I'm sorry to just ask out of the blue, but I'd love if you wrote some drunk Draco. Might help me feel better.
You know, Anon, I feel that to my core. I’m sorry that this is…not great. I hope you feel better independently of my slightly tortured pre-Drarry. Draco is also not as funny as he normally is when I write him drunk and for that, I can only blame my own slightly weird mood. Sorry friend ❤️ ❤️
Harry jolted awake to a large crash, wand in hand and alert. It had been a decade and a half, yet noises in the night still freaked him out. He bolted upright and realised right away why he’d heard the sound; he was not in his highly-Warded and unplottable flat above the cauldron shop of Hogsmeade. Instead, he was haphazardly sprawled on the very nasty sofa in the staff lounge.
He took a few seconds to reorient himself, trying to work out why it was that he hadn’t made it home. The details shuffled through his mind slowly. Grading papers now so that if he finished on this random Thursday evening, if he caught up on the many hours of marking he’d put off, he could go to Ottery St. Catchpole at the weekend. Visit Molly. Play with the kids. Sneak in a few seeker games with Ginny.
Reoriented and no longer afraid in the safety of the castle, Harry was focused on the soft curse words from the small kitchenette around the corner that now made him chuckle. He casually wandered over, smoothing out his rumpled robes as best he could.
“Buggering fuckery fucking nitwit,” the quiet voice was whispering from the floor, surrounded by tins and boxes that had clearly just been wrenched from various cupboards.
“Need any help?” Harry asked.
The figure jumped slightly, then leaned back from a cross-legged position until it was lying with its back on the floor, revealing a very crumpled Draco Malfoy.
“Oh, of bloody fucking course it’s you,” he cursed, letting his legs fall to the floor too so that he was now completely prone and staring at Harry upside down. “Why in Salazar’s name are you in the lounge at…wait, is it still three?”
Harry glanced at his watch, then nodded, considering Malfoy’s slant and slur, his general dishevelled nature. “Um. Are you…no. Never mind.” “Drunk?” Draco sighed, closing his eyes. “Indeed.” “And you’re looking for…tea?”Draco giggled, the sound positively unnerving given who it was coming from. “Hid some biscuits in here last week. Ran out of snacks upstairs in my room.”
“Biscuits?” Harry repeated.
Draco didn’t explain further. Instead, his upside-down smile turned predatory, his eyes sweeping up and down Harry’s body; even from this unusual position, Harry flushed at the scrutiny. Draco’s face was always an open book, and the expression they’d landed on now seemed to be lust. Harry was flustered. It didn’t help that Draco looked like he’d been through a trial. His hair was a mess, the remains of black eye makeup smudged at the corners of his bright grey eyes, his clothes were wrinkled and stretched. He wore a tight, dark blue t-shirt with a deep vee that let his sharp collar bones escape. Black jeans and high boots added to the come hither outfit.
Harry cleared his throat.
Draco looked away. “You sleep here now?” Bit pathetic, even for you.” He reached his hands up into the air. “Help me up?”
Without a second thought, Harry walked around the boxes and gripped Draco’s hand, dragging him up. He faltered and stumbled a moment before regaining balance, laughing the whole time. The sound was carefree and out of place.
“Grab this,” he demanded with a violent poke of his wand that sent the box flying. Harry caught it deftly and sent the other boxes back into the cupboard with his own wand before following after Draco as he seemed to tumble and bounce from the room.
When they reached the second-floor staircase that led to the staff quarters, Draco stared at them a moment like they were the tallest of mountains and then giggled as he sat heavily on the bottom step and leaned his head against the rail.
“What’s the plan, Malfoy?” Harry teased. It earned him a glare that he appreciated more than was decent. It also forced Draco up again.
“Gonna ask me what happened?” he asked with a glimmer in his eye,
Harry smirked, offering an arm that Draco clung to instantly as they set off up the stairs. “No offence, clever clogs, but this isn’t really that hard to work out, even for a failed Auror like myself. It’s Thursday… Pub night. I’m guessing blue drinks, based on your…nevermind… I also have a feeling I can blame Professor Perkins, but that one will take more evidence.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know why I was in the lounge,” Draco tried to retort vehemently. He tripped instead, ending up against Harry and jabbing him with a finger in the chest that may or may not have been intentional. They carried on upwards in silence, Harry wrapping an arm around Draco’s back when he stumbled next.
“Thank you for walking me home, Mr Potter,” Draco sneered as they reached the top of the stairs. “Very chivalrous. You should be happy you aren’t…someone else.”
“Why?” Harry asked boldly.
“Might try to kiss you — Ooh!” Draco interrupted himself, looking more excited and alert than he had for the past five minutes. “Let’s go to the Potion’s classroom!”
Harry laughed and shook his head, extracting himself from Draco’s grasp and holding out the tea box, which Draco ignored. “I think you should probably avoid brewing for the next few hours, Professor Malfoy.”
“You’re no fun,” Draco pouted. “You used to be fun. I remember that. It’s why I hated you.”
Not waiting for a reply, Draco smiled broadly and whirled around in a flamboyant and extremely unsteady spin. “Do what you want, I am going to make some Felix Felicis.”
Harry started to protest but was disrupted by Draco halting in his path and turning around, smile still glued to his face.
“Did I look like Snape?” he giggled. “With the whirling and the dramatics?” He looked expectantly at Harry, who burst out laughing and grinned despite himself.
“You might have,” he agreed eventually. “But you aren’t wearing robes.”
“I know,” Draco scowled, looking down at himself and then planting his hands on his hips with an exaggerated pout. “I’m quite annoyed at this shirt, you know. I always pull in this shirt. This is my Pub Shirt. My Pirt! No, don’t say that. I never said that.”
“Right?!” Draco continued unhindered. “It’s very…purple-y, this shirt. And —”
“It’s blue,” Harry interjected.
“Ugh, no, don’t. It’s purple. Trust me. I’m not having this argument with you. It’s purple and it’s pretty and I look very fucking hot in it and I should, at this very minute, be making regrettable choices where I’m probably no longer wearing it.”
“I mean, that seems like a lot to expect of a shirt,” Harry teased.
“And instead,” Draco continued, “I’m in a school corridor with you at half three in the morning, arguing about purple. Because life is very unfair, even when you drink.”
Draco dropped his hands and waltzed back to where Harry stood, in front of the large portrait that presumably led to his quarters.
“Look,” he insisted, stepping very close and drawing up the hem of his shirt for Harry’s inspection.
Harry meant to look. He really did. He was ready and willing to look at the shirt, and then argue it’s blue-ness no matter what he colour he found there. He had a whole plan. But, when he lifted his eyes to examine the fabric before him, he instead found three things that simultaneously made him stop breathing. First, he discovered that Draco’s fingers were perfect and lithe, delicate and manicured where they gripped the fabric and held it aloft. Second, he realised that Draco’s eyelashes were incredibly long, but were so blonde that he’d never noticed (a part of Harry’s brain did realise that it might be weird that it was one of the few things he hadn’t noticed about Draco Malfoy).
And third, Harry noticed that Draco’s stomach, so pale it was almost blue, was soft. The rest of him was so defined, from chiselled jaw to sinewy forearms, that Harry had possibly been expecting abs. But instead, there was a softness to his stomach that existed nowhere else on Malfoy and Harry had to know what it felt like. He reached forward to trail his fingers down the skin before his brain caught up to him and he froze. They stared at each other in silent dare for a moment.
“I could be your regrettable choices,” Harry whispered finally.
Draco hesitated only a moment, Harry’s fingers still sitting on his stomach, before he leaned forward and made contact, mouth so full of whiskey that Harry felt like he’d taken a shot.
“You could be,” Draco muttered against his lips a moment later. “So regrettable. But no. Not like this. Not tonight. Please…regrettable choices should be things you won’t mind regretting.”
He pulled away and gently took the tea from Harry’s hand, turning on a still very uncoordinated heel.
“Serenade,” he whispered to the portrait behind him, causing it to swing open.
“Wait,” Harry protested, ignoring Draco’s slight flinch and wince when he turned back to face Harry. “One thing. Are there really biscuits in there?” he asked, gesturing to the box.
Draco snorted. “Guess you’ll never know. Goodnight…Harry."
