Wacky Wednesday

Sometimes Harry didn't even know why he bothered. He knew he hated these mindless parties, full of their flowing alcoholic beverages and scantily clad seventh years. He knew he hated the peer pressure that always quadrupled on him whenever a kissing game was played. He hated how everyone acted different.

He was hardly normal, and his school was hardly normal, and magic was hardly normal, so he supposed it should have been too much to hope that his classmates behave normally. In all honestly and fairness, he should have seen it coming.

It was in this way that 17-year-old Harry Potter found himself in the Gryffindor Tower on the last day of December, waiting to ring in the New Year. It was only 10 o'clock and he felt as if the night had lasted forever.

It was tradition for the four houses to put aside some of their differences in the seventh year for a few parties. It seemed that even the Slytherins realized that their adolescent party days were almost over. Soon they'd all be hustled off to desk jobs at the Ministry or heading up the equipment manager departments for minor league quidditch teams.

Harry sat on one of the overstuffed armchairs, guzzling down the butterbeer like there was no tomorrow. It wasn't like him to be this alcohol prone, but let's face it: the guy was wound too tight. After battling evil Lord Voldemort countless times since he had even been alive, who wouldn't be? But what Harry really needed was a diversion.

Too bad, after two hours of drinking non-stop, Harry lost all sense of self-control.

Good thing no one would notice, for it appeared that everyone else had lost it way before he had. Harry noticed Ron and Hermione had finally come to terms with their love for each other and had been snogging passionately on the floor for the past half hour. Harry didn't even try and think about how much they had been drinking.

And you all thought Hermione was the responsible one.

Anyway, this story isn't about Hermione. We'll save that for another day.

Harry's diversion walked through the room and planted itself in his lap.

Its name was Draco Malfoy. (Cue raunchy music).

Harry hadn't bothered to dress up. He hadn't seen the point. He wore a green sweater that Ron's mum had knitted for him this past Christmas, and a pair of black trousers which, (surprise, surprise), actually fit. Hermione had convinced him he'd needed them, because she was always fed up with his sloppy appearance. At least having proper fitting clothes, she reasoned, wouldn't hurt, even if Harry didn't care about looking neat.

As it were, Draco was sitting on Harry's lap like he was a little kid.

Which he wasn't.

Both Draco and Harry had found themselves to be near 6 feet tall, and it was a discrepancy who was taller. It seemed that on Tuesdays and the odd Sunday, Draco appeared to tower over Harry, but on national holidays and every-other Friday, Harry was taller.

This Wednesday found Harry taller than Draco, since it was New Year's Eve. It worked out for the best, since if Draco had been taller, it would have seemed obscure for him to be sprawled in Harry's lap.

If Harry had been sober, and if Harry had been well-rested, and if Harry had been un-emotionally scarred (his best friends were snogging on the floor, for Merlin's sake!), he might have had a problem like this, but nothing like a wild, meaningless, drunken party to hook-up two enemies, right?

There was a point to Draco's lap visit. The whole of the seventh year class had written down everyone's names in different fishbowls to play a snogging game.

Yes, you guessed it, Harry and Draco were up.

In the style of a game show host, Draco slurred with liquored-up breath, "Hey Potter, guess what you've won?"

Predictably, Harry groaned, as one can only do when faced with the prospect of making out with one's archrival in a closet for seven minutes, but when one really doesn't mind. Ever since Harry was eleven years old he had been forced to have an open mind, and since then, he had learned to never be surprised about things out of the ordinary.

Funny, you'd think even intimate contact with a rival might register on the "wrong" side of the things in which Harry considered doing.

He'd never thought about kissing a boy before, either, but that realization escaped him.

People do funny things when they are drunk.

With the small thought residing in the very depths of Harry's mind that he might possibly regret it tomorrow, he grudgingly hoisted himself off the couch and followed Draco into the cloak closet. His mind couldn't wrap itself around what he might end up doing once he was in there, but right now, that didn't matter.

Draco pulled the door closed. Despite the absence of light in the cupboard, Draco seemed to glow. Ever the Slytherin, his silver button-down shirt and black trousers still neglected to cover up all of his pale, pale skin.

Harry's breath hitched in his throat as Draco reached for Harry's shoulders.

Harry could smell the vodka on the other boy's breath, and he could feel his own heart rate thump-thump-thumping in his chest.

Still, he did nothing to stop it.

He let Draco rub his shoulders some, in a way of a drunken massage, before he felt he loosened up to do any sort of lip action at all.

Since Harry had only kissed one girl before, in the fifth year, and that was somewhat sloppy, he left it up to Draco to initiate it. If rumors were true, and most of them were, Draco had had plenty more experience than he in matters of physical attraction.

Harry didn't even know why Draco was doing this. He thought the Slytherin would sooner lop off his platinum blond locks and use them to redecorate the Gryffindor quidditch robes than willingly kiss him.

Though as Draco's lips gently caressed Harry's, Harry certainly wasn't about to complain.

Everything else faded away, until all that was left was Draco and Harry, in the closet, their lips moving together like waves in the sea.

In the style of all the romantic-meant-to-be-together clichés, their two mouths clicked and their tongues lolled, over and over together in the now rapidly-rising temperature of the small, stuffy cupboard.

Draco's expertise in the kissing department left Harry breathless and aroused. Everything the suave Slytherin did was smooth and polished, and his lovely love-making skills would undoubtedly be the same, if the way he snogged was any indication. Yes, Draco was oh-so-good at this.

As soon as Harry moaned slightly right into Draco's swollen, gentle, lush lips, Draco slowed down a little, and pulled back slightly. Harry was so overcome by this new experience- this play on his every emotion and sensation- that all he could do was stand there and let Draco take him over.

Draco trailed his tongue over Harry's pink lips, which were slightly parted in anticipation of new pleasures yet to come. He gently probed with his lips the lips of the other boy, gently took Harry's lips with his own as if they were the key to everything he had ever wanted.

Bloody hell, if Draco kissed everyone this way, Harry could see why he'd have had his way with myriads of students.

Draco's hands pushed and pulled in the awesomality of their existence, they rubbed and soothed, they caressed and explored Harry's skin, his hair, his shirt...

In what Harry would only later remember as the most sensual move he had ever experienced, Draco gently, ever-so-gently, took Harry's bottom lip in between his own two lips and played with it a little, eliciting a tremble from Harry.

Harry was now pushed up against the wall, his arms wrapped tight as can be around Draco's form and his eyes screwed shut. It didn't matter anymore whatever had been between the two. Harry couldn't begin to recall the crass and crude language that had been exchanged between the two, couldn't even remember the hurt feelings, the betrayals, the pranks. That part of their lives was done, over, past, and things would never ever be the same.

And Harry wouldn't want them to be the same.

How come they had never done this before?

The very fact that Harry had never gotten to experience this...this...pleasure that was so intense, this exquisite feeling of being utterly connected with someone else, someone he had known in only one way before, and now could not wait to know in all the ways of possibly knowing.

It was Harry who made the next move, Harry who surprised them both.

Harry let his hand travel up Draco's sides, bumping over his ribcage, and tangling in the folds of the shiny, shimmering silk. The sweat on his palms slipped over the buttons on Draco's shirt, wetting the part where the two sides met and covered Draco's divine body with Harry's fingerprints, Harry's intentions.

He fumbled with the buttons. No make-out session is complete without some form of awkwardness. Smiling into Harry's mouth, Draco let him figure it out for himself. He liked seeing the Boy Who Lived become the Boy Who Fumbled Around And Had Trouble Getting to Second Base. It was attractive.

Now, Draco had no problem at all smooching with his long ago foe. He had always found that what he couldn't have was so very, very attractive. He had also found that he was attracted to both guys and girls. Let's face it, when you're as smooth as our favorite Slytherin, why limit yourself?

Draco hadn't had a crush on Harry, per se, but he had been attracted. And we all know that people have a tendency to tease the objects of their affection. It was like how a cat toys with a mouse before devouring it whole.

By now Harry's fumblings were getting frantic, as if he had an overwhelming urge to take this a step higher, that he wanted their messings-around to be kicked up a notch, and he wanted it now.

Draco pulled back slightly, and tilted his head just enough so that his long, slim, flawless nose nestled Harry's shorter, smooth nose, and their soft skin rubbed and created a heat from their friction that ignited Harry's soul.

Their foreheads were pressed together as Draco's breath tickled Harry's lips, his cool exhalations gliding over Harry's sensitive skin. Draco's smile was felt against his cheek, and he whispered, "Let me help you."

Draco seductively held Harry's eyes with his own, though the pull for Harry to look at Draco's muscular chest was almost more than he could bear. Draco slid out of his shirt, which he carefully draped over one of the boxes. Then Draco came toward Harry with a look in his eye that let Harry know exactly what this was.

A gnawing voice had hammered away inside Harry's brain since all this began. It had said that all of it was a trick, that Draco was just doing this to pull a fast one on Harry, but as soon as Draco's wise mouth had captured his own, he, on most levels, had stopped caring. Yet there was still the undeniable possibility that this was just a game for Draco and that tomorrow it'd all go away like it meant nothing in the first place.

Until now. When Draco had looked at Harry, it was in the way that Harry had always dreamed of being looked at.

As a boy who had no loving parents, no proper upbringing in a house full of love, Harry was clueless as to what love actually was. He had no idea. But if love was what could make him feel like this, then love rocked his world. Love was his wonder drug, and he was an opium fiend, a crack addict, a pothead.

Perhaps this wasn't love. Honestly, how could it be? But at the very least it was lust. And that's all Harry needed, for right now, and probably forever. If he could have Draco look at him like this and touch him like that he'd be the happiest wizard alive.

If he even knew what happy was.

But let's not get off topic.

The lust (yes, we've decided it is lust) in Draco's eyes virtually nailed Harry into position. He liked feeling needed, wanted, attractive. Harry was in love with love. Er, no, Harry was in love with lust.

Harry felt like a different person. It was someone else who was touching Draco all over, someone else running his hands over the smooth, solid, pale body, and someone else bending their mouth down to taste the sweet succulent skin of Draco's shoulder.

If it would have gone further, no one knows. At least, not yet, anyway.

The door to the cupboard was pulled open by Seamus Finnigan, who had taken it upon himself to run the kissing games, and making sure to get plenty of action himself.

The time was up, and it was all Harry could do to restrain himself from using one of the unforgivables on Seamus, stupid Irish prat that he is, and it was all he could do to not pull Draco in, not slam the door, and not keep them there forever and ever.

Draco gathered up his shirt and brushed past Harry, who was looking extremely disheveled and put-off at the sudden, screeching halt to the best seven minutes of his life. Draco pushed up against Harry, who, unfortunately, could not be more aroused, though this action would have caused that, had it been possible, and delighted his ear with a, "To be continued..."