Thank you to beta Amalin for your wonderful work!

Harry was pissed. And pissed. For the last four hours he had played the "listening ear" for Hermione and then Ron and then the third wheel witness to their ensuing argument. They'd droned on about Ron's lack of interest in SPEW and Hermione's lack of interest in the Chudley Cannons' play-by-play that Ron was blasting out of a small radio that the twins had left for him.

Harry had picked up on the word "elves" and exclaimed, "Er-right! Dobby! Uh, I need to go see Dobby! Right." Then he picked up his bag and ran from the Gryffindor common room down to the painting of the fruit. He didn't have his Marauder's Map with him, or his Invisibility Cloak. He didn't care-he just needed to get away as quickly as possible.

He tickled the pear and climbed into the kitchen. Shiny silver and copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling or were clanking and cooking on gleaming metal countertops and stoves. The kitchens were clean and pristine, save for the tiny army of elves, covered in flour and food-stained aprons, running busily about.

"Harry Potter!" cried a familiar voice, and Harry saw the top of a stack of 20 knit hats bow to him. "Sir-it is being such an honor for Harry Potter to come here. Why is Master in the kitchen? Dobby is bringing him some treacle tart!"

"Hi Dobby!" Harry offered, and waved awkwardly to the twenty or so elves who had frozen in place to stare at him. "I-uh-don't mean to interrupt but-" Harry lowered his voice as he spoke, causing Dobby to neglect the treacle tart preparation and inch toward Harry.

"Anything for you, Harry Potter!" Dobby said in awe, his bat-like ears pressed back and his blinking eyes reflecting the torchlight coming from the kitchen walls.

The other elves had mostly gone back to their work, save for a few pointed looks and the mutter of "Harry Potter," that could be heard through their kitchen-talk.

"Actually," he cleared his throat. "I kind of need a favor, Dobby. "

"Anythi—"

"Do you have Firewhisky?" he mumbled, embarrassed.

"Sir is needing alcohol?" Dobby murmured, his wide eyes looking scandalized. "But-"

"Don't ask, Dobby." Harry looked down at the elf, who seemed to be looking over his shoulders to make sure no one had heard. "Can you get some? Er-please?"

"Dobby will get Firewhiskey for Mr. Harry Potter, sir," Dobby concluded, and sulked off towards the cabinets in the kitchen with his head down.

Harry looked to his right at the fireplace in the kitchen where Winky the house elf was swaying on a stool. Empty Butterbeer bottles littered her feet and Harry remembered that alcohol was a sore subject for Dobby and the other house elves, who felt ashamed of Winky's alcoholism.

Dobby returned moments later with a burlap sack that was clinking conspicuously. Other elves seemed to know that Dobby was sneaking alcohol to a sixth year student, but did not say anything. This was Harry Potter, after all.

"Thanks Dobby," said Harry, feeling embarrassed. The idea of going to Dobby for alcohol had been much easier to handle than the actuality of carrying it out. He felt like a ponce. "Um, just, let me know if you need-"

"It is always an honor serving Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is not needing anything in return, sir."

"Uh, okay. Thanks again, Dobby!" Harry said tto Dobby and the others and stuffed the clinking burlap bag into his less conspicuous school messenger bag. He turned toward the back of the portrait and ducked out into castle hallways.

Harry headed past the Great Hall and toward the entrance way, making his way toward the old Owlery, an abandoned space in the West Tower that was now just an empty, windowless room. He needed a place where he could just be alone. And drink, he supposed. Harry rarely ever drank, save for a toast at a Weasley family holiday or a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, and never Firewhisky, but he'd been listening to Seamus and Dean brag about snogging some fifth years at the Hog's Head Tavern last weekend, and something about Firewhisky and it just seemed like maybe Harry was missing out. He'd been holding his breath as Voldemort invaded his mind on a nightly basis, holding his breath as Ron and Hermione's relationship began to change the dynamic of their trio, holding his breath as Cedric Diggory's life was ripped out of him, as his friends risked their lives for him, as Sirius fell back into the veil, as Draco Malfoy stomped his face and snuck around, and the more Harry was sure that Malfoy's antics were about much more than a childhood rivalry, the less his friends wanted to hear about it. He was tired of pretending and hiding, but it was all he knew how to do. He had grown up in a cupboard, after all.

Keeping an eye out for Peeves and Filch, but mostly just leaning on luck and apathy, Harry pulled one of the bottles of Ogden's Old Firewhisky out of his bag, twisted off the cap and took a small, tentative sip. He choked and squinted up his eyes as the hot liquor burned his throat and set his esophagus, from mouth to stomach, on medium-high heat. If anyone were to see him, his grimacing face would have given him away immediately, but he took a deep breath, manned up, and forced down two large swallows as he made his to the west tower.

Ducking into the staircase, he decided to sit on one of the stairs and wait until he was sure that no students would be making their way up toward the Owlery. As he sat, he drank, and as he drank in silence, he noticed every way that the alcohol was affecting his body. At first, he felt relaxed. Good, happy, warm. The Ron and Hermione thing didn't seem like quite as big of a deal or nearly as annoying as it truly was.

About halfway through his bottle, he let out a loud hiccup that echoed through the staircase and scared even him. He covered his mouth with his hand and giggled, stupidly.

Feeling it was late enough, and growing bored of the stuffy staircase, Harry shook his head, took another swig of the Firewhisky and frowned lazily. Hoisting his messenger bag on one shoulder and clutching the sloshing bottle in the other hand, Harry, wobbling, pulled himself into a precarious standing position and held himself there for a few seconds, gathering his bearings, before proceeding as carefully as he could up the winding stone staircase.

The dimly lit walls seemed to wave back and forth in front of him, and he felt as though he had little depth perception, but figured if he just trusted his distance instincts, he would get up to the Owlery one step at a time.

Harry brazenly pushed open the door of the Owlery and stumbled in, tripping over a green cloak on the floor and sprawling onto all fours. His bag flew off of him with the sound of clinking glass and his wand dropped out of his pocket and rolled away. As he scrambled to grab his wand, a shiny black shoe stepped in front of him, blocking his path, and a wand was pointed at his face.

"Fuck," Harry muttered, looking up blurrily at the sharp, blonde frame of Draco Malfoy. His gray eyes looked white in the moonlight that poured through the open windows and there was a glint of moisture on his face.

"Following me again are you, Potter?" he spat out, his voice cracking. Malfoy walked a slow circle around Harry and stepped slowly onto Harry's wand. He calmly raised his own wand and pointed it at Harry's face.

Harry reached out an arm. "Malf- Malfoy, pleas-"

"Petrificus Totalus," he responded. An angry red light shot out of Malfoy's wand and Harry felt his body stiffen as he collapsed onto his stomach, still gripping his bottle of Firewhisky.

Malfoy surveyed him carefully, stepping around him like he was an unknown specimen on the floor of the bathroom. He then stuck his foot under Harry's body and flipped him over so he was on his back, clutching a bottle and looking upwards, his face expressionless and serene.

Malfoy hovered his foot over Harry's face. "A bit of déjà vu-hmm?" He mimed stomping on Harry's face as he had on the Hogwarts Express in August and laughed. "Ah, but it looks like maybe you weren't following me this time after all. Not that that makes it acceptable for you to show your filthy face around me." He peered down at the bottle in Harry's clutched fingers and whistled. "Ogden's Old, eh? Tough night without a parade in your honor?"

Besides the blaring evidence of drinking the bottle proposed, Harry's drooping eyes were also betraying any leftover guise of sobriety, even under the Body-Bind curse.

Malfoy sauntered over to Harry's bag and opened it up. "And what have we here?" he mused, reaching in. He frowned after feeling around a bit, then peered into the bag. "Merlin, Potter. Five bottles? What on earth had you planned for tonight?" Malfoy reached back in and pulled out a bottle for himself. He twisted the cap and opened it.

"Well, I think it's only fair that I catch up to you before I can even consider letting you go, Potter. " Malfoy unscrewed the cap, tilted the bottle to his lips and drank heavily.

From his frozen, drunken state, Harry observed what was happening behind Malfoy's shocking tufts of silver-blonde hair. There was a cauldron in the middle of the room over a low fire and a makeshift Potions table littered with bottles and vials that had been dragged into the middle of the room, leaving a dusty trail. Silver smoke billowed out of the cauldron, casting a hazy glow around Malfoy's shoulders.

Malfoy leaned against a pole, shoulders slightly hunched and drawn into himself. He seemed to be struggling for a full breath and his face was twisted into a wide-eyed look of anguish, but he kept his jaw tightly clenched between sips, as if opening his mouth to speak or even breathe would be a direct betrayal of whatever he was doing up here. Every once in a while, he would meander over to the cauldron and give it a stir with his wand or sprinkle in an ingredient.

After a while, Malfoy wandered over to where Harry was and sank down to the floor beside him, his robes piled up around his crossed legs. As he drank, he just stared at Harry's face, which was more unnerving, Harry thought, than just being left there and forgotten. What had Malfoy planned? Why was he looking at him like that, in that sick, frozen state? It was perverse.

"Potter," Malfoy mused, taking another sip of the whiskey, exhaling heavily and rolling the bottle in his open palms. "Let's have a chat, shall we?" He tilted his head to the side, questioningly.

Kind of hard when I can't talk or move, arsehole, Harry thought.

"Hmm?" Malfoy leaned closer, wide-eyed and smirking. "Didn't catch that. Oh? Yes, you want to have a chat, yes, okay."

This is sick, Harry thought. He is completely, utterly deranged. It was like a conversation that a child would have with a doll or a Muggle TV set or any other inanimate object.

"You know," he continued, casually, gesturing with his bottle. "We have a lot in common. You and me, Potter. For one—" He took a long swig of the whiskey and winced as it burned down his throat. "You're drunk. And I'm, well." He took another swallow. "Getting there." He winked.

"Also, you're going to die soon. And," Malfoy laughed, bitterly. "So am I." Harry watched as Malfoy nudged his paralyzed leg, playfully. He raised his eyes conspiratorially and whispered, "We're dead men, walking, Potter. Doesn't matter what we do. If we do the right thing or the wrong, or what we perceive to be the right or wrong thing. . ." His voice trailed off. "And see, Potter, that is where the similarities end. What motivates me is a sense of morality." He glared at Harry. "Don't laugh," he muttered. Harry stared at him, face frozen, but Malfoy was right. Harry had laughed, in his head.

"See, the problem with you Potter—as if there was only one- is that you think you stand on the right side of the law-the line. Good versus evil, as if it were really that fucking simple," Malfoy remarked, lazily, and looked at the bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey in his hand. "Not quality, but getting the job done, eh?" Malfoy was slurring slightly now. He wiped sweat off of his mouth. His eyes were shining with alcohol. "May have to let you go soon," he muttered absentmindedly, picking up his wand.

"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted," he snorted, keeping his head down, "what drives me is a sense of morality. What drives you," he pointed at Harry with his bottle of whiskey, "Is the childish notion of heroics." He sat and drank then, staring ahead of him for some time. Every once and a while he sniffed, as though he had allergies.

ooo

Some time later, Malfoy crawled over to Harry and peered down at him. His mouth twisted up and Harry momentarily thought Draco was going to spit in his face. "You," Malfoy breathed heavily and moved closer. Harry could smell the pungent alcohol, hot on Malfoy's breath. Malfoy's eyes, now heavily lidded like Harry's, shone glazed and intense upon on him. He gingerly grabbed the folds of Harry's robes that were bunched near his shoulders. "You," he said again, blinking, "don't know the difference between right and wrong. And that, " he chuckled, "is where you're wrong. Your knowledge of morality comes from sodding fairy tales. Beetle The Bard, or what'sit your Muggles read? Grimm's fairy tales, is it?" He released Harry's robes and slumped back to the floor. "Grimm's," he muttered, then laughed again. "Bit of a foreboding name, wouldn't you say?" He cocked his head to the side, thoughtfully, and his ice-gray eyes frowned down at the floor. "S'pose. . . s'pose that makes me the evil one, eh Potter?"

Malfoy climbed to his feet unsteadily and ambled toward his Potions table. "S'pose that- that, even if I do right, or what I know's right for . . ." His voice trailed off as he stirred the cauldron, silver smoke in wisps around his white hair.

He set the wand down and raised his eyebrows at Harry. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," he spat out, swallowing hard. His alcohol-relaxed eyes were in stark contrast to his tight set mouth and jaw. He peered down at Harry for a moment, his bleary eyes narrowed, then moseyed back over toward him, listing slightly. Malfoy bent and swiped to pick up the bottle of Firewhisky. Amber liquid sloshed around the bottom. Malfoy unscrewed the cap and took another long pull ending in an explosive gasp before wiping his chin where his aggressive consumption had caused whiskey to spill down his face and onto his robes.

Harry began to wonder if Malfoy had forgotten that he wasn't talking to a wall or a pet. He was talking to his sworn enemy, revealing fear, weakness, uncertainty. And a Malfoy, surely, never showed weakness. It was, Harry thought, more unsettling than being in the Body Bind. What exactly was Malfoy playing at?

Malfoy took another heavy breath, his shoulders rising and chest shuddering. He coughed, involuntarily, as if to compensate for the weak, shaking breath he had taken. His face was sweaty and blotched red from alcohol. Harry could see that his hands were trembling. Malfoy didn't say anything for some time. He wiped at his eye with the back of his robe sleeve and Harry couldn't be sure if it was wet from tears or just irritated from the dust in the room.

Malfoy looked back over at him and blinked, squinting. He must have realized where he was and who he was with, for he had a sudden, incredulous, scared look on his face. Fingering his wand, Malfoy mumbled something Harry couldn't understand, but suddenly Harry felt his hand unclench from the bottle. All his limbs seemed to slowly unfreeze.

Breathing deeply, Harry tried his voice. "M-m-Malfoy?"

Malfoy looked at him, defeated, and glared.

Harry wriggled his fingers. They tingled, as though they had just fallen asleep from lack of blood circulation. Instinctively, Harry reached for his wand and grabbed it, stumbling from a combination of drunkenness and partially usable limbs. He held it up shakily, pointing it at Malfoy.

"W-what," Harry gasped, "is WRONG with you?" He pulled himself into a kneeling position on the floor.

Malfoy barked out a laugh, his hands tightening around his wand. "Didn't we just spend half an hour talking about that?" He crossed his arms and sneered.

Harry shakily pulled himself up to a standing position. "No," he snarled, gaining strength, "no, Malfoy, we did not talk about anything. We did not have a conversation."

"What, Potter?" Malfoy tossed out lazily, looking bored with Harry's wand. "S'pose you're going to hex me now?" Malfoy rolled his eyes and sauntered back over to the cauldron, picking up the wand and stirring it, once, in a counter-clockwise direction.

Harry didn't lower his wand. He knew Malfoy. He couldn't be trusted, not in words or actions. It would take only a second for the Slytherin to throw another curse at Harry, if he let his defenses down. Although, Malfoy seemed well on his way to being as drunk as, if not moreso, than Harry.

"I should!" Harry yelled back. "I should! You'd deserve it!"

Malfoy threw his wand down suddenly and spread out his arms. "Go ahead! Please! Hex me Potter if it will make you feel justified, as I know truth, just'ce 'n honor are what you, Perfect Harry Potter, strive t'seek," he slurred, faltering at the end.

Harry narrowed his eyes, wand still pointed at Malfoy's heart. "I should, " he murmured. "I should. But I won't."

Malfoy laughed. "Ha! 'Course not. Merlin, Potter, you're so fucking predictable. And that," he picked his wand up off the Potions table and began stirring again, "Is precisely why you're going to die. Guessing your next move is like turning the page of a children's story. Pathetic. What a waste."

"Waste of what?"

"Power," Malfoy remarked, dismissively.

"Power?"

Malfoy sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. Suddenly, his hands tremored violently and his wand clattered to the floor. He glared, accusingly, at Harry, quickly snatched up his wand, and balled his shaking hands into tight, white-knuckled fists.

Harry stepped forward tentatively. "Are-are you okay, Malfoy?" he asked, wand still pointed at him.

"Piss off. Like you care." He took another shuddering breath that shook his shoulders and gripped the table at which he was working. After gathering himself, he glared up at Harry. "And would'ya lower your sodding wand or hex me, already?"

"Why should I?" Harry asked in a plain voice.

Malfoy exhaled and rolled his eyes. "You shouldn't." He smirked. "Idiot."

There was a rustle near one of the windows and Malfoy spun around, terrified, his wand shakily pointed forward. "Who's there!" He uttered, his voice breaking in fear, his hand still trembling violently.

"Malfoy-"

Malfoy gasped and spun back toward Harry, wand pointing wildly. His eyes were huge and he was sweating. "What?" he hissed through clenched teeth, wide eyed. He jerked his head back towards the sound. "Wh-who's there?" his voice, high pitched, faltered.

"Malfoy," Harry said again, softly, "relax. 'S just a bat. We're-we're in an Owlery, remember?" Malfoy eyed Harry suspiciously. Harry gestured with his wand, "Open windows, you know?"

Malfoy looked up and saw the bat. He let his breath out and whimpered, then reflexively coughed again to cover it.

Harry stared at Malfoy for a moment and fuzzily tried to take him in. He was shaking, sweating, wild-eyed, paranoid and drunk.

"Malfoy, seriously," Harry murmured. "You're scaring me-"

"Scared? Of me? Rightly so, Potter, carry on," he babbled, still eyeing the rafters distrustfully. "Have s'more Firewhisky, then."

"Maybe I will . . .you're welcome to more, if-if you like." The words were pouring out of Harry's mouth and he wasn't quite sure why he wasn't running out of the Owlery, bottles in tow. Malfoy's strange behavior should have sent him fleeing, but it was curiously attracting him like a magnet.

Malfoy tightened the grip on his wand and frowned at Harry.

"Or-or maybe, you've had enough-"

Malfoy began to laugh in a sickening, self-indulgent way that grew until he was hysterical. He was gasping for breath, wiping tears. "Enough?" he choked out, wildly. "Me? Now? Never!" He seemed to rise to an unspoken challenge, snatching the bottle next to him and unscrewing the top.

"What?" Harry asked, confused. "Are y'sure you aren't ill, Malfoy?"

Malfoy laughed harder, his laughter echoing through the room. "I-" he covered his mouth and snorted. "I never-I never said that."

Harry just stared at him, startled. Perhaps Malfoy really had gone mad. He seemed possessed, deranged. Still a volatile little wanker, but completely off.

"No," Malfoy continued, exhaling slowly as though to calm himself down and get serious. "No," he repeated, but his eyes were still wild. "This?" He gestured to the bottle. "I need this. No- I need- I need. . ." he was mumbling, nearly inaudible, "to just forget, relax, I need my. . ."

"Well," Harry began again tentatively, "I mean, you've had an entire bottle-I mean-so have I, I just think, maybe, well, aren't you drunk yet?"

Malfoy scoffed at the idea. "Me? Drunk? Pr'posterous." He adjusted the fire under the cauldron. "Malfoys don' get drunk. We just get more wittily charm-charmingly witty." He blinked hard to get Harry into focus. "And they say alcohol's 'sposed to relax you. Do I look relaxed to you, Potter?"

"Uhm." Harry took a drink of whiskey and slumped down on a nearby chest. "Er-you-you look drunk to me, Malfoy."

"That's not what I asked you."

Harry exhaled. "Fine, then. No. No, Malfoy, you don't look relaxed."

Malfoy smirked and returned to his potion. "Good," he snapped. "Didn' think so. Which means this," he held the bottle up in the air, "isn't fucking working." Malfoy flung the bottle across the room. It hit the opposite wall and shattered.

"Jesus, Malfoy!" Harry shouted.

Malfoy stirred his potion once more, before picking up a ladle and spooning the blue, glowing potion into a small vial. "And thus . . ."

"What is that?" Harry asked, finally, his curiosity getting the best of him. "Are you planning on poisoning me?"

"Pois'ning you, Potter?" Malfoy spat, trying to hold Harry's in a baleful gaze. "Poisoning you. Right, b'cause I devined that your sodding drunk arse would come stumbling up here to bother me tonight," he rolled his eyes. "For once, not everything is about you."

Harry nodded. "Alright."

They were silent for a minute.

"Well?" Malfoy raised his eyebrows.

"Well what?" Harry retorted, wondering why the hell he was still there.

"Aren't you going to ask about the poison-er, potion-that I'm brewing?" Malfoy asked.

Harry took the bait. "Okay," he remarked. "What is it?"

"It," replied Malfoy, grandly, "is the Draught of Peace." He carried the bottle over toward Harry and leaned in close. "And it," he whispered, his whiskey breath hot on Harry's cheek, "is going to do what this," Malfoy ripped the bottle from Harry's grasp and flung it against another wall, shattering it, "has failed to accomplish."

Harry instinctively shoved Malfoy away and the blonde boy staggered backwards, losing his balance and grabbing the pole to keep upright. "You're nauseating," Harry growled. "Get away."

Malfoy shrugged and lifted the vial to his lips. "Down th'hatch then?"

"Wait-now?" Harry jumped up suddenly and grabbed Malfoy's wrist. "Stop!" he commanded. "You idiot!"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Get your filthy hands off me." He shrugged out of Harry's grasp and brought the vial back to his mouth.

"Seriously!" Harry yelled, "don't drink that! You can't-you shouldn't-"

"What?" Malfoy asked, scowling.

Harry had enough common sense to know that it was dangerous to mix a relaxant with alcohol, the effects of both drugs increasing with co-administration. "It's dangerous!"

Malfoy sighed, "Yes, Potter. 'Msure the rubbish you and th'Weasel cook up in Potions can be considered a class of poison all its own, but not everyone is as completely inept at following directions as you are. Now get away from me." He lifted the vial up to his mouth.

Harry let out a frustrated breath and grabbed Malfoy's wrist again. Malfoy's eyes flashed with rage.

"You insufferable moron, listen to me!" Harry yelled. "You can't take the Draught of Peace if you're drunk, you idiot! You could kill yourself!"

A sick smile spread across Malfoy's face. "Well then, I guess that would solve one problem for you. Or'r you gonna get lonely without being able to put your keen inves-gi-tagive skills to work after I pass? Excuse me."

"No, Malfoy, seriously-stop."

Malfoy rolled his eyes and sneered. "Oh, Potter, do stop fretting," he clipped. "And besides, 'm not drunk. Obviously. Or I wouldn't need this."

"You drank nearly a bottle of my Firewhisky."

"Yes, yes, I'll owl you payment in the morning if I make it through."

Harry scowled. "Is this a joke to you?"

ooo

Draco finally stopped and decided that placating Potter might get the insufferable git to shut up long enough for him to drink the Draught. "Listen, Potter, seriously. Thank you for your concern, but, I'm fine. I will be fine. I'm not drunk," he lied, "and-and look at me. Look at me. Please, this is the only thing that takes the edge off for me. I'm-I'm losing—" Draco stopped talking. The words were spilling forth from his loosened tongue and he was afraid he had revealed too much. He took a deep breath. "I've done it before," he lied again. He knew it would be fine, though. Clearly the whiskey was weak if it hadn't relaxed him the way that alcohol was supposed to.

"Malfoy-"

Draco looked at him, desperate, pleading. Quietly, he muttered, "Please, Potter. Have mercy. I will be fine."

Potter shrugged, defeated. "Do what you want."

Draco glared at him. "I intend to."

Draco lifted the vial of blue potion back up to his lips , the smoke heating, then cooling his skin like steam. He could almost feel the excitement at the prospect of relief from his constant paranoia that pulsed through him. He wiped sweat off of his upper lip, then threw back the potion.

The potion sent a cool, chilling sensation through his body and he shivered. He gave Potter a pompous look. "See?" he snapped. "I'm fi…"

At that moment, Draco's eyes fluttered up into his head and he stumbled back into the table, knocking bottles onto the floor. His knees shuddered and he blinked hard, forcing his eyes to hold eye contact with Potter, fighting the urge for them to roll up. Draco could feel the relaxing sensation rip through him like a torrent. He could hardly feel his limbs. He felt his mouth go slack, his eyes heavy, his breathing, so slow, so slow, too slow.

"Malfoy?" Potter said, carefully, stepping forward.

Draco could control this. Potter was not going to be right. No, he could control this. Using every ounce of his strength, he stepped forward away from the table. "I'm-," he started again. He took a painfully slow breath and watched Potter's face blur up, as though he was peering at him through a rain drop. Draco tried to raise a hand up to gesture and realized that his heavy hand did not respond to his mind's command. He had no control. Draco was stuck with Harry Potter in an Owlery and had completely relinquished control over himself.

Draco's eyes fluttered up again and his knees turned to rubber. "Shit," he slurred out before collapsing back, hitting his head on the table and falling onto his back on the ground into a pile of broken glass vials.

"Oh my God," Potter murmured, stumbling over to Draco and dropping to his knees. "Oh my God."

Draco's eyes were open, but barely. He tried to look up at Potter, but his eyeballs felt too heavy to hold in one place for any length of time.

Draco was passively aware that he no longer felt anxious or paranoid. He knew that he should be highly concerned for his health right now, but being free of worries was a decidedly more enjoyable feeling. Making a mental decision, Draco chose to feel pleased, but no physical or emotional reaction accompanied that decision. He decided, also, that he could be happy right now, except that he felt completely emotionless. He was neutral. A vegetable, really. He felt like he was floating on air, but felt completely heavy at the same time. His body was a burden. What would it feel like if he had no body at all? If he could free his soul from his body and just exist, peacefully, left alone, invisible?

"Malfoy!" Potter's voice sounded far away; tunnel-like. "Malfoy-can you hear me? Oh shit, oh shit."

"Potter, it worked. I'm fine. This always happens. Bugger off," Draco tried to say. What he distantly heard in his slurring voice was, "Pahit wor, 'fine 's'happens, Bugiff." He couldn't speak. He couldn't stand. Potter could take complete advantage of him. This was not good.

"Jesus-I can't understand you!"

"Fuck," he let out, clearly.

"I don't know if you're being an asshole or asking for help! Say something else!"

"You…"

Potter leaned closer, "What are you trying to say?" he asked gently.

Draco used all the strength in his mouth to enunciate. "Fuck. You."

Potter threw his hands in the air and let out an exasperated growl. "Ugh! I should just leave you here. . . but then you'll die. Oh, you stupid moron, Malfoy." Potter back-swatted Draco on the arm. It felt like being hit with a sock. "And, Jesus, Malfoy. You're drooling all over yourself."

He was drooling on himself? That was not good. That was embarrassing. He should feel embarrassed. Draco mentally told himself that he was now embarrassed and should try and do something to rectify that. Normally, when embarrassed, he would just insult the other person, but he was starting to doubt the effect that his silver tongue usually had on Potter. He tried anyway.

"Thas because yur so hansum," he drooled. No-wait-that came out wrong. No-take it back! That did not sound insulting like it had in his head.

Potter gave him a weird look. "What?"

"Fuck," he concluded, wanting to give in to the sleepiness that was now settling around him. Draco's eyes rolled back up in his head.

"No!" Potter shouted. "Stay with me, Malfoy!" Potter lightly smacked Draco across the face several times and shook his shoulders.

Draco felt his face being tapped lightly with a sock and squinted, moaning, "Uh uhh."

Potter looked down at Draco. His breathing was shallow, he was becoming non-responsive, a puddle of drool was forming under his mouth, his normally piercing silver eyes were rolled up in his head. Potter grabbed Draco's hand, which was cold and clammy, and felt for a pulse. The blood pulsed faint and slow.

"Okay, okay," Potter said out loud, more to himself than to Draco. "Okay, we need to get you out of here. We need to get you to a-to a Potions classroom, get you a bezoar or-or something. That'll-yeah. We'll get you a bezoar. Okay, come on!" Potter was on his feet, trying to pull Draco to a standing position. He was huffing and puffing and commenting on Draco's weight. Draco thought this was particularly rude of Potter.

"Come on Malfoy!" Potter struggled, yanking him upright to a seated position.

Draco could feel himself being pulled upright. He needed to make a decision, he decided. Either Potter could leave him here, which, carnally, was what he desired at the moment, and he could, apparently, continue to drool on himself and his pulse, indeed, could slow down to an alarming rate. Or he could try and go with Hero Harry Potter down to the dungeons and get this bezoar that may or may not save his life, if his life was in danger.

"Kay o'kay," he conceded, and fought himself out of the warm, enveloping comfort of the relaxant unto which he had only just begun to yield. Draco forced open his eyes and the painful reality of light and Potter's blurry face met him full force. He tried to lift his hand, humiliation the fuel for his control, and managed to wipe the drool off his slack jaw to the best of his ability.

"Okay Malfoy," Potter commanded, sounding in control, and secretly Draco was glad that someone was. "On the count of three I'm pulling you to your feet. Do your best to stand up, then lean on me and try not to give up standing, whatever you do, stay on your feet. Do you understand?"

Draco tried to give Potter a level, condescending glare, but his loose face just gave him a dumbfounded expression.

"Nod if you understand me."

I'm not complete git, Draco thought, but he slowly dropped his head down and raised it back up, trying to hold eye contact with Potter while blinking rapidly.

"Okay," Potter said. "One, two, three."

Draco closed his eyes and felt Potter's warm hands pull him to his feet. To stay upright, he tried as hard as he could to focus his strength into his legs, then he loosely wrapped his arm over Potter's shoulder for support. Potter placed one of his arms on Draco's back and the other around Draco's chest in a sort of protective hug. Draco's head lolled to the side and dropped onto Potter's shoulder. His knees began to buckle and he stumbled to the right, but Potter held him up.

"Don't fall," Potter mumbled, a quiet plea. "I've got you, I've got you. Let's go."

ooo

The two boys stumbled out of the room and into the stairwell. Every few steps, Malfoy's legs would give out, and he would slide down toward the ground like a rag doll. Harry would yank him upright and shake him, trying to keep him as alert as possible.

The dungeon corridors echoed with their noisy arrival. Apathy had transformed into fear and Harry had stopped caring about getting caught. In fact, it could be positively helpful at a time like this, unless he got caught by Peeves, who would probably just throw things at them and knock them down the stairs. Come to think of it, Filch might do the same thing.

Harry could not believe the events that had transpired over the course of the last two hours. Two hours ago he had been taking part in the banal banter of Hermione and Ron and now he was drunkenly dragging his half-conscious enemy to the dungeons to get a bezoar to save his life. He should have just stayed with his friends.

Malfoy was growing weaker and sleepier. Harry was not sure he was going to make it to the classroom. Granted, Harry was doing most of the walking for both of them, but Malfoy's limited strength supply was drying up quickly.

"L-leave me here," he muttered suddenly, stopping his legs and starting to slide down. "P-please, jus-"

Harry shook him angrily and his blonde hair flew back and forth. "No! Malfoy-we are almost there, it's just down the hall.

Malfoy moaned softly and shook his head to one side, "Mmm . . . can't." He slipped down out of Harry's grasp onto his knees and slumped, curled, against the wall.

"Fuck! Fine! Stay here, er-obviously. I will be right back. I'm coming back! Don't go to sleep," Harry called over his shoulder and ran down the hallway to the potions classroom. He pointed his wand at the door. "Alohomora!" he cried. The door did not budge.

ooo

Draco could hear Potter trying Alohomora at the door and knew it wouldn't work. Slytherin was the only house that knew how to get past the spells in the dungeons.

"Salsa Slin," Draco slurred. Potter hadn't heard him. He was too busy was kicking at the Potions door like a maniac.

"Salsa Slin," Draco tried, louder, he felt a pool of drool slide out of his mouth and onto his chin and told himself he was mortified.

Potter looked over at Draco and noticed that he was talking. "What?"

Just come over here so you can hear me, you idiot! Draco thought. "Salsa Slin."

"What?"

Idiot! "Saliza."

Potter finally jogged back over to Draco. "What are you saying?"

"Passwor…" Draco moaned.

"Passwor . . .oh! Password? To get in the Potions classroom? Why didn't you tell me?"

Draco actually opened his eyes to give him an even glare.

"What is it?" Potter asked.

"Saliza Slirn"

Potter tried repeating it. "Saliza Slirn?"

Draco took a deep breath. "Salzar Slinn!"

"Salzar . .Sal-Oh! Salazar Slytherin? That's it?"

Draco held his glare on Potter, meaning yes.

Potter put his hand on Draco's shoulder in a soothing gesture, but then yanked it away quickly, horrified. "Jesus, Malfoy."

Draco opened his eyes just enough to see Potter's hand glistening with blood. Shit.

"Your-your head," Potter murmured. "Oh God." He ran back to the door. "Salazar Slytherin!" he yelled, and the door flew open.

Draco couldn't feel any pain in his head. Just fuzziness and an overall lack of feeling. He stared down into his lap and watched as a trickle of blood ran from his face and dripped onto his left hand. He told himself that he should be terrified. He should be in pain.

The blood was pooling in his robes and was apparently coming from his head, from when he fell into the glass bottles in the Owlery. He struggled to reach a hand up to his head, to compress it, to stop the bleeding, but his hand would not cooperate. His field of vision began to look like red gel. It was growing steadily darker. He blinked hard, confused when one tear forced its way out of his drug-addled body, and then everything went black.

ooo

Harry tore through the classroom, knocking into a desk and stumbling over a cluster of chairs. He ran to the back cabinet. "Alohomora!" he yelled, and surprisingly, the cabinet doors flung open. He grabbed the jar marked "Bezoars," ripped the lid off and threw it down. He reached in and grabbed one bean-sized bezoar, turned quickly, and ran from the room, his robes billowing, fan-like, behind him.

He flew down the castle hallway to where Malfoy was slumped, unconscious, in a pool of blood against the wall. The blood had accumulated quickly and Harry briefly thought it might be best to stop the bleeding before administering the bezoar, but shoved the bezoar in Malfoy's mouth anyway.

"Chew!" Harry commanded, but Malfoy's mouth hung, listlessly, his tongue lolling to the side. "Chew, chew! Come on, Malfoy," he pleaded, as he ripped off the sleeve of his own robe and tried to locate the source of bleeding.

Harry gently, but firmly, tilted Malfoy's head forward to inspect the top of his scalp. He found a long, jagged gash, out of which blood was freely flowing. Harry swore softly and tried to tie his robe sleeve around Malfoy's blood-dyed blonde hair to compress the wound. He then tilted Draco's head back and looked in his mouth. The bezoar was still sitting there on his tongue. "Please chew you idiot!" Harry cried desperately. "Draco-chew!"

ooo

Draco's eyes flitted open. He saw Potter's frantic face looming overhead. "Chew!" The command sounded like it was coming from underwater. "Draco-you have to chew!"

Draco?

Draco realized it was now or never. He remotely noticed the lump in his mouth and figure this was the bezoar. Lazily, he brought his teeth together, then gave up and just tried to swallow it whole. He felt the lump move down his throat and then his mouth was aggressively forced open with fingers.

"You did it, thank God," Potter muttered, breathing out a sigh of relief. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at Draco's head. "Episkey," he tried, doubtful.

Draco felt a cooling sensation on the top of his head. At the same time, his entire body began buzzing, hot and irritated. He groaned miserably from his heap on the ground.

"Malfoy? Malfoy!" Potter demanded. The grating voice sent pin pricks through Draco's entire body.

"What?" Draco rasped.

"Are you okay?" Potter was peering into his eyes like a nervous mother, his green eyes glinting in the torchlight.

Draco stared back at him. His body felt itchy and highly agitated and his skin ached. "Do I look okay to you?" Draco spat, the words coming out clearly. Potter's entire presence irritated him, despite Potter having just saved his life.

"So-you-the potions worn off?" Potter asked.

"I-" Draco began and moaned again, dropping his head into his bloodstained hands. "Sorry," he whispered, ashamed.

Potter reached a hand toward Draco's shoulder. "It's okay." He placed his hand on Draco's shoulder and the blonde jerked away, out of his touch.

"DON'T touch me!" he snarled, his hands muffling the words.

Potter frowned. "Fine."

Draco peered up from his hands and squinted. "Sorry-I just, please don't touch me. It-it bloody hurts."

"Okay," said Potter. He stared at Draco in silence. The evening's events had seemingly sobered him. "Erm-Malfoy?"

Draco didn't say anything. His body appeared to tense at the sound of Potter's voice.

"You," he continued, faltering. "You lost a lot of blood. You might have a concussion. I think you should go see Madame-"

"Can you get me a sobering potion?" Draco mumbled into his arm, his head still down.

"Uh, yeah, I can-sure," Potter agreed and tentatively left Draco to go back to the Potions closet.

"And a hangover potion if they have that?"

Potter turned back, "Uh, if they have it, yeah."

ooo

Harry wandered back to the Potions classroom, trying to divulge a plan for what to do next. Did Malfoy need to go to the infirmary ? At least have his head checked? And why on earth was Harry still helping him after Malfoy cursed him, stole his alcohol, ignored his advice like a moron and put himself in a near-death situation? Harry despised the git. Why was he being so nice to him? No doubt, Malfoy was going to turn around and spit in Harry's face the next chance he got. He probably wouldn't even say 'thank you.' 'Sorry,' was closest thing to appreciation that Harry would receive for this.

And yet, he found himself opening the closet of the Potions classroom and locating the sobering agent. There did not seem to be a hangover potion in the classroom. Harry was surprised even to find the former in the closet.

He grabbed a vial off of a shelf and portioned a dose of the sobering agent into the vial. Harry ambled back to where Malfoy had collapsed on the floor, looking like the victim of a gruesome murder.

"Here," Harry offered, holding the vial out to Malfoy. Malfoy looked up, wincing, and took the potion. "They didn't have a hangover potion."

ooo

Draco looked at the bottle skeptically, knowing that if he felt terrible now, in a minute he was about to feel a whole lot worse.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the effects, and threw the potion back in one shot. Potter watched as Draco dropped his head back in his hands. "Uhhhn," he moaned miserably. "God. Why?"

Draco was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was covered in blood, in drool, and in spilled alcohol, on the floor of the dungeons, his head cracked open from his idiotic fall and Harry Perfect Potter was staring at him with a scrutinizing look of mock concern.

"Come on," Potter said gently, tugging at Draco's sleeve to help him stand up. Draco yanked his arm back and flashed a death glare at him.

"I can get along fine myself, thanks," he growled and pushed himself up to stand, using the wall. "I'm not your charity case." His stomach lurched and his eyes were burning and bleary. His head was pounding to the rhythm of his heart, each beat bringing more pain. Dizziness enveloped him and his vision started going black. He stumbled against the wall and held himself in place, head hanging down, breathing deeply.

Potter approached him again.

"Do. Not. Put. Your. Hands. On. Me. Potter." Draco gasped out, through clenched teeth.

'Fine, Malfoy! Fine!" Potter yelled. Draco winced. "But you need to walk yourself up to the hospital ward now."

"Don't," he breathed heavily, vertigo reeling in his head, "get your knickers in a twist, Potter. I am. I'm going. In a minute-" he lurched forward again, catching himself on the wall.

Potter watched Draco with his arms crossed.

Draco made no motion of moving. Clearly, standing up was going to be a World Cup challenge.

Potter exhaled, annoyed. "This is ridiculous. You're wasting time. You're still losing blood."

Draco's eyes were closed and his head was hanging. "Mind-"

"No! This is my business now, Malfoy! Stop being an idiot-you've done that enough tonight. Merlin!" Potter mumbled a lightening charm. "Now shut up. I'm picking you up and taking you to Madame Pomfrey. If you say anything else to annoy me, I'll put Silencio on you, I swear."

Draco shut up and didn't put up a fight as Potter lifted him up from behind, cradling the heap of wizard and bloody robes in his arms. Defeated, disgusted, Draco moaned the entire way to the hospital wing until he finally gave in to the dizzying pull of sleep.

ooo

Harry's robes were now soaked through with Malfoy's blood. He was missing a sleeve that was now haphazardly tied to Malfoy's head, its collection of blood meager, as it continued to trickle down the back of Malfoy's skull.

Harry carried Malfoy up the steps and into the hospital wing, where Madame Pomfrey stood, horrified, for a brief second before jumping onto Malfoy in a panic.

"What happened?" she asked, as she began to prepare treatments.

"He-I, I'm fine, but Malfoy fell and hit his head," Harry offered, leaving out critical details of the night. "It was an accident," he added, again, not sure why.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," she said as busied herself, mending Malfoy's wounds.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Harry added, unnecessarily.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, I can see that," she murmured. Harry didn't budge. She stopped and looked at him pointedly. "Thank you for bringing him here. He will be fine. Now go clean yourself up and get some sleep," she added.

Harry nodded and looked once more at Malfoy, who looked as if he had finally fallen asleep. His mouth hung open and he was emitting light snores.

Harry meandered through the hallways in a daze, soaked in Malfoy's blood and sleeveless. He followed the dripping trail of blood through the hallways and whispered a cleansing spell to cover his and Malfoy's path.

The blood trail wound all the way up the steps in the West Tower to the old Owlery where the whole debacle had begun. Harry tentatively opened the door, feeling like he was walking into a crime scene. He whispered a few cleaning spells around the room and extinguished Malfoy's cauldron fire. He lifted his messenger bag, bottles still clinking in the burlap sack he had stuffed inside. Giving the room a once over, Harry noticed Malfoy's wand sitting on the Potions table. Rolling his eyes, he picked it up, placed it in his pocket beside his own, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.