Harry had warned him that the butterbeer wasn't such a sharp idea.

You know you'll be out within the hour. The last time you drank so much, you ended up in Neville's four-poster with nothing but your scarf on. I don't know what he was more appalled by; your devious Slytherin nudity, or your snoring.

Draco never could hold his alcohol. He liked to pretend he could, though. Harry often had the prescience to cover the room with pillows before said occasion, just incase Draco decided to pass out in the middle of the floor. Not that Harry particularly cared about a major head injury; no, he rather chose to concern himself with Draco's arse, and the bruised condition that it would be in if he let the Slytherin stumble about for half the night.

This was one of those nights. Pillows were strewn about the Griffindor common room, and many of the cusions were pushed back to reveal a path of red plush carpet where Draco had trudged through, his eyes half shut in drunken bliss. Harry had looked up from his book and raised his eyebrows, then ushered him to the empty couch-space beside him with a rueful grin. Yurrarse, 'arry, and - he fumbled for a moment, the act of kneeling on the cusions and removing his robes too much of a difficulty to do in tandem. Harry had watched him with amusement. It really wouldn't be long.

Shirtsare...off.... Draco yawned, and his head nodded to the side. Pantsare... He reached down to undo the buttons of his trousers and stopped halfway. His chin had fallen to his chest and his eyes were closed, and a soft breathy noise was coming from his nostrils.

Harry smiled, and reached for Draco's hands. "If you have to pass out, you pass out in style," he muttered, positioning Draco so that he lay down beside him, his head in Harry's lap. As soon as he had that first contact Draco turned his face in to snuggle against Harry's sweater, and a sleepy grin spread across his pale face.

That was over an hour ago. Watching Draco sleep had lost some of its initial intimacy, and Harry had long since reached for a book on the table beside him, careful not to move lest he wake the other boy. As if anything short of the castle collapsing could wake him in this state, he thought, but then, mindfulness was always the better part of valor.

Harry yawned, and put the book aside. The clock in the corner read 2:15, and he wondered at his ability to stay awake this late. He gazed down at Draco. Silver whisps of hair had fallen over his face and were blown upward with every breath he took. Harry gingergly brushed them aside, letting his hand linger on Draco's cheek.

He stirred.

"'Smorning?" he asked, his voice groggy and hardly louder than a whisper.

"No, not yet," Harry replied, speaking a touch softer. Draco moved to wipe his eyes, but Harry stopped him. "Go back to sleep."

"I haven't been..." he yawned. "...sleepin'. I've been 'wake. We romped, 'member?"

Harry looking mockingly contemplative. "Oh yes. With the pillows."

"Pillows?"

"And the bedcurtains, too. You wrapped them about yourself like a -" He stopped. Draco's eyes had closed once more and he had resumed the steady pattern of breathing that proved sleep has once more enthralled him. "I think you've got the right idea, Malfoy," Harry whispered, then leaned over and let his body sink against Draco's shirtless one. He took a deep breath. Draco smelled like snow and woodsmoke and the muted scent of fresia. Harry smiled into his chest. He faintly remembered whispering "g'nite" before he shut his eyes.