miracle (miracle) wrote in harrylovesdraco, @ 2009-07-11 12:05:00 |
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Title: Oh, The Horror.
Author: treacle_tartlet
Rating: R (for language and implied naughtiness)
Challenge: harrylovesdraco Challenge #7
Prompts: Harry's birthday, red.
Warnings: A bit of bad language.
Word Count: 1200
Beta: none, I'm sorry. All mistakes are mine alone.
Disclaimer: JKR owns the boys, I'm not making any money from this and I truly mean no disrespect!
Author's Notes: Draco wakes up the morning after Harry's 21st with a hangover, and things go rapidly downhill from there.
Draco stirred as his brain lurched sickeningly towards consciousness. Oh, gods. Why was his bed swaying like that? It was making him feel sea-sick. The aching, nauseating weight of a hangover settled onto the back of his neck, making him groan. Merlin, he felt wretched. His head throbbed, his stomach clenched threateningly, and his mouth tasted like a pub’s ashtray. What the bloody hell had he done to deserve…oh. Harry’s birthday party. Harry’s 21st birthday party. His boyfriend Harry’s enormous, alcohol-fuelled 21st birthday celebration, held the night before at 12 Grimmauld Place. Draco had snuck out to join them, a move necessitated by the threats of disinheritance and homelessness made by his father should Draco disgrace the name of Malfoy by bowing to the weight of public opinion and befriending Muggles or blood traitors or Harry. Especially Harry.
Disconnected and worryingly dim flashes of memory assaulted Draco as he lay curled into a ball of misery in a bed he was by no means sure was his own. There had been firewhisky. Oh, there had been much firewhisky. There had been an arcane Muggle celebratory ritual called ‘Carry Okey’, and Draco vaguely remembered singing ‘House Of The Rising Sun’ (by a 1960s wizard band who took their name from the fact that they were all Animagi). He whimpered and tried to pull the duvet up over his head. There had been Spin-the-Bottle, and Harry had kissed Finnegan. Draco had been very cross about that, and there had been arm-waving and shouting until Harry had dragged him into a bedroom and expressed, in an unambiguous and thorough manner, that Draco had nothing to be jealous about.
Speaking of beds, whose was this, anyway? Shit, if he wasn’t at home his parents would probably notice that he’d gone out. They’d want to know where he’d been, and he was in no fit state to withstand his father’s Legilimency this morning. If his father found out what he’d been up to with the Boy Who Lived To Ruin Lucius’s Life Twice, Draco would be out on his ear without a Knut to his name before he could say ‘Quidditch’. He hesitantly opened his eyes. Oh, the relief. He was safe and sound, in his bedroom at the Manor. It begged the question of how exactly he’d arrived back here, but Draco had more pressing concerns. His bladder was excruciatingly full, the hangover potion was a long and painful stagger away downstairs, and why in the name of Merlin’s bastard half-brother was his left nipple so sore? Ow! Fucking OW! Draco lifted up the duvet then raised his head off the pillow. The sight that greeted him once the waves of nausea retreated did nothing to improve his state of mind. Not only was every visible inch of skin decorated with smudgy black scribbles, but his nipple…his nipple had a fucking earring through it! What the bloody buggery fuck had…oh. He and Harry had been watching the Patil twins fix their makeup at some whisky-sodden point in the evening. Harry had picked up a kohl pencil and announced that eyeliner would look pretty on Draco, who’d been drinking straight from the bottle by then and was powerless to resist. After Harry outlined his eyes, the three of them had taken turns drawing all over the rest of him while he lay on the bathroom floor, giggling. The earring belonged to Padma, although it had been Harry who found the darning needle and oh, gods, no wonder it hurt so bloody much! Draco was preparing to get properly indignant – how dare Harry take advantage of his drunken state? – when he remembered admiring Padma’s jewellery and asking (well, to be fair, demanding) that Harry pierce his nipple so the Draco could wear shiny sparkly things as well. He also remembered, albeit vaguely, that he’d allowed Harry to take advantage of his drunken state in a variety of ways last night. At least that explained why his arse was so tender.
Still, things could have been worse. At least he was home. All he had to do was make it down the corridor to he bathroom, have a shower to wash off the eyeliner and the smell, and all would be well. Draco swung his legs out of bed and instantly regretted it. He moaned pathetically and hoped for the nausea and the shooting pain to subside. There would clearly be no end to his torment, so he gave up waiting, stood up, and shuffled towards the door. The patron saint of Boys Who Were Out All Night must have been watching over him, because as he heard his mother’s tread on the hall carpet outside his door he happened to catch sight of himself in the mirror.
Red.
His mother knocked, a noise that made him consider therapeutic beheading as a hangover cure.
Red.
“Draco, dear, are you awake yet? We’re having lunch at the Parkinsons’ in an hour.”
Fucking RED! His hair was red! Cherry red! Hogwarts Express red! GRYFFINDOR RED!!
“I’ll be down soon, mother. I just need to have a shower.”
Red! Ignoring the way it made his head thump, Draco scrabbled in the discarded heap of last night’s clothes until he found his wand. Pointing it at his head, he said
“Finite Incantatum!” He felt the tingle of magic on his scalp, but his hair remained the colour of a Muggle pillarbox. He frowned, and ran a hand through it. It felt strange, and what the hell was that? His ears and hairline were also stained blotchy red…it looked like blood…but then, oh, no. He’d asked Granger how Muggles changed their hair colour (although why they’d been discussing it remained shrouded in mystery) and when she’d told him he’d laughed. Oh, no, no. Well, it sounded so ridiculous! And now look! He had bloody buggery MUGGLE HAIR DYE IN HIS HAIR! FUCK!
His mother knocked again, a series of sharp raps that echoed round his aching skull.
“Mother! I’m awake! I shall have a shower, if that’s acceptable, and meet you downstairs.”
“Very well, dear.”
Draco leaned his head against the cool wood of the door and listened to his mother’s footsteps retreating down the corridor. Once he judged the coast to be clear, he cast the strongest glamour he could manage over his hair and the marks on his torso and limbs, pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, and slipped out into the hallway. He’d just reached the bathroom door when his mother reappeared, a phial of hangover potion in one hand and a small, poorly concealed smile on her lips. Draco’s stomach lurched, and he turned his back to her while he quickly checked to make sure all the eyeliner swirls were covered.
“For your head, dear.” She murmured, holding out the phial. Draco turned back around.
“I…I don’t know what you’re on about mother. I was home all night and …”
“Draco, I’m not a fool. I was young once too, you know. Oh, don’t look so horrified, I’m not going to tell your father about Potter.”
“How…?”
His mother bit her lip to stifle a laugh.
“Make sure you wash your back, sweetheart,” she tapped the small of his back, just above the waistband of his shorts, “someone has drawn a little arrow and ‘Potter woz ere’ in kohl pencil.”
Draco blushed furiously and ducked into the bathroom. Oh, he was going to kill Harry. Well, maybe not kill him, but his punishments would be many and dire.