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Fucking Pansy and her fucking brilliant ideas. “We should go to the New Year Party, Draco,” he muttered in a high squeaky voice. “We need to be seen playing nice, Draco,” he continued. Dropping into his normal voice, maybe slurring just a little, he said very firmly to the potted plant with which he was sharing the balcony, “I should never ever ever listen to Pansy. She has the worst ideas ever.”
It was, needless to say, a nightmare. The handful of Slytherins who had been bullied into attending had huddled together, being mostly ignored and occasionally taunted by the others. Even fucking Smith had had the balls to have a go at them. Well, he had had the balls. Draco had been on the receiving end of Pansy’s scrotum retracting hex before, and it was not a pleasant experience. He wished the obnoxious twat joy of it.
Thank fuck some delinquent Gryffindor had spiked the punch or the whole thing would have been insupportable. As it was he was pleasantly sloshed. “Not more than pleasantly, of course,” he assured his leafy companion, “That would be undifin- undignified, and beneath a Malfoy.”
“You do realise you’re talking to a plant, don’t you Malfoy?”
He looked up from where he was leaning against the reassuring solidity of the pot. Fucking Potter, naturally. Probably hunted him down just to make his night even worse. “You do realise you’re setting fire to a stick in your mouth, don’t you Potter?”
“Yes Malfoy. That’s why it’s called ‘having a smoke’.” Potter sucked on the stick, and then breathed out a cloud of smoke. Well, that made sense. “What are you doing out here anyway, apart from spending quality time with the plantlife?”
He went to take another drink of the punch, and was disappointed to discover that the glass was already empty. The plant had probably been nicking drinks from it when he wasn’t looking. “I’ll have you know that this plant is probably the best conservationi-coonveersaationnnaaallist in the damn place. And at least it’s not trying to hex me. That counts for a lot these days. Is that punch in your glass?”
He was horrified when Potter apparently took that as some kind of invitation and sat down next to him, the acrid smoke from the smouldering stick curling up from his hand towards his face. At least he had the good manners to hand his almost full glass over. “So I’m out here for the conversation. Why are you here?” he asked, and took a big drink from his new glass of punch.
“I was dying for a smoke, and it’s almost midnight. Some of the girls clearly had ideas,” Potter said darkly. “Frankly, they were scaring me.” He scowled and sucked on his stick again.
“Awwwww, is poor ickle Potty scared of the big bad girls?” He coughed as Potter blew the bitter smoke directly into his face. Bastard.
“I don’t fancy being mobbed by a bunch of half-drunk hormonal teenagers, no. And I don’t like the way Professor Catcott was looking at me either. Uurgh.”
The new Defence professor was a pudgy woman in her fifties, with a bad dye job, a lisp and a tendency to fawn even more than was usual over Potter. He offered the glass back in sympathy.
It was possible he had had a leeetle more to drink than was entirely advisable, he thought as he watched Potter’s head tilt back, his throat working as he swallowed the drink. He took the glass back when Potter handed it to him, but found that he couldn’t look away as Potter wrapped his lips around the stick and sucked again. The warm feeling in his belly from the alcohol grew even warmer, and spread to his groin.
The stick was much shorter than it had been, and Potter reached past him to stub it out in the plant pot. He seemed to be leaning a bit closer than was really necessary, but it was nice, the warm length of Potter’s body pressed along his side and across his chest. Potter was giving him a look he couldn’t really interpret, although given the lack of hexing on either part so far it probably wasn’t overly hostile.
They both jumped slightly as cheering and shrieks of “Happy New Year” erupted from the Great Hall, and then Potter was looking at him again, the big weirdo.
“Happy New Year, Malfoy,” Potter mumbled, and suddenly leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Draco’s. His lips were firm and slightly chapped, and his tongue, when it lapped against the seam of Draco’s mouth was hot and damp, and Draco couldn’t resist the invitation to open his mouth. Potter’s lips tasted bitter from the smoke from the stick, but his tongue, as it slipped into his mouth, tasted rich and musky with a tang of alcohol from the punch. Most importantly, it felt brilliant as it stroked over his tongue. He moaned before realising he was going to, and was about to pull away, what was he doing drunkenly snogging Potter, when Potter did it again, at the same time slipping his hand into Draco’s hair and stroking at his temple with his thumb. Potter’s tongue pulled back into his own mouth and Draco felt compelled to follow it. This time it was Potter’s moan that echoed in the cavern of their joined mouths.
He shifted slightly, one arm wrapping itself round the back of Potter’s waist, the other reaching up to cradle the back of Potter’s head. He had always thought that since Potter’s hair looked like a startled hedgehog it would be coarse and prickly, but it was like warm silk as twined around his fingers. When Potter actually sucked on his tongue the sound that came from his throat was nothing as dignified as a moan.
They pulled away slightly and he noticed with embarrassment that their mouths were still linked by a slender thread of saliva between them. He licked his lips to break it, and Potter’s eyes tracked the motion like a hawk.
“Happy New Year, Potter,” he muttered hoarsely, and tugged Potter’s head back towards him. Pansy had the best ideas ever.