Place he recognized? Check. It was his own flat—definitely a good thing. Thank Merlin for small miracles.

Someone in bed next to him? Check.

That someone a blond, unconscious, last seen inebriated, Malfoy in a ruined pink dress ? Also check. Bugger. Literally.

Harry rolled over in bed and realized that he had no vocabulary to suit the situation he now found himself in. There was no getting out of this one without some explaining to do—firstly, to himself.

He had broken all the rules of “Friends don’t let friends have sex with Slytherins. ” With Draco Malfoy, Mr. Miniature-Death-Eater, Pureblood-Since-Before-Your-People-Had-Evolved-Enough-to-Shine-My-Boots. Who looked shockingly good in pink. Never mind that.

And what was his excuse? It seemed like a good idea at the time? “You have to think of something better than that,” Harry said to himself.

That same feeling of being numb was what had driven him out into the city in the first place. The whole world seemed to be at ends these days. He hardly recognized half his former classmates—the ones who had survived. He couldn’t have a decent conversation with Ron these days because Hermione kept popping up and talking about baby clothes or nappies or what color they should paint the nursery. It was simply painful to see Ron becoming more and more like Hermione every day. It was as if they were melding into a joint person, with shared mannerisms, expressions and priorities—priorities that did not involve Harry.

He knew his thoughts were pitiful and whiny and selfish, and he wished he could disown them, but instead they kept going round and round in his head until he wasn’t sure who and what he liked or disliked these days. His flat, the small shabby one he had rented in hopes of anonymity, felt as if it were growing smaller, and he left it that night. He wandered the streets of London, not wanting to have a destination, yet wanting to be somewhere.

Draco appeared to be coming to. He rolled over and moaned, one arm shielding his bleary eyes from the light. “Where am I?”

Harry was sitting up in bed now, the covers tangled around him, wondering if he looked as horrified if he felt. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Oh yes, I remember now,” Draco said, sounding much more cheerful than Harry hoped he would. “What, no good morning kiss for me, Potter?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Why not? I think it’s hilarious.”

His head spun slightly as he got out of bed, but it was definitely satisfying to pick up one of Draco's gold lamé stilettos and throw it at him. Even if it missed and left a dent in the wall.

“Tsk tsk. We really need to work on your post-coital behavior, Potter.”

“We are not going to do anything, because there is no we. And stop calling me Potter!”

“No girl on your arm, Potter? The Boy Hero alone tonight? No friends now that your sidekicks shacked up together?”

It was true, he was alone tonight. Lonely. Bored. But he’d as soon admit that to Draco as give Professor McGonagall a ton- tongue toffee.

It wasn’t that there hadn’t been offers from girls, it was just—well, he wasn’t entirely sure what it was. He had told several of his admirers that he just wasn’t ready yet, that it was something he took seriously, that he wanted it to mean something. Many of them promptly decided they were more in love with him than ever before—not quite the intended consequence.

“So you like fucking boys, do you, Potter?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here then?”

He swallowed hard, and a feeling of false bravado came over and he spoke without thinking: “I like fucking men. Yourself?” Wait. I like fucking men? Where did that come from?

“Fucking me?”

“No. Men.”

“Oh. For a second I thought you said…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Lot of noise in this bar.”

“How ‘bout you, Malfoy, you gay?”

“No. Malfoys aren’t gay, didn't you know?”

“I see. That’s why you’re in a gay bar at two in the morning wearing a pink dress and white elbow-length gloves.”

“No, I’m here in a gay bar at two in the morning because I haven’t found anyone to go home with. Yet.”

“But you’re not gay?”

“Just sowing my wild oats, as Father Dear puts it.”

“You sown a lot of those oats yet?”

“Bet you’d like to know, Potter. Unfortunately for you, I don’t divulge information until after a drink. Two drinks for details. Three for anything slanderous.”

“Are you asking to me to buy you a drink?”

“More specifically I’m asking you to buy me several drinks, get absolutely pissed with me, and then head back to your place for some meaningless sex.”

“Tell you what, I’ll do it.”

“Do what? You mean—”

“Buy you a drink, that’s all. Nothing more.”

“Right.”

“By the time we’re through, I’m going to have that annoying smirk wiped off your face.”

“You can do that right now.”

Draco leaned close enough to Harry that he could smell the unmistakable scent of firewhiskey, mixed with the distinct odor of make-up, a scent that made him think of Aunt Petunia standing in front of her mirror and applying make-up with a little spatula on one of the nights she and Uncle Vernon dressed up for some business function.

It was not the most arousing experience to be thinking of Aunt Petunia as Draco’s unnaturally pink lips met his in a rather sloppy kiss, and when Draco’s tongue began to probe at Harry’s mouth, it brought him sharply back to reality.

“How much have you had to drink already?”

“Not nearly enough,” Draco said with a giggle, swaying a bit on his stool.

“I think you’ve had entirely too much. Someone should take you home and put you to bed.”

“That’s the idea!”

“I—fuck. There’s no reasoning with arrogant drunks, is there. Fine, I’ll take you home. But that’s it.”

“Always the Good Samaritan, Potter,” Draco said as Harry offered him his arm to lean on. “Do you help old ladies cross the street too?”

“Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“Since I am coming to your rescue, would you kindly do me a favor and shut up?”

“So, you going to make breakfast for me?”

“Er—I don’t think I’m in the mood for anything to eat right now.”

“In the mood for something else then?” If Harry wasn’t mistaken (and he would have liked to have been, but he didn’t think there was much room for doubt), Draco leered at him.

“How on earth can you think about—that at a time like this!”

“Now, there’s no need to be shy…it’s perfectly natural to feel a bit awkward afterwards.”

“You know, I really don’t want to think about it.”

“Like I said, no reason to be embarrassed…you weren’t bad for your first time.”

Somehow they had managed to make it the rest of the way home, up the flight of stairs to Harry’s apartment, and past his landlord, a retired boxer who Harry had a feeling didn’t take too kindly to “alternate lifestyles”.

With Draco Malfoy fast approaching unconsciousness on Harry’s bed (well he couldn’t have left him on the floor, could he?), who would have known that Malfoy was so much easier to deal with when he was inebriated? He had hoped Draco would be unconscious by this time.

“You want to help me out of this dress?” Draco said hoarsely.

“Maybe at home the house elves do that for you, but I’m not sure that’s such a good idea right now…”

“What’s the matter with you? You’re not backing down now, are you?”

“What do you mean backing down? I don’t see that you have anything to complain about—”

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“Course I have.”

“Liar. And you’re a bad liar, Potter. It’s bloody obvious.”

“It is?”

“Well, have you at least done it with a girl?”

“Um…well, not quite…”

“Potter, Potter, Potter. What am I going to do with you?”

Harry felt himself flushing, and he rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“Here.” Draco reached out and grabbed at his collar. “I know exactly what I’m going to do with you. And you’re going to like it.”

“I am?”

“Yeah,” he whispered against Harry’s ear. “Yeah, you’re going to like it. Every minute of it.”

“Well…”

“See, the problem is…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t remember anything.”

“How can you not remember anything? I fucked you!”

“No you didn’t. I wasn’t that drunk; I would remember.”

“Harry, calm down, it’s not the end of the world to have had sex with me…you can admit it,” Draco said, suddenly earnest. “I did read that some people go through denial after their first sexual experience…”

“Draco?”

“What?”

“Pull your dress up.”

“It’s all bits you’ve seen before, Potter…”

“Hold it, you’re still wearing your thong, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes…”

“You really think that you managed to get it back on last night? In the state you were in?’

“All right, all right…so we didn’t quite make it all the way, but we were close. The intent was there, you can’t deny that. I’m sure with a bit more time and practice…”

“And a bit less alcohol in our bloodstreams,” Harry said. “Though are you sure it wasn’t that you were to drunk to perform?”

“Potter, you are going to have to make it up to me for that comment. I resent your suggestion that—”

“For the love of God, Draco, that’s enough. I think it’s high time I put your mouth to better use.”

"I reiterate, I resent your suggestion that-"

Harry pushed Draco's head downwards with one hand, the Gryffindor version of a suggestion.

“I think that should be sufficient to keep you quiet for a little while, Malfoy.”