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Draco was not drunk. He was, perhaps, experiencing a minor disagreement with gravity. The corridor tilted unpleasantly beneath his feet, and Draco caught himself against the stone wall with one hand. The party was still thudding somewhere behind him, muffled by several corridors. Someone had produced drinking every time Potter ruffled his hair.
Draco had stopped counting after seven. He also hadn’t been able to stop staring at Potter, which was why he left. The eight-year dormitories weren’t far. Draco knew that. He walked this route every bloody day. Left at the tapestry, down the stairs, through-
His foot caught on the edge of a step. For one horrible second, there was nothing beneath him. Then a strong arm wrapped around his waist.
“Whoa.” Of course. Of fucking course. Draco closed his eyes. “Let go of me, Potter.”
“Maybe when you’re standing.”
“I am standing.”
“You’re sort of hanging.”
Draco shoved at him and immediately regretted it when the corridor lurched sideways. Potter caught his elbow again.
“Stop that,” Draco bit out.
“Stop falling over first.”
“I wasn’t falling.”
“You were heading down the stairs face-first.”
“I had it under control.”
Potter snorted. Draco hated that sound. He hated Potter’s stupid face and his stupid hair and the stupid little scar through his eyebrow that Draco had spent half of Advanced Transfiguration staring at in the morning. Most of all, he hated that Potter had barely looked back.
“Come on,” Potter said. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”
“No.”
“Malfoy.”
“I said no.”
“Fine. Stagger upstairs, then. I’ll walk behind you.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“I don’t pity you.”
“Right. You barely acknowledge my existence for three months, and suddenly you’re rescuing me in corridors?”
“You were falling down the stairs!”
“Should’ve left me.”
Potter stared at him in shock. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Draco laughed. It came out ugly. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, that’s rich.”
They were too close now. Draco wasn’t sure which of them had moved. Potter’s cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, his glasses slightly crooked.
“Every time I try to talk to you,” Potter snapped, “you insult me.”
“Because you ignore me!”
“Because every time I don’t, we end up fighting!”
“At least then you’re fucking looking at me!”
Silence. Draco’s stomach dropped. Potter blinked. Brilliant. Perhaps Draco could throw himself down the stairs after all.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” Draco started to turn, but Potter caught his wrist.
“Let go.”
“No.”
“Potter.”
“What do you want, then?”
Draco yanked at his hand, but Potter held on. “What?”
“You don’t want me to ignore you. You don’t want me helping you. You don’t want my pity, which I never fucking offered you, by the way. So what do you want?”
Something inside Draco cracked. “I want you to be kind to me!” His voice echoed down the empty corridor. Potter went still, but Draco couldn’t stop. “I want you to turn time back and take my hand in first year. I want you not to ignore me. I want you to pay attention to me, praise me, kiss me, fuck me-”
Oh. Oh, fuck. Draco’s eyes widened. Potter’s mouth had fallen open. For one endless second, neither of them moved. Then Draco ripped his wrist from Potter’s hand.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Malfoy-”
He turned too quickly, and his heel slipped. Draco barely had time to register the sickening tilt of the floor before Potter caught him for the third time. Only this time Potter didn’t grab his elbow. He wrapped both arms around him. Draco froze, and so did Potter. One arm was around Draco’s back, and the other awkwardly curled around his shoulders. Draco’s face was barely a few centimetres away from Potter’s face. Neither of them spoke. Slowly, cautiously, Potter’s grip tightened. Potter was holding him.
Draco swallowed. “This is humiliating.”
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah.”
Draco looked towards Potter’s face sharply. “You’re supposed to say you hate me too.”
Potter was quiet. Then Draco felt his hand start gently circling his back.
“I don’t, though.”
Draco’s breath caught. Potter’s thumb pressed more firmly against his back. Draco could feel his skin burning through the layers of fabric. He shut his eyes. He had imagined Potter touching him approximately eight thousand times, and in none of those imaginings had Potter held him like something fragile.
“I’m very drunk,” Draco whispered.
“I won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”
“Liar.”
“Probably.”
Potter laughed softly. Draco hated that sound too. He lifted a hand, as if in a haze, and pressed it into Potter’s chest. Potter’s heart was beating quickly. Too fast. After a moment, Potter said, “I can’t turn time back.”
Draco’s fingers curled involuntarily into his shirt. “I know.”
“And eleven-year-old me was kind of an idiot.”
“Obviously.”
“But…” Potter hesitated. His hand slid carefully upwards until his fingers brushed Draco’s hair. “I could try being kinder now.”
Draco didn’t answer. He simply stood there, held in the middle of an empty Hogwarts corridor by the boy who hadn’t taken his hand when they were eleven.
After a while, very quietly, Potter said, “And maybe we can discuss the rest of your list when you’re sober.”
Draco made a strangled noise, which made Potter laugh.
“Let’s get you to the dorms now,” Potter whispered and straightened. For a moment, the loss of body contact, the loss of Potter’s warmth, jarred Draco. In the next moment, Potter’s hand found his, and then he intertwined their fingers.