he leans back in and says,
"But it is nice to know you're like me."
He punctuates the sentence by licking the shell of Harry's ear, right in the middle, and it's so small that it could be an accident, or Harry's imagination, but when Draco pulls back and goes to fill up a glass, tongue flicking out over his bottom lip before shooting a smirk in Harry's direction, he knows it was on purpose. His whole body ignites at that, the pool of alcohol in his stomach burning, and it takes everything he has not to get hard on the spot. Fucking hell.
He pushes his bar stool back, joining Cheryl in the land of the standing (swaying) and runs a hand through his hair. She starts walking toward the door, and he's helpless to do anything but follow. Before he lets the door fall behind him, though, he gathers up his damn Gryffindor courage and lets out a small "cheers, mate." It feels monumental.
~xxx~XXX~xxx~
Draco says a big 'fuck it' to being careful and apparates home. He's certain that he's the last one in the pub, so he locks up and steps out back, hiding between the skip and the wall of the pub.
He lands in his bedroom with a pop and immediately falls back onto his bed, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands. Today was... eventful. He had flirted with a man, while he was on the job, and while the man was completely intoxicated. Not to mention that he had only spent a collective hour or two with Taylor prior to this evening. Merlin, he was just thankful Lem had left before the ear-licking incident. She would never have let him hear the end of it. Things like, "Draco, you weren't even the one drinking" and "you're completely insane." And she wouldn't be out of line to say those things, which is what really irritates him.
He heaves a big sigh, forcing himself upright and into the kitchen for a cuppa. Orange and cinnamon, he thinks. Sweet to curb his cravings and spicy to clear out his brain. In theory. If he was being honest, it reminded him of Taylor... he smelt like cinnamon, and when Draco had tasted him (honestly, what was he thinking) he even tasted slightly like it. And Draco had been using the same shampoo for years; Pansy had gotten it for him just after the war at some French shoppe. The oranges were from Provence or something, and it was all very expensive and luxurious and it smelled divine. So now Draco smelled like oranges and he drank this stupid tea that reminded him of Taylor and himself. Ridiculous
What bothers him most about Taylor is that he's really not that special. Draco can't pinpoint a single reason why he's so gone over this man. He's not Draco's usual type, not physically, not intellectually either, really. He's attractive, yes, but he's all kind of beige- sandy hair, tan skin, hazel eyes. No stand-out features, no contrast. And yes, he held his own in conversation tonight before he started to really imbibe, but nothing that really threw Draco for a loop. Yet somehow, here he is, ready to curse a blue streak over this man he's known for five minutes. Honestly.
He tries to let it go for the evening, strips down on his way back to the bedroom, clothes strewn through the hallway. He'll make Cinderella pick them up. He tucks himself into bed and finds it feels more heavenly than normal. Of course, he can't get Taylor's stupid face out of his mind, keeps replaying the last five minutes of their time together over and over. When he finally falls asleep, it's nearly light outside.
~xxx~XXX~xxx~
Draco wakes up to sun streaming in, so warm he can feel it on his eyelids. For once he isn't even irritated by it, needs that extra boost to get him up for the day. He had been plagued all night by strange dreams of Taylor dressed as Cinderella, cooking for him and doing his laundry, the cleaning. It isn't a kink Draco wishes to explore further.
He pulls himself out of bed, stretching as he walks to the kitchen, kicking the clothes from last night out of the way. He needs tea. Lots of tea. Then he would tidy up, maybe go to Diagon, have lunch with Pansy. It had been a while, and he needed someone to talk to about this Taylor nonsense before he went completely mental.
And maybe also about Harry Potter. Just because Taylor had been front and centre in his mind last night doesn't mean that he's forgotten about Potter. Sodding Carol wasn't wrong about him being Draco's type. It made him so furious when he first realised, just after the war. He spent years going against the grain, dating blonds or men with dark eyes just to prove that he could. But whenever he saw someone that looked like Potter, bright eyes and dark hair, he couldn't help but steal a second glance. And now that he's had a refresher, been brought up to date on what the Saviour looks like now... well, he really wouldn't mind a Taylor/Harry threesome. Except that he really doesn't share well.
~xxx~XXX~xxx~
Harry wakes up and immediately wishes that he hadn't. He doesn't remember what it was like getting his scar, but he imagines that it felt something like this. He fumbles around in his bedside drawer, looking for a vial of hangover potion, or even some muggle paracetamol. All he finds is some lube. He feels like this is a giant metaphor for his life, always fucking himself.
He lets out a little smile at the thought, feeling slightly clever at the metaphor, given his current state. It's enough to get him up, leaning against the wall and using it to slide down the hall so he doesn't have to hold his entire body weight. He's a genius.
He makes the miraculous discovery of hangover potion in his bathroom cupboard, downing it all in one go and almost able to ignore the disgusting taste. He knows it will be worth it in the long run. He makes it to the kitchen, able to hold himself up a little better and even kind of able to open his eyes without regretting it. He puts the kettle on and goes in search of his glasses, unsure of where he left them last night before he went out as Taylor. He finds them in between his sofa cushions (of course) and shoves them on his nose, happy to find that makes his head hurt just a tiny bit less. He'll be better in no time. And it's Saturday.
Saturday means a whole free day. He plans to spend it eating an absurd amount of biscuits with his tea and then perhaps taking Hermione to lunch, if he can get away with it. He needs to tell someone about this absurdity, someone other than Cheryl, someone who lived through it the first time. He has an inkling that Hermione will be slightly more receptive than Ron. Ron has made it clear countless times that he's fine with the whole gay thing, even got over Harry never getting back together with Ginny. It's the Malfoy thing that Harry thinks Ron will get stuck on. And he's not sure he could blame him. Harry's pretty stuck on it, too.
He feels a stupid smile blooming and reaches up to tug on his hair. On his way there he brushes his ear, and heat pools in his stomach as the memories come flooding back. Draco licked his ear.
Draco licked his ear and whispered something about them being the same and he may have meant wizards, since Harry stupidly brought up house elves, but he's pretty sure he meant gay, since Harry also remembers slurring about that. He doesn't know whether to kill Cheryl for letting him (making him) get that drunk or kiss her for all the winking making his drunk brain think it was necessary to remind her that he's a ponce.
He thinks he'll wait until he runs into Draco again to decide. The question now is when that will happen. And who he'll be when it does.
Harry sighs and rolls off the couch, finally time for a cuppa. He thinks he has hobnobs somewhere in his cupboards and maybe even that well delicious fudge from Fortescue's. And then maybe he'll make a cheese toasty. Anything is possible.
He smiles, because right now that statement feels quite true. Anything is possible because Draco Malfoy likes him. Well, likes Taylor. But Taylor is him, so. He pours his tea and vows to find a way to see this through. He has Cheryl pulling for him, and after today he'll have Hermione. He's made it this far, and Gryffindor habits die hard. Hard. It's probably time for a shower.
He takes his cuppa and biscuits with him into the shower and absolutely does not have a wank and think about Draco Malfoy. And when he spills over, losing it pathetically quickly, it's definitely not to the memory of Draco's tongue on his ear.
But if it was... well, he's starting to get over it. Because he plans on getting used to those tongue being all over him.