Bottom Draco One Shots !Drarry!

Tempest

Christ, but Potter was loud.

Draco Malfoy rolled onto his back and kicked his blankets off with more force than was necessary. His arm shot out and fumbled about the bedside table until he found his phone. 2:45 PM. He scowled. It wasn’t even that late yet. Not that Draco had anything to do today, or any day for the remainder of his six-month sentence...without thinking, he rubbed his foot against the bulky monitor on his ankle, wishing he could rip the thing off and throw it out of the window of his high-rise condominium and watch it shatter in the middle of Broad Street.

Alas, he could do no such thing. If only he had managed to not be an absolute idiot that night back in the fall. But no, he had acted like a complete amateur at Pansy’s birthday party, balls drunk with the lion’s share of an eight ball powdering his nose and upper lip. He’d gotten into it with some git outside of the club who had said something disrespectful about his father, something that drunk, strung-out Draco just couldn’t abide, despite his friends’ frantic pleas.

He had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. But not for much longer, apparently, seeing as the infuriating din of unintelligible noises continued to bore its way through Draco’s bedroom walls. Potter’s voice was the loudest and most prominent of them all, punctuated with what Draco recognized as the far-too-loud telly. The news, judging by the staccato bulletin music.

Eschewing any thoughts of returning to sleep, Draco sat up and rubbed his eyes. The accompanying wave of nausea and rush of blood to his head made him immediately regret this decision. He was also beginning to regret the previous evening’s decision to gorge himself on wine and cognac until he had vomited all over the living room’s Brazilian cherry hardwood floors.

Heat flooded his face at the hazy memory of Potter on his hands and knees, his nose and mouth tucked under the stretched-out collar of his faded band tee shirt, shaking his head as he cleaned up the rancid mess. Draco could kick himself for caring so much about hurling in front of Potter; in all the years that they had known each other, this was hardly the first time that Potter had seen Draco in a less than flattering state, and Christ knew that Draco had seen Potter in his cups and then some.

Even so, that definitely wasn’t how Draco had envisioned getting Potter on his knees.

To hell with embarrassment, he decided, heaving his hungover arse out of bed. He had an entire day of needling his former schoolmate, ex-military, guardian-watchdog to look forward to, a day just like any other day--his greatest thrill was getting Potter’s eyes to flash, revealing a glimpse of the dangerous beast that had followed Potter home from his time in the service and had been simmering within him ever since.

It frightened Draco, but he sought it out all the same--it was a rush to feel something as raw as fear. He wondered what it would be like to see Potter lose that carefully cultivated self-control and just snap. Perhaps he would snap tonight.

Draco was terribly curious and terribly nervous about how the night would go, the endless possibilities of catastrophe looping through his mind’s eye. Being a high-profile member of international society due to his father’s controversial corporate wealth and even more controversial public political leanings would not help him see Purge Night through unruffled, at the very least.

Then again, that’s what Potter was there for.

Draco shuffled into the spacious kitchen, grimacing at the sunlight that streamed in aggressively through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Harry Potter was pacing the length of the island, idly swirling a coffee mug and frowning as he held his phone to his ear. He raised an eyebrow at Draco. “Confirmed. If you and your team need anything more, let me know now. I’m making the final run.”