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Draco just kissed Harry Potter.
His lips are wet, and his face feels numb, and that's only partly from the cider. He thinks Greg put vodka in here, too. His hands are sweating against the cup―the mug, because Finnegan ran out of glassware an hour into the party and has been raiding the ceramics cupboard since. Draco would make a fuss, but he doesn't want to be kicked out. (He's probably lucky to be getting drinks at all).
Draco knows he's barely tolerated here; he's Greg's plus one since he and Longbottom bonded over dirt in Eighth-year Herbology, and that's it. Draco doesn't want a pity handout, but he'll still take one. He needs to socialise. If that means getting quietly pissed next to a dying fern at Finnegan and Thomas's flatshare, then so be it.
The party hasn't been entirely shit. Draco did just fucking kiss Potter. In a wardrobe, for exactly 7 minutes (2 minutes awkward silence, 5 minutes mashed faces, if Draco had to itemise). It smelled of mothballs and musty coats and Harry's hand was on his side, warmth bleeding through Draco's top. There was a coat hanger digging into his back and a constant spin in his head. Harry tasted like rum and Coke, sugary and sticky, and Draco hit his head on the ceiling when Harry sucked on his lip―then laughed, low and sweet, and Draco couldn't hear an ounce of malice in it (and he tried). It just sounded like Harry was having fun.
Draco tripped on a shoe on his way out. Harry followed him, one hand up as he wiped his mouth with the other as if to say, Look, we did it, it's done, the game has been played, to applause and jeers from the peanut gallery. Draco went along, wobbly and kiss-drunk and just plain old regular drunk too. It wasn't bad, and despite the knee-jerk fear that this was a set up to humiliate him, pig's blood pending, the faces sitting in a circle in the bedroom were smiling, preoccupied with things that weren't him. Flushed and drunk and just happy it's Friday, happy they finished uni or their work week, happy for tonight even if they aren't the rest of the time. Draco itemises again: he goes in the last group. He's miserable, he's redoing his final year of school, he hasn't had a haircut in months. But tonight is alright.
He hasn't spoken to Harry since the kiss―they barely spoke beforehand, either. They've been through half of their last year at Hogwarts together, coexisting in relative peace. Just orbiting, not much to say to each other, pleasant or otherwise. It's better than Draco expected and more than he ever hoped for. Being allowed back, even if only to hunch his shoulders and clutter up the hallways of the castle with his presence. Being allowed to exist in Potter's spheres, even if only in the most peripheral of senses. No punches were thrown and no Quidditch matches were played; things were different, muted. Just okay.
And then―now―Harry agreed to snog Draco in a wardrobe, at a party Draco can't believe he's been allowed to stay at, let alone get a foot in the door of.
***
Hogwarts has never had an Eighth year. There's never really even been students repeating their final year (minus a few exceptions like Dorothea Simpkins and the exploding leg incident during the Potions exam of '84), let alone a whole year of students repeating. To say they haven't quite known what to do with them has been an understatement; they're in a makeshift communal dorm in a turret added to the castle, they're added to the classes they missed, taught by students who can barely look at them out of awe or fear or hatred. And they're allowed to leave whenever they want - McGonnagall herself set that up, through a complex system of allowed Apparition for certain magical signatures from one specific 12 by 14 inch square next to a mustard-coloured ottoman in their new common room.
It's not something that was announced, or is even well-known amongst the other years due to the potential riots it would cause. Draco isn't even certain why she allowed it, almost encouraging it. Perhaps she worried about what a troupe of traumatised teenagers would get up to if they aren't somewhere to blow off steam. Perhaps she knew people would be trying to sneak out for a quiet place to breathe, or smoke, or not be stared at no matter what she did and this way they won't get minced by the School's wards. Perhaps she just remembers they were all there when the school fucking blew up and being locked in that same place―half of which is still magic-stained rubble―and locking them in there in there in their free time is an effective way to ensure the rest of it gets blown up, too.
This way, they just spend their weekends blowing up their livers at the houses of students who didn't come back and other friends―even the Muggle ones who think they're all just alternatively homeschooled which is why they're mesmerised by the telly and mp3 players.
It's not terrible. It's not great. And Draco doesn't have anything else to do, anyway.
***
Draco swigs his drink, grimacing at the lukewarm pissfizz of it. It needs ice, or to be poured down a sink. Draco could do with ice too; his cheeks are flaming. He eyes the screen doors, glass Muggle affairs that look flimsy and take him longer than he'd like to admit to get open. He fights with the plastic click-lock and it fights back, until finally Draco emerges victorious. The blast of night air hits him in the face, creeping under his collar and seeping down under his top. He loves autumn days, but dreads the nights. He's never had the constitution for the cold.
It's quieter out here, obviously, the thumping bass of the speakers (Finnegan's pride and joy, don't you dare fucking sit on them) now a distant thunder-rumble. There are people on the lawn, scattered about like fallen detritus and braving the cold, pockets of Conjured fire keeping them warm. They'll be safely wrapped in Heating Charms, too, if they've any sense (debatable, given the liberal nature of the drinks flow tonight). Draco rubs his hands together, envy bitterly trip-trapping up inside him to settle uncomfortably in his throat. He can't do the same; he's forbidden. No magic outside of the bounds of academic use or terms of gainful employment, or within his own home. He got here via Side-Along with Greg (would have been Pansy, but she couldn't bear to set a foot inside the school again). It's a small price to pay, maybe, for staying out of prison. This is what he tells himself as he pulls fingerless gloves out of his coat pocket, blows warm breath on his knuckles and finger tips. It's all just small prices to pay.
The sliding door groans and complains as it's forced open. Draco startles, rattling on his own hinges in surprise. Harry struggles out, a bottle tucked under his arm, looking ready to slide out against the frictionless dark leather of his jacket any minute now. His other hand is holding two beer bottles, fingers hooked around the necks as they dangle like throttled hens. There's a lemon in his fist, tucked safe in his palm, and two shot glasses float in front of him, precariously full of amber liquid. He closes the door behind him with his foot, boot squeaking against the glass while Draco is still trying to react.
"Hey," Harry says, like Draco should be expecting him and this is where they planned to meet. He waves with his lemon fist, swears as the glass bottle under his arm slips further towards its pending doom. He nudges it back up higher with his thigh, shakes his hair out of his face and grins, lopsided and drunk.
"Evening," Draco replies, having filtered through his possible responses and landed on: formal, polite. His stomach is twisting. "Party for one?" He nods at Harry's armfuls.
"For two." Harry looks at him like that's obvious and Draco's being thick. Maybe he is. He feels thick. "I wasn't sure what you were drinking, so I brought… a few of the things I've been drinking." His grin turns both sheepish and pleased. "And then I nicked these out the back of the fridge." He gestures with the beers, settles them on the wooden railing of the deck. They wobble, and he tries again, this time missing the creeping, half-dead vine that's spread over the wood. "Someone might come looking for them in a mo', in which case. We don't know how they got here, it was one of them fuckers." He looks at Draco, flushed and conspiratorial.
Draco blinks back, watching Harry settle the shot glasses on the railing too, nestled in between the brown tendrils and the crisply decaying leaves. The lemon goes down next, wobbling unevenly stilling. Harry settles the bottle, then pulls a packet of sugar from his jacket pocket. He pats it with his hand and makes a face like, job well done. Draco wraps his arms around himself, for something to do. The buttons on his coat feel cold even through his gloves, the denim rough and not doing enough to keep the chill from creeping in and sneaking under his black hoodie and licking onto his skin. His insides feel like they're burning up, his face hot, and he's standing here like an idiot. He should have offered to help, maybe, or… something. He doesn't know what the fuck Harry is doing, though, so the point is moot.
"So, shots then beer?" Harry crosses his hands one over the other on a patch of vineless deck railing. He's got a ring on his thumb, a plain silver signet with sloping letters, carved into the top corner; Draco makes out an S, its curves swirling like snakes, then he realises he's staring at someone's initials and drags his eyes back to Harry's face.
Draco clears his throat. "Shots of what?" He nods at the bottle, the amber liquid in the shot glasses. They're less full now, some of their bounty having tipped in their landing. One of them sits on a leaf, precarious. Draco can't tell what it's in them.
Harry's eyes crinkle in the corners when he grins big. Draco's stomach swoops.
"Pancakes," Harry says, then scratches the side of his nose. "Or cheesecakes? It's one of them. Frangelico, lemon, sugar." He taps a finger on each as he says their name. "You down it like a Tequila slammer, only it doesn't taste like shit. It's about 90% less likely to make you spew." He laughs again, like they're friends hanging out and Draco knows what he's talking about. Like this is a normal night together. Draco feels like he's spinning, topsy fucking turvy in ways that aren't caused by the dodgy cider and the gin he shared with Goyle on the walk over earlier―like he went into that wardrobe and came out the back of it in some kind of other world. Narnia, only marginally less freezing and full of boys with sweet liquor and soft edges instead of Turkish Delight. Boys who are waiting for Draco to answer.
Draco sucks air in and makes himself shrug, noncommittal, while inside he reels. He figures he might as well just... go along with it. Nothing makes sense, like the night is in a bubble. If he tries, he can imagine his lips still tingle from Harry's. He'll chase that a bit longer.
"Nice." Harry nods then opens the bag of sugar with a tap of his wand. "Do we want wedges, or slices?" he muses, as much to the vine twisted around the railing as to Draco.
"Wedges, obviously," Draco supplies all the same.
Harry gives him a thumbs up without raising his gaze. "Obviously," he repeats like a happy parrot then bops the lemon with his wand. It falls into neat wedges like pieces of an unwrapped chocolate orange. He places one next to each shot glass, bread soldiers lined up next to an egg. He looks at Draco, triumphant and expectant.
Draco's got nothing. He doesn't know what this is. Harry fills in the gaps for him.
"Okay, shot in your left hand. You're left-handed, yeah?" A nod from Draco, and a responding one from Harry. Draco gingerly picks up his tiny glass, careful not to spill it; it's still perilously full despite its travels. Harry does the same with his right hand―and almost immediately spills it over his wrist.
"Fuck, ahh!" Harry laughs, breathy as he straightens his hand, hunches down to catch the stream from the meat of his palm. "Shit." Harry sucks on the bone of his wrist, the fat base of his thumb up to the glossy silver of the signet ring. He swallows, still laughing at himself as he downs the last of the liquid in the glass and looks sheepishly up at Draco through his fringe. "So that was a test run, I guess." He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth (like he did after he kissed Draco, fuck) still eyeing Draco from under his lashes and grinning with teeth like a giddy wolf.
Draco breathes out shakily and leans against the deck railing, grabs the bottle with his free hand when it threatens to abandon ship; he's drunk, but he's still got Seeker's reflexes. Speaking of:
"So just how wankered are you, Harry?"
"I'm not!" Harry laughs again, loud, and Draco likes the sound of it so much―like Harry can't help it, half embarrassed and all happy. "I'm a lightweight."
It's a half answer, and Harry just shrugs when Draco raises an eyebrow, then grabs the bottle away from Draco so he can refill his glass. "Barely any booze in these, anyway," he adds, tongue flicking to the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. "Just tastes really nice." Harry licks his lips as if to emphasise his point and sets his shot glass back down on their makeshift vine bar.
"Shots don't taste nice," Draco mumbles, distractedly watching Harry's fingers as he repours his shot.
Harry clicks said fingers and points at Draco with his index, triumphant. "Right! Tequila is rank, gin tastes like a hangover, whisky tastes like licking an actual bog."
Draco snorts, laughs. "Just say you don't like spirits, Potter. It's okay, this is a safe space."
Harry's lips drag up into a lopsided smile and he gusts another laugh. "No one likes spirits," he says confidentially. "That's why they're always mixing them with shit. To mask the gross, acrid, ancient dirt taste."
"With a hint of juniper?"
Harry's laugh is a loud honk. "Yeah, exactly. Notes of juniper and bog bodies, serve chilled with a slice of cucumber and a vom bag. You get it."
Draco doesn't actually; he quite likes drinking whisky neat, with oversized soft-cornered ice cubes. His father had a tasting manual, an enormous and ostentatious leather bound tome that he kept on a medium-high shelf in the second parlour. Draco has memories of being allowed to join, and to take a place in a high-backed chair and sip on rich, peaty liquor. It's one of the few fond memories he has of the man. Given his father is incarcerated, Draco doesn't anticipate there will be much chance for them to make fresh fond memories in the foreseeable future. Draco isn't sure he'll ever want to, either. He'll stick with Harry Potter's unexpected laughter and easy comradely smiles. It's a decent trade off, probably.
He smiles and raises his eyebrows then nods like Harry's right, and the lie feels easy and good. A tiny white thing, benign. He's still holding his shot and he sniffs it now. His nose wrinkles.
"Hazelnut?"
Harry makes a thoughtful sound as he picks up his own. "Sort of. But it doesn't taste like hazelnut when you add the other bits. You'll see." He nods towards the sugar and the neat little wedges of candy-yellow lemon. "You ready?"
"If I say yes, you have to tell me what I'm doing."
"Uh huh. Step one, gloves off, then follow me." Without preamble, Harry licks the back of the hand that isn't currently holding his refilled shot. He gestures for Draco to do what he's just done, the light catching the spit-shine on his skin. Draco swallows.
He'd like to say it's boldness that makes him slip off his gloves and hold his hand out for Harry to lick, instead of doing it himself as Harry clearly intended. He knows that's a lie; it's just dumb impulse, the same one he's always felt whenever Harry is around, rearing its head again and making him reckless.
Harry stares at Draco's right hand, extended towards him, then flicks his gaze back to Draco's face. He laughs once, a surprised puff of air that's almost inaudible, and his eyes crinkle like he's happy. Draco knows his own face is turning red; he can feel the heat of it creeping up his neck, prickling and uncomfortable. He can't tell if it's embarrassment or excitement. He wishes vehemently that it was easier to tell the difference.
Harry's fingers are warm, and then so is his tongue, as he grabs Draco's wrist and gets the side of his hand wet. The air hits Draco's skin, cooling it down immediately, and he feels goosebumps prickle. Harry's nose bumps his wrist as he licks him a second time―a job well done―and Draco keeps his own fingers loosely cupped as if he's holding a phantom chalice.
Harry stands up straight, licking his lip. He pats the back of Draco's wrist, avoiding the wet stripe, and pushes Draco's hand back towards him. Draco's fingers are still cupped in that loose grip, holding nothing. He blinks, and clears his throat, but doesn't say anything.
"Step two, sugar," Harry says, casual, as though his tongue wasn't just on Draco's skin. His cheeks look flushed, though. Maybe there's something significant in the way he hasn't met Draco's eyes for more than a second since. Maybe that's just hopeful thinking.
Harry flicks his wand and the sugar bag unfolds itself, two tidy tornadoes of granules lifting themselves out and spiralling towards each of their wrists. Draco can feel it when they land on his skin, arranging themselves before they silently crash down in ticklish little spirals. It's mesmerising, like watching particles settle in a snow globe.
Harry's voice startles him out of his reverie.
"Now lemon, and we're set."
"I'm still not sure I follow," Draco mutters, watching the light catch on his sugared skin.
Harry raises his own prepped hand to just below his lips, shot glass held in the other. "Just do as I do, then," he says, and grins.
Draco half nods, all shrugs, helplessly following whatever Potter is doing here and trying not to be so desperately obvious about it.
"Lick." Harry flicks his tongue out, raises his hand, and the sugar is gone in a quick, wet lick. Draco hurries to follow suit. Sweet fills his mouth, grainy, dissolving on his tongue. He keeps his eyes on Harry.
"Sip," Harry directs, raising his glass and downing the contents in one; Draco does it too with lemming reflexes. It's sweet, only the faintest burn of booze, and before he can really decide what flavour this is and if he likes it, Harry grabs two lemon wedges and holds one up to Draco's mouth.
"Suck."
Draco sucks. He holds it in his teeth, the corners of the rind tickling at the edges of his mouth, into the lip creases there. It stings. The flavour morphs into something familiar, the sour lemon and the sweet sugar melding with the whatever-this-is alcohol. Draco swallows, still sucking on his lemon triangle.
"Goo'?" Harry asks, grinning toothily around his own rind. There's wet on his cheeks from the lemon wedge when he pulls it away. He smacks his lips. Draco doesn't need to copy him now, but he still does anyway, auto-piloting through. He licks his own lips, thoughtful. He looks down at the left-over sugar left on his hand.
"It's… lemon meringue-ish," he muses.
"Pancakes with lemon and sugar," Harry counters, still smiling. "Great, right?"
Draco licks his lips again. Lemon lingers in the corners of his mouth. "I don't… not like it," he decides, and Harry laughs like Draco said something much funnier than he did.
Harry drops his chewed-on lemon piece onto the railing, leaving it next to the fresh slices like a before and after. He leans next to it, getting his hair tangled in some hanging autumn-shrivelled vines twirling and immediately standing upright again with a muttered fuck.
"Over here's better." Draco beckons him over to the corner he's stood in. The vines were better looked after, or more neglected, there; either way, Draco's taller and there's no crispy leaves and tendrils near his head.
Harry shuffles over, boots scuffing. The corner is tight. He presses up next to Draco, 'til their shoulders are knocking. Draco has to lean forward to drop his own sucked-on lemon by the bag of sugar on the ledge, and when he leans back again he thinks Harry is standing even closer, his whole side up against Draco's side. Draco's pulse feels loud in his ears. His neck is hot, for no reason.
The conversation dies, as if the need to talk has been replaced by the press of bony shoulders, by Draco's thigh against Harry's. He imagines he can feel warmth from it. Maybe he can; it's fucking cold out here, but Draco is burning up.
He's drunk. That's probably it. Harry's sugarry amber booze just hits harder than anticipated. The strangest feeling suddenly surges through him, though―this is real. He's kissed a boy, then sucked a lemon next to him out the back of a house party where half the attendees thinks magic means a conjuring trick. He's kissed Harry fucking Potter. His father would flip his lid if he knew, if he saw him now. Draco wishes there was a way he could know, a way Draco could shove it in his face. He also knows he would never. What would he do, stroll into Azkaban with a photo of him and Potter in a pink frame, snogging amongst stranger's peacoats? It would be nice for a moment―gleefully showing his dad he's not just a disappointment but a bent one too―but what would be the point? There's nothing to be gained from interacting with his father now, except an emotional hangover (from him, and the Dementors).
He doesn't want to taint this memory either. It's not like it's private, or special; a whole room of people knows they kissed, for a joke, for a game. It still feels like something private, somehow, something that's just his own. His head feels like cotton balls. He wonders if Harry feels the same, if that's why he sought him out. If he was just making sure Draco was okay.
Or maybe he just really needed someone to validate that his weird drink wasn't foul. Draco hiccups, or maybe it's a burp. It's some kind of noise. He stifles it into his shoulder.
"You good?" Harry asks, and it makes Draco realise they've been standing in silence, in a dark corner surrounded by dead vines and haphazard fairy lights, for several minutes.
"Yep," he stifles a laugh this time. "Your pancakes are repeating on me, Potter." It's a better reply than, I'm overwhelmed by the concept of keeping this night just for myself. He's going to laugh or slide down the railing to the floor any minute now.
"Uh oh," Harry rumbles, nodding like it's an outcome he expected and not something Draco just blurted out. "Let me know if you're gonna vom and I'll. Y'know." He trails off, waving a hand in Draco's direction.
Draco barks a laugh. "You'll what? Hold my hair back?" He turns to look at Harry, and he's so close. Looking at him feels dangerous. And he's looking right back at Draco.
"I was gonna say get you a bucket, but sure." Harry appraises him, smiling. "It's not that long," he shrugs one shoulder. "I could do it with one hand even."
Draco blinks. "You're really fucking weird."
He's said it before he meant to. It's rude, blunt, and true. Harry doesn't look bothered, or even surprised. Draco guesses it's not the worst thing he's said to Harry. Draco frowns. It's not even close actually, and the weirdest part is, Draco isn't even sure how he feels about having said them in the past. He wouldn't say them now. But he meant it then―he was so sure he was right too. Maybe a gnarled little part of him still thinks shitty things now too, before he can catch himself, like it doesn't know how not to. He doesn't know how to quit that, or if he ever will excise it completely.
They shouldn't even be able to be on speaking terms, let alone jokingly calling each other weird, sharing a drink. Playing party games like one didn't try to kill the other.
"You've gone quiet again," Harry says, the smallest crease between his brows. His eyes are glassy, and so so green.
"Why did you kiss me?" Draco makes himself ask. His brain to mouth coordination is shot to pieces, but he did know he was going to say that at least.
Harry looks confused, opens his mouth and then shuts it again. His frown deepens. Draco feels the regret course through him―because it was a game, because I'm a good sport, because I had to. He waits for Harry to say it out loud and for Draco's fantasy of this being about them to pop.
"Which time?" Harry says. His expression is clear, maybe even shrewd. Draco wraps his arms around his middle.
"It only happened once." Draco's arms tighten. Holding his guts inside, it feels like.
Harry leans forward, slow, yet the kiss still takes Draco by surprise. His lips press against the corner of Draco's mouth, gentle and dry, and then that's it; he's pulling away before Draco can process it properly. His mouth parts and fuck it. Draco catches him in a kiss on his way out.
It's got no finesse. That's hardly surprising; Draco can count the number of people he's kissed on one hand, and the number of boys on one thumb. He misses Harry's mouth, bumps his chin, but Harry breathes out through his nose and puts his hand on Draco's shoulder and kisses back like this is blowing his mind anyway.
It's blowing Draco's. What's left of it. Harry's lips are soft, the stubble on his cheek rough. He tastes like citrus, sugar, like fucking pancakes. His hand grips Draco's shoulder, moves to his neck. His hand is cold, his fingers like ice, and Draco jumps involuntarily. Harry pulls it away immediately.
"Sorry," he mutters. His hand hovers around Draco's shoulder.
"Why is your hand that cold?" Draco says, shaking the shiver off.
"Bad circulation? I dunno." Harry laughs. "Great mood killer, huh." He kisses the side of Draco's mouth like an apology.
Draco accepts it via grabbing Harry's hand and putting it back on his neck, and then further back, until it's under the soft material of his warm jumper. He can still feel the cold of Harry's fingers through his top, like five chilly brands. His arm around him almost feels like a hug, albeit a very strange one.
Draco kisses him slower this time, tries to impress. His own bar is so low it's practically the floor here, but he wants Harry to think he's good. Or at least not think he's shit. Harry's easy, moves with Draco. Draco puts his hand on Harry's side, mirroring Harry’s move from the first time, Harry presses closer. His fingers tighten on Draco's shoulder, awkwardly scrunched under his jumper. The angle is weird, but his hand doesn't feel cold anymore. His lips aren't dry anymore. He sucks on Draco's lip, opens his mouth wider and Draco makes a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh and Harry laughs, a silent gust of air.
"Fuck you," Draco says into his mouth, not pulling away. Their teeth clack 'cos Draco’s smiling now too.
Harry kisses Draco's cheek, mmms against it. He moves lower, sloppy kisses on Draco's jawline, his neck. He slides his hand out of Draco’s jumper and up to cup the other side, on thumb against Draco’s jaw, strokes it. Suddenly, it's a lot. Draco slides his hand deeper under Harry's jacket, thinks about pulling him closer. Get his thighs against Potter's, get them belly to belly. His gut swoops, excitement and warning. There are people on the lawn behind them, in the house inside. Getting closer would be an amazing, terrible idea.
Harry pulls back, drops his head on Draco's shoulders as if he's thinking something similar. His hand slips from Draco's jaw, down to the base of his neck.
Harry clears his throat. "'Cos I felt like it," he croaks into the material of Draco's jacket.
Draco looks up at the side of the house, at the flickering fairy lights and the crunchy looking leaves left on the vine. "I have no idea what that means."
"Why I kissed you. Both times." Harry turns his face so his voice is clearer. "You asked. That's why."
"Oh." Draco had forgotten. "I think I figured that out," he swallows. His mouth feels strange. Kissed. Nice. "From the practical demonstration."
Harry laughs. "I'm a doer, not a talker." He says it like someone has told him this about himself and he's not sure if it's a good thing or not.
"Efficient," Draco decides.
He can hear people on the lawn―chatter, a raucous laugh. Someone yelps and then breaks into peals of laughter. The night feels like it's winding down and the stragglers are all outside.
"Are you heading back to the castle tonight?" Harry asks. Draco frowns, craning his face to look down at him.
"No, I thought I might sleep in the road," he replies. "Fancied my chances with the slugs and the foxes."
"Oi." Harry pinches his side, gentle, then stands up properly. He sways, holding the railing for support. It makes Draco want to sway too.
"I came with Greg. Goyle," he clarifies, as if there could be any other Gregs. "I'll Side-Along back with him if he's still around."
He hopes he sounds casual when he says it. He hopes Harry doesn't ask why he won't be Apparating himself (as if he doesn't already know).
Harry doesn't even act like it's weird. "I can Side-Along you. If you want. I came here alone, so. I'd have to… sober up." He grimaces, making a face at himself. "But if you want to, I can. Or we can stay here."
"Stay here," Draco deadpans.
"Yeah, we can crash," Harry says it fast. He's flushed. "Dean owes me, so we can have the spare room. To crash in. If you don't want to get Splinched. Or you can find… Greg." He makes another face as if using his first name was a step too far. He breathes our shakily, looks away as if he knows exactly how forward this sounds.
"Or sleep in the road."
"Yeah, or in a bin, the hydrangeas. Or walk back." Harry laughs nervously.
"Hmm. I don't want to get Splinched," Draco says after a moment, as if that gives Harry a proper answer. Draco's hand is still on Harry's side, under his jacket. He curls his fingers and it makes Harry's breath catch.
"I should go find Dean, then. Or Seamus," he says, voice low. "They'll say yes, though. Whichever one I find first."
"Oh yes? We won't need to fight for it?" We. Draco feels mad saying it. This whole night is mad.
"Nah, it's practically mine." Harry steps back, rubs his hands up his arms. "I was gonna move in with them, before I decided… anyway. I'm always welcome." It sounds like another line Harry's repeating, this time one that he likes. He shrugs, gives Draco a smile. "Gimme five. Or Ten." He laughs. "Or you don't have to wait here, you can obviously also come back inside."
Draco nods. "I know." He leans back against the beam. "I'll give you five and ten first."
"Cool. Yeah. I'll see you in a bit then." He turns to go, then turns back, a nervous pivot on the spot. His smile is infectious. Draco wants to pull him back and kiss him again, get his warmth back near Draco. He kicks his leg out and pushes Harry towards the door instead.
"Okay okay, I'm going." Harry's laugh is as infectious as his smile.
The door screeches open, as full of protest as before, and then he's gone.
Draco listens to the people on the lawn, background noise to the sounds in his head. Things sound like they're winding down. He'll go inside in a moment. Find Greg (he won't have left without Draco), tell him he's got a place to stay, try and think of something plausible.
He watches the lights on the side of the house, the way they catch and reflect. He touches his lips, closing his eyes, safe in his corner.
He'll give it a minute longer.
***