(no subject)
Everything at Hogwarts seemed so much brighter, Harry thought, and so much friendlier, when one had just finished a frantic week of NEWTs.
Of course, the fact that one had just imbibed a pint of dark ale without stopping for breath, and then chased it with a rather vile shot of Ogden’s Old probably had some influence on that perception, but still, he reflected, it was nice to see his classmates milling about the common room smiling and laughing, the frown lines that had been etched into their faces during the long week all but vanished. Even Hermione was enjoying herself, as far as he could tell, wearing a flattering pink sundress, virgin Bellini in hand.
Loud rock music pulsed and shuddered through the room; already people were getting up to dance, Pansy and Daphne and Ginny moving like forces of nature in the middle of the floor. Cho smiled at him as she passed by , and Harry grinned back, but he felt momentarily sick as he watched Ginny, her red hair flying, her body lithe and free and beautiful. He’d been avoiding her since that day down by the lake, even though he knew by now that she knew what had happened. She’d probably have forgiven him by now, if only he could have summoned the courage that was the hallmark of his house to talk to her.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was a man in desperate need of another drink.
On his way over to the makeshift bar, nearly tripping over a couple (one half of which was a Weasley, he couldn’t tell who) snogging enthusiastically on the floor, he spotted Malfoy sitting petulantly in the corner, a bottle of beer beside him, nothing less than a glower on his face. At this Harry’s chest constricted. He forgot all about his quest for alcohol. He hadn’t spoken to Draco since that day either, though he’d wanted to, often. That, or to punch him, he wasn’t sure which.
Right now all Harry wanted was to turn away, retrieve his pint, and maybe go sit with Seamus and Dean to talk Quidditch, but his legs seemed to have other ideas. Quite against his will, he was sure, he was walking over to the sullen blond, and his traitorous mouth was opening to say, “Malfoy.”
“GAH!” Draco yelped, slopping beer down the front of his trousers. “Bloody buggering fuck, Potter! Warn a bloke before you do that! What in Merlin’s name possessed you to think I would want to talk to you?” He scowled, using the hem of his shirt to mop up the spill. “And I don’t, you know. Want to talk to you.”
“Sorry,” said Harry, smiling despite himself. “I just…..well, I wanted….I want to talk to you.” Draco looked up then, suspicion written all over him, something like alarm in his eyes.
“Oh no you don’t,” he spat. “That - that time by the lake was an accident. I didn’t mean to - it was the bloody moonlight, or something.”
“It was midafternoon,” Harry pointed out.
“I DON’T WANT TO KISS YOU AGAIN, POTTER, IS THAT CLEAR?” Draco blushed suddenly, his pale skin taking on a beetroot hue and contrasting nicely with his hair. The noise of the party had swallowed his outburst, but he continued to look defiantly at Harry, as though he was expecting him jump on him there in front of everyone.
After a moment’s pause, Harry seized a reluctant Draco by the elbow and half dragged him off into a cramped alcove under the stairs that was crowded with books - a favorite haven of Hermione’s when she was in one of her more fervent academic moods.
“Look,” he said, “look, Malfoy. I’m not going to molest you - and might I point out that you kissed me first. Parkinson asked me if I would talk to you about Auror training, apparently under the delusion that I’m at all knowledgeable about the subject.”
“And you agreed, out of the goodness of your noble Potter heart,” said Draco snidely. Harry noted the hectic color that had crept up from his collar and bloomed brightly on his cheeks. “You wanted the opportunity to steer another wayward soul toward the forces of good and light, is that it?”
“You,” said Harry, almost fondly, “are an insufferable git.”
“Hark who’s talking,” Draco replied, but even though his hand trembled slightly as he lifted his pint to his mouth, he smiled, just a little. His free hand went to the pocket on his robes, and for one mad moment Harry thought Draco was reaching for his wand, making to hex him. Then the hand reappeared clutching a cigarette and an expensive-looking silver lighter, and after a moment pale pink whorls of smoke were winding about their heads, smelling pleasantly, to Harry, like Molly Weasley’s famous shortbread.
“So talk, Potter. Enlighten me.”
“Um,” said Harry eloquently, “Er. Well, the Auror training. I think it takes something like three years of work before you can even qualify, and then they put you through a load of tests, and you can’t even become a junior Auror until you pass. And, er, you need really good grades on your NEWTs to be eligible for the program. You need to be fit, too - guess you need to be able to chase down dark wizards and things.”
Draco’s left eyebrow arched outrageously. “Are you implying that I’m not fit?” He leaned back against the shelf behind him, the fag dangling from between his fingers. Harry feigned a coughing fit.
“Why do you want to be an Auror, anyway?” He asked, when he thought enough time had passed that he could get way with not answering Malfoy’s question. He watched as Draco took another drag on the cigarette, not so much listening to the music as feeling it throb in the walls.
“Because it beats toadying to the next great evil. Because I’m good at duelling, and finding unusual spells. Because,” here he took another swig of his pint, and for the first time Harry realized just how elegantly drunk Malfoy was, “because my father wouldn’t have done it.” He looked down at the floor, and Harry couldn’t think of anything to say.
It took a little less than two steps to close the distance between them, a little less than two steps to discover the warm, surprised heat of Draco’s mouth, which tasted like beer and peppermint. His lips were chapped, he knew, and his kisses were sloppy, uncoordinated, if kisses could be such a thing. He was sure it couldn’t be comfortable for Draco, with those shelves pressing into his spine, with Harry’s knee digging into his thigh, but he was sure that that was Draco’s hand grasping at his shoulder, Draco’s voice making the softest of moans into his mouth. Harry found that his own hand had fisted in the material of Draco’s shirt, pulling him closer, inexpert but keen. His foot was wet - he dimly registered that Draco must have dropped what remained of his beer, and it was now soaking into Harry’s shoe, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was kissing Draco, that it felt just as good as it had the first time, that -
- that Malfoy was shoving him away, straightening his clothes, that Malfoy was muttering “Fuck-Fucking-Fuck” under his breath and bolting away from Harry, pushing through the crowd of people to the portrait hole.
Harry stood where he was for a little while. Someone had put the Rolling Stones on, and people were shouting for a girl - one of the Hufflepuff seventh years, he thought - to dance on the table. The smell of burning reached his nose.
He looked down. Draco’s cigarette was smouldering gently on the cover of 794 Habits of a Highly Effective Wizard. He looked at it for a moment, then stamped it out with the toe of his shoe.
Fuck-Fucking-Fuck, indeed.