It was still dark when Draco blinked his gritty eyes open—and it may have been the worst mistake of his life.
His tongue was like sandpaper, and glued to the roof of his mouth. There was a distinct possibility that a herd of Hippogriffs was stampeding through his skull, and his sheets smelled of gin and sweat and an unnameable odour that he was scared to identify.
Draco was also fairly certain he was dying.
But even worse than all of that, and it was already very awful, Draco wasn’t alone.
He rolled to his side, desperate for water or hangover potion—to be fair, at this point he’d drink poison if it meant an end to his pain—and was greeted by the sight of a far too pleased, and far too handsome, Harry Potter.
It was a shame that after all Draco’s fantasies about getting Harry into his bed, it had finally happened and Draco had no memory of how.
“Morning!” Harry probably said, but to Draco he may as well have been shouting.
Draco pressed a finger to those full, and luscious lips (he was hungover, not blind). “I am begging you, please, please, please be quiet.”
“How’re you feeling?” Harry mumbled, his lips still trapped by Draco’s hand.
“I wish I were dead,” Draco said, shutting his eyes as the world took an unsettling turn.
“Eight gin and tonics will do that.”
“Eight?” Draco croaked. Well, that explained quite a lot…
“It was quite impressive, actually—until you fell over.”
“F-fell over?”
“That was after you laid on the bar—”
Burying his face into his pillow (a somewhat half-hearted attempt at smothering himself), Draco groaned.
“—But before I carried you home.”
So, not only had Harry stayed the night, he’d also carried Draco home in those massive arms that featured heavily in every daydream Draco had about him—and Draco had no memory of it. At all.
There was literally no end to Draco’s suffering.
“Is there a chance you were having a particularly vivid hallucination?”
“Nope,” Harry said, popping the ‘p’ with a little too much vigour given the depth of Draco’s misery.
And he didn’t really want to know, but Draco had to ask, “Is that all?”
“Not even close.” Harry laughed, and Draco—against his will—smiled.
“I hate you.”
“Ah—see that’s the thing…” Draco felt Harry snuggle closer, pressing his face into Draco’s pillow until they were eye to eye. “Last night, you told me that you loved me.”
And now Draco really did want to die. There was no way to stop the blush creeping up his neck, he could feel his face burning and he saw Harry’s smile widen even further.
“I—well, I was pissed—”
“Malfoysdo not get pissed,” Harry said, eyes sparkling. “The polite term is inebriated.”
“In any case, I wasn’t in control of my faculties, and I’ve got no idea what I said. So you can’t—”
“I love you too,” Harry said as his fingers brushed the hair off Draco’s face.
“Y-you do?”
“Yes.”
Draco thought the stampeding Hippogriffs might have moved to his chest because he was sure his heart was about to explode. He’d made a total arse of himself, and Harry still loved him—he really was perfect.
“I need a hangover potion, and to brush my teeth. Then I want you to tell me again so I can kiss you properly.”
Harry kissed his forehead. “Deal.”
Apparently, getting drunk on eight gin and tonics was the best mistake of his life.
