Mask of Innocence

~*~

Life was good, Harry decided. He had great friends who love him, a godfather that dotes on him ceaselessly, and now as it was during the school term, a guaranteed full stomach of delicious puddings and pies everyday. It was almost perfect, in fact, save for one little blip on the smooth-sailing radar. And the blip's name was Draco Malfoy.

Harry had woken with the rays of the late October sun in his face, which was rather painful for the very first few moments, but the warmth they provided against the draft in the tower more than compensated for that minor annoyance. Altogether not a bad way to wake up. Brunch, as it was Sunday and no one actually got out of bed early enough for breakfast, went without a wrinkle. Hermione announced that she was retiring to the library for the rest of the morning and some of the afternoon to work on her semester Arithmancy project, and well trained puppy that he was, Ron obediently followed, although not without some mournful protests. Understanding that as a couple they needed time together, Harry only smiled indulgently, feeling almost none of the jealousy he had at first at their close relationship. He could honestly say that he was happy for them.

Then, upon returning to the Gryffindor commons, Harry curled up in front of the fireplace in what he now thought of as "his chair" to once again rifle through the much worn pages of Quidditch Through the Ages: Volume II, Hermione's gift to him for his last birthday. It's not so bad being by yourself when you have something to occupy the time with. But a book is never enough no matter how riveting the subject ("Greatest Upsets - 1962, The Chudley Cannon's First, Last, and Only Win") to keep the attention of anyone, much less an adolescent boy. Feeling all too sedentary, Harry decided to go for a walk. Originally deciding on a trip around the lake, he had to settle for a trip around the halls as his cloak had yet to be picked up for cleaning from Thursday's Herbology class and the weather was already too cold to go without it.

Oh well, the ever-shifting staircases are entertaining enough when you have no need to rush and no other task to amuse yourself with. Unfortunately the gods of serendipity were feeling a bit too mischievous for Harry's comfort, which led to the... altercation. The unspeakable horror!

Now, lying under the covers after an evening of Exploding Snaps to relax, Harry still could not see what he had done to deserve what he had gone through prior in the day. All he wanted to do was to take a walk, and to be landed with... that. In retrospect, maybe he shouldn't have been wandering so close to the dungeons, but it wasn't a crime to pass through there, was it? Then why was he so atrociously punished?

~*~

Rounding a corner, he didn't really think anything of a slight piece of black cloth jutting out from a little alcove in the wall. Probably a not-too-careful couple, his mind dismissed it as. But as he neared it, the patch grew out of the shadow to reveal that it was a part of a certain grey-eyed seventh year Slytherin's robes. Curious. Draco stepped out of the darkness of the alcove and planted himself in the middle of the hall and directly in Harry's path.

"Malfoy."

Malfoy only stared. When no response was forthcoming, the dark-haired boy sighed and asked in a slightly annoyed voice, "May I pass or are you looking to have a row?"

Still nothing. Deciding that it was getting old, he made to sidestep the Slytherin. He didn't count on being grabbed by the collar as he passed and pulled forcefully against a very firm body.

/Someone's been getting extra Quidditch practice.../ his brain dazedly mused. Not that he was really complaining. But then something that he counted on even less happened, cutting off all coherent thought processes. A pair of warm lips closed over his own and began to do what could only be described as 'snogging him senseless.' It felt nice, but at the same time, there was a prevalent sense of wrongness. Before Harry had a chance to analyze the feeling further, he felt himself being propelled away from his arch nemesis's embrace, the foreign mouth detaching itself.

A tendril of dread arose in his chest as he looked up into cruelly glinting silvered orbs. Draco Malfoy had on his face a smirk dripping with malice, his usually aloof expression twisted into a hateful parody of itself as he taunted, "You're such a poof, Potty."

The Gryffindor's mind finally caught up and as the shock and horror began to register, the tow-headed boy brushed past him, laughing mocking as if to twist the knife. Soon, Harry stood alone in the deserted dungeon hallway.

Whooshing sounds could be heard as rage surged in, replacing any and all emotions inside of the emerald eyes behind the dark spectacles. That anger simmered for a while and then boiled over, lighting a fire beneath Harry's heels that sent him stampeding down the corridor to return to his dormitory so he could demolish something large and heavy. Or scream like Moaning Myrtle.

~*~

So... what happened, exactly? He tried to analyze the scene objectively, a task that was surprisingly easier than he'd thought it would be.

Fact: he desperately needed a life separate from Ron and Hermione; resorting to brief distractions would not last forever.

Fact: he went for a walk in the dungeons. Not the brightest idea he's ever had.

Fact: Draco Malfoy kissed -- he could now at least think the word without smoke coming out his ears -- him. On the mouth.

Fact: he had -- had he? -- enjoyed it, to a point.

Fact: Ferret Boy then proceeded to call him, Harry Potter, a poof. A pillow-biter. A queer, homo, flaming Sir Elton John. Fairy!

Perhaps that last statement wasn't as objective as he had aimed for, but oh well. He felt that given the circumstances, he was allowed to do a little mudslinging. Wanker.

And then, he had felt the bloody git's eyes on him for almost all of dinner. What did that mean? Did Malfoy fancy him? Well, if he did, it was an odd way of showing it, calling Harry names and such. But if he didn't, then why did he kiss him? On the lips no less. Or maybe, this was the latest Slytherin plot against The Boy Who Lived, their dark lord's greatest enemy, to drive him raving mad as to incapacitate him.

That was probably it, Harry's mind decided. It was entirely too ludicrous to imagine for even one second that Malfoy would ever... like Harry. Not that he wanted Malfoy to like him, of course. Absurd! Harry Potter was not gay, despite the fact that he may have found Oliver Wood, the now graduated Gryffindor Quidditch captain, rather dashing when he zoomed around on his Cleansweep. Despite the fact that you enjoyed being kissed by Malfoy? a little voice asked. Harry told the little voice to shut up.

Oh, how was he ever to get to sleep with all of this commotion in his head? Tomorrow was Double Potions with the Slytherins. And Malfoy, the same annoying voice reminded Harry. He gave it a swift mental kick to the posterior. At this rate, the Slytherins wouldn't have to work very hard in destroying Harry's sanity, considering how very intent his own mind was on the task. However, before the tiny tendril of dread that threatened to grow in his stomach developed further, Harry unknowingly slipped into the bliss of unconsciousness, leaving behind all worries from the day and delving into the world of dreams.

Draco and whipped cream. Yum...

~*~

As the Golden Boy of Gryffindor (title courtesy of one very self-satisfied Draco Malfoy) slumbered away like a baby in the tower dormitories, the Slytherins snuck into Hogsmeade via a tunnel some adventurous sixth-year had found in the beginning of the year. Of course, the sixth-year explorer hadn't been invited, but that was the nature of Slytherins, and there were no hard feelings between them. Though the younger student did regret missing a chance to douse himself in alchie-hall.

In the one nightclub located within the village, under a bar called the Red Unicorn, Draco and his fellow cohorts were trying their damnedest to live out the maxim "Party Hearty." And pretty much succeeding. Loud and bass-heavy music reverberated throughout the mid-sized room, seeming to originate from the walls themselves. Which, when taking the Wizarding world into consideration, probably wasn't too far off from the truth. Live music was only for Fridays.

Sauntering over to the small bar and partially dancing as he crossed the room, Blaise Zabini ordered himself a Sky Rocket, of which the contents he was not very sure of, but knew with certainty that a good portion of the liquid in the shot glass was Firewhiskey. The good kind, spelled with an 'e' instead of without, as in substandard whisky. He also ordered some shots of straight rum for Draco, back at one of the few tables on the edges of the dance floor. The music was magically dampened in those areas, as well as around the bar itself, to allow for conversation beyond "What?!"

For some strange reason, the usually notoriously riotous partier was choosing to sit out, despite all of Pansy Parkinson and Morag Macdougal's attempts to drag him out onto the floor. When questioned on his bad mood, Draco had nonchalantly answered that he was fine, just not feeling much like dancing. Blaise, having had the experience of knowing Draco for the last nine years or so, saw through the façade as clearly as he saw his own hands. Actually, he couldn't really see his hands all that well, as it was rather dark in the basement of the Red Unicorn, and the shots of vodka he had earlier didn't much help his vision acuity either. It was the thought that count.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" he tactlessly questioned as he sat back down in the other chair at the table.

Draco scowled at his friend's vulgarity and wordlessly reached for a rum. Slamming the first back with the expertise gained only through practice, he grabbed another, but only held it in one hand as he looked up at Blaise's face. The show of emotion indicated to Blaise, that like himself, Draco was not in the clearest of mind, having had imbibed in several screwdrivers at the beginning of the night.

"Where does that bloody prat get off thinking he's better than the rest of us?!" The complaint had come out much whinier than he'd expected, and winced at his own tone. Malfoys did not whine.

Blaise shook his head. "Ah, so it's back to Potter again, is it?"

"No, I'm talking about Longbottom," Draco sneered.

Softly chuckling to himself, Blaise replied, nonplussed, "But you're not infatuated with Longbottom, are you?"

The second rum screeched to a lurching halt on its trip toward Draco's mouth, and spilled just a little as its holder seemed to choke on the air he was breathing, coughing and sputtering indignantly. "I am not infatuated with Potter!" he growled, after managing to take a few calming breaths. "How many times must you go on with that inane theory of yours?"

Giving Draco a perfect imitation of the Malfoy Look of Polite Distain, Blaise remarked, "With the way you carry on about him, you might as well as be in love with the boy. Though, mind you, I wouldn't really blame you. Potter does have an arse to die for. And that cute dimple."

Draco glared for a while, at Blaise and anything else that caught his attention in those fifteen seconds really, then frowned and said, "Potter doesn't have any dimples."

Winking lewdly at Pansy, who had gestured at him from the dance floor, he turned back to Draco and grinned. "Not anywhere you can see under normal, ah... clothed circumstances."

(A/N: Hee hee.)

The insinuation took a while to compute in Draco's mind. He noted idly that if Blaise were not so sloshed, he wouldn't have revealed that little tidbit until he found a way of using it. He also noted that if he himself weren't so sloshed, he would have been thinking much faster, not sitting there, chewing on it for five whole minutes. Then, it hit him like one of those Muggle contraptions he'd seen at times. Not sure whether he should be jealous or disgusted, he asked, "When did you see him naked?"

It was a blaring sign of how deeply he was intoxicated that he'd entertained, even for one second, the idea of envying Blaise for catching a glimpse of that deliciously taut and muscled -- Stop right there, Draco, his mind warned him.

A car! That's what it was called.

Blaise smiled in remembrance. "I believe it was back in September. Remember that day, when you held Quidditch practice for a whole extra hour on the pitch?"

The tow-headed boy nodded.

"You were being a snarky bastard and told me to help Crabbe and Goyle to put the equipment back instead of doing it yourself, like a good captain should. And I, being the good friend that I am, followed your orders out of respect instead of telling you where to shove your broom."

Draco scowled at Blaise's tipsy candor.

"At least I was compensated for my troubles." The other boy's blue eyes glazed over slightly and he wiggled his brows suggestively at his friend's unfriendly face. "On the way back out of the broom shed, I heard the shower in the lockers going on."

"And you went to take a look like a Peeping Tom?"

"Naturally. It might have been that fiery Irish tart from Gryffindor," Blaise teased, then with a leer in Draco's direction, he added, "or you, you sexy thing you." He pretended to fawn over the blonde and gave a flirty, girlish giggle.

Offended by the horridly unmasculine noise emitting from Blaise, Draco kicked his friend in the shin. Or, he would have if he hadn't missed. Apparently, his coordination, among other things, was suffering from the massive doses of alcohol he'd had.

Vaguely aware of what had just transpired, Blaise plastered a look of faux innocence on his face and continued. "So I snuck my head for a tiny peek. Lo and behold, it was the Boy Who Worked Out going to use the wash facilities, and showing off his very cute bottom in the process."

They sat in silence, one looking back fondly at his visual memory library and the other wishing more than anything to be able to catch a glimpse of the much talked-of arse himself. Not that he actually wanted to see Potter's arse or anything. You know, just to confirm that there was such a dimple in existence. But Draco just had to ask.

"So... was it on the left or right cheek?"

Dazed, Blaise took a while, then replied eloquently, "Hmm?" seeming very dreamy and distant.

A muscle twitched along Draco's finely boned jaw. "Which cheek was the dimple on, Blaise?"

"Oh," the brunette said, coming back to himself, "The left one." He waited for a total of four seconds before blurting out, "Potter has a tattoo on his right hip."

"What?!"

"I had to move slowly so he wouldn't detect me. Very slowly."

"How long did you stay there?" Draco was exasperated. How was it that he'd never noticed Blaise's extremely voyeuristic tendencies?

Smiling, progressing into chuckles, Blaise answered, "Long enough to know that he spent 17 minutes in the shower and changed into these adorable Golden Snitch boxers afterwards for practice. And definitely long enough to get a crick in my neck."

"Does he really have a tattoo?"

As Blaise nodded an affirmative, some strange inexplicable urge took hold of them both and they simultaneously cracked up into uproarious laughter.

They were really drunk.

~*~

Draco stumbled a little as he trudged up the stairs beneath the statue of the Hump-back Witch, on his way back to his room in the Slytherin dormitories. He had decided that, as Head Boy, he should show some restraint at least, and had come back earlier than he would have. As it was, Blaise and Pansy and the rest of the Slytherin seventh-years were still in the basement of the Red Unicorn, carousing the night away in the thralls of pounding music and free-pouring Butterbooze and Firewhiskey.

Tapping his wand haphazardly on the statue's back, he stood back to wait for it to slide to the side. When it did, he climbed out of the opening groggily, staggering about in the dimly torch-lit corridor. It must be very late, his inebriated brain reasoned. Draco would have liked to say it was his skill at sneaking about that got him close to the dungeons without incident, but as he was thoroughly soused from the evening's affair, it was more luck than anything else that prevented a trip to Filch's office.

Unfortunately, that luck did not last as long as he needed to get all the way into his room, as two things happened before that could take place. One, he saw someone walking down the hall towards him. The other, he forgot that wizards and witches, though very magical, were still solid, and therefore walked straight into the oncoming figure.

It was a good thing that the other person wasn't as uncoordinated and still lucid enough to grab him before he could land on the floor, a meeting of flesh and stone that was likely to have been very painful in the morning. Draco swayed on his feet, unsteady despite the support.

"Malfoy?" a confused and somewhat amused voice asked him.

He smiled unguardedly at the source of the voice, mostly due to the sedative effects of the alcohol coursing through his veins. The voice was familiar.

"You're pissed, aren't you?"

Ah! The dots connected and he linked the voice and hazy image to a name. Potter! "Get 'way from me, Potty. Don't want your help."

When Potter's voice answered, he sounded hurt and a bit angry. "Even drunk you're a sour little bugger."

Draco frowned. Was Pottyhead insulting him, a Malfoy? "No bugger." He shook his head for emphasis and then stopped as the world threatened to tilt on him. "You bugger poo-poo."

"Shut up," Draco heard, then out of nowhere (or so it seemed to Draco), a pair of warm lips descended upon his own. And there was a tongue demanding entrance. It felt very nice to his rum-saturated mind, comfortable and at the same time exciting. So he acquiesced, and the tongue ventured between his teeth to explore his mouth.

He tasted some flavour indefinable, like spring rain and the crisp autumn breeze. It was exhilarating. Draco felt parts of him respond very favourably to the stimulus, and just as he began to kiss back, the touch was gone. Its absence was just as unexpected, leaving Draco with wobbly knees that refused to listen to him, rocking back and forth.

Distantly, he was aware of Potter's voice saying something, "Who's the poof now, Malfoy?" but he didn't comprehend. Then as it dawned on him with growing horror, he sank into blackness.

"Great."

~*~

He wanted so much to kick himself. Why the bloody hell did he feel like taking a walk at two in the morning?

Oh yeah. That.

Harry Potter had woken up earlier, thoroughly disturbed by the faint lingering traces of his dreams. No, they were nightmares, he told himself. It was just because Malfoy had kissed him, and it's been a while since anyone had been that intimate with him. Yeah, that was it. He did not fancy Draco Malfoy, even if he did look particularly fetching wearing nothing but artistically arranged dollops of whipped cream. Besides, it would be pointless to feel anything beyond indifference or dislike for the boy who was determined to be an enemy to him. Malfoy had already expressed his sentiments clearly yesterday morning anyway.

Not sure he could get back to sleep what with the worry of what may be waiting for him back in Lala-land and his subsequent denials, he hopped out the poster bed, and forgoing his glasses in favour of the Marauder's Map, headed out of his dorms. It was mostly dark out in any case, and glasses wouldn't really help, even with the 'Lumos' he'd cast, to see any better.

Down the staircase into the commons and out the portrait hole Harry went, ignoring the Pink Lady's sleepy snort as he closed the entrance.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

He had no idea where he wanted to go, and so let his feet guide him, as long as they stayed away from Mrs. Norris or Filch. Or Snape. Or any teacher, for that matter. So he walked with his head down, eyes focused on the little dot that read 'Harry Potter' as it progressed down the halls and around the corners.

In fact, he was so intent on his own little dot and its distance from another dot labeled 'Argus Filch' that he did not notice the blip weaving down the corridor towards him. It was captioned 'Draco Ilion Malfoy.'

Contact. His Seeker reflexes snapped in and he quickly seized the other around the biceps to stop him from falling down.

"Malfoy?"

What was he doing out wandering the halls at this hour. Oh no, Malfoy was the Head Boy, he wasn't going to take points was he? Although, he seriously doubted this when he got a second look at the blonde Slytherin. Draco Malfoy was grinning goofily, looking like a five-year old for all the authority he was showing.

"You're pissed, aren't you?"

This was great, wait until Ron and Hermione heard about this. Wait. Ron would crack and try to use it against him, which would lead to more stupid fights over nothing and 'Mione would be disapproving, scolding him for being out past curfew and generally lecturing anyone on how Head Boys must be more responsible. Even though the Head Boy himself wouldn't listen one mite. No, better not tell.

And he was so ready to just turn away and forget anything had happened. Then Malfoy just had to open his big mouth and ruin it all.

"Ge'way fr'm 'e, Pottiiie. Don' wan y'r help," Malfoy had slurred. His breath smelled distinctly of rum and vodka.

Harry let Malfoy go. Did he have to be so cold all the time? Why couldn't he just let someone help him once in a while? And where did he get off looking that good even when he was so smashed he was having trouble standing? For odd reasons, he felt more angry at that last more than anything. "Even drunk you're a sour little bugger," Harry bit out.

What Malfoy said next had almost made him laugh, at least putting a small smile on his face. Malfoy, with his serious frown and aristocratic breeding that Harry felt would come through no matter how drunk he was, said, "No b'gger, yoouuu bugger poo-poo."

Malfoy, Harry noted, had a tendency of drawing out some syllables, which only served to make him sound all the more ridiculous to Harry. And cute, his rebellious mind added.

"Shut up," he said, both mentally and aloud, and resolved to never think again, not with that voice inhabiting his mind.

Not thinking, as Harry soon found out, was a Very Bad Thing. In the nanosecond he relinquished control of his thoughts, his body took over and leaning into Malfoy's Quidditch hardened body, kissed him full on the mouth, as Malfoy had done to him just over twelve hours ago. Once their lips made contact, Harry was lost to his desire to touch the other boy, to be close to him. To kiss him back, as he never got the chance to the first time around.

This felt so right, so much better than when he had been taken by surprise. Now he could savour the feel of skin on skin, the alcohol that was more pronounced on Draco's tongue than on his breath, the silky feeling of Draco's mouth. Bliss was redefined and its name was Draco Malfoy.

Then Harry felt it. He blushed as he realized what it was and what it meant, and he pulled back with considerable self-restraint. Events from the previous morning came back to him and he sardonically quipped, "Who's the poof now, Malfoy?"

And then Malfoy fainted, leaving him once again, in a quandary.

"Great." What was he to do now? Leaving him there seemed harsh. But didn't the wanker deserve it for putting him in hell for the last six years or so of his life? Not to mention what he had done to Hermione and Ron and Neville and Parvati and everyone else over the years.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Malfoy had been chosen by Dumbledore to be the Head Boy, which meant that he couldn't be all evil. Besides, he wasn't so petty as to seek revenge like this, taking advantage of his momentary vulnerability was plain spiteful and Slytherin.

Mind made up, he muttered a spell, "Mobilius Corpus," and floated the blonde boy's body up in front of him to direct down to the dungeons. "You owe me big for this," he told Malfoy's unconscious form, and down they went.

It was a good five minutes' walk from where they were to the blank wall that served as the door of the Slytherin commons. To pass the time more eventfully, Harry had flicked and swished his wand several times to contort Malfoy's body into funny shapes, occasionally making him do cartwheels in the air and reveling in the sliver of skin shown sometimes when his Muggle apparel, standard partying gear, slid up his body while he was upside-down.

"I'll just leave you here, then, as I don't know your password," he informed the still blacked out Malfoy. Harry could have tried to guess the password -- he had a sneaking suspicion it would be something along the lines of 'Potter Stinks!' -- but it was too late, and he didn't want to risk being found any more than he already had. "Hopefully, your friends'll find you before Mrs. Norris does."

With that said, he turned around and walked back to Gryffindor tower, feeling much calmer than before. Perhaps it was the walk, or the act of throwing Malfoy's insult back into his face, or seeing his enemy-no-longer so undignified, or finally getting one over the Slytherin. But it is the professional opinion of this reporter, that it was the kiss that put the smile on Harry's face as he dropped off to sleep once again.

Malfoy was going to have one hell of a headache. Life was good.

~*~