[Fic] As You Like It (2/3)

Title: As You Like It (2/3)
Author: Belladonna
Pairing: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The Arabian Nights does not belong to me. The title of the story comes from Shiina Ringo's song, Okonomi de, not from Shakespeare's play.
Summary: One drunken night is enough to dye Harry's black-and-white world into a palette of violet-tinted grey. Track 2: In the bedroom, near dawn.

A/N: Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to all!



As You Like It
by Belladonna

Track 2: Alf layla wa-layla


Pale morning light seeped through the crack where pale curtain and wooden window frame met, and into the cosy bedroom like a naughty child peeking at what he ought not to see. Dust was floating lazily within the stripe of light cast upon the floor, at times rising, at times falling. Moments later, the sliver of light stretched out its long body to invade the navy blue coverlet on the cherry-wood bed, where a figure was curled up snugly in the blanket, not once stirring from his slumber.

The sweet, refreshing scent of lemon hung about the air like morning mist, tickling the olfactory sense of the figure and ever so gently coaxing him out of his dreams -- a caprice of flying silver whales he could not catch and songbirds whispering nonsensical chants into his ear.

A hand tentatively reached for the clock on the nightstand. A pair of groggy green eyes cracked open and stared blankly at the clock for several heartbeats, before the hand returned the clock to its former place. Mechanically rubbing away the drowsiness from his eyes, the figure groaned when he sensed the swift approaching of a pounding headache.

It was early in the morning, and Harry Potter had never felt such a strong desire to stay in bed for the rest of the day. While it was not the first time he woke up to a hangover following a night of overly indulgent drinking, it was certainly not an experience he enjoyed reliving under any circumstances.

Grabbing his glasses from the nightstand as was his daily ritual, Harry put them on, and the world instantly came into sharp focus. His head was awfully heavy as if someone had switched his brain with one made of pure iron; nonetheless, whether his head was filled with hay or lead, he still needed to go to work. Mustering every ounce of effort he could find in his half-dazed self, he threw aside the blanket and sat up despite the complaints from his body. As soon as the chilly air made contact with his skin, he involuntarily shivered. It was then he realised he was not wearing his usual sleeping clothes.

Gazing down at himself, he found that he was still wearing the dress shirt and trousers from the night before; no wonder why he felt cold. As he cast a glance at the nightstand to see if his tie was there, he saw to his surprise a glass full of some unknown milky liquid sitting on the nightstand like a rigid chessman.

A piece of parchment was stuck beneath the glass. Frowning in bemusement, Harry set the glass aside and picked up the note. Scribbled on the note was a single line of text, in a hasty yet elegant hand he could vaguely recognise: For the headache, from the bane of your existence.

The memory of the previous night resurfaced in Harry's muddled mind -- the starlit patio, the mellow voice of the songstress, the mischievous night breeze, the nostalgic streetlamps, and a pair of violet-grey eyes. Lightly massaging his forehead, Harry agitatedly wondered how he could have forgotten. He was brought back home by none other than Draco Malfoy, who was the most likely culprit behind the mystery potion, not to mention Draco was the only one who possessed the arrogance and the dry sense of humour to call himself the bane of Harry's existence. And yet, this self-proclaimed bane of his had acted in a manner that completely contradicted the meaning of antagonism.

Warily Harry stared at the seemingly innocent potion, pondering half-heartedly if Draco had seasoned it with a touch of poison for an extra-exotic flavour. At the absurd thought, even Harry had to laugh at himself for being silly.

After picking up the lukewarm glass, Harry breathed in the lingering whiff of lemon, and drank the potion slowly. He had an inkling that there was a gaping hole in his memory concerning the previous night, and yet he could not recall what it was no matter how hard he tried. Oh well, he shook his head dismissively, it was probably nothing of great importance -- or so he hoped.

The potion did not taste half as bad as some of the potions Harry had been forced to drink over the years; in fact, it tasted less like a potion brewed by witches and wizards and more like a herbal remedy invented by the wise in the Muggle world. Perhaps Draco, working as a reporter for the Lumos Times, had picked up a few useful titbits from the Muggle world during his travel.

When Harry at last finished the whole glass, he absently mused if he ought to treat Draco to dinner as a token of his gratitude. Although, to be honest, this self-named bane of his existence had piqued his curiosity, like an unlikely Scheherazade opening the eyes of the tyrannous emperor to the boundless, surrealistic world of wild adventure for a thousand and one nights.

* * * * * * *

With an organic palette of wood and plants and warm lighting, the Italian restaurant situated at the heart of London had the flair of a charming European-styled cafe. The appetizing aroma of Mediterranean gourmet fluttered in the air like invisible butterflies; efficient servers carrying sparkling silver trays navigated around tables and corners like work bees. A stream of light, playful jazz piano was flowing from speakers hidden throughout the restaurant, lending an intimate ambience to the place.

Although it was relatively early, most of the tables in the restaurant were already occupied. And Harry, who had arrived early, was able to secure a table by the half-shaded window. As he absentmindedly observed various scenes of human drama played out around him, he threw an occasional glance at the entrance, wondering when his companion would arrive.

Draco was the one who had designated the time and the place; but it appeared he had neglected to follow his own timetable. For a whimsical moment, Harry thought perhaps he ought to give some money to Draco and tell him to have dinner by himself instead. Then again, it would be unfair of him to place the blame on Draco; being a reporter had the unfortunate side-effect of messing up one's well-planned schedule.

As Harry stifled the urge to sigh, he glimpsed upon a lean figure in black leather blazer and blue jeans waltzing into the restaurant -- it was Draco. The casual attire fit Draco's agile form well; there was a certain unintentional elegance about him that reminded Harry of a bird sailing in and out of white clouds against the backdrop of the azure sky.

Having located Harry, Draco smoothly manoeuvred his way through the labyrinth composed of tables and chairs and people, displaying such fluid ease Harry could not help but admire.

When Draco reached him at last, Harry waved his hand in greeting and remarked, "I thought you've forgotten about our dinner arrangement."

"I apologise," Draco replied offhandedly as he slid into the seat opposite of Harry and took off his coat. "I was held up. Have you ordered anything yet?"

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm treating you to dinner, not treating myself to dinner." Harry could not resist a jab at Draco, though in truth he was not even remotely annoyed by the wait.

The corner of Draco's mouth curled upwards into a lopsided crescent; violet-tinted grey eyes glinted with a curious light, as if candlelight was lit behind those oddly mesmerizing pupils. "Alright, you win." With the matter settled, the conversation took a turn towards the culinary.

After the server went away with the order, the pair of young men fell into companionable silence. As Harry took a sip of water, he stole an inquisitive look at Draco over the rim of his glass. Draco was observing something with a distant, unfathomable expression on his face. Following Draco's gaze, Harry saw a living, harmonious portrait of a family of four enjoying their meal and each other's company. Does it remind Draco of his parents, who moved to Greece several years ago? Harry found himself pondering.

A sliver of some unknown emotion was stirring in Harry as he contemplated Draco's pensive profile, an oddly tipsy sensation as if he had drunk one too many glasses of wine -- even though not a drop had touched his lips. Fragments of half-formed memory were flirting about the periphery of his consciousness like a half-forgotten tune; and yet every time he tried to grab onto the tail of the melody, it flew away beyond his grasp.

Inquiring grey eyes turned to him, catching him in the act. Hastily Harry diverted his gaze elsewhere, but he could not entirely hide the sheepish look bespoke of guilt from his face. In an attempt to lead Draco's attention away from dangerous water, Harry quickly improvised.

"So, do you have any plan for this Christmas?" Harry spoke in what he hoped was a leisurely, conversational tone.

"Nothing in particular," Draco answered while leaning into the wicker chair. "I'll probably be working over the holiday."

"No girlfriend or boyfriend who will pester you about not spending time with them on Christmas Eve?" Harry jested at Draco's expense.

A hint of an amused smile was lingering about Draco's lips. "No and no. I'm afraid the life I'm leading is a solitary one at the moment." The smile turned ever so crafty, almost like a smirk. "What, are you being pestered?"

"I don't have anyone who would nag me about that," Harry said dryly while pushing the water glass around on the table, decorating the pristine white tablecloth with overlapping wet circles. "Funny, I never thought you are the kind of people who enjoy solitude."

Several blond strands fell over Draco's forehead as he tilted his head to the side, like an art critic wanting to study a painting from another angle. "One would say that it's better to be alone than to suffer bad company."

"Present company included, I suppose?" Harry said light-heartedly, if more wryly than he ought to be; Draco raised an eyebrow at him in befuddlement, but otherwise remained silent. "So, no Christmas celebration for you then? That's rather sad."

"I'm not a child anymore," Draco stated plainly, his quietly dignified voice laced with a trickle of indignation. "Besides, I am not in the habit of exercising the virtue of giving and receiving, which is, in my opinion, blatantly overrated." At that, Harry could barely keep the smile off his face; of all the people he had known, Draco was probably the only person who would admit so proudly to his shortcoming.

Their small talk came to a prolonged halt when the server brought along a tray full of mouth-watering dishes. The hearty pumpkin soup was creamy and smooth, a true gem that warmed one's body and spirit with a few spoonfuls. The rest of the meal was equally spectacular, a rich symphony of Italian cuisine accented with olive oil and various aromatic herbs.

Unbeknownst to Harry, Draco was discreetly observing him. Painted across Harry's boyish face was a palette of appreciation and delight, an expression that was oddly endearing to behold. It appeared that over the years, Harry had learnt to appreciate the simple pleasure life had to offer, be it a beautiful song or the cool autumn breeze or delicious food. And for someone with such cynical temperament as Draco was, this strange quality of Harry's was beyond his comprehension, yet at the same time, it drew him in.

More intently Draco gazed at the youthful face framed by a pair of ever present black-rimmed glasses. The curves and edges of that familiar visage seemed different from before, as though they were illuminated from another angle. When the light from a nearby lamp was caught within those troublesome glasses of Harry's, Draco had an inexplicable desire to steal away those glasses once and for all, mimicking what he had done on that intoxicating night when the status quo shifted slightly off-centred.

Recollecting himself from his reverie, Draco proceeded to slice a small piece from his veal and inquired casually, "And what's your excuse for remaining single?"

Taking his time to answer, Harry chewed thoughtfully on the ravioli he had propped into his mouth. "Couldn't find the right one, I guess. I thought I found the right one several times before, but..." Harry trailed off, accompanied by a shrug and a bashful smile.

"There is no such thing as the right one. People only think they are a perfect match because they want to believe this is the case." After dipping the strip of meat into the sauce, Draco held out the fork to Harry, who only stared at him. "Open your mouth."

It took three seconds for comprehension to dawn upon Harry; and then comprehension turned into incredulity, as though the lethargic largo was abruptly transformed into a lively allegro. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Experimenting," Draco said nonchalantly, so natural was his demeanour that it was as if he had merely decided to play Chopin instead of Schumann for the house party recital.

"That's not funny," Harry hissed in chagrin as he attempted to decipher any deeper meaning behind Draco's fickle act, and failed miserably.

"I'm not trying to be," Draco countered effortlessly, still holding out his fork as if dangling the bait before the wild cat he wished to tame.

Lilac-tinted ashen eyes were fixed upon Harry with what could only be described as a teasing yet anticipatory look. Nevertheless, Harry had a distinct feeling that Draco was expecting him to refuse; it was as though Draco was playing a game where his ultimate goal was to be checkmated by his opponent.

Very well, Harry thought. If Draco was determined to challenge him to a tango, then Harry would at least steal away the leading role from him every once in awhile.

Leaning forward slightly, Harry caught the strip of meat with his teeth and glared at Draco as though daring him to protest. The meat was finely grilled, with a chewy texture and a daring chestnut sauce; but it was Draco's expression that interested Harry the most. Lucid grey eyes widened in surprise before narrowing to squint at Harry's face, as if in search of something Harry knew not what of.

A sense of deja vu struck Harry's mind none too gently and refused to part; but now was not the time to dwell on it. Setting aside his confusion for the moment, he asked in a faintly defiant voice, forest green eyes glittering like cat's eyes in the dark, "Satisfied?"

Distantly in his mind, Harry knew he had just taken upon himself a game of hide-and-seek with this irregular move of his. And yet, the reckless side of him was disconcertingly unconcerned about the new development. Perhaps Draco had planted a seed of suggestion in the soil that was his mind on the drunken night when the songbird sang her serenade to the celestial heaven -- or perhaps Harry himself had yet to recover from his unfortunate bout of intoxication.

And with a quirk of an elusive smile, Draco regarded him keenly with those pensive purple-grey pupils of his, leaving Harry to fathom out the cryptic answer to his incomprehensible riddle. "Who knows?"

* * * * * * *

To be continued...?

A/N: A little Christmas present. In this chapter, Harry is as clueless as before, and Draco is as unpredictable as ever. And to be honest, I simply couldn't imagine Draco giving out Christmas presents. Anyway, it's fun to write about food even if you don't get to eat it. Lastly, thank you very much for reading!