Harry Potter - foresight reawakened - ch13: drunken kiss
HP - foresight reawakened: (13) drunken kiss
*
Draco asked Professor Snape about Wolfsbane in class the next Monday. He didn’t know why.
“I will assume you’re not asking for yourself, as you know very well it takes thirty days to prepare. That is less than the number of days left in the school year-I know you’re all counting. I implore Mr Malfoy’s target audience to take note so we can get on with our class for today.”
Draco cast a look at Granger. She noticed. Draco nodded and turned back to the board, where the Professor was writing the instructions for Pepper-up-Pomfrey’s stores were running out.
Potter tried to talk to him after Potions. Draco put Crabbe and Goyle between them and hurried into the crowd of students milling from class to class.
*
The Ravenclaws were having a party Friday night. There would be alcohol of course. Draco almost didn’t go, but it was too good to pass up: Ravenclaw girls knew how to party.
By midnight he was completely shitfaced and grinding to the slow, sensual tones of the Triwizard Triumvirate. He’d lost count of the number of drinks he’d been handed. He was quite sure his bad judgment in drinking each and every one of them was due to someone spiking his first butterbeer, but that was sadly un-provable. The lights were dim, someone had set up a strobe, and his heart throbbed the beat pounding from the too-loud stereos. The carpet had been transfigured into a dance floor, and the empty floor was soon transformed into a writhing mass of unwinding, drunk as piss Hogwarts upperclassmen. There was barely room to move without bumping into a new hip, a strange leg, a pair of welcoming arms. Draco was sandwiched between the Patil twins and loving every minute of it. Padma’s braid snaked down his sweat-soaked shirt. He gripped her hips with hands damp from the incredible heat on the floor. Behind him, grinding into his ass, was Parvati. She laughed occasionally in his ear as if embarrassed by her position, but not once did she stop moving.
“Draco, you’re pissed,” Draco heard someone yell from his left.
“Pansy? That you?’
“Ha!” Raucous laughter. It was Pansy, but it seems she’d suddenly been accosted by a gentleman with plain brown hair and a wide, drunken smile. “You’re rat-arsed!” she laughed at him. “You’re drunk as a lord! Hah!”
Draco rolled his eyes and kept dancing. The night was too young to get caught up in another of Pansy’s toss offs.
It was about four in the morning when Draco finally decided enough was enough and stumbled into the dark, quiet hallway. The wall torches flickered like phantom dancers, and for a moment Draco thought he might still be dancing, might still have his arms wrapped around an anonymous pair of shoulders and his arse grinding into an anonymous pair of hips. He laughed. Oh, that was such fun.
Draco stumbled along the wall until he could let go without dancing himself flat on his face. Slowly, slowly, the dungeons got closer. Or perhaps Draco got closer. One of them was sashaying, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was him. If it was him, than it really was ridiculous that he kept stopping to dance with paintings, statues, and suits of armor that weren’t actually moving. “Really, they’re terrible dancers,” he laughed as yet another monstrous work of stone refused to move at all, even to do a little jig. Most of them would sway, but when he kicked at their feet to get them to move a bit, they’d suddenly be stone again and glare at him.
“Ouch,” he said, having kicked a faery that refused to do more than flutter her wings. He kicked the next pair of legs he came to on principle.
“Ouch!” the legs said.
“You deserved it. You wouldn’t dance with me.”
“You didn’t ask me to dance,” the legs said. And then, “You’re wankered, aren’t you?”
The legs laughed at him. Draco kicked them again.
“Ouch!” they said.
“That’s what you get,” Draco slurred. “My name is Draco Malfoy. You refused to dance with me. I’m drunk.”
“I realize that,” the legs said, and laughed again. Draco kicked at them, but this time they moved. Since he was already sashaying (or maybe it was the hall?) he fell into the legs. Draco soon discovered they had a body with them.
“Potter?” He had Potter trapped against the wall. If only he could reach his wand…Wait! Potter’s head was gone! “Potter, is that you?” All that was there was chest! Draco poked at it.
“What are you doing, Malfoy?”
“Your head is gone! Oh my god, your head is gone!”
Firm hands suddenly gripped his arms and pulled. Draco stumbled forward and up, and then Potter’s head was back on his shoulders and he had a face and glasses and really green eyes. “Oh. There’s your head,” Draco said. “I’m drunk.”
“I see that,” Potter chuckled.
“Don’t laugh at me. I’ll kick you again.”
“Sorry.” Potter stopped laughing. Knew who he was talking to, that’s what.
Potter was dressed in casual clothes that weren’t robes: a dingy T-shirt and black trousers. Draco wasn’t sure he was real. “Are you not yet?”
“Er…no?”
Potter’s hands still gripped his shoulders. Draco let himself sink into them. Potter yelped and Draco sagged against him fully. He laughed into Potter’s ear. “Not yet, Potter. Not-yet Potter. Not-yet…I think I’m drunk. Do you think I’m drunk? I’m drunk. Do you know how to get to Slytherin?” Draco laughed. He hissed like a snake. “Ssssslytherin. Talk dirty to me, Potter. Speak Parseltongue!” He poked Potter’s chest insistently.
And then Potter kissed him.
It felt strangely…good.
Very good.
Draco resolved to get drunk more often. He’d get right on that…later.
*
Draco asked Professor Snape about Wolfsbane in class the next Monday. He didn’t know why.
“I will assume you’re not asking for yourself, as you know very well it takes thirty days to prepare. That is less than the number of days left in the school year-I know you’re all counting. I implore Mr Malfoy’s target audience to take note so we can get on with our class for today.”
Draco cast a look at Granger. She noticed. Draco nodded and turned back to the board, where the Professor was writing the instructions for Pepper-up-Pomfrey’s stores were running out.
Potter tried to talk to him after Potions. Draco put Crabbe and Goyle between them and hurried into the crowd of students milling from class to class.
*
The Ravenclaws were having a party Friday night. There would be alcohol of course. Draco almost didn’t go, but it was too good to pass up: Ravenclaw girls knew how to party.
By midnight he was completely shitfaced and grinding to the slow, sensual tones of the Triwizard Triumvirate. He’d lost count of the number of drinks he’d been handed. He was quite sure his bad judgment in drinking each and every one of them was due to someone spiking his first butterbeer, but that was sadly un-provable. The lights were dim, someone had set up a strobe, and his heart throbbed the beat pounding from the too-loud stereos. The carpet had been transfigured into a dance floor, and the empty floor was soon transformed into a writhing mass of unwinding, drunk as piss Hogwarts upperclassmen. There was barely room to move without bumping into a new hip, a strange leg, a pair of welcoming arms. Draco was sandwiched between the Patil twins and loving every minute of it. Padma’s braid snaked down his sweat-soaked shirt. He gripped her hips with hands damp from the incredible heat on the floor. Behind him, grinding into his ass, was Parvati. She laughed occasionally in his ear as if embarrassed by her position, but not once did she stop moving.
“Draco, you’re pissed,” Draco heard someone yell from his left.
“Pansy? That you?’
“Ha!” Raucous laughter. It was Pansy, but it seems she’d suddenly been accosted by a gentleman with plain brown hair and a wide, drunken smile. “You’re rat-arsed!” she laughed at him. “You’re drunk as a lord! Hah!”
Draco rolled his eyes and kept dancing. The night was too young to get caught up in another of Pansy’s toss offs.
It was about four in the morning when Draco finally decided enough was enough and stumbled into the dark, quiet hallway. The wall torches flickered like phantom dancers, and for a moment Draco thought he might still be dancing, might still have his arms wrapped around an anonymous pair of shoulders and his arse grinding into an anonymous pair of hips. He laughed. Oh, that was such fun.
Draco stumbled along the wall until he could let go without dancing himself flat on his face. Slowly, slowly, the dungeons got closer. Or perhaps Draco got closer. One of them was sashaying, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was him. If it was him, than it really was ridiculous that he kept stopping to dance with paintings, statues, and suits of armor that weren’t actually moving. “Really, they’re terrible dancers,” he laughed as yet another monstrous work of stone refused to move at all, even to do a little jig. Most of them would sway, but when he kicked at their feet to get them to move a bit, they’d suddenly be stone again and glare at him.
“Ouch,” he said, having kicked a faery that refused to do more than flutter her wings. He kicked the next pair of legs he came to on principle.
“Ouch!” the legs said.
“You deserved it. You wouldn’t dance with me.”
“You didn’t ask me to dance,” the legs said. And then, “You’re wankered, aren’t you?”
The legs laughed at him. Draco kicked them again.
“Ouch!” they said.
“That’s what you get,” Draco slurred. “My name is Draco Malfoy. You refused to dance with me. I’m drunk.”
“I realize that,” the legs said, and laughed again. Draco kicked at them, but this time they moved. Since he was already sashaying (or maybe it was the hall?) he fell into the legs. Draco soon discovered they had a body with them.
“Potter?” He had Potter trapped against the wall. If only he could reach his wand…Wait! Potter’s head was gone! “Potter, is that you?” All that was there was chest! Draco poked at it.
“What are you doing, Malfoy?”
“Your head is gone! Oh my god, your head is gone!”
Firm hands suddenly gripped his arms and pulled. Draco stumbled forward and up, and then Potter’s head was back on his shoulders and he had a face and glasses and really green eyes. “Oh. There’s your head,” Draco said. “I’m drunk.”
“I see that,” Potter chuckled.
“Don’t laugh at me. I’ll kick you again.”
“Sorry.” Potter stopped laughing. Knew who he was talking to, that’s what.
Potter was dressed in casual clothes that weren’t robes: a dingy T-shirt and black trousers. Draco wasn’t sure he was real. “Are you not yet?”
“Er…no?”
Potter’s hands still gripped his shoulders. Draco let himself sink into them. Potter yelped and Draco sagged against him fully. He laughed into Potter’s ear. “Not yet, Potter. Not-yet Potter. Not-yet…I think I’m drunk. Do you think I’m drunk? I’m drunk. Do you know how to get to Slytherin?” Draco laughed. He hissed like a snake. “Ssssslytherin. Talk dirty to me, Potter. Speak Parseltongue!” He poked Potter’s chest insistently.
And then Potter kissed him.
It felt strangely…good.
Very good.
Draco resolved to get drunk more often. He’d get right on that…later.