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The crunch of the snow beneath Harry’s feet isn’t the only sound that evades his already overstimulated senses. Cars honking, people yelling, glass breaking, mulling feet. Harry can’t take it anymore. He throws his empty vodka bottle onto the snow filled gutter, and Apparates.
Harry nearly tumbles to the ground, but he rights himself on the last step and doesn’t bother looking for the keys, using a wandless Alohomora to open his door. He crashes through his dark apartment. Knocking his shin into the coffee table, he nearly topples the lamp as he makes his way to his bedroom. He should sober himself up, but he likes the pleasant buzz beneath his skin. It helps him forget. Helps him ignore the polluted cloud of emotions suffocating him from the inside.
Draco Malfoy may be his Auror partner, but that doesn't mean they could be anything more. Yet, as he watched Draco laugh with Zabini, that rotten feeling tightened in Harry’s gut. Draco was right there, he could grab him by the waist in a second, turn him, and meld their lips together; right where they belong.
Zabini leaned close, his lips a hair's-breadth from Draco’s ear, Blaise whispered something as his eyes met Harry’s. Harry tried to hide his scowl with the rim of his glass, but the smirk lifting up Zabini’s lips was proof that he hadn’t done such a good job.
Downing the last of his drink, Harry allowed the burn to clear his head. He strode to Draco and nodded his head at Zabini as Draco turned to him. “I’m heading off.”
“Oh?” Draco frowned. His cheeks were tinged a pleasant pink, unravelling Harry’s already loose restraint. “But you just got here.”
“I’ve been here for two hours,” Harry said with a roll of his eyes. His eyes fell on Zabini, giving the man a hard look. “Get home safe, okay.”
Draco smiled, his blush deepening. “We will.”
Harry groans as a hot beam of light shines directly onto his face. He waves his hand at the curtains, and they fully close.
“Harry!” Comes a demanding voice—Harry shoots up, looking around the room with alarm. There’s a knock on the door, but before Harry can call them in, it’s swinging open and Draco’s striding into the room.
“Thought I would bring you a hangover cure.”
“Oh.”
“Circe, Harry! You look like you drank more after you left.”
He did, Harry remembers. He’d stopped at Sainsbury’s and picked up some vodka. Every time he thought of Draco in Blaise’s bed, he took long burning gulps from the bottle to quiet them.
Harry groans and falls back. He should tell him. He really should.
He peeks at Draco through his eyelashes. A soft smile lifts the corner of Draco’s lips, his pale skin nearly glowing in the dim light.
“Draco,” Harry begins.
“Hmm?”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
Draco gives him a knowing look. “Well, it’s about time.”
It’s about time indeed.