Title: Wine Lists
Author: Ria ()
Furniture: coffee table
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Who'd have thought wine could have such an effect on Harry?
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.
Notes: There's a tiny bit of French thrown in -glossary at the bottom. For that matter, I hope it's right! Major thanks to Vinagrette, who caught all the little things I am somehow blind to. :)
The moment Harry stepped inside the restaurant he knew he'd just made a terrible, terrible mistake.
I shouldn't be here, he thought blindly, frozen to the spot. The people behind him muttered angrily, complaining that he was blocking the way, but he refused to budge, only able to think frantically, If I just turn now and--
It was too late. Draco had already looked up and spotted him. As Harry watched, he beckoned to a tall, thin man and gestured towards Harry, who remained frozen as the waiter approached him.
"Monsieur Potter?" the man asked in heavily accented French. Harry, who'd only caught his surname, nodded dumbly. The man smiled. "This way, s'il-vous pla�t."
Harry followed the waiter through the tables, suddenly glad to have worn his absolutely best dress robes, as people from other tables eyed him from behind lifted wine glasses. He felt like something on display, and realised that spending two years out of the public eye probably hadn't been the best thing to do; he couldn't remember how to act.
Hermione looked up as he and the waiter approached, smiled broadly when she saw Harry, and went back to the menu. Draco watched him for a moment, before politely nodding to the waiter. "Nous ordrons bient�t," he said in flawless French. The waiter nodded and bowed slightly, before hurrying away.
Harry stared at him. "Why exactly did we have to meet in a French restaurant?" he asked at last, sitting down and realising there was more than one knife and fork. "Oh, crap."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Because I wanted to prove how uneducated you are, Potter." At Harry's outraged look, he sighed and said, "The food's good. I thought you might enjoy it. Look, I'll translate for you."
Harry blinked and glanced at Hermione, who smiled at him. "Don't worry," she murmured softly. "He won't let you order snails, or anything." Harry shuddered, and wished yet again that he just hadn't bothered coming. Trust Draco to choose the restaurant and ensure he had no idea how to act.
But Draco was true to his word and patiently translated everything for him, offering opinions on certain dishes he'd tried before. In fact, he was so pleasant that Harry found himself relaxing in his company, managing to forget that the two of them had once hated each other.
At last they were ready to order, and Harry watched Draco order everything for them in French, not appearing to notice that everyone closest to them was watching in blatant admiration. It was easy to see why: in silvery-grey robes stitched in dark grey and freshly-washed blond hair, he'd probably turned heads the moment he'd stepped in.
"Voulez-vous la carte des vins, Monsieur?" the waiter asked politely.
Harry glanced at Hermione, who mouthed, The wine list. Oh.
Draco considered for a moment, then nodded and replied in a satisfied voice, "Oui, merci." When the waiter had turned and left, he said, "I hope you both have the stomach for wine." His eyes were on Harry as he spoke.
Without breaking his gaze, Harry replied, "Of course I do."
Hermione began to wonder if this had been such a good idea.
"Can you imagine the three of us working together?" Draco went on, seemingly oblivious to the growing tension between him and Harry. "Teaching the next generation all it needs to know."
"I pity them," Harry said frankly.
Draco didn't seem perturbed by his pessimism. "I personally think they're quite lucky, Mr. Glass-Half-Empty. We're practically heroes, after all."
"Messed up heroes," Harry muttered into his glass of water, hoping neither of them would hear him.
"Speak for yourself, Potter," Draco retorted.
Alarmed by his angry expression and the tense way Harry gripped his glass, Hermione interrupted before either of them would say or do something they'd regret. "This was supposed to be a pleasant dinner between three people who're going to have to work together come September," she said tightly, glaring at them. "The two of you are going to have to learn to get on, if either of you intend on actually staying employed. So whatever grievances you have against each other, get them out in the open tonight, before I do something I'll regret." Her expression clearly said there would be no arguing.
Harry opened his mouth, but Draco spoke first. "She's right, Potter," he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The two of us are still sniping away at each other and I, personally, don't even remember the last thing we did to annoy each other. Maybe... maybe we should just... well, get on with each other." His tone indicated he knew otherwise.
The two of them were looking at him, and Harry had no idea what to say. Fortunately he was saved by the waiter arriving with the wine lists. For the next few minutes he listened to Hermione and Draco argue over wine vintages. When his opinion was sought, he simply shrugged and said he'd drink whatever they put in front of him. Draco rolled his eyes and finally decided for all of them, reminding Hermione that he was paying for this.
Harry felt his lips quirk before he realised it. "Typical Malfoy." Draco caught his eye and winked.
Their dishes arrived soon after, and for the next few minutes the talk was only the required polite questions about the other dishes and how they tasted. When Draco enquired about his, Harry replied that it was all right and edible, wishing only to listen to the two of them for the next while; he had little to say.
Draco raised an eyebrow. "You hate it, don't you?" he asked with a smile. I" warned you it was incredibly rich."
It was rich, but Harry found he was getting used to it. "I like it," he snapped defensively, aware that it looked like he was playing straight into Draco's hands. "Now go back to your own." Hermione sighed heavily, but Harry ignored her. Draco had started it, not him.
Draco looked at him with a measured glance, then shrugged and reached over with his fork. With Harry staring at him with open-mouthed surprise, he calmly took a piece. After a few moments of careful chewing, he swallowed and commented, "Not bad. I guess you're getting used to the richness." He went back to his own dish as if nothing had happened.
He's losing his marbles, Harry thought faintly. That has to be it.
When the wine came, Harry ordered Draco to pour him a big glass and downed half of it in one gulp. Hermione stared at him in disbelief, but Draco merely raised an eyebrow and drawled, "Wonderful table manners in public," Potter.
The wine was dark and strong, curling deliciously in Harry's throat as he swallowed. His eyes watered at the slight burning sensation, but he determinedly kept on swallowing. At this rate, the only way he'd be able to get through the rest of this evening was to get pleasantly drunk. At his third glass, Hermione looked seriously worried, but Draco only passed him the bottle to top up his glass and said nothing.
The evening started to blend into colours and sounds, all blurring together into the background; Harry hardly paid attention to them. The one person he did pay attention to was Draco. In Harry's wine-hazed state, his blond hair shone brighter than usual, his robes the same startling colour as his amused, glittering eyes. His lips, as red as the wine, curved in a smile.
"You're drunk, Potter," Draco said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. He trailed a fingertip around the glass rim as he spoke.
"No, I'm not," Harry muttered, working hard to make sure his words didn't slur. What glass was he on, now? He couldn't remember.
"Your seventh," Draco answered, and Harry realised he'd spoke aloud. Hermione had gone to touch up on her light make-up, so it was only the two of them at the table. "Seven too many, I think."
"Sucks to be you, then," Harry drawled, grinning. The wine burned in curling waves in his stomach, making him feel warm and very, very safe. His head felt delightfully woozy, as if stuffed with cotton wool.
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Mm-hm." His tone implied he wasn't very impressed. His eyes flickered over Harry in a measuring glance.
"What?" Harry asked crossly, wishing Draco wouldn't look at him like that. It was very uncomfortable.
"Well, not only have you been acting very oddly... you've also been watching me in a very peculiar way," Draco remarked, holding his glass up to the light as if to inspect the wine. "I'd like to know why."
"What are you talking about?" Harry demanded, feeling his cheeks already redden in a rather damning way. He'd been sure he'd kept things normal, hadn't given any clue as to how he felt around Draco. Of course, he realised, he didn't normally get drunk either.
"I think you know," Draco said firmly, locking his gaze on Harry's again. It was only a few moments before Harry broke the staring contest, staring down at his empty plate. His cheeks felt like they were on fire.
Oh no, oh no, oh no, he thought frantically, his mind-voice sounding remarkably sober. What have I done? He looked up in time to see Draco open his mouth again, and jerked to his feet, almost sending his chair crashing to the floor.
"I'll be back in a moment," he choked out, before fleeing from accusing, curious grey eyes.
* * * * *
The balcony was fortunately empty, and Harry ran to the railing and gripped it with trembling hands. His fingers ached and his knuckles were white, but he hardly noticed. He stared down at the bustling street below. Diagon Alley was back in full swing again, and this street, Cuisine Lane, was doing roaring business once more. He'd only ever browsed through here, mainly collecting menus for interests sake and balking at the astronomical prices.
Harry looked up at the ink-black sky, with its slight spattering of stars and curved quarter-moon, and wished he was at home. It had been a mistake to come here, he knew, but that didn't change anything. What was done was done, and he now had to do some quick-thinking to put Draco off the trail again.
As if he'd read his mind the swish of robes reached his ears, and Draco appeared beside him. For the first few moments they were both silent, staring down at the bustling street below. Harry found he was suddenly acutely aware of everything: the faint breeze that curled around them; the sounds from the street; the myriad of scents floating up towards them; the almond shampoo Draco had used, along with his cologne; the smell of his robes... and it was all driving him completely mad.
"Hermione's going to wonder where the hell we are," Harry muttered at last, his eyes glued to the ground below.
"I told her I was going to talk to you," Draco said, sounding astonishingly calm considering the situation at hand. "She thanked me for the meal, left, and told me if we didn't resolve our differences she'd hurt us the next time we were all together."
Harry laughed before he could help himself; Hermione hadn't changed a bit, thankfully.
"Well, then," Draco drawled, "care to tell me what that in there was all about?"
Harry felt himself immediately redden. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind," he said at last, trying to ignore the impulse to fling himself at Draco and see what would happen from there. He glanced once at Draco, and quickly looked away before his blush could deepen; the street lights illuminated everything, ensuring that Draco would be able to see him properly.
"Oh, I think you owe it to me, at least, considering I'm paying for tonight and you just ended it rather spectacularly," Draco drawled, sounding amused.
"I'll pay for myself, then!" Harry snapped, trying to subtly move away from him. His head was beginning to throb again, a prelude to the hangover he was going to have in the morning.
Draco wasn't taking the hint, instead closing the distance between them again. "Potter, stop being such an ass," he said firmly. "Just tell me what's on your mind that you're getting stone drunk, doing all sorts of things, and blushing like a girl--no offence to Hermione, mind.
Harry tightened his lips for a moment, doing some quick thinking. Draco made an impatient sound, and what little was left of Harry's own patience snapped. At least telling the truth would get Draco off his back, and he'd leave well enough alone in future.
He quickly walked to the shadows, knowing what was about to happen was something not to be seen in public. Grumbling under his breath, Draco followed. Turning so that he was facing Draco directly, Harry met his eyes and said simply, "You're the one on my mind."
Then, before his courage could desert him, he kissed him.
Draco's lips were warm and smooth, tasting faintly of the dish he'd had and wine. Harry pressed his own lips hesitantly against them, feeling Draco freeze from sheer surprise. Doubt filled him, making him hesitate for several long moments, before he began once more. If this wasn't to be, then Draco would make him pay for it, but until then he was going to go ahead and do something he'd fantasised about for months.
Harry wasn't sure how long the kiss lasted--for a second, a moment, an hour, a day--but when he pulled back Draco's eyes were closed, and he looked more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him. Then his eyelashes fluttered, and Draco stared at him with a curious mixture of disbelief and downright amazement.
Well, here it comes, Harry thought, resigned, as Draco opened his mouth, presumably to bellow at him, with probably a punch or two thrown in for good measure.
But whatever Draco was going to say or do never happened, for at that moment Harry's headache turned into a splitting roar, as his ears pounded and the balcony spun. The affects of unusual heavy drinking, held at bay for as long as possible, caught up with him. He didn't recall actually falling, only that blackness suddenly filled his vision.
* * * * *
The moment Harry opened his eyes sunlight blinded him. He hissed, twisting in the bed to pull a pillow over his head, which felt like an enraged mule had taken up permanent residence there. What were the curtains doing open? He never left them open...
He let the pillow up a crack. When had his walls turned blue?
Harry sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide and raging hangover forgotten. What on earth had happened last night? He raised his knees to his chest, his forehead furrowed as he tried to remember the previous night. Nails seemed to pinprick his forehead as he thought, but he did his best to ignore that.
Okay dinner. Friends... wine... Draco oh, shit!
Harry burrowed his face in his knees. Please, please, please may it have been a dream. But it wasn't. He'd kissed Draco last night. He'd been completely drunk, made a fool out of himself, and then made an even bigger fool of himself by throwing himself at Draco!
Oh no, oh no, oh no...!
I cant face him, Harry realised, still feeling more of a prat than he'd ever felt possible. I'm most likely in his house--who else decorates rooms like they're going to be featured in Witch Weekly? and he's going to be waiting for me to wake up, and No. I cant. That's it. I'm just going to have to get out... somehow.
Easier said than done.
It took him several moments to find the energy to get out of bed, to discover his clothes, freshly washed and neatly folded, on a chair nearby. Once dressed, further investigation of the room though it was vastly larger than a typical room found a bathroom about the same size as the actual sleeping quarters. Harry considered washing his hair; he felt sticky, exhausted, and ill, but he dismissed the notion. The longer he stayed here, the harder it would be to leave.
The moment he descended the stairs, however, Draco's voice drifted through the air.
"So you're finally awake... feeling like hell, I imagine."
Harry winced, thinking, I won't let him win, I won't let him win... oh, what the hell. He's already seen me at my worst, never mind the actual kiss. Turning in the general direction of Draco's voice he said clearly, "Slightly the worse for wear. It'll pass in a few hours." No need for him to know that it felt like the mule was now tap-dancing in his head.
"Oh, so you're experienced in the art of getting drunk, then?" Draco asked, definitely sounding amused. Harry flushed before he could help it, grateful Draco couldn't see him... yet.
Storming in the direction of his voice, Harry entered a morning sort of room, with large windows and a sunny atmosphere. Draco was seated on a small couch, surrounded in shades of cream and yellow, both from paint and the sun. The Daily Prophet half-hid his face, while his coffee steamed gently on a gleaming coffee table in front of him.
The sun momentarily blinded Harry, making his hangover soar to epic proportions and bile churn uneasily in his stomach and at the back of his throat. He swallowed, which he immediately realised was the wrong thing to do. Not good, not good at all...
The paper came down with an irritated rustle. "Sit down, Potter," Draco snapped, glaring at him. "Before you throw up on the carpet."
Stunned, Harry sank into an armchair before he realised what was going on. Draco, looking increasingly annoyed, poured orange juice for him, muttering under his breath. Harry wisely decided not to enquire on what was being said about him, instead trying his best to sip the juice Draco thrust at him. His stomach lurched for a moment, before warily settling down.
"Thank you," he remembered to say after a moment. "For... you know." Silence. "Was I... was I very bad?" Harry asked timidly, after a few moments of dithering.
The paper came down once more; Draco's glare could have rivalled Snape's. "You were all right for someone drinking heavily for the first time in months," he growled out at last. "You only succeeded in embarrassing yourself, if that helps. Don't know why you got it into your head that we were having a drinking contest..."
Harry flushed; as far as he was concerned they'd been having something much different than a drinking contest.
"...but that's beside the point," Draco finished, yanking up the paper once more.
Silence again. Harry fidgeted, wondering whether he could get something to eat; it appeared Draco had put something in the juice, since his hangover no longer felt like it was going to split his head in two. He stared down at the coffee table: the pine wood gleamed, golden and cream spirals stamped into it. It looked neat, and tidy, and fitted into the colour scheme exactly. Fitted in more than Harry felt he did, at least.
He took a deep breath. Wishing that it had never happened wouldn't help in any way, though it did temporarily make him feel better. "About what happened... after..." he choked out, resisting the urge to blush. He'd never imagined it would be this hard...
Draco tossed the paper away so it hit the couch, apparently giving up completely on getting any reading done. "Yes?" he asked, folding his arms; Harry was on his own for this one, or so it seemed.
Harry swallowed. "I'm sorry," he ground out at last, aware that he was gripping his glass way too tightly. "I never should have kissed you."
Draco picked up his mug from the coffee table and sipped thoughtfully, his eyes on Harry. "Why?" he enquired at last.
Harry stared blankly. "Why what?"
"Why do you think you shouldn't have kissed me?" Draco clarified.
He was asking him why? Harry goggled for a moment, before sputtering out, "Why? Because, well, because... you're not--that is..."
"Harry," Draco began patiently, "you know damn all about me, really." He was still drinking coffee as if the two of them were having a completely normal conversation about, let's say, the weather.
That was beside the point--Hold on. Harry blinked. Had Draco just called him by his first name? He had. Then that meant... "Y-you me-ean?" he asked, stuttering slightly.
Draco shrugged. "I'm not sure, really," he confessed. "But that kiss was pretty good, if you discount the fact that you were completely out of it at the time. Speaking of which, he added, wrinkling his nose, if you think you're kissing me this early in the morning, you can forget it. Your breath stinks."
Harry grinned. "Well, we'll see," he said, putting down his glass. "Maybe later, after I find a toothbrush. And had breakfast," he added, sniffing the air and getting to his feet.
"Wonderful," Draco grumbled, folding the paper and tossing it onto the coffee table, before getting to his feet. "Good to know I come second to your first love--food." He followed Harry towards the dining room with a sigh.
Still... there'd be many more mornings where he could show Harry exactly how he expected to be treated...
Monsieur - Mr.
sil vous pla�t - (if you) please
Nous ordrons bient�t - We will order soon
Voulez-vous la carte des vins, Monsieur? - Would you like the wine list, sir?
Oui, merci - Yes, please.