Title: The Party
Author: Holly ()
Artwork: The Party by Ali
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The smoke from Pansy's second pack of smuggled cigarettes drifted poisonously upward to join the stagnant haze of perfume and smoke at the top of the dormitory. Harry stared blearily at the corresponding mess on the floor: empty bottles, ashes and cigarette butts (Pansy and her chimney-like friends couldn't be bothered to use an ashtray after the first few spiked Butterbeers), colorful sticky patches collecting dirt and, strangely, a filthy t-shirt bearing the phrase NOBODY KNOWS I'M A HUFFLEPUFF, the existence of which no one seemed to want to acknowledge.
By far the most bizarre rubbish littering the room, however, was (in Harry's opinion) the herd of sixth-year Slytherins which had been locked into Griffindor Tower for the night in the name of social justice. Harry assumed Dumbledore had thought it was some kind of justice, but personally he suspected the Headmaster assumed they'd all kill each other and save everyone else the trouble of dealing with them. Robes and cloaks bearing the green symbol of Salazar's house were draped over several of the room's beds, and with the blazing scarlet of the blankets muffled in black, the normally cheerful room seemed much gloomier. It was suddenly very obvious to Harry how few windows lined the wall of the tower, and how sinister the glow of lamps and firelight could be when flickering across unfamiliar, unwelcome faces. Millicent Bulstrode was engaged in a drinking game with Crabbe and Goyle over Seamus's bed, and seemed to be winning effortlessly. Pansy Parkinson chain-smoked and gossiped loudly with Blaise Zabini, ignoring the fact that they were getting ashes all over Ron's pillow. And several of the sixth-year members of the Slytherin Quidditch team and reserves had congregated together with their staunchest admirers, grumbling to each other and shooting dirty looks at Harry. He let his eyes drift away from their glares without really registering them. The outcome of the last match with Gryffindor was most of the reason they were here, and naturally he was the focus of most of their frustration.
There was one notable absence from the show of Slytherin team hostility: Draco Malfoy, in all his pale, malicious glory, was leaning carelessly against a wall, looking bored and making occasional disdainful faces at the threadbare condition of a nearby tapestry. Harry couldn't seriously believe that Malfoy was that interested in the Gryffindor d�cor, he was clearly just avoiding looking at him. It made him unreasonably angry to see the Slytherin in the tower room in the first place - what business did he have touching THEIR wall and passing judgment on it? He was lucky to be there at all, and now he was probably getting hair gel on the tapestry slouching against it like that... Harry was on the verge of standing up from his position by the fire and giving Malfoy a piece of his mind when Hermione collapsed onto a cushion behind him with a sigh, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind, planting a soft kiss on his neck. Harry froze, and carefully averted his eyes from Malfoy's arrogant figure.
"Getting tired?" he asked in what he hoped was a normal tone.
"Not really - this just seems so useless. They just got here an hour ago and I'm ready to claw my way up the walls. Honestly, trying to hold a conversation with Pansy and Blaise is like talking to a pair of jackals in heat. Pansy doesn't seem to have a thought in her head that doesn't involve Malfoy doing something revolting, and Blaise only encourages her." True to form, Pansy's raucous laughter rose above the room's chatter. Harry could make out "...told him he could put one hand up my shirt as long as he had those earrings in the other one!" followed by Blaise's incredulous giggles.
"Um...how revolting was this activity, exactly?" Harry asked through gritted teeth.
"Believe me, Harry, you do not want to know. She's made him - oh, no, will you just look at Ron! He's going to get himself completely plastered and start another fight if he keeps up like that. I'll be right back." She kissed his hair and made her way over to Ron, who was clutching a bottle and looking dazedly at Seamus, who seemed in much better shape and was talking animatedly.
Given that it was a Hogsmeade weekend, Dumbledore had allowed that 'a few bottles of Butterbeer' would be allowed so that the rival houses could enjoy a sociable drink. "I am not enforcing this gathering in the name of punishment, but in the name of encouraging friendships," he had said. "We will need all the strength we can muster in the coming months, and we will not have a quarter of what it will take if that strength is in any way divided." Harry would have expected the Slytherins to abuse this privilege, but it was actually Fred & George who had spiked the Butterbeer bottles with something considerably stronger, and then charmed the bottles to appear untampered with.
"House solidarity is more important than our own paltry need to imbibe," George had claimed, wiping away mock tears. Students from other years had not been invited to this little party, probably in the interest of avoiding multiple serious injuries and overburdening Madame Pomfrey. Malfoy had of course insisted disdainfully that he did not drink anything as vulgar as Butterbeer, and that even if he was to be forced to share the company of savages for an entire evening, there was no reason he had to behave like one himself. Rather than vintage blackberry wine or delicate centaur-brewed honey mead, however, he had turned up with several bottles of Odgen's Old Firewhisky, each reduced to the size of a piece of chewing gum and concealed in his pockets. Harry wondered if he had stashed any other bottles elsewhere on his person and resisted, with difficulty, the temptation to imagine where they might be.
Pansy squealed with delight when she saw the Firewhisky, and insisted they drink from conjured martini glasses because she thought they looked elegant. Malfoy had of course been horrified, but his heart didn't seem to be into fighting this evening. After a heated argument of about 15 seconds in the tower doorway, he had wearily given in, but now held his glass as far out of sight as possible, as if convinced that Emily Post could apparate into Gryffindor Tower at any moment and reduce him to a pile of cinders.
Harry realized he was staring again, and deliberately turned his back so that he was facing the opposite way. This unfortunately put him directly in view of the Quidditch thugs, and far from seeking inter-house reconciliation, they seemed to be spoiling for a rematch of the afternoon's school-wide battle.
No one was entirely sure how the brawl had started, though it was generally assumed that the first blows had been dealt by the usual suspects: Malfoy, Potter, Crabbe, Weasley, and Goyle. Hermione had her own strong Gryffindor loyalties, of course, but she had earned a reputation among the teachers as the sole peacemaker between two violently opposed factions of students. However, the teachers were largely ignorant of the sheer elemental power of Hermione's rage when she was called upon to defend her friends. In fact, it was Hermione's defense of Harry to Malfoy which led to the biggest inter-house conflict in 15 years, with students assigned detention in numbers not seen since the Ravenclaw Incident of 1981, when three quarters of the house-elves were put on involuntary layoff because there was hardly any work left for them to do.
It had started as a simple Quidditch argument. In the opposing team's eyes the match had been a landslide Slytherin victory snatched away by a technicality. In Harry's eyes, it was simply an illegal maneuver which endangered most of the players as well as being spectacularly ineffective, as he had managed to catch the snitch just as the first Beater's club went whizzing by, within inches of the Gryffindor Keeper's head. As the current Keeper was Ron, Harry had taken their attack rather personally, and launched a string of verbal abuse at Malfoy from the moment the teams landed.
"Didn't realize you cared, Potter," Malfoy snapped back at Harry's colorful swearing. "Then again, I suppose weasel brains would be difficult to clean off of decent Quidditch gear. Too bad he hasn't got any worth saving."
"You did that on purpose, you sick, twisted --"
"Sick and twisted? Me? Better have a look in the mirror, Potter. If you're too far gone on your own sense of purity to even see what's happening beneath that shiny exterior, maybe you should let Weasley and Granger teach you a thing or two about the 'twisted' depravity of the lower classes!"
Harry had been about to respond when Hermione stepped in front of him and socked Malfoy in the jaw, snarling furiously what she thought about his own sense of 'purity,' whatever that meant. Ron had pulled her away just before Crabbe could grab her hair, then Fred and George jumped on Goyle and started pummeling, and that was the beginning of the end. Almost every student in the two houses had leapt in for a few rounds before the teachers were able to break it up, and in the end McGonagall, Snape and Dumbledore had taken a full hour to decide on their punishment. Harry thought he'd rather serve detention giving Mrs. Norris a bath than spend an evening with Slytherin, but the judgment had been made, and he'd just have to deal with the consequences.
*****
Harry watched Draco over the lip of his martini glass, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was so engaged in perfecting his practiced glare at the other boy that he nearly forgot about the Firewhisky and ended up choking down most of the glassful in one gulp. He coughed and sputtered, and Hermione removed herself from his shoulder long enough to rub his back and look concerned. They had moved to sit on his bed when the fire began to die down, and everyone was considerably more relaxed as they made their way through a seemingly endless supply of alcohol. It seemed that the more he stared at Malfoy, the less Harry cared that he was staring. The Slytherin in question was closer now, and Harry had caught a few glances in his direction as well, most of them followed by very unpleasant faces when their eyes met. He couldn't quite believe that just 3 weeks ago he had been kissing those sneering lips, ready to accept that evil, poisonous bastard into his life and ignore his faults. There had been much more to their exchange at the fight than had been noticed by anyone else, but Harry found that the same stinging words were being flung between them, a bitter parallel to their most recent encounter, when he'd made a last-ditch effort to make Draco understand.
*****
"And furthermore, I'm not going to change myself to suit your moralistic whims."
"No, I wouldn't really expect you to."
Draco blinked and seemed to refocus momentarily.
"I don't think you quite get it, Potter. I'm not changing anything. Not my friends, not my family loyalty, not my... political affiliations..." Harry snorted loudly, which echoed startlingly around the empty, tiled changing rooms.
"That's a very PC way to put it, Malfoy, I'm impressed," he said with just a touch of bitterness. "And since we're on the topic, I refuse to change my hairstyle or get rid of my glasses, I don't care how many creative ways you come up with to call me a speccy git."
"I mean it, Potter." He picked up his cloak for the third time and gathered himself to leave, a satisfied smirk firmly in place. "It's just too bad if you can't deal with that--"
"Fine." Draco froze, still half-off the bench.
"That's fine?" he repeated uncertainly.
"Well. Fine might be a little strong, but at the moment - I can't seem to make myself care."
Draco looked appalled. "Why not?"
Harry started to speak, then checked himself, opened his mouth again, and closed it. Draco raised a haughty eyebrow and seemed to think that this only proved his point. "Oh, hell, I don't know. In some way it's probably because you've never liked me. At least I know where I stand." And besides, he thought, at least you'll be safer from Voldemort than most other people who get close to me. It was honestly the most logical explanation he could come up with. How could he explain the irrational desire, running like a burning thread from the back of his mind to the pit of his stomach, screaming touch Draco kiss Draco watch Draco more more more? It was a demanding, instinctive, hungry little voice. And like hunger, he could only ignore it for so long without unbearable consequences. He suspected Draco had a similar hungry voice playing through his own head, knew it if only from the look in the other boy's colorless eyes those few times they had found themselves alone and in each other's arms, groping their way gracelessly, impossibly closer with fingers and lips and each shared breath. There was a tense distance, though, as well - a line between wanting and accepting that Draco couldn't seem to cross. He saw Draco's need in those moments... and he also saw traces of fear.
Draco seemed mildly amused by Harry's explanation. "You know where you stand?" he repeated. "I'm not sure you do. As usual, allow me to spell out the obvious for you, Potter. You're standing on nothing. There is absolutely no foundation for this. I don't like you. I don't like your muggle-loving Headmaster. All your friends are either imbeciles or know-it-alls. I hardly think--"
"Leave my friends out of it." Harry's voice cut sharply into Draco's speech.
"Oh! Of course!" Draco laughed, a feverish, reckless light creeping into his _expression. "How could I forget - on top of all this, you have a GIRLFRIEND!" he crowed, spitting out the last word with all the venom he posessed, which in his case was considerable. "Precious Potter has been sneaking around behind the back of his one true love - chasing after boys, in fact. Very daring of you, Potter, I wouldn't have thought you had it in you to be that original."
"I never chased after you anywhere!" Harry had gone red with silent shame when Draco had mentioned Hermione, but this was too much. "You attacked me, that night when all the Quidditch practice was cancelled because of the snowstorm."
"Don't kid yourself, Potter. If you hadn't been such a pervert to begin with, I might not have been compelled to act out of pity."
"What? I'm a pervert now?" Harry was so furious he could barely see. His hands shook on the edge of the bench and a wrist guard clattered to the floor.
"Yes, you bloody well are!" Draco yelled, spots of color rising on his fair skin. "I never-- I wouldn't--"
"You did and you would! And you enjoyed it every bit as much as I did!" Harry bellowed back, then stopped suddenly. He hadn't really meant to admit to his own enjoyment, but plunged on to cover it. "And what about your girlfriend, Mister Parkinson?"
Draco seemed to collect a little of his fading composure at this. Casual dismissal was something with which he was intimately familiar. "Pansy is not my girlfriend, Potter, she's just a distraction from the boredom of this big stone asylum they call a school."
"Have you told her that?"
"Have you told Granger you snog boys when she's not looking? I bet Weasley'd be absolutely crushed to know that it's not him. Though I don't know why not. You two deserve each other."
"You know what, Malfoy? Forget it. Just forget the whole thing. You're hell-bent on sabotaging this anyway, so there you go. You win. You can do a victory dance up and down the Quidditch pitch if you want. I won't be sticking around to see it."
And that had been all. Six days of sneaking moments between classes, lying to their friends, copying each other's homework, arguing about Muggle rights, and generally snogging each other senseless had come to nothing. Looking back, it really did seem doomed from the start.
*****
Harry wrenched his neck out from Blaise Zabini's damp armpit and tried to remember exactly whose stupid idea it had been to give the girl her own bottle of Firewhisky. Blaise continued merrily trying to throw her arms around anyone who was too drunk to avoid her, spouting something garbled about the suppression of inter-House affection in this rigid, stifling Hogwarts police state. Really, Blaise hadn't made a lot of sense for the last hour or so, and Harry had tried to ignore her ever since making up his mind to blockade her against the wall with the Gryffindors' stacked trunks if the phrase 'free love' so much as passed her lips.
"She's really much more manageable if you cooperate. She couldn't find your face right now if you painted a big, blue target on it, so I think you're safe from the Zabini-patented Kiss of Death." Harry spun around at the sound of Draco's voice. He didn't sound angry, for some reason, and Harry wondered just how much Firewhisky he'd had from that deceptive little glass.
"I wasn't worried about being kissed, I was worried about being suffocated. But I'll keep that in mind for next time."
"I honestly doubt there will be a next time," Draco continued airily. "If a fight like that breaks out again, they'll just have us all thrown in Filch's dungeon with the thumbscrews."
"Well, in that case I guess we got off lucky. Didn't we?" Harry watched Draco's fingers on his glass, finding it too difficult to meet his eyes as it seemed to make him dizzy. Or maybe it was just too much Butterbeer before the whisky. He couldn't really remember how much he'd had.
"Yes, very impressive, Potter. You really bring out the dumb in Dumbledore, and that takes talent, of a sort. Especially so as one would notice the difference."
Harry chose to ignore most of this. "Aha, so you're admitting I have a talent at something, are you? I think you might be slipping."
Draco considered him for a long moment, the hubbub of the rest of the room forgotten, sounds dulling to a low, steady roar. He took a slow breath, as if preparing to plunge underwater. "No, I think I've known you were talented...in certain areas... for a while now, actually. Most surprising." Harry's head spun faster, and it didn't seem to matter what part of Draco he was looking at. Was Malfoy actually flirting with him? And was he responding? He felt he'd lost all control over his words, and gripped a nearby footboard in search of stability.
Pansy chose that moment to call drunkenly out to Draco from across the room. "Daaaaarling, I'm so bored. Why don't you come over here and play with me for a while?" she slurred, grinning. Draco jumped as if he'd received a static shock.
"Er... just a moment, Pansy, dear," he called. "I need to step out for a moment." Pansy seemed to have already lost interest, but Draco beckoned Harry after him with a quick jerk of his head. They headed for the stairwell, which was only sealed at the common room entrance at the bottom so that the students could access the bathrooms. Harry was still fighting for control. He had to get a grip, had to tell Draco that he didn't care how charming he was trying to be, or how good he looked in well-tailored jeans (good lord, was he wearing Muggle clothes?), or how it drove him crazy when strands of that immaculate blond hair came out of their carefully styled shape and fell over his eyes. As it was doing now.
Harry reached up to brush the silvery strand, and didn't seem to be able to take his hand back. Draco closed his eyes for a moment, running his own fingers lightly up and down Harry's sides and let his no-longer-sneering lips part with a sigh. Harry abandoned all pretense of rational thought, drew Draco's face toward his, and kissed him.
It was several minutes before they were able to speak again, arms still wrapped around each other, eyes half-closed like contented cats.
"I'm not changing anything, Potter. Nothing."
Harry just laughed quietly. "I get it. You'll still be the same miserable, jealous, puffed-up git you've always been, except that you'll harbor a secret desire to see me do a strip tease on a broomstick."
"Not an entirely unfounded suggestion, actually. You're learning, Potter."
"You're wrong about not changing, though. You don't hate me anymore, do you?"
"Don't push your luck."
"Uh-huh. You just love it when people you can't stand do this..." Harry began working his way from Draco's ear to his collarbone with lips, tongue, and an efficient little nip of the teeth that had a striking effect on Draco's breathing.
"I should hate you," he said quietly. "This thing, you and me, it isn't sane, it's just... it's wrong, and we...if my father... oh, do that again."
Harry grinned against Draco's neck. "I don't care. I just don't care. Maybe it's wrong. But it doesn't feel wrong to me."
Draco turned Harry's head to face him, running his hands gently through thick, soft black hair. "This is going to come back and haunt us, Harry," he whispered, so softly that Harry could barely make out the words.
"Let it."
*****
The fire was completely gone when the two of them snuck back into the dormitory, and several of the occupants had either fallen asleep or passed out in various uncomfortable-looking positions. Ron was drooling a little, sitting on the floor with his head tilted back against a Slytherin cloak. Seamus and Dean were looking forlornly at a pile of empty bottles, and Blaise was making herself entirely too familiar with Harry's bed. Harry sat down on it and tried to shove her out of the way, but she only sat up partway and ended up leaning against his leg. Hermione and Lavender came giggling over, and Hermione took up her usual position beside Harry, who was beginning to feel the warmth that had built up inside him with Draco drain away slightly.
"There you are, darling!" Pansy cooed, sidling up to Draco with another cigarette dangling from her hand. "I was just telling Blaise about that fabulous evening we had in Hogsmeade last trip. God, Blaise, it was just the funniest thing..."
Harry tuned Pansy out. Draco had allowed her to put a drink in his hand and drape herself over him artistically, or perhaps she was just holding on so she wouldn't fall over. He didn't seem to be listening to her, either, and was staring into space, his posture tense. Hermione settled her elbow on Harry's shoulder and settled in comfortably to pretend interest in Blaise's fantastical story. Draco's fingers clenched and relaxed as he continued to frown at the wall.
Harry watched, and waited.