Seven Minutes in Heaven Drarry (and Seamus is always right)
Eighth year at Hogwarts was intended to be one of educational fulfillment, a chance to finish one’s goal of mastering NEWT level witchcraft and wizardry. What it had become, however, was quite the opposite.
It all started when Hermione made friends with that one Slytherin Pansy Parkinson, and boy what a friendship it was. No one could really place what the two had in common, or what it was that kept them giggling at night, but they were a regular Lavender and Parvati and there was no separating them now.
The increased occurrence of Pansy’s presence had brought about a very sly, coy Blaise Zabini. Ron had refused to acknowledge his placement at their parties (“soirées” according to Pansy) until one day Blaise cracked a joke about Malfoy and- damn- If that didn’t have Ronald Weasley spewing his butter beer. They, too, had become an inseparable duo, and Harry had just about had it (“UP TO HERE” he’d said) because if Pansy was there, and Blaise was there, then Draco most definitely was going to be there. All the goddamn time. And there was no one he still despised more than- well, come to think of it, he really didn’t anymore. At the conclusion of the war, Malfoy had become sort of a gray character in Harry’s life, one who’d shown his condolences and grown quite a bit. They’d shared small conversations here and there, but nothing to speak of. And definitely not anything to make them friends. Malfoy and Potter could never be friends, no. There’d always been something so much deeper than that, whether it was hate, or just a plain abomination that resonated between them. But, whatever it was, it wasn’t friendship. It was fire, and passion, and knowledge, and fury. It struck Harry’s insides like wildfire, like the hot breath of a Hungarian Horntail. No, they would never be friends.
When the eighth year common room lit up that Friday night with the anticipatory mood of another soiree, Harry wasn’t surprised to see the silver trio enter suavely. Seamus was already drunk, and with Dean in tow he marched right up to Malfoy and gave him quite the uncomfortable hug.
“Malfoy! It’s so good to see you. I notice you’ve been hanging around those three pretty often. Anything you wanna tell me?” He gestured toward Harry with a wiggle of his brows and an obnoxious thumbs up that had Dean dragging him away. “Okay, Okay, you’re cut off.”
Harry, who’d already been staring in that general direction (because he hated him being here, that was all) froze with some sort of embarrassment. He expected Malfoy to sneer, or make some rude arse comment to the already pissed Gryffindor, but instead the only shade of emotion he illicited was a hot pink blush that spread across both cheeks. Harry started. He’d never seen Malfoy look so, so... fragile. It was beautiful. Captivating. What?
And then they were all downing shots of Firewhiskey (courtesy of Ron’s newest best friend), and the more inebriated Harry got, the more he found himself pondering the flush of those cheeks. The way his platinum hair accentuated them. The way his sharp features lacked their once pointed edges, and appeared rather... endearing. Like he really regretted following in his father’s foot steps during the war. Like another chance.
And suddenly Harry was thinking about his lips, and how they might taste like that certain kind of redemption that flips the world upside down. And he knew he was drunk, because when had he ever thought about snogging Malfoy? If he was really honest with himself, he’d find that this wasn’t the first time.
And suddenly his stupor was broken by a very self-appeased Pansy Parkinson suggesting that they lock each other in a closet for seven minutes and see what happens. “It’s a muggle game! Hermione told me about it,” she chattered, and Harry noticed Hermione’s cheeks blushing the same way that Draco’s had. What the fuck?
And then coincidentally Ron and Blaise were the first to end up locked away together, and from the suspicious noises coming from behind the door, Harry assumed they’d figured out they were in each other’s company. Was he fucking dreaming?
And then Luna (was she even an eighth year?) ended up with Ginny, and Dean with Seamus, and suddenly drunk Harry was wondering if Pansy was behind these matches or if this was one big coincidence.
When it was his turn to be blindfolded, he entered the closet with a weird sort of anticipation that he was sure he could blame on the whiskey. Why did he care who he ended up with? It’s not like it meant anything... right?
And why was there a small, evil voice in the back of his mind that hoped it would be Malfoy?
When the door opened again to reveal the warmth of another body, and immediately closed behind it, Harry’s breath caught. Who could it be?
“Hello?” He asked dumbly as the figure drew closer. He could feel their presence radiating toward him, being drawn as if by gravity. Since when did drunk Harry become such a goddamn poet? And then the body was beside him, sitting with its back against the wall, and Harry could feel his cheeks heating at the sudden closeness. Similar to the way Malfoy’s had.
Without a word, the foreign person beside him grasped his hand between two of their own. Simultaneously Harry’s heart began to race. Those hands were both mysterious and strangely familiar as they traced small circles around his palm. They were soft and smooth and suddenly Harry’s head was swimming, and he was 99% sure it wasn’t from the alcohol. The next moment brought their face eerily close to Harry’s, so much so that he could feel the smooth tickle of peppermint breath across his face.
And all at once he knew. He didn’t have to touch him. He recognized the proper, clean smell of a Malfoy, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He felt something inside him lurch, like he never wanted this moment to end. Why was he so close? And why did he want him closer?
“I know it’s you.” Harry whispered suddenly as he felt that breath come even closer, hot and heavy against his lips.
“Then why are you still wearing this?” Was the hushed response, and then those soft fingers were untying Pansy’s Slytherin tie from around his head.
The first thing he saw were piercing silver eyes held flush with his own. Why had he never noticed how stunning he was?
“We’re drunk,” Harry said as the world began to sway, reflecting outside what he so desperately felt within.
“I think about you all the time.” Was the response, and Harry felt his stomach lurch. “Ever since you gave me my wand back. And then Pansy and Blaise are all about your friends, and suddenly you didn’t seem so bad anymore. And then I realized that...that...”
Harry was frozen in his current state, unable to form words, let alone sentences. Out of nowhere, his instinct kicked in, took over, and answered what he knew to be hiding all along.
“That we always wanted each other.”
Draco nodded before resting his forehead against Harry’s. And then, out of nowhere, he was laughing.
“God, I never would’ve had the courage to tell you that if I wasn’t completely pissed. I’m no Gryffindor.”
Harry chuckled. “Well, I guess that makes me a poor excuse for one then.”
“You’re right. You should’ve told me sooner. That was your job.”
A quick pause, both lips pulled into an understanding smile. And then Harry’s grin widened into something slightly more facetious.
“So... how many minutes do you think we have? Five? Two?”
“Enough,” Draco answered urgently before pressing his lips forcefully upon his own.
Oh, God, they were the perfect balance of forgiveness and pining and secrets and fresh beginnings. They were soft and supple and most definitely not sneering in his direction. Harry’s drunken self pulled closer, no longer denying his innate desire to feel every piece of Malfoy become one with himself. His hands found the back of his neck, gripping the infinity of this moment before parting his lips and inviting Malfoy inside. He was suddenly overtaken by the overwhelming sensation of warm peppermint colliding against his tongue. It was perfection at its finest. It was Draco, and Harry, and a lifetime of desire splayed before them in one solid gesture. It was the future, and everything that was to come once they (literally) would come out of the closet together. It was firewhiskey and sobriety and indulgence. It was...
A room full of eighth years standing in silence, door wide open, observing two idiots snogging in a closet. Pansy wore a smirk; Hermione a knowing smile. Ron’s mouth was dropped into an unpleasant “O,” and Blaise was quietly chuckling at his reaction. They would’ve kept going, completely oblivious to the audience before them, if it weren’t for a stumbling Seamus Finnigan barging through the open doorway.
“SEE, DEAN!? YOU DONT GET TO CUT ME OFF WHEN IM RIGHT!?!?!?”
Drunk Harry didn’t care, and he had a feeling that sober Harry wouldn’t either. They separated with a grin before Draco took Harry’s hand and pulled them into a standing position.
He winked at Harry before turning to the crowd. “Somebody get Seamus a drink. He was right.”
With a hoop and holler from across the group, the soirée continued. It wasn’t long before Draco’s and Harry’s drunken confession inspired the start of several other relationships. By the end of the evening, Blaise and Ron had snuck to the dorm and Pansy and Hermione had locked lips in a deserted corner.
All in all, eighth year was more than just preparing for NEWTS. It seemed that it was educational in all kinds of ways, and at the end of the day, the golden trio had learned more than they would’ve ever expected from the silver trio. And, on top of that, everyone seemed to learn that when Seamus Finnigan was drunk, you should just go ahead and listen.
