Mask of Innocence

~*~

"Ugh..."

The tiny little groan, which would only barely register as a sound to the casual observer, zoomed around in Draco's skull like a bludger gone mad, bouncing off of every available surface. It was not a pleasant way to wake up. Briefly, he wondered just how much he had drunk the night before. He stopped thinking about it when he found that even thoughts hurt too much for comfort at the moment.

After the pain had subsided for a while, he began his usual morning-after ritual:

Clothes? Present. Check.

Location? Opening his eyes just a little crack. /Ah.../ Someone was kind enough to drag him into his own bed last night. Check.

Hedoise's Hangover Remedy? On the nightstand. He stretched a hand towards the bottle. Some moments of straining aching muscles later, Draco wanted to kick himself for putting the bottle too far last night before leaving. Bollocks, he'd have to sit up or fall off the bed and crawl in order to reach the Hangover-B-Gone. /Let's chance getting vertical,/ he told his body. Some more straining later, he sat up and the room began to tilt. /Let's not,/ a nauseated voice in his head told him. Alcohol makes schizophrenics of us all. Draco lay back down and thought. This time it didn't hurt that much and some neurons actually fired in the right direction, which is to say, in a straight line. Mostly. Then the answer fell on his head quite literally. His head had been pressed against the side of the slightly-higher-than-his-bed nightstand and his wand, once on the edge, rolled over the side and dropped, rather painfully, onto his skull. Agony, thy name is Malfoy. He grabbed the dark mahogany wood from where it had rolled to after bludgeoning him and muttered an almost entirely pronounced 'Accio bottle.' It came out more like 'Awsho butt hole' because his face was still smushed somewhere between the nightstand and his bed, but worked nonetheless and the Hangover-B-Gone flew into his other hand, which was sprawled on the surface of the offensively large piece of furniture. Why was it so big?

Pulling out the little cork with a 'pop!' he downed most of the bottle's contents in one go, and then finished the rest on a second. Check.

Now, what time was it?

... What day was it?

He smacked himself in the forehead as he realized, bugger, today was Monday, and immediately regretted the action for two reasons: the first being that the potion had just started to work but not enough to stop trauma from being magnified, and the second being that he still had his wand in his hand.

Ow.

/I hate Mondays./

Draco dragged himself out of bed as he realized again, that as it was Monday, he had class. And as he was Head Boy, he couldn't skip either.

"Tempus," he commanded the clock on his work desk. At least the hangover was mostly gone now. /Thank you, Hedoise,/ he thought gratefully, reminding himself to stock up for next weekend simultaneously.

The pleasant alto of his clock informed him cheerfully that it was "8:43 A.M., on the Monday morning of October 16^th," and "Thank you for purchasing Time-Y, the Wizarding Authority on time."

He'd have to get that fixed soon. One could only take so much audio abuse. But first, a shower. It was already too late to get breakfast anyway, might as well spend the time on personal grooming, a concept Potter did not seem to really get, as evident by his hair. Besides, Draco never ate much in the morning after a night of drinking.

/Grr. Potter and his J.F. hair./ Draco wanted to take gardening shears to it and hack it all off. That, or run his fingers through it until the mess fell into some resemblance of order. While he grumbled his way to the Head Boy's private washrooms, the little nymphomaniac in the back of his mind representing his collective hormones positively purred at the image. Just fucked Potter. Drool. He would be all flushed from the strenuous exercise, covered in a thin film of sweat. Those jade eyes of his would darken in the height of climax, turning a deep forest green and staring up dazedly at him. Oooh, his libido shuddered, so sexy.

Now standing under the showerhead in the luxurious bath, he resolutely reached down and firmly grabbed the hard shaft before him... and turned on the cold water.

It was just another Monday morning.

~*~

When You-Know-Who was happy, Harry's head would hurt and his scar would throb. When the Boy Who Lived himself was happy, however, he liked to hum. Today of all days, for the first time in Hogwarts history, Harry Potter was humming something he had heard on UK Gold during the previous summer as he walked down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Had the author of Hogwarts: A History been there on the stairs with him, he (or she) surely would have scribbled the significant event down somewhere in the latter pages. Or if Rita Skeeter were to turn up. The next Daily Prophet surely would read something like "Saviour of the Wizarding World found humming on Monday morning. Transport was immediately arranged to take the tragic boy hero to St. Mungo's. Wizarding World doomed to certain destruction and ruin as Harry Potter is declared certifiably insane."

Which then, was a very good thing that Harry was alone in his daily trek.

Despite his late wanderings last night, he had woken earlier than usual this morning, feeling more refreshed than he'd felt for a long time. Having taken a shower last night before bed, he didn't feel the need to wash again and so only brushed his teeth and washed his face. He did also try to tame his wild locks, but the mass of ink-black hair would not cooperate and his attempts only made it look even more ruffled than usual. Oh well, it wasn't as if it wasn't mussed every other day.

The Fat Lady in the portrait had smiled at him as he exited the common room and for once did not tsk at his hair, as she was wont to do most mornings. He figured perhaps she had finally given up, much like Hermione did in sixth year, and felt even better. It was amazing what a good night's sleep could do for his temperament.

Sarcastically, he told himself that it had nothing to do with Dra-- Malfoy. Riiight.

Walking into the dining hall, he beamed widely at anything and everything, dazzling an array of five Hufflepuffs, two Ravenclaws, one Slytherin first year, and half of a teacher, which is to say, Professor Flitwick. Had more than those people actually been up so early, perhaps more than the aforementioned would have fallen to the Boy Who Lived's charms, but alas, due to the rest of the school's sleep-in-for-as-long-as-possible attitude, the world may never know.

Harry sat down at the Gryffindor table by himself, not bothered much by the solitude. Actually, it was a blessing to be alone just then, as if Ron and Hermione had been there, they would surely question him on his very buoyant mood and its causes. As it was, Harry was fine with enjoying his breakfast without interruption.

Ten minutes later, more students (and teachers) finally began to file into the hall in scattered groups. Seamus and Dean came in with some sixth year boys, already embroiled in a lively discussion on Puddlemere United's victory on Saturday and Oliver Wood's last spectacular save.

Uncharacteristically, Hermione was one of the last Gryffindors in. When she finally made her appearance, followed closely by Ron, who had a grin a mile wide on his face. There was only a few minutes left of breakfast and she hurriedly grabbed some pieces of toast off the serving plates before dashing off towards the library. Then in a flash, she was back, giving Ron a sound smack on the lips before dashing off again. Ron only sat back and smiled stupidly, a glazed look in his eyes and pink spots growing on his cheeks.

Distracted from the debate by the spectacle of such a blatant public display of affection from the usually oh-so-reserved Head Girl, Seamus turned an expectant gaze onto the blushing redhead. "Do tell, Ronniekins," he urged suggestively.

Harry started laughing as Ron's blush began to creep down his collar, disappearing into his robes.

Clearing his throat, Ron gathered his composure. He grinned wickedly and whispered, "You know how the Head Girl has her own private quarters?"

Seamus smiled conspiratorially and prompted, "And?" leaning closer towards the seventh year Weasley, practically falling out of his chair.

"And I'm not telling you anything, you pervert," Ron laughed and shoved the sandy-haired Irish in play.

On Ron's other side, Harry was absorbed in his own thoughts. /Since the Head Girl has her own rooms, then the Head Boy should as well.../

His own, not-so-innocent thoughts. Was it his fault that the blonde Slytherin made him think such naughty things? God knows half the school or more has him at the top of their 'People to Shag' lists. And it's not as if Harry's lust was some spontaneous working of his overactive teenage hormones. Lately, he'd been finding himself admiring how the line of Draco's slender and sinuous neck met his firm shoulders, or how the expensive cut of his robes flattered his very defined pectorals, or how closely his emerald green Quidditch robes cleaved to his taut torso and arse and thighs, or -- /No, stop right there,/ he told himself.

"...Harry?"

Harry grinned sheepishly at Ron's lightly concerned tone, and turned his attention back to the conversation at hand, rejoining the rest of the Gryffindors.

Soon, it was time for class and whole years began to drift out of the hall as one in large masses. The youngest students tended to herd more closely and sometimes as many as ten could be found in a huddle, all trying to look as if they knew where they were going. Ron scoffed at them often, and then would be soundly rebuked by his girlfriend because she was the Head Girl and he was a prefect, and how would it look if he was found ridiculing lower years and she, by not smacking him in the head, seemed to condone it? Honestly, men are so inconsiderate and insensitive. At least, that's what Hermione always said. But Ron loved her, anal-retentiveness and all. Ah, love...

As if by some very cruel trick of fate or some other omnipresent force, Double Potions with Slytherins was the first class on Monday mornings. The joy, the rapture! Harry didn't mind it all that much this particular morning, although on any other such day, he'd frankly prefer being held at knifepoint than sitting through the two hour long torture session. He had been dreading facing Malfoy Sunday evening, but considering the state the blonde was in last night and exactly what transpired between them, Harry figured that that particular Slytherin won't be much of a problem. And as the rest of them never made a move without consulting their king, it seemed that for once, they would have a peaceful, non-confrontational Potions class.

Then there was Snape, standing rigidly behind his teacher's desk, as he did every morning while he waited for his students to seat themselves. After a mere five minutes in which the last of the Slytherins hurried in, most looking not a little groggy, the Potions Master grew tired of the confused motion before him, and barked sharply, "Quiet!"

Neville, who was just about to sit down and was startled by the obviously and usually irked voice, fell the last half-foot between his bottom and the chair, plopping heavily into his seat. Snape sent a scathing glare towards him, saying 'How dare you be so clumsy in my presence?' with his eyes. Neville sighed. It was no different from any other Monday morning.

Sitting at the back of the dungeon room for once, Draco Malfoy remained silent. Hedoise's formula had worked sure enough, but the hangover potion didn't account for his fatigue. They weren't brewing anything today; it was strictly lecture only, so he relaxed and only occasionally jotted down some notes -- he already read over the chapter on adding bayroot as an infusion some times ago. In a lull, he sat forward and rested his head on the heel of his palm. The few seconds in which his knuckles grazed his lips brought back a sudden flash of sensation. A physical memory of something much softer and velvety brushing against his mouth, like the barest hint of a kiss.

It felt... nice. What happened, and when? Surely not last night.

Draco strained his short-term memory bank, and found that the last solid recollection he had was of the Red Unicorn. He and Blaise were knocking back drinks and speaking of, of Potter's arse? That can't be right. Then miraculously, he had gotten back to the castle and into bed, but he couldn't remember how.

What was now clear was that he had definitely drunk more last night than in his entire life. When these outings were regular, like they were in sixth year, he had always spent more time dancing than sitting, and so only dipped a finger into the drink, so to speak. Last night, he dove in and bathed in it. His breath stunk of alcohol so badly this morning that even the curiously-stronger-than-Altoids mintiness of the Hangover-B-Gone wasn't enough to combat it, and he brushed his teeth and tongue about three times. Or five. It was strange, though, because he thought that he detected some lingering trace of sweetness amid the foul aftertaste. Was it the residue of the phantom kiss?

/Hopefully,/ Draco thought, /I'll recover something with time.../ This kiss, that may or may not have happened, seemed too good a thing to have only vague impressions of.

Clipped and annoyed words interrupted his musings.

"Are you paying attention, Finnigan? Or must I transfigure myself to look like Miss Brown in order to capture your interest?"

The Irish boy visibly shrank and cringed at the mental image. Lavender Brown blushed a deep crimson. Professor Snape was in top form today. Draco smirked to himself.

~*~

"I wonder why Ferret Boy was so quiet today?"

Hermione threw a 'look' at Ron. "Don't. We should not look a gift horse in the mouth."

That would have been the end of it, had Draco Malfoy, affectionately known as 'Ferret Boy,' not just brushed past going the other way without so much as a cursory "Mudblood," or "Weasel." In fact, he looked a bit more pale than usual, and that was saying something, as he was already pale, and harried by something.

Ron stared disbelievingly at the retreating back. "You see what I'm talking about? Not a peep of an insult just then! And he didn't even say a word in Potions, and he always hams it up then."

"Leave it alone, Ron," Harry said distractedly, also looking after the blonde. "Let's just go to lunch."

Something was distinctly off about Malfoy, Harry thought. /I wonder what's wrong with him...

/Not that I'm concerned or anything. That's absurd./

~*~

By the end of Double Potions, Draco had reconstructed enough of the hazy moments he could almost recall from the night before to ascertain that, yes, he had kissed someone last night. Or rather, someone had kissed him, as he was sure that he would have missed the person entirely if he had tried to initiate anything with his coordination at the time. Then something was said that, in direct contrast to the kiss, didn't make him very happy.

The voice was so familiar, but his brain refused to put a name to it. It had insinuated something, didn't it?

Who's the poof now, Malfoy?

As if hearing it for the first time, the question drifted out of the depths of locked memories to the fore of his mind, ringing with mockery and some hint of... pain. A boy had kissed him, then.

A boy.

It'd had to have been a Slytherin. No one outside his own house in the school knew about his sexual orientation, and of course, no boy would ever dare kiss him without knowing that he was gay.

But that didn't make sense. It definitely could not have been Blaise or any of the other seventh years, and anyone below would have been too frightened of the unfathomable terror that was a Malfoy's wrath to risk it. Besides, the question implied that Draco had accused the boy of being homosexual and as it was, it would be the pot calling the cauldron black. Well, someone's confused. Draco just wasn't sure whether it was he that was confused or whoever this 'someone' was.

Maybe he remembered it wrongly, he considered, and then slapped his mental self for even thinking that he, a Malfoy, could possibly be wrong. You were rather sloshed, the assaulted voice reminded him. Hmm, yes, that was true... Nevertheless, a Malfoy is never wrong, and should the unthinkable occur, a Malfoy never admits that he is wrong.

Whilst he mused, his hands had gathered his things and stashed them, orderly, back in his bag. His body moved automatically in the same routine he had followed for the last six years or more. Pack up, go to lunch. As he walked down the corridor and up the stairs and down another hall, he was vaguely aware of other students milling about around him. Then, he heard it, the voice from last night that had said those oddly biting words. It came from behind him. But the only people behind him, he knew, was the Gryffindork Trio. They had stayed back because... well, he didn't know why exactly. It was beneath a Malfoy to pay so much attention to such common plebes and Mudbloods.

/Please don't let it be the Weasel, please please please.../ his mind frantically chanted.

As if in a low-grade horror flick, or the torturous work of a sadistic author, Draco slowly made a turn to look behind him. It wasn't the Weasel. It was Potty.

/Well, that's much better,/ his mind snidely, inanely, remarked.

Then the question floated back, and filled him with a sense of dread. Potter had kissed him. He had enjoyed it. And then Potter had mocked him.

Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Like it wasn't bad enough that he had enjoyed it, but to add insult to injury. Draco may never be able to look Harry in the eye again. He couldn't keep walking. He couldn't just stop, either. They were still a ways down the hall, but if he stopped, they would get closer and closer. Ha -- Potter would get closer. Draco didn't think he could handle being any closer to Potter at the moment. So he ran. He ran as fast as he could to his dormitory, which, unfortunately, put him in very close range to Potter for a second. But it was still better than sitting across the room from him for an hour, staring into his green gaze, listening to wisps of his silvery laughter.

His feet carried him into the Slytherin parts of the dungeon and stopped before the portrait that guarded his Head Boy quarters.

"Verde," he said to the witch in the painting through his light pants, a result of his exhaustion from last night and the unplanned exercise just now. Mordred the Unlucky, the painting's subject, merely raised an eyebrow at his tightly drawn features before swinging open on her hinges.

Draco walked briskly through his common area to his bedroom, and upon reaching it, flung himself face down onto the deep green coverlet. Maybe he could just sleep for a few months or two. Maybe then he could get out there again and pretend that nothing happened. Maybe the world will stop turning and Snape will be nice to Longbottom. He snorted into his cream-colored pillows at the thought.

Who was he kidding?

There had always been an unspoken line between them, and now, whether it was of Potter's or his own volition or even if it just happened to have happened, that line had been crossed. Now, with the alcohol-addled memories of the kiss imprinted on the back of his eyes, it was impossible to deny that he was attracted to the blasted Gryffindor. That he had always been attracted to him. That he had always come out of their little tiffs more than just a bit... excited. That sometimes, when they were staring each other down, he'd notice the racing pulse point at the base of Harry's neck and he'd just want to lick and bite at it.

And it seems that Harry did not feel similarly. For once, it was Harry who had noticed his weakness first and exploited it. This was painful to admit.

Lifting his head a mere inch, he dropped back into the fluffed pillow in what may have been an attempt to end his life and emitted a truly pitiful sound.

"Ugh..."

~*~