Drarry Oneshots (𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆)

Born Slippy

Top!Harry

Bottom!Draco

Author: dracoladon ( on ao3 )

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"It's not even twelve yet!"

"Harry. Ron is on the floor."

"He's fine. You're good down there, aren't you mate?"

"Irrefut—irrefoot— yeah."

Harry pats Ron's head. "See?"

"No."

Harry supposes it's his own fault for bringing his aggressively heterosexual friends to a gay club. Hermione had worn her sensible shoes. And although it was Ron who'd drunkenly enthused 'an adventure! Onward!' when Harry suggested Déshabillé, his eyes had almost bugged out of his head when he saw that bloke in the leather harness two seconds after making it through the door. Poor Ron. All red flags.

He says, "Whatever. Go. Just know I don't like you, and you're really shit at clubbing."

"And you're hopeless at knowing when to stop," Hermione says (she doesn't like to swear, unless it's in relation to the Ministry and their 'piss-weak stance on Elvish welfare').

It's not often Harry remembers she's not actually his primary carer and he doesn't actually have to do what she says, but when he does, it's usually because he's got some liquid courage in him. (Or liquid stupidity. His own instincts when it comes to things like drinking and studying and spending half his Galleons on a new racing broom even though he plays Quidditch roughly oh-point-five times a month are rarely more enlightened than Hermione's advice.)

"This is how it's supposed to go, Hermione. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor?"

"It wouldn't rhyme if it wasn't true," Ron puts in.

"Hush, you," Hermione says. "Harry, get Ron off the floor."

Hermione pays the tab at the bar, and Ron leans heavily on Harry's shoulder. Until he decides to pull Harry into his chest and bury his chin in his hair.

"D'you remember that time I saved you from a lake?" Ron mumbles.

Um. "'Course mate," Harry says.

"And you saved me from a lake. In the Trournament. Triwizard Tournament."

"I suppose that just leaves Hermione then," Harry says.

"Harry," says Ron gravely, pulling Harry back to stare at him in earnest. "Don't push my foncey in a lake."

This is brilliant. Harry loves drunk Ron. "Foncey?"

"Fioncey. Fuck you," says Drunk Ron. And then, instead of pulling Harry back into his chest, he drops him altogether and starts gesturing wildly towards the bar.

"What?"

"Mate," says Ron, grinning broadly, "that's Malfoy! Hey, ferret face! Harry, Malfoy."

Bollocks. Drunk Ron is (what was it he said? Irrefootably?) correct. At the far end of the bar, a line of shots in front of him and a dark-haired bloke behind, is Malfoy.

"It's Draco Malfoy, from school."

"Yes, thanks Ron," Harry says vaguely.

"Do you think he can hear me?"

"No." Malfoy is rather preoccupied. Evidently the shots are part of a larger scheme which involves. Erm. Leaning back on bars (Malfoy) and slurping tequila from exposed navels (dark-haired bloke).