The Party
Victor’s house was already full with people, Harry insisted they drive around for an hour. The cocaine had long worn off. The sun was almost set, it hung ripe in the sky. There were too many clouds in the sky to have a sunset. Idling, the car remained in the parking-lot-sized driveway, as Harry gathered the courage to walk in. Gathering courage as in taking several bumps of cocaine. By the time it hit he was already halfway through the door. Inside the music thumped, girls scantily dressed, a surprising work uniform of pumps and a skintight dress. Their job was more to pretend they weren't getting paid to be there, and to fill up spots of people who refused to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Nausea inducing lights swirled with the remnants of natural light left by late evening. The party was full, but still lame. Lame in a way that radiated from the walls, lame in the way you expect to see a studio audience around the corner, it would look good on a camera but the energy of the not-yet-drunk crowd, the 8PM start time, everything, sitcom lame. The kind of sitcom parents would watch, not that Harry would know.
Around the corner his band mates sat, talking with some of the people who auditioned, it seemed they didn't have the heart to tell them that they weren't going to make it. The least they could do is chat with them. Harry went to get something to drink, expensive liquor bottles lined the walls of the kitchen, Harry grabbed the nearest one and poured it into a wine glass. The five servings of expensive brandy looked out of place in the stemmed glass, it didn't matter for long though. Harry drained the glass within the first five minutes of him having it. As it set in, the sun finally dipped below the horizon. The colourful party lights looked less out of place. Harry approached the person closest to him, threw his arm around and held up his bag of blow, raising his eyebrows. A partier's invite, the invitation of forgetting each other in the morning. In Harry’s case a contract to report nothing to the press. Unfortunately on the end of his arm was Draco, staring at him, smug, slightly pissed but most of all stone cold sober. Draco didn't move Harry’s arm from around him, he returned the accidental half hug and squeezed Harry’s shoulder.
“Soddenly were friends now, hoh?”
He let go and left the room in long strides.
This left Harry more distraught than when he entered, venturing back to the bottle of brandy he refilled his strange choice of glass almost to the rim. At this time Ron looked for him, through the rooms that were now becoming crowded, he shook the sweaty hands of too many people to count, his head on a swivel. By the time Ron found Harry, he had drained his second wine glass full of room temperature brandy. A strange blonde woman laid out on the kitchen table with eccentric purple sunglasses on her head and a line on her chest, which surprised Ron. What wasn't surprising was the nose attached to it, Harry’s. Ron walked over and ogled at the girl on the table, who now was trying to sit up but struggled even with that. Another girl approached, pushing Ron and Harry aside and yanking the girl off the table. Barely landing on her feet the purple-coke girl faded into obscurity in the crowd as she was dragged to the front door. Ron grabbed Harry and spoke loudly into his ear.
“dude. You seriously need to slow down. You're embarrassing us.”
Ron was right, Harry was a sloppy drunk, not to mention the unknown amount of cocaine in his blood stream at any given moment.
“ Why don't you leave me alone and follow Luna. That girl you were eyeing?” after a brief pause.
“Shes a lesbian anyways. Which is actually fine cuz you look like a lesbian”
“Hey.. this is Prada” murmured Ron.
Seaman followed Ron and was now at Harry’s shoulder.
“There's someone in the sun room asking for you” he half-yelled into Harry’s ear.
“Shite, ok,,,,, duty calls, boys”
Harry strutted off, expecting to find another groupie waiting for him. Alas, no such groupie waited. The November air drifted in from the ajar windows, November in LA, but November nonetheless. Slightly cold, Harry tugged the jacket closer to him. The room functioned mainly as overflow for the rest of the massive house; it hadn't been redecorated like the rest of the house since the farmhouse-chic- apocalypse of 2013. Dressers with distressed taupe-grey paint over fake oak, rustic (ugly) dining sets pushed into the corner, and a thick coat of white paint over the only real vintage piece in the room (a set of carved walnut candelabras) ((they used to be nice, carved by some old guy in the mountains, maybe for the grandchildren that never came to be because he was really an ass hole)) all combined to give the room the same vibe as bile as it creeps up your throat. Now distracted by a bouquet of dusty flowers, Harry thumbed at them wiping off the dust. The flowers were, in fact, the colour of dust. God, Victor needed to fire his decorator. Harry sank into the refurbished (ikea) beige couch. He grabbed one of the throw pillows and shook it vigorously, the pillow only slumped in his hands. The white knuckled grip around the frilled borders of the pillow still provoked no reaction, Harry chucked the pillow across the room, and it clattered into the flowers.
Draco stood at the door, slightly agape. Wanting to get away from the party, Draco was searching the house for a dark room that he could smoke in without being asked for a cigarette. Draco entered, what was basically a child with anger issues wouldn't stand between him and peace.
“Hey! get out, cunt.” said Draco across the room.
Harry didn't move, his gaze remained fixed on the floor. He began to pick at his hands, there was no way to get him out of this room. Maybe Draco would forget he was there or leave the room, maybe Draco would beat him into a coma. Either way Harry didn’t care.
Obviously, Draco, who was (relatively) sober, could not just forget Harry was there. The low light of the room bounced off Harry’s glasses. His face looked slimmed out and his dark hair fell across his temples. Harry did not look at Draco but spoke in a low voice.
“What is wrong with youÉ” getting louder, Harry continued.
“Cahn’t you leave me alone? Why are you still here?? No one wants you here. You're not welcome.”
Draco did not react, Harry’s intense slurring took away any credibility his words had.
“I fink you moight wanna howld off on ya booze mate. You’re talking loike a foking crazy person.” He approached Harry and got close to his face, close enough to tell Harry was wearing makeup, close enough to see each blood vessel in Harry’s bloodshot eyes.
“Everyone loves me, you stchoopid junkie.”
Harry stood up to get away from Draco but Draco moved with him, also standing up. Suddenly Harry felt hot, getting outside was an immediate need, it chewed at his every nerve. In this case, Harry chose flight. He pushed Draco away by shoving him in the ribs. His ribs were boney and poked back at Harry slightly. Something fell out of Draco’s pocket, a small bag filled with a fine white powder. In the seconds Draco stumbled back, Harry scooped up the bag and rushed outside.
The party continued to bump as Harry rushed through the crowd, pushing people over with no apology. Outside, the cool air and silence was a comfortable duvet (maybe a weighted blanket, i dont have one tho so i wouldnt exactly know lolz)
Harry felt the weight of Draco's drugs in his palm, his guess was cocaine. In his heavily inebriated state, the only way to get back at Draco he could think of was stealing his pricey drugs. Harry took one sniff, two, three. (How unfortunate, he will need a nose job in the future at this rate). Harry began to shake. Minutes passed and he had collapsed after wandering into the backyard.