not my writing, please do not sue me. I’m not taking any credit for this wonderful piece of art.
Harry could feel Malfoy's warm shoulder blade poking into his back. He glared at his supposed “friends,” who sat on the common room sofa with blithe smiles on their faces, apparently enjoying his deep and unending humiliation.
He heard Malfoy sigh behind him. At least Malfoy’s friends were as horrible as Harry’s were. It was a small comfort, but misery did love company. Even if the company was Malfoy.
“So here’s how the game works,” Pansy announced, and the wicked grin on her face recalled Disney villainesses from the Muggle films Harry used to watch from a hiding place behind the Dursley’s sitting room door.
“We go around the room asking questions of these two,” Pansy continued, gesturing at Harry and Malfoy, who were sat in the middle of the eighth-year common room on an ottoman, their backs against each other. “Each question should start with ‘Who…?,’ as in ‘Who is the pickier eater?,’ or ‘Who is more likely to defeat a Dark Lord?’”
The eighth years snickered.
Harry loved drinking games. He even loved them when it meant he had the piss taken out of him. But being the centre of attention, having the piss taken out of him, and being paired with Malfoy was really a step too far.
“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy,” Pansy continued with dramatic flourish, “if you believe the answer to the question is you, take a drink.” She handed each of them a small tumbler. “The glasses are charmed to refill from our store of Firewhiskey.”
“Seamus! Seamus!” Dean chanted as Seamus bowed. Seamus had supplied the whiskey, and the group had been chanting his name intermittently all evening.
“Seamus!” Ron called, but then he caught Harry’s eye and must have correctly interpreted the “I will kill you, mate” look Harry was giving him, because he ceased chanting.
It had been Ron and Hermione who suggested pairing Harry and Malfoy for the first round of this bloody game. Traitors.
“And because we don’t trust either of you—or any Slytherins or Gryffindors, really—to follow the rules of the game,” Pansy said, “we have the magically charmed version that will keep you both honest.”
“What?” Harry yelled, just as Malfoy drawled, “Excuse me?”
Harry was nowhere near drunk enough for this. He and Malfoy were both sitting very tall, trying not to touch each other, but every time one of them shifted, the other could feel it. Every time Malfoy moved, his pointy shoulder blade jammed into Harry’s trapezius. Harry could currently feel the pressure on his left tricep where Malfoy’s was pressing against it.
He was going to have to sit very, very still. Harry never had been very good at staying still.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Pansy, eyes sparkling, said to Malfoy. “You have nothing to fear except the truth.” The look on her face made clear that she knew how much Malfoy feared the truth. “If you don’t drink when you should have, the charm will illuminate your glass and you’ll have to drink. If you drink when you shouldn’t have, you’ll also have to take a penalty drink. And no dilly-dallying—if neither of you answers within thirty seconds, you each have to take a penalty drink and then answer the question.”
“So the charm will know the right answer?” Harry asked, aghast. He had been hoping to at least maintain plausible deniability. What if someone asked about sex? Harry was still a virgin! There were some things that people didn’t need to know about his already too-public personal life.
“Oh yes,” Pansy said with a saccharine smile. “The rest of us will take turns asking questions, going around the circle clockwise. We can’t go out of turn, else I imagine things could get out of hand. We’re all eager to ask questions of the two of you.”
Harry’s eyes widened in horror as he watched Padma Patil unfold a long piece of parchment. “Padma, did you prepare questions in advance?” he said, his voice nearly cracking in his anxiety.
Padma shrugged a shoulder. “I’m always prepared, Harry.”
Dean whispered something to Seamus; Lavender smiled ominously; Blaise crossed his legs with a satisfied smirk; and Hermione stared straight at Harry, looking as determined as he’d ever seen her. And that was saying something.
Even Ernie Macmillan looked entirely too eager.
“Pansy,” Malfoy drawled, and Harry was relieved to hear that Malfoy also sounded a bit discomposed, though he tried to hide it under a posh facade. “You haven’t explained how the winner is chosen.”
Pansy smiled, but it was Hermione who answered. “We assume one of you will forfeit. So, whoever doesn’t is the winner.”
This was no good. Hermione was trying to prey on his competitive nature! He could never forfeit to Malfoy!
Harry felt Malfoy’s back straighten behind him. If Malfoy’s sudden rigidity was anything to go by, he was of the same mind about the prospect of forfeiture.
Pansy waved her wand at them, and Harry shivered as a layer of magic settled over his skin. Over his skin and Malfoy’s skin—he could feel Malfoy’s back and the magic blanketing them both.
He glanced at the glass in his hand. At least he’d be pissed soon.
“Or one of you will get too drunk and chunder, also ending the game,” Ron added, grinning. Harry’s “I will kill you look” obviously wasn’t as intimidating as he had hoped.
The drink in Harry’s hand no longer looked so friendly.
“I bet it’ll be Malfoy who chunders first,” Seamus whispered.
Harry snorted and felt Malfoy’s elbow jab into his arm.
“I’ll have you know—” Malfoy started, tone indignant.
Pansy hushed him before turning to Seamus, who was no longer looking so amused now that Pansy’s intense gaze was directed at him. “That’s the first question. Go ahead, ask it.”
“Can’t I ask a better one?” Seamus groaned, but Pansy arched an eyebrow and Seamus shuffled closer to Dean. “Okay, urm… Who’s the most likely to chunder first?”
Harry just about managed to hold in a groan. It was him, it was definitely him. He was awful at holding his drink—not as awful as Ron, but certainly not as good as Hermione. He started to raise his glass to his lips before realising what he was doing. He wasn’t going to admit to being a bigger lightweight than Malfoy! There was no way Harry was a bigger lightweight than Malfoy. Malfoy was skin, bone, and pointy angles—that kept digging into Harry.
Harry lowered his drink and glowered in Ron’s direction when he heard him snort.
“Draco, do I need to remind you of last New Year?” Blaise asked. Harry spotted him examining his nails.
“Probably, as there’s no way he remembers it,” Goyle said.
Suddenly the group let out a large cheer.
“Drink up, Malfoy,” Ron yelled. The charm must have lit Draco’s glass! Harry grinned at the fact he wasn’t a bigger lightweight than Malfoy.
“One point to me,” Harry said, raising his arms to a chorus of Gryffindor cheers.
He felt Malfoy tense behind him. Malfoy wasn’t going to actually get pissed off about this, was he?
Harry’s relationship with Malfoy since the war was…cordial. They no longer argued like they used to, because Malfoy wasn’t the git he had been before the war. That wasn’t to say Malfoy was by any means docile or subdued, he was just no longer a bullying wizarding supremacist bastard. Harry viewed it as progress. They were also a long way from friends. Sure, they nodded awkwardly to each other in the hallway and that time McGonagall had paired them together for Transfiguration they had worked well together, but there was too much history there for them to be friends. Surely?
“You’re on, Potter,” Malfoy’s drawl and the whistle it drew from the crowd snapped Harry out of his thoughts.
“You’re going down, Malfoy,” Harry said with a smile, feeling rather than hearing the huff of Malfoy’s laughter. That had been one of the strangest things about eighth year: seeing Malfoy just smile. Harry didn’t think he had ever seen Malfoy just smile or laugh before the war; he had always been smirking or sneering or laughing at someone’s misfortune. Malfoy had a pretty nice smile, Harry had noticed, not that he had told anyone. Hermione would just give him one of those long-suffering looks of hers and Ron would either never stop teasing him or he would start crying. It was a toss up.
Pansy pointed at Dean. “Next question!”
“Who’s more likely to catch the Snitch?” Dean asked.
“Fucking bullshit!” Seamus jeered and Harry started—was Seamus calling him a liar? Harry always caught the Snitch against Malfoy. In fact he couldn’t think of a time when—
“Is not!” Malfoy’s indignant tones caused Harry to let out a bark of laughter.
“You drank?” Harry said, starting to turn around.
“No looking at each other!” Pansy hissed, pointing a long finger at him.
Harry pulled a face and turned back, the warm press of Draco behind him again. “You drank?” he repeated.
Malfoy sniffed. “Just because you were the youngest Seeker in a century, doesn’t make you the best.”
“Remind me of a time you managed to beat me?” Harry said, raising his eyebrows even though Malfoy couldn’t see him.
“It is the principle,” Malfoy said. “And this charm is shit!” The charm had clearly illuminated his drink again. Harry smirked. Two points to him.
Pansy cleared her throat, “You better not be insulting my charm work.” Malfoy muttered something that Harry didn’t catch and Pansy smiled. “Good, now drink up.”
Harry chuckled. “That’s two points to me and the game thinks I’m a better Seeker.”
“The game is shit,” Malfoy muttered.
“Potter, I know you’re stupid but what is the point of asking the same question again?” Malfoy drawled.
Harry resisted the urge to turn around and thump him. “I meant a Quidditch rematch,” you giant prat, he left off the end. Harry glanced over at Ron, who was snickering. Harry had no doubt Ron was already feeling the effects of the half a glass of Firewhiskey he’d had.
“Now?” Malfoy sounded torn between declaring Harry was a moron and leaping at the challenge.
“Why not?” Harry shrugged as half the group cheered. “Seekers’ game, you versus me.”
This time Hermione cleared her throat. “How about we deal with the game at hand, instead of trying to kill ourselves with half-drunken shenanigans?”
“Fine,” Harry grumped, feeling Malfoy’s back expand and contract as he heaved a gusty sigh. “Seekers’ game rematch tomorrow, then.”
“You’re on,” Malfoy replied, but he spoke quietly, like he wanted only Harry to hear, not like he was trying to posture to the entire crowd. Interesting.
“Alright, I’m next,” Lavender said from her spot next to Dean. “Who is more likely to get caught out of bed?”
Harry steeled himself for the hit of whiskey, because if ever there was a question he could be certain about, it was that. Images of Lupin and Snape and Peeves and Mrs Norris floated into his consciousness as he sipped, the liquid burning on its way down.
But then the room erupted into screams and hollers. “What?” Harry said.
“The Charm said it’s Malfoy, mate!” Ron yelled, jubilant. “Drink up, both of you.”
“How is that possible?” Harry yelled after taking another drink. “I have been caught in the corridors like a hundred times.”
“She didn’t specify ‘in the corridors,’” Theo noted, pointing his finger. “Slughorn is a light sleeper and caught Draco out of bed in the dungeon so many times.”
Wait, what the fuck was that supposed to mean? Harry found his old suspicions about Malfoy coming to the fore. But it surely wasn’t anything Dark. Probably just hook-ups. Right? Hook-ups?! But—
“Theo, shut up,” Malfoy hissed, and Harry could feel the vibrations from the words quake through his back.
“My turn!” Parvati screeched, and Harry cringed. He knew better than to underestimate her. “Who would be more likely to get with McGonagall?”
Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Ew!” He didn’t feel Malfoy move at all, and thank Merlin for that because the thought of Malfoy anywhere near those tartan knickers was more than Harry could bear.
“One of you better drink, or you’ll both have a penalty,” Zabini said with a smirk.
After thirty seconds had passed, Harry watched as his glass lit up briefly, went dark, and then lit up again. “What does that mean?” he asked, looking at Pansy.
Her face was curled into a terrifying rictus. “The blink was to indicate the penalty, the second light was to indicate that you, Mr Saviour, are more likely to get it on with the Headmistress.”
“WHAT?” Harry screamed, rising to his feet in outraged indignation. “I would never!”
“Calm your Gryffindor rectitude,” Pansy said in a bored tone, though her eyes twinkled with amusement. “It didn’t suggest you would, only that you’re more likely to.”
Harry would’ve gladly continued to bicker about this, because he would never!, but he was interrupted by Padma Patil, who looked up from her ill-boding parchment.
“Who,” she said, throwing an arm around Parvati’s shoulders, “would have a cooler Animagus?”
Harry sat back down and sighed, because honestly he had no idea what the fuck his Animagus would be. Like, a stag, maybe, but also possibly like one of those fucking octopi that could become invisible at will.
Malfoy, apparently, was also annoyed by the question. “That is totally subjective!” he protested.
Padma shrugged, unconcerned. “Well the charm must’ve operationalised it somehow.”
Oh, good. Just what Harry needed amidst the alcohol and all these poor friends—magical theory of bloody charms.
Harry gave his drink a look before taking a sip. He imagined a stag animagus would be pretty cool, it would the same as his dad’s after all.
“You can’t both drink at every question,” Blaise sighed. “You are meant to play the game honestly.”
“Let me guess, you think you’d be some daring lion, the height of chivalry,” Malfoy drawled, his voice low enough for only Harry again.
Harry nudged Malfoy with his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “The thought didn’t even cross my mind.”
“Of course not,” Malfoy said. Harry could hear the smirk in his voice.
“And what would you be? A ferret?” Harry suggested innocently, grinning as Malfoy jostled him back.
“Git,” Malfoy muttered, but the insult lacked the usual heat. “I’d be something noble, of course.”
“Of course,” Harry mocked, pulling a face when his glass lit up to indicate a penalty drink. Of course the charm thought Malfoy’s Animagus would be cooler than his. He bet Malfoy would turn out to be a fucking unicorn or something, the prissy prat.
Harry realised the group was silent and staring at them. “What?” he asked, slouching under the scrutiny of Hermione’s gaze.
“I said,” Nott drawled, his usual bored tone containing traces of amusement, “Who is better looking?”
Oh, Circe. On the one hand, Harry wanted to argue pointlessly about who was better looking just because it seemed like a thing he should do with Malfoy. Arguing with Malfoy about pointless shit seemed so comfortable, like the best parts of his childhood.
And maybe Harry really should go see that Mindhealer Hermione kept suggesting.
But on the other hand, Harry needed to start playing strategically, or he’d lose by default when he lost the contents of his stomach. And Harry wasn’t an idiot. He knew that people fawned over him, but it wasn’t because of his looks. Malfoy, on the other hand, looked like a fucking Greek god—like Adonis or something. He looked like the physical embodiment of all Harry’s realisations about his sexuality. He looked like the dreams Harry refused to contemplate in the light of day.
Harry pointedly put his glass on his knee without drinking.
But then the thirty seconds were up and the crowd went wild again, hooting and laughing.
“What?” Harry said, confused.
“Neither of you drank,” Ron shouted, looking like he hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in years. “Malfoy’s glass lit.”
Harry’s eyes widened, then he grinned, shoving his elbow into Malfoy’s back. “You think I’m better looking?” he teased quietly, while the rest of the eighth years continued their gleeful antics.
“You think I’m better looking, Potter?” Malfoy playfully taunted right back, digging his bony elbow into the back of Harry’s arm.
“Well, you are!” Harry said lamely, and why was he using Malfoy’s attractiveness to win an argument? This made no sense. Maybe the drink was going to his head already.
Millicent let out a loud whistle to quiet the crowd. “Oi, it’s my turn!” When they calmed, she smiled smugly. “Who is better at giving head?”
This time the crowd stayed absolutely silent, as if they didn’t want to miss one second of Harry’s and Malfoy’s reactions to this question.
How the fuck was Harry supposed to know the answer to that question?! He hadn’t even done it that many times! One needed a chance to hone one’s skills before being asked to enter a competition!
Harry was still staring at his drink indecisively when Draco must’ve taken a drink, because the crowd started whooping and Pansy shrieked, “Like fuck you are!”
Harry watched as his glass lit up. What? He was better at giving head than Malfoy! This was the best news he’d gotten all day! He took a drink and grinned.
“This is bullshit!” Malfoy objected, leaning to press his warm back into Harry’s.
Harry liked the feel of Malfoy’s back pressed into his own. The feeling of using the warmth and strength of another person for support. ‘Twas nice.
Oh, bloody fuck, this was going to be a problem, wasn’t it?
“I would know!” Pansy yelled, throwing a hand into the air. “Don’t you remember that time?” Her perfect dark eyebrows raised pointedly. The crowd laughed uproariously at Pansy’s public denunciation of Malfoy’s head-giving skill.
“Oh, come on!” Malfoy cried, and Harry could tell that Malfoy was gesticulating. Harry wondered whether he knew that because he could feel the motions or if he knew that because he just knew when Malfoy’s prim exterior would fall away to reveal his emotions and anxieties. One does pick things up after watching another person closely for seven years.
“That isn’t fair! That was only because you’re a girl!” Malfoy continued.
Harry’s mind went blank for a moment. What? Holy buggering shit, he must mean, he had to mean, he must be implying, Malfoy was saying that—
Suddenly a lamp in the corner of the room exploded into a million pieces. Harry could feel the magic lingering in his fingertips, and fuck, it had been ages since his accidental magic had gotten out of control! Luckily Hermione, at least, was in control of her faculties and shielded the group from the rain of shattered glass, then cast a Reparo at the lamp.
After a moment, everyone stopped shrieking and yelling about the lamp and returned their attention to Malfoy, who was mounting some sort of argument about the question being null because cunnilingus should’ve been explicitly excluded from the assessment of his head-giving talent.
At least no one seemed to have realised that Harry had been responsible for that explosion, distracted as they were by Malfoy’s revelation and current rant. But had Draco realised? He was pressed right up against Harry, after all, and it was possible he’d felt the magic.
“Alright, alright!” Ron yelled, suddenly, and Harry realised with a small horror that Ron was sat next to Millicent, and therefore it was his turn to ask a question. “Who’s more likely to suck cock in the loo at the Leaky?”
“That was one time!” Harry cried, the words falling out of his mouth before he could stop them.
A loud whistle echoed around the group and Harry felt Malfoy stiffen behind him. Harry groaned and refused to look over at Justin Finch-Fletchley, whose cock Harry had, in fact, sucked. In the loo. At the Leaky. Jesus fucking Merlin.
Scowling, Harry decided that straight up hitting Ron with the killing curse was too kind a death for his friend. No, Ron deserved a long and painful death.
“Drink! Drink! Drink!” Seamus started chanting. Harry’s scowl deepened as he glowered at Ron, who was still grinning. The idiot was clearly pissed. The rest of the circle started chanting and Harry could still feel Malfoy’s rigid back against his. Flipping them all the finger, Harry tossed the remainder of his drink back, pulling a face as it burnt his throat on the way down. Why had he agreed to this game? Why hadn’t he just quit whilst he was ahead?
Leaning back, the soft ends of Malfoy’s hair brushed Harry’s neck and he remembered why he hadn’t quit. Harry never would be able to back down from Malfoy, even over something as dumb as a drinking game.
Harry noticed that his head was becoming fuzzier. He sighed as his drink refilled itself. Fucking Seamus.
He also noticed Malfoy’s back was still as stiff as a plank. “Scared of a little public sex?” Harry teased, pressing his elbow into Malfoy’s side. They all knew Harry had done it now, there was no point pretending to be coy.
“That isn’t—” Malfoy’s was low as he started speaking before a screech cut him off.
“What!” Pansy screamed. “How dare you not tell me that!”
The crowd was in an uproar as the Charm indicated Draco as the one more likely to suck cock at the Leaky.
“That’s what I was scared of,” Malfoy muttered, and Harry started to swivel around. If Harry had actually done it, that meant....
“You too?” he asked, shocked, turning away as Millicent snapped at him to face forward. She scared Harry a little bit, if he was being honest.
The crowd was preoccupied with hollering and laughing.
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Harry murmured, leaning his head back against Malfoy’s. He should probably stop drinking, but he didn’t want to lose. And he liked the warm press of Malfoy behind him.
Malfoy chuckled. “What are we, thirteen? Want to braid each other’s hair while we’re at it?”
“Shut up,” Harry groaned, reaching his arm around and pinching Malfoy’s hip, snickering as Malfoy squirmed behind him. They had both gotten closer together as the game went on, no longer rigidly trying to keep whatever little distance they could. “Mine’s Justin,” Harry murmured.
“You’re kidding me. That prat?” Malfoy said, and Harry elbowed him to keep his voice down. “Do you like posh blonds then, Potter?”
“Yes, it’s the poncy accent that gets me going,” Harry grinned. “Now tell me yours.”
Malfoy paused and Harry swore that he didn’t care what Millicent or Pansy threatened, if Malfoy didn’t answer him Harry was turning around and punching him. Malfoy mumbled something.
Harry tilted his head back so he was closer to Malfoy’s mouth, as he wasn’t allowed to turn around and have this conversation like a normal person. “What was that?”
“I said…” Malfoy mumbled again and Harry reached around to pinch him again, resting his fingers against Malfoy’s hip threateningly. “Fine! Theo,” Malfoy hissed.
Harry’s jaw dropped as he turned his head to where Nott was sitting with a smug smile on his face as he watched the commotion. The git. Harry had never liked Nott; he was always creepy and lurking in the corner. And the thought of Malfoy on his knees for him...
Malfoy. On his knees. Harry swallowed and tried to suppress the shiver that ran up his back.
The thought of Malfoy on his knees was dangerously close to those dreams that Harry didn’t think about.
Harry heard Malfoy’s sharp intake of breath and tried to play it cool. Tried to think decent thoughts that didn’t involve Malfoy and sucking cock. He had a lot of Potions homework to do, and Potions made him think of Slughorn, which was extremely effective at alleviating the tightness that had been growing in his jeans.
“Do not think you’re off the hook for keeping this from me!” Pansy said to Malfoy, drawing Harry’s attention back to the game.
“And don’t think you’re off the hook for asking that question,” Harry said, pointing at Ron, who just giggled. If Ron was giggling, it probably meant that he would be running to the loo soon to chunder—perhaps then the game would end and Harry could stop humiliating himself.
Hermione, skipping her turn, told Terry Boot to go. Harry couldn’t decide whether she was a good friend for opting out or a bad friend for failing to ask a harmless question like, “Who most enjoys Weetabix?”
“Who’s better at Potions?” Terry asked. Harry decided he liked Terry Boot.
Zabini booed. “What a boring question, ask another.”
“Too late, he’s asked it,” Hermione sighed, gesturing for Harry and Malfoy to go.
Harry shrugged. “I’ll give Malfoy this one.”
“Oh, you’ll give me this one, will you?” Harry didn’t need to see Malfoy to see the smirk on his face. “How kind of you not to try pretend you're good at Potions.”
“I was decent in sixth year,” Harry protested weakly. He caught Hermione glaring at him; Snape’s Potions book was still a touchy subject. Not to mention that was where he found the spell that he had nearly killed Malfoy with that year. “But I have other strong suits,” Harry added lamely.
“You can say that again,” Malfoy said slyly after a pause that suggested Malfoy had drunk.
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Harry asked.
Malfoy laughed and Harry liked the way it felt against him. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Jesus, how much had Malfoy had to drink? Harry couldn’t stop himself from scooting backward to soak up more of Malfoy’s warmth. It definitely had nothing to do with pressing his arse against Malfoy’s. Definitely not.
Pansy was arguing with Theo over something or other, causing a bit of a distraction from the game. Harry leaned his head back until it was almost resting on Malfoy’s shoulder. “Theo and Justin aren’t good enough for us,” he whispered, wondering if his hair was actually brushing Malfoy’s ear or if that was just his whiskey-soaked perception.
Malfoy urned slightly toward Harry. “Cheers to that, Potter,” he said with a smirk.
Harry smiled. He could clearly see the pale stubble on Draco’s jaw. Oh Merlin. Why was his head on Draco’s shoulder? He pushed unwanted thoughts about how that stubble would feel on his tongue out of his mind and sat back up, pressing the back of his head into Malfoy’s.
Zacharias Smith convinced Pansy and Theo to stop bickering so he could ask his question. “Who is more likely to become a Dark Lord?” the fucking bellend asked.
Hermione, Pansy, Ron, and Blaise all shot Smith dirty looks. What a fucking idiot. Who would ask a question like that?
Harry felt Malfoy stiffen again, and he hated it. He wanted Malfoy loose and limber and leaning into Harry like he had been a moment ago. Fuck Zacharias Smith and fuck the war.
After the final battle, Harry had slept for most of a week. When he rejoined the world, he had an owl from Malfoy. It wasn’t much, but it was an apology, if an overly formal one. Harry had testified at Malfoy’s trial, and they had shaken hands when Malfoy was let off without a sentence. They hadn’t said much about it, but Harry knew that Malfoy regretted loads about the war and his role in it.
Harry knew it all on some deep, visceral level, and Smith fucking did not. Smith was not fucking allowed to talk about it.
So without so much as a second’s thought, Harry glared at Smith, lifted his glass and swallowed the entire glass. “Clearly me, Smith,” Harry said.
Smith didn’t seem contrite, but Harry was gratified that at least Malfoy relaxed against him when his glass didn’t light up.
Daphne and Padma started arguing over whether to allow any further questions about the war, and Harry reached one arm behind to squeeze Malfoy’s forearm. “Are you okay?”
Draco sighed. “I’m not a first-year Hufflepuff, Potter. I’m used to people like Smith casting aspersions.”
“It’s just,” Harry said—and he really wanted to see Malfoy’s face so he leaned his head back again, “they don’t understand what it was like. It makes me angry.”
Malfoy narrowed his eyes and looked at Harry. “Don’t presume you know what it was like for me, either. I don’t presume to know what it was like for you.”
Harry gave a tentative half-smile. “I know, I know. Just, they think they know what they’d do. They have no idea what it’s really like. Smith is a tosser.”
“Yes,” Malfoy said, his voice sounding posh and teasing and perfect, “I would never suck him off in the loo at the Leaky.”
For a moment Harry craned his neck, staring at what he could see of Malfoy’s grey eyes and clever mouth. He hadn’t been expecting Malfoy to joke! Or—was that flirting? It couldn’t be. Though Harry was notoriously bad at identifying flirting, even when he wasn’t one of the participants.
Harry felt a shiver flutter through his body, and he could’ve sworn Malfoy leaned into him more firmly.
“That’s settled,” Padma announced, tearing Harry’s attention away from Draco. “No more war questions. We don’t want to watch that. We want to see you answer the good questions.” She waved her parchment in the air.
Harry huffed a laugh and removed his head from Malfoy’s shoulder.
“Hmm, what shall I ask?” Zabini drawled slowly.
“Oh dear Merlin,” Harry caught Malfoy mutter before Zabini spoke.
“Who’s more likely to have a threesome?” Zabini said.
Pansy whooped. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”
“Not Harry,” Ron slurred, waving his drink at Malfoy. Hermione tutted and took Ron’s drink from him with a fond smile. That was probably for the best.
“Well, go on,” Lavender said, ignoring Ron and leaning closer to Harry and Malfoy.
“Well, I always presumed Potter was having a little side thing with Weasel and Granger,” Malfoy sighed.
Harry choked on his own breath and craned his head back to glower at Malfoy. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a logical assumption,” Malfoy smirked, his breath warm on Harry’s cheek. It smelt like Firewhiskey. Harry wondered if Malfoy tasted of Firewhiskey. He sat up, cheeks burning—he was not meant to be having thoughts about what Malfoy tasted like because that was thinking about kissing Malfoy.
“Well, who is it?” Lavender prompted again.
“Not me, I don’t like sharing,” Malfoy murmured, his lips suddenly brushing Harry’s neck—when had he leaned back? why was his head on Harry’s shoulder? why was hair was so soft and tickly?—causing Harry to choke on his own breath for the second time in a matter of minutes.
Harry was pretty sure he was going to combust. This was how he was going to lose the game—he was going to die of sexual frustration. Harry crossed his legs and shuffled, trying not to think about Malfoy, who was definitely pressing closer to Harry. Harry was not getting hard sat back-to-back with Draco sodding Malfoy surrounded by a circle of his friends. Absolutely not. He was not.
Harry’s drink lit up. He was so distracted by his growing erection that he couldn’t even spare any outrage that the charm thought he was more likely to have a threesome. He took a sip, trying to calm himself. Malfoy’s head was still on his shoulder and he could hear Malfoy snickering. The utter prat.
“So who’s in your threesome?” Malfoy’s breath was so warm. It took all of Harry’s self-restraint to refrain from turning around. Malfoy’s head was right there, if Harry could merely lean his head back, just so, and—. Harry wondered how drunk Malfoy was. The charm had accused him of being the bigger lightweight, after all.
“I’m not having one,” Harry claimed with a smile. He could see half of Malfoy’s face from this strange angle, and he liked the curve of Malfoy’s mouth when he smiled, it was slow and easy, and not helping Harry with the not thinking about kissing issue. Harry was definitely getting hard and this was worse than fighting Voldemort.
Malfoy quirked an eyebrow, “Charm says otherwise.”
“Would you want to be in it?” Harry asked, neck still craned backwards, desperately clutching at straws and trying to regain the self-control that Malfoy was slowly but surely stripping him of.
Malfoy’s cheeks flushed and Harry grinned, feeling slightly more even footed now.
Malfoy looked cute when he blushed. Malfoy’s blush darkened. Harry froze, eyes wide, realising that he had said that out loud. Oh fuck.
“I mean,” Harry stammered, ducking his head against his chest, away from Malfoy’s face, and wishing for the sweet release of death. “I mean… Not that you’re cute! Or ugly! I mean you know I think you’re good looking, but...” Harry trailed off and groaned, dragging his hands through his hair.
“Thanks,” Malfoy said, shoulders shaking as he laughed. “I think you’re good looking too.” Malfoy’s tone was so light and teasing that Harry nearly chucked his glass at Goyle when he cleared his throat to speak, silencing the threesome speculations.
“Who is more obsessed with the other?” Goyle said, initiating a chorus of “Oooohs” from the group.
“Obviously Malfoy,” Harry said at the same time Malfoy drawled, “Potter, obviously.”
“No turning around!” Pansy growled, as Harry started to turn around to protest. What was Malfoy thinking? There was no way Harry had been more obsessed with Malfoy than Malfoy was with him.
“It’s Draco,” Goyle sighed, taking a long sip of his drink. “Trust me when I say it’s Draco.”
“You’re a bad friend and a liar,” Malfoy grumbled, and Harry could feel that Malfoy was throwing his arms up dramatically. Imagining Malfoy’s outraged expression made Harry smile.
Harry’s amusement was cut short as Ron started to speak. “Don’t be so sure of that, Goyle,” Ron said. “It has to be Harry.”
Harry’s mouth dropped open. He felt like he’d been hit with a Full-Body Bind: he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, he could only watch the events proceed with horror.
“Harry watched Malfoy at every meal in the Great Hall first through sixth years,” Ron challenged.
“Well that doesn’t help your case,” Goyle retorted, “because Draco watched Potter at every meal, too. Did Potter sneak out of the common room at night and lose House Points because he had to try to trick Draco? Because Draco did.”
“Um, let me think about it,” Ron said, chuckling. “Yes, yes he did. Did Malfoy follow Harry around in an Invisibility Cloak?”
“Only because he didn’t have one,” Goyle replied quickly. “Draco didn’t get an O on his Potions O.W.L. because he spent half the lessons sabotaging Potter’s potions. And then he had the nerve to complain about it all summer.”
Harry’s mouth gaped farther open, but he still could only watch, aghast.
Ron shook his head, a cocky smile on his freckled face. “Seriously, I know you have a strong case, but you’re not going to win this one. Harry insisted on sneaking away from all of us to spy on Malfoy because he was sure Malfoy was up to something. This happened multiple times over several years.”
“Draco secretly watched every Gryffindor Quidditch practice starting in second year.”
“I was gathering information on their plays!” Malfoy huffed, and the crowd, which was already snickering, devolved into full-blown laughter.
“Then explain why you stopped when Potter was banned,” Goyle demanded, raising his pudgy eyebrow in a facial expression he’d surely learned from Malfoy.
“Greg, darling,” Pansy said, and Harry was sure he heard Malfoy swear under his breath. “You can’t possibly neglect to mention the badges.”
At this, Ron seemed to lose his ability to form words—he doubled over with laughter, his pale face turned red, tears in his eyes. Hermione, amused but silent, thank Merlin—at least Harry had one good friend—watched from his side.
Ron inhaled a huge breath of air and managed to shout out “THE BADGES!” gleefully through his cackles.
“Those badges were very intimidating!” Malfoy claimed, his accent growing impossibly posher in proportion to his outrage.
Harry, faced with the mounting evidence against Malfoy and full of ill-conceived confidence, began to relax.
But then Hermione’s quiet voice somehow carried through the crowd—had she used a subtle amplification charm? “Harry spent an entire year watching a dot labelled ‘Draco Malfoy’ move around on a magicked map.” She stopped to carefully enunciate her words: “All day long. Every. Day. On Christmas morning, Ron was opening gifts, and Harry was staring at the map wondering where Malfoy was. I know this because I got to hear Ron complain about it for the rest of the day.”
“That’s true,” Ron said, sobering a bit. “I was worried about you, mate.”
Harry huffed in outrage, but he couldn’t find the energy to be too upset at the reveal of this information. He suspected he would find it more worrisome if he weren’t feeling as if his brain were sloshing in whiskey. Which it was.
“Weasley,” Goyle said with a smug smile, “you’re forgetting the time Draco sat in that fucking tree. Just waiting. In a tree. To taunt Potter.”
Ron opened his mouth, raised his hand in a pontificating manner. But it appeared he had no words with which to top the fifth-year tree incident.
“And we haven’t even mentioned the time Draco fashioned dementor costumes,” Zabini added.
“Oh Merlin,” Seamus called with an evil smile. “I forgot about that. Malfoy, did you sew?”
Malfoy’s back jostled in such a way that Harry suspected he’d just petulantly crossed his arms.
“But we don’t need to argue about it,” Hermione said over the din. “The charm should’ve told us who was more obsessed. Were we all so distracted we missed it?”
“I’ll ask it again,” Goyle said. With a challenging stare at Malfoy, he said, “Who was more obsessed with the other?”
Harry and Malfoy, neither willing to admit defeat, sat in pointed silence for thirty seconds. The drinks flashed to indicate penalty shots, and Harry stared at his own drink, which was not lit, while Goyle screamed, “I TOLD YOU!”
“This is preposterous,” Malfoy grumbled in that low voice only Harry could hear.
Malfoy leaned back into Harry, and Harry liked the firmness of it. Earlier he had thought of Malfoy’s back as pointy, but now it felt steady, strong. Whereas before he had thought of it as unyielding, now Harry’s brain was processing that same warm pressure on his shoulders as an appealing sturdiness.
Harry shoved backward with his left shoulder, nudging Malfoy. “Well you did climb that tree,” he said with a smile.
“I was pretty obsessed, too, though,” Harry said, for some reason not wanting Malfoy to feel exposed or embarrassed.
“Yes, well,” Malfoy said with a tone that suggested effortful primness, “don’t think you can make me forget that you’re secretly into threesomes.”
Harry let out a bark of laughter and felt himself sway. Merlin, he should try to take smaller sips. He placed his hands on the ottoman behind his hips, bracing himself.
Then Malfoy shifted, and Harry realised Malfoy was also leaning back on his hands. And now he could feel fingertips touching the insides of his wrists. Malfoy—that flexible bastard—had pointed his fingers backward to face Harry. Harry, with a tingling sensation running up his arms from Malfoy’s touch and a rush of blood to his groin, wondered whether Malfoy’s elbows were hyperextended. That git’s elbows were always hyperextending. Not that Harry paid much attention.
And—Merlin, fuck!—Malfoy was brushing the fingers on one hand just slightly so they rubbed against the creases on the inside of Harry’s wrist. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was so thoroughly smashed or because it was Malfoy, but Harry’s whole body was alight with sensation. He couldn’t even begin to care that one of the onlookers might notice the situation in his jeans.
Harry was a quivering wreck of arm tingles and southward-rushing blood. He couldn’t let Malfoy have the last word here without at least trying to give as good as he was getting. So Harry awkwardly turned his fingers to face backwards; he wasn’t as flexible as Malfoy, but they got almost all the way around, and he made sure to overlap his fingers on top of Malfoy’s.
Malfoy, the sneaky bastard, wiggled his fingers and managed to slide his fingers in between Harry’s, interlocking them together.
Harry was pretty sure that for a few seconds he forgot how to breathe. He was holding hands with Malfoy. He was holding hands with Draco Malfoy. He, Harry Potter, was holding hands with Draco sodding Malfoy. Except it wasn’t really Draco sodding Malfoy anymore, just Malfoy, whose hand was warm and smooth and slightly calloused from flying. Harry liked holding Malfoy’s hand.
He glanced around trying to figure out if anyone had noticed that he and Malfoy were holding hands. No one seemed to have done. And what was more, Harry didn’t really care if they did. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but Harry wanted to keep holding Malfoy’s hand. He gave it a squeeze as Justin started talking.
“I can’t believe you sucked his dick,” Malfoy enunciated softly as Justin made a large show of debating what he was going to say. “I mean, you sucked a Hufflepuff’s cock.” Harry wanted to laugh and shove Malfoy away, but he found his mouth drying out at the sound of Malfoy’s elegant drawl saying cock and dick. In fact, the words did not help the tightness in his jeans at all. Harry shifted, trying to keep the situation under control.
“Do you like thinking about me sucking cock?” Harry murmured back, smirking at the way he felt Malfoy go rigid before shifting awkwardly. Harry wondered if Malfoy was struggling with the same problem he was.
Justin cleared his throat and Harry glanced over at him. While he supposed Justin wasn’t bad looking, he certainly was nowhere near Malfoy’s level of outrageous hotness. Since when did Harry admit to himself that he found Malfoy outrageously hot?
Malfoy’s thumb stroked Harry’s hand in an almost absentminded motion.
“Who’s better in bed?” Justin said pompously, his eyes heavy on Harry. Harry tried not to cringe. This was what he had been dreading.
Zabini whistled. “Hufflepuff has game.”
The Hufflepuff could shove his game up his arse as far as Harry was concerned.
What the fuck was Harry supposed to do? Not drinking suggested that he thought Malfoy was better in bed than he was—and seeing as Harry was a virgin, that wouldn’t be hard. There hadn’t been a lot of time for sex with Voldemort trying to murder him at every turn. Harry gazed at his drink. He would bet Malfoy wasn’t a virgin. Malfoy, with his good looks and sucking off idiots like Nott in the Leaky. No, there was no way Malfoy was a virgin.
Harry glanced up to find Ron staring at him, wide eyed, encouraging him to take some sort of action. Harry cast another look at his drink. He didn’t know what was more embarrassing—claiming he was better in bed and then the charm outing him as not, or not drinking and suggesting that Malfoy was better than him.
“Time’s up,” Lavender whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at them both.
“And neither of you drank,” Parvati said, clutching Lavender’s hand.
“Mate,” Ron sighed, dropping his head into his hands.
Harry shrugged at Ron—there wasn’t much he could do. Ron knew he was a virgin. Harry gazed at his drink, but nothing happened.
“What’s wrong with the charm?” Ernie frowned.
“Nothing is wrong with my charm,” Pansy huffed, a look of confusion on her face. “There must be…” She trailed off and her face lit up in a wicked grin. “They’re both virgins!”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but then just shrugged again. He wasn’t going to deny it. “Not much time to get laid when you spend half your life with a nutter trying to murder you.”
An awkward silence fell before Ron snorted and everyone realised they could admit it was funny.
“The Chosen One, a virgin,” Zabini hummed in thought, and Harry flipped him off, leaning back against Malfoy as once again the circle was distracted.
Harry couldn’t believe Malfoy was a virgin; who wouldn’t want to sleep with Malfoy?
“Not much time to get laid when there’s a madman living in the room next door either.” Malfoy’s voice was soft in Harry’s ear, and Harry let out a huff of laughter, craning his neck as best he could to see Malfoy. He wanted to just turn around and stare at that haughtily handsome face, but he didn’t dare. “Instant boner killer.”
“And what about now?” Harry asked, throwing caution to the wind. It was what he was best at.
“And what about now?” Malfoy echoed.
“No madmen here now,” Harry felt the shiver in Malfoy’s body and the hitch in Malfoy’s breathing.
“No… No there’s not,” Malfoy nodded. Harry bit his lip as he gazed at the half of Malfoy’s face he could see from this stupid angle. His arm was cramping, but he didn’t want to move.
“Who wants to fuck the other more?” Pansy’s voice suddenly rang through the air, and Harry jumped, letting go of Malfoy’s hand and spinning around to face Pansy, who was grinning at him. Her smile was full of teeth, and her eyes sharp.
The chatter of the room fell silent.
Harry eyed his drink, and grinned back at Pansy before downing the entire glass. Gryffindor and proud. He'd had far too much, both to drink, and also of this calculated Slytherin evasion. Harry was nothing if not direct.
“Mate,” Ron sighed, looking torn between laughing and crying, just as Harry had anticipated.
“I knew it,” Goyle said, downing the rest of his own drink. “I told Vince so in fourth year.”
“You knew I’d want to fuck Malfoy?” Harry spluttered before realising what he had said. He wanted to shove the words back into his mouth.
Pansy looked like Christmas and her birthday had been rolled into one. “He knew Draco would want to fuck you! But I am thrilled that it’s mutual.”
Harry spun around, not caring that Millicent was shouting at him that he was breaking the rules. Draco had drunk too. Draco wanted him too. Draco. Harry’s drunken brain had called him Draco.
Swallowing as Malfoy slowly turned around, Harry gazed at him properly for the first time since the start of this stupid—brilliant, genius—game. He took in Draco’s sharp features, pale eyes, and plump lips. Draco had really nice lips, Harry noticed, licking his own and watching the way a pink flush spread over Draco’s cheeks. Draco’s cheekbones could cut glass, Harry thought. He could hear people cheering but he didn’t hear anything they said, all he could do was stare at Draco like it was the first time he had ever seen him.
Later, Hermione would claim that she had skipped her original turn so she could jump in at exactly a moment like this.
Hermione’s voice pierced the noise. “Who’s more likely to make the first move?”
Harry dropped his glass, not hearing if it smashed or if someone managed to Summon it out of the way in time. He grabbed Draco’s shirt with both hands and pulled him in for an all-encompassing kiss. He didn’t need to worry about taking Draco by surprise, as the other boy had been moving to meet him. The kiss was messy, wet, and desperate, but it was the best kiss Harry had ever had. No contest, really—Harry’s entire body was thrumming with excitement and arousal and some sort of holy fuck holy shit holy fuck that was probably caused by adrenaline.
Holy fucking Merlin’s wrinkled bollocks, Harry was kissing Draco Malfoy. And Draco was wrapping his arms around Harry’s back, dragging him closer, twining fingers in his hair. Harry moved his hands from Draco’s shirt to his face, dragging his thumb across the pale stubble that had caught his eye earlier.
Draco pulled away for a moment, keeping his face close. Harry could get lost in those icy grey eyes. “You are such a tease,” Draco breathed, a small smile quirking up half his mouth.
Harry leaned forward, pressing their mouths together again. He opened his lips, sucking Draco’s bottom lip into his mouth. “I’m a tease?” he asked, his mouth ghosting over Draco’s. “So who’s in your threesome?” Harry echoed, in his most posh mimicry.
“Shut up,” Draco said, still smiling as he pressed his lips against Harry’s.
Harry’s head was swimming with pleasure and lust and—sousement? Sousal? Souseness? Besousedness? Sousery? Being soused.
“I’m so drunk,” Harry divulged, as if it was a secret, smiling and feeling the happiest he could remember being since—well, for a long time.
Draco chuckled, pressing kisses onto Harry’s jaw. “Me too, idiot.”
Suddenly the intensity of dozens of stares broke through Harry’s lusty besousedness and he jerked back. Pulling his eyes away from Draco’s, the first thing Harry saw was Seamus, who had at some point hopped onto Dean’s lap. Seamus had his eyes on Harry and his tongue in Dean’s ear.
“Carry on,” Dean said, waving a hand magnanimously.
“Er,” Harry said with a nervous laugh, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. Everyone was staring at them. Parvati and Lavender were leaning forward, Millie was reclining against the sofa looking for all the world like she was watching the best show on telly. Ernie looked like he’d just been hit by a bus. Pansy looked like a vulture, or maybe a tiger. In any case she looked like she was on the sidelines ready to pounce. Only Ron and Hermione were pointedly looking away—Hermione was even shielding her eyes with her hand.
“Right,” Draco said, suddenly standing up. He grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him off the ottoman. “You’re all a bunch of wankers.” He walked in the direction of the dorms, pulling Harry behind him.
Harry tried to flash a confident smile at Ron and Hermione, though his stumbling into the wall and Draco grabbing him round the waist so they could sway into each other rather than the walls probably didn’t do much to reassure his friends.
Ron raised one of his eyebrows and gave a thumbs-up, but his face was contorted into a grimace. Hermione mouthed, “BE SAFE” and “YOU’RE DRUNK.”
As Draco pulled Harry into his room, his perfect lips pressing into Harry’s as the door closed, Harry heard a voice echo from the common room: “So did they both lose, then?”
Draco leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Harry’s neck. Harry inhaled, completely overwhelmed by the sensation.
“I dunno,” he heard Goyle say, “I’d say they both won.”
Harry laughed and pulled Draco in for another kiss.
