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Draco has a lot of questions, all at the same time, but the first and most pressing is—
“Potter, what the hell are you doing here?”
The Potter-shaped lump in front of Draco’s fireplace giggles—which is enraging and not endearing—and pushes himself up to lean against the wall. “Hullo, Dra—hic—co,” he says—slurs, more like—and grins, like it’s a joke Draco is supposed to be in on. “What’re you doin’ ‘ere?”
Draco scoffs. “This is my flat, Potter. Just how drunk are you?”
Harry waves a hand. “I di’n mean that. I meant why’re you here? ‘Stead of the party.”
Ah. Yes. The party. Blaise’s annual New Year’s bash was legendary. Draco would know, having rung in the last few new years on the rooftop of some building, or on a yacht on the South Coast, or in an underground bar only accessible with a spell Blaise invented for the occasion. It was fun when the crowd was a mix of a few trusted friends who would know him forever and dozens of nameless strangers he’d never see again. But now—
Now Blaise is marrying the Weaslette, and she's brought hordes of people Draco’d hoped never to see outside of a controlled, professional environment. Principal among them: the man having far too much fun for someone sitting on the floor and covered in soot.
“That is none of your business,” Draco snaps. “Now, I’ll ask again, what are you doing here?”
Harry shrugs. “I dunno. Was gonna go home, but I got here instead.” He grins up at Draco. “Now, you.”
Draco sighs. “Potter, I elected to stay home for the evening.” Hoping to avoid you, is left unsaid. “Now, may I assist in getting you safely back to your own home?”
“Nooooo,” Potter whines, pouting. “Wan’ stay here. Only wen’ to the party ‘cause I thought you’d be there.”
“What, why?”
“‘Cause I like you, you git!” Potter huffs. “Why d’you think ‘m so drunk? Had to have li-hic-quid courage.” A grin quickly spreads across his face, replacing the frown. “Hey, I did it! Fin’ly. Ron ’n ‘Mione are gonna be re—hic—relieved.”
Draco’s head is swimming, and he’s not entirely sure he’s even awake. Potter fell through his Floo on New Year’s, drunk off his arse, and said he likes him? He must be dreaming. Potter only likes him back in his dreams.
“No, I like you in real life, too,” Potter’s still smiling, but it’s softer, and Draco’s chest seizes—at the confession, or the fact that he spoke his inner thoughts aloud, he’s unsure.
Regardless, awake or asleep, Potter is drunk, and on the off chance Draco’s not dreaming, he’s not going to risk having his adolescent dreams come true on a kiss Potter might not remember in the morning. He casts a Tempus, swearing when he notices they only have 30 minutes left before one year turns to another.
“Alright, Potter,” Draco says, bending down and offering a hand to pull Potter to his feet, which he accepts. “You can stay here and sleep it off, and if you still feel this way in the morning, we can talk about it.”
Potter, now standing, looks positively pleased with himself. He pulls Draco to him—yanks, is more accurate—and Draco nearly stumbles with the force of it, his palms landing on Potter’s very solid, very warm chest. “Mmmmm, now you’re talking. Let’s go to bed.”
Draco rights himself and, regretfully, puts some distance between them. “Only to sleep, Potter. No funny business.”
Potter tilts his head, considering. “Okay. But you have to call me Harry.”
Draco’s cheeks are suddenly very hot. “Alright, Harry,” he mumbles. Harry grins victoriously all the way to Draco’s bedroom.
Soon, they’re both in bed, and Draco doesn’t know what year it is, but it doesn’t matter. Harry, half-lidded eyes bright, crosses the short distance between them and presses a chaste kiss to Draco’s lips.
“Happy New Year, Draco,” Harry whispers, his smile sheepish, tentative.
“Happy New Year, Harry,” Draco replies, letting happiness finally—finally—bloom across his face. He still has a lot of questions, but he’s optimistic about the answers.
The distant sound of fireworks seeps in through the window, but it’s quiet in the bedroom when they both finally fall asleep.