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Harry set the bottle on the table, clinking it down harder than he needed to.
Draco stared at it, the first signs of nervousness crowding the boy's forehead. "All of it?"
"All of it," Harry said emphatically. "Every last bit."
"All at once?"
"Take your time," Harry shrugged. "The bottle's only half-full, but you have to drink it all."
"And then you'll give it to me?" Draco asked.
"Sure," Harry held up the folded paper, "the answers to McGonagall's test, every single one of them."
"So I drink the fire-whiskey," Draco demonstrated to the bottle, "and you give me the answers?"
"Yeah," Harry tried not to grin.
"Why?" Draco shifted awkwardly. "Can't you just punch me or humiliate me in front of your Mudblo – er, your friends?"
"No, you drink this or I burn the answers," Harry stood his ground.
Draco glared at him, but then he grabbed the bottle. He raised it up to his lips, but then hesitated. "What did you put in here? If you put anything nasty in here, I'll –"
"It's fire-whiskey," Harry assured him. "I'll taste it for you if you're too scared to drink it."
"Sod off," Draco sneered at him before he lifted the bottle and taking the first chug. He winced as he swallowed. "Ugh, it burns."
"Guess that's the fire part," Harry tried not to smirk. His conscience was twinging, telling him it still wasn't too late to stop Draco. But Harry told the nagging voice to shut up, and he watched Draco try to gulp down the alcohol.
Draco took four large swallows before he set the bottle back on the table.
"I'm dying," he gasped. "My throat is on fire."
Harry kept his face blank.
"So this is payback," Draco coughed. "I blame one spoiled spell on you in Defense – ugh, still hurting – and you want to burn my throat out?"
"This has nothing to do with Defense," Harry lied. "I'm not upset about that or having to spend all night cleaning toad slime off the desks with Snape sneering at me. I just want to see you drink the rest of that bottle. Drink it, and ten minutes later I'll give you the answers."
He knew Draco would do anything to get the answers – apparently the Malfoy heir could not manage a passing grade in Transfiguration by himself.
Draco muttered something unflattering, and then he grabbed the bottle again. He started gulping down the fire whiskey, nearly choking on it. Six swallows, and he slammed the bottle back down.
"Oh, I'm going to be sick," he turned from Harry.
"Sit down," Harry advised.
Draco thudded down into a chair, breathing hard. His eyes were watering, and he swiped his hand over them.
Harry knew he should be feeling bad, knew he should be showing that grand Gryffindor bravery that Snape had been sneering about the whole evening, but he didn't say anything. A part of him relished the revenge – served Draco right for beating him up on the train at the beginning of school. Harry only wished the bottle had been completely full when he had snitched it from Hagrid's hut.
"My head," Draco said under his breath. "Oh, Merlin, my head."
But he grabbed for the bottle, raising it to his lips and gulping again. But he couldn't finish it.
"I can't," he protested, holding up the bottle with just an inch left. "It's too much. My head. Oh, and my stomach!"
Harry wanted to let up, to give Draco the paper and just let it go, but Harry suddenly remembered how Draco had worked for Umbridge, tattling on every little thing that the Gryffindors had done.
"Your choice," Harry shrugged again. "Guess it's too much for your pure-blood to handle."
Draco gave him the ugliest look possible and then snatched the bottle up. He choked the rest of it down. When he finished it, he lowered the bottle slowly, his eyes slightly glazed over. "I – I did it."
"Ten minutes," Harry promised. "Ten minutes, and you can have the answers."
Draco nodded, but he was looking rather dizzy. Several times he tried to stand, but he could not quite make it. Harry watched the clock on the wall, the seconds ticked off one by one.
By five minutes, Draco's cheeks were flushed. By eight minutes, Draco was hiccupping, his body jerking slightly with every hup! And by ten minutes, Draco was reeling slightly, holding onto the table for balance.
"Time's up," Harry noted. "Here you go."
He offered the folder paper out.
Draco reached for it, but it took three tries before the blond managed to grab hold onto it.
"Thankzz," Draco slurred.
"Bye, Malfoy," Harry walked towards the door, trying not to smirk. He had just stepped out into the hall when he met Snape coming down the hall. The dark-haired man frowned at him, sneering as if he had just seen something disgusting.
"Why are you loitering about, Potter?"
"I was just leaving," Harry told him.
"I was told Mr. Malfoy was looking for me," Snape went on. "Have you seen him?"
"He's right in there," Harry pointed to the open door of the Defense classroom. "He has something he wants to show you, Professor."
Snape's eyes glinted at the slightly-mocking way Harry said Professor, but Snape stalked down the hall towards his classroom.
"Mr. Malfoy," Snape pushed the door open, "I do not approve of anyone entering my classroom without . . ."
Snape trailed off as he watched Draco lurch to his feet. The boy nearly fell over, but he caught himself and raised a folded piece of paper high.
"I did it," he slurred. "I going to pass that ruddy class – class – class –" Draco garbled suddenly and fell forward.
Snape stepped forward to grab the boy, holding him steady. Draco leaned over Snape's arm, trying to speak. But he jerked and then threw up on the floor.
"Ugh," Snape made a face at the clear liquid vomit splattered on the stone floor, "what have you been drinking. Is – is that a bottle of fire-whiskey?"
Draco made no answer, just lay limply in Snape's arms. The man growled, but dragged the boy to a chair and sat him down. Then he tried to take the paper from Draco's hand.
"No," Draco managed to shake his head, "mine. I drank it all – it's mine."
"That's enough," Snape told him, yanking the paper free. "I'm putting an end to this nonsense."
He opened up the paper to read it. Across the paper in large letters was written
Try studying, you stupid prat
But Snape recognized the handwriting, the arrogant tilt of the words that match the personality of its writer.
"Potter," he snarled, glaring towards the hall.
Draco said nothing. He lunged forward to throw up all over Snape's robes.