[A/N]: So this was originally written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Round 11. The original submission is posted under another one of my works dedicated solely to competition submissions. But, anyway, here are the prompts used in this fic:

(dialogue) "I think I'm in love with a cactus."

(dialogue) "On your marks, get set… drink!"

(quote) 'Green is not a creative colour.' – DHMIS.

This is pre-slash Draco/Harry. It's just a silly, cracky fic, that I may or may not try to develop further. I'm absolutely shit at writing romance, though, so if I do decide to continue this oneshot, no guarantees on quality.

Now, without further ado:

"On your marks, get set… drink!"

In hindsight, Draco reflects, this was a terrible idea and he should have known and he should never have accepted the invitation out. He blames Seamus Finnegan. None of this would have happened if the bloody Gryffindor hadn't announced a drinking competition in celebration of Potter's birthday.

Draco learns many things about Harry Potter that day.

For one, Harry Potter drunk is a Harry Potter to stay far, far away from.

Secondly, Harry Potter drunk is surprisingly coherent—much more so, in fact, than his sober self.

And finally, Harry Potter drunk is absolutely, mind-bogglingly, Luna Lovegood mad.

It all starts when Potter decides to confess, "I think I'm in love with a cactus." For a moment, Draco thinks he must have misheard Potter—the bar is loud, after all, the music blaring and the drunken customers jeering and shouting and hooting with laughter. Then, Potter repeats himself, this time more firmly, "No, I don't think I'm in love with a cactus. I am."

Draco's first thought is that he no longer has a chance, if Potter is already in love. His heart plummets to his stomach in disappointment, crashing and shattering, leaving him feeling horribly hollow. Then, Potter's words filters through his brain and kicks the cogs of his mind into action, and Potter is in love with a cactus.

"A cactus," he repeats, somehow managing to sound perfectly calm. Inside, he struggles through thoughts muddled with shock and confusion. Well, he consoles himself, it would probably be much easier to seduce Potter away now. As if he, Draco Malfoy, could be less loveable than a bloody cactus. His heart soars—it isn't completely hopeless after all!

Then, it stutters and stops as he rethinks everything he has just thought.

Draco lets out a silent groan. This is what happens when you're around Harry bloody Potter too often. You start accepting everything he throws your way—even declarations of love for a cactus, of all things. Why even a cactus? Why not a—a—he throws his mind around for something—Nundu?

A terrible example, as Draco would pick a prickly plant over a bloodthirsty, mindless beast equipped with vicious claws, teeth and the deadliest poison in the world any day.

The point is, a cactus is just so… random.

"Yes," says the bastard sombrely, taking a sloppy gulp from his beer. Draco moves it away gingerly. "A cactus. It's a love that can never be, Malfoy. I am Romeo, and the cactus is the Juliet of my life."

Draco contemplates simply taking the easier option and passing out instead of having to stoop to come up with a response to that.

"How horrible," he finally says.

"Isn't it?" cries Potter, his green eyes fixing onto Draco's with a desperate edge in them. "There is nothing I can do, Malfoy—I wish to shower it, er, him with my love, but to do so would mean death for my beloved cactus. All I can do is stay afar and watch as he thrives without me."

Draco begins to blink rapidly. Unfortunately, Potter seems to think Draco has been moved to tears by his lamentation of the pains of his romance.

"I know," says the Saviour of the Wizarding World, looking so mournful Draco feels a lump rise in his throat. "It's tragic, our love."

He begins to sob and Draco gives up.

"You are never touching another drop of alcohol ever again," declares the Malfoy heir, as he attempts to drag an uncooperative Potter to the Floo.

Potter continues to sob, all the while reaching out helplessly for his drink.

"Ever," repeats Draco emphatically.

Draco isn't sure when this fascination with Potter started. It's terribly distracting, especially when they're hunting Dark wizards; Draco often finds himself helplessly attracted to the way Potter's muscles flex in battle, the way Potter's messy hair flops into his eyes just so the man can blow it out of the way, the way Potter's cheeks are flushed with adrenaline…

He blinks. Fuck.

"Draco," whines the Man-Who-Won, looking very unintimidating. Draco should really find this quite unattractive, and he hoped that seeing Potter this pathetic would squash all trace of his… feelings—but, alas. Instead, as Potter flops onto the bed, flailing limbs, alcohol-sodden clothes and all, Draco finds his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the pale skin of Potter's neck. His gaze roams Potter's body shamelessly, and he is gripped by a wish—a desire—to see more of it.

Then, as though abiding Draco's thoughts, Potter decides that alcohol-sodden clothes are very uncomfortable and removes them with surprising agility.

"What are you doing?" is what he wants to demand, yet all that leaves his throat is a horrible, almost guttural noise, as he tries not to ogle Potter's bare chest. It's a fine chest, really. Chiselled and defined and the finest trail of hair down the centre. Draco swallows, wondering why on earth Potter had to become attractive, instead of remaining the scrawny git he was in Hogwarts.

Potter looks up at him through his lashes, and Draco's breath catches. "Draco," he whispers. The young Malfoy feels a bead of sweat slide down his forehead. He shifts, adjusting his collar casually. Potter looks shy and hesitant and his lips are bloody plump and pink and gorgeous—

"Will you bring me my cactus?"

Dear Merlin. The haze of lust that was descending over his mind clears almost instantly.

"No."

"Why not?" demands Potter.

"Because."

"That's not an answer."

"It is."

"Is not."

"I'm not doing this with you, Potter."

"Is not."

"Potter."

"Is not."

Draco sighs. "Will you stop if I bring you the bloody cactus?"

Potter glares. "Don't call him that. I won't tolerate any disrespect to my love. Really, I won't. His name is"—Potter pauses—"Felix."

Draco eyes him suspiciously. "You just came up with that," he accuses.

"Did not."

"Did, too."

"Did not."

"Did—fuck."

Potter giggles.

"Bloody hell, Potter, I'm not calling your bloody cactus Felix."

Potter leaps to his feet—or attempts to, anyway. In reality, he struggles to get up, his hand sluggishly pulling out his wand. "I will defend my Felix's honour! Stupefy!"

Draco ducks, as a red jet of light flies over his head.

"Fuck, Potter! What the hell's wrong with you?"

Potter fixes him with a glare. "NEVER—INSULT—FELIX—CACTACEAE—IN—FRONT—OF—ME!" He twirls his wand in a complex fashion, and Draco only has time to widen his eyes before he's hit with a spell.

There's a burning sensation on his behind and he yelps. He looks frantically around, and his jaw drops before he turns back and lets out a long stream of profanity at Potter. "You gave me a pig's tail?" squeaks Draco. In his defence, it's difficult not to squeak when one looks down to see a pink tail curling delicately, with just a touch of cheekiness in the way it flicks at the end, sticking out from above one's buttocks.

Potter giggles again—a more irritating sound, Draco has not heard. "I thought it was appropriate."

The young Malfoy's grey eyes bug out. "How?"

The Man-Who-Won breaks down into hysterical laughter.

"Remove it."

"No."

"Remove it now, Potter."

"No, and you can't make me!" sings the bastard.

"Please?" tries Draco.

Potter opens one green eye. He looks considering, before he says, "Only if you say you're sorry for insulting Felix, and if you promise to call my beloved Felix from now on, and nothing rude."

Draco feels as though his mouth has been filled with something very bitter. On one hand, he has to be respectful to a cactus—a cactus that Potter is apparently in love with—and on the other, he really has no idea how to get rid of the pig's tail. It's proving distressingly resistant to all conventional methods, and at this point, Draco is left with little choice but to either beg Potter or use a Cutting Hex on the blasted thing.

"Fine," he says through gritted teeth.

Potter beams and it's almost blinding. "Excellent. Now, would you like to meet Felix? You can bring him over; he's in the kitchen."

Draco raises his wand.

"No!"

He closes his eyes and counts to ten, breathing deeply. "What's wrong now?"

"You can't Summon Felix," says a horrified Potter. "What if he gets hurt on the way here? You wouldn't treat your girlfriend that way, would you? If you do, Draco, I think I'm going to have to arrest you—that's abusive, that is. Or your boyfriend," amends Potter, as an afterthought.

"Luckily, I don't have a girlfriend or a boyfriend," says Draco, before firmly intoning, "Accio"—his throat closes up, but he manages to choke out—"Felix."

Potter squeals in horror.

A blur of green and brown zooms into Draco's outstretched hand. "See?" he says, looking a mix of disappointed and stunned. There's actually a fucking cactus. "It's fine. Safe."

Potter doesn't hear him, because he's already snatched the cactus out of Draco's hand and is busy crooning to the plant's non-existent ears.

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose.

Please let this be a dream, he begs silently.

It's not.

When Potter comes into work next morning, Draco is gratified to note that the man is failing to meet his eyes.

"Potter," greets Draco with a light smirk.

The green-eyed Saviour walks past his cubicle with a determined look in his eye.

An annoyed—really, after everything he put up with, he deserves more than feigned ignorance—Draco calls after his retreating back, "How's Felix?"

Potter pauses as though considering, backtracks, and turns to face Draco. He has the most terrifyingly calm smile on his lips, and a strange glint in his eye that sends shivers down Draco's spine. "Why, Felix is fantastic, Malfoy," says Potter pleasantly. "I gave him a kiss before I left for work. We had a very nice night."

Draco's eyes widen and he shifts nervously. "That's… lovely." After a brief pause, he blurts out, "Didn't it hurt?"

The other man's smile falters briefly, before it comes back on, full-force. "Felix thought you were very nice," he deflects. "Would you like to come over again? He's looking forward to a nice chat with you. And tea."

"A chat," says Draco slowly. "With Felix the cactus?"

"The cac—" Potter looks vaguely green, much to Draco's confusion. Then, his expression clears and when he speaks again, his voice is much more confident. "Yes, of course. Felix the cactus."

Somehow, Draco suspects his confidence is very much faked. "Your beloved?" he probes.

Potter nods along. "My beloved cactus." His green eyes dart around the office. His cheeks seem to tinge pink.

"The light of your life?"

"Er, yeah. Love it so much. That cactus."

"Him," corrects Draco, his eyes getting steadily narrower.

"Him?" Potter looks completely befuddled.

"Your cactus. Felix. It's a him."

"Oh, yes," says the Man-Who-Won, trying to looks wise and knowing. Draco thinks he looks vaguely constipated. "He's such a lovely… fellow. Very green. Creative colour, you know, green."

"I see," says Draco evenly. "Yes, one of his many wonderful qualities, I'm sure. Being green."

Potter stares at him for a long while, his lips a thin line and his jaw set.

Draco stares back, grey eyes cool and piercing.

Potter gives in first. "Okay, I have no fucking clue what happened last night."

"I thought so."

He glares. "Shut up, Malfoy."

A sense of malicious glee rises in Draco, which seems to have bled onto his face, for Potter looks suddenly wary. "Well, then," says Draco, with a very bright smile on his face that only seems to unnerve Potter further. "It's only right for me to enlighten you. After all, I'm the one who had to Floo you home so you didn't Splinch yourself."

Potter pales.

Draco's smile widens.

Potter coughs and chokes on his wine before he manages to say, "You're joking."

"I kid you not," says Draco, and imitates Potter's solemn demeanour. "Yes, a cactus. It's a love that can never be, Malfoy. I am Romeo, and the cactus is the Juliet of my life." He smirks as he forks a piece of steak into his mouth.

"I call bollocks."

Draco's expression becomes positively gleeful. "I have Pensieve memories of this. Would you like a copy?"

"No," blurts out Potter immediately. "Merlin, no."

"And you attacked me. To defend the honour of, ah, Felix Cactaceae."

"Felix Cacta—" Potter blinks. "Now I know you're pulling my leg. I can't even say that sober."

"Clearly, you have a much more talented tongue drunk, Potter," says Draco. His tone is flippant, but the glint in his eye is anything but. The other man looks flustered, and Draco does not fail to catch the way Potter's neck flushes red. He smirks. "Less can be said for your hand-eye coordination, however, when you were attacking me."

"Well, you were probably really rude to it," mutters Potter, his eyes darting downwards as he gulps down another glass of wine. Draco shoots him a filthy look.

"It's a bleeding cactus. Of course I was rude to it."

"A cactus that I thought was the love of my life. You have no respect, Malfoy."

There's a sinking feeling in the pit of Draco's stomach, though he isn't quite sure why. Like a fool, he dismisses the feeling. "I dodged the attack, of course." Draco decides not to mention the pig tail. He shifts in his seat. At least Potter got it off in the end—after giving him a pig snout to go with it, but that's beside the point. "My superior Auror skills, you know."

"Bravo. You dodged a drunk wizard's shoddy spellcasting. A medal—that's what you deserve!"

Draco scowls. "Shut it, Potter. Remember, I have the Pensieve memories."

Potter takes a long draught of wine, his face pained. "I can't believe I actually said all that."

"I was a bit disappointed, really, that you weren't actually in love with a cactus," lies Draco, pouting. "I thought I had a good scoop for the Daily Prophet."

Potter looks torn between amusement and horror at the thought of the Daily Prophet getting their hands on this 'scoop'. "I live to disappoint," he finally says. He lifts a full glass of wine in a toast. "To prickly boyfriends."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "To drunken Saviours."

Potter drains his glass, and the dread in Draco's stomach intensifies. He glances to the side of the table, where three empty wine bottles sit. Then, he glances at his first, half-full glass of wine.

"Fuck."

This time, Draco blames Potter. What kind of idiot gets drunk while being regaled of horror stories of what they did while previously drunk?

The Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Man-Who-Won, the Defeater of the Dark, apparently.

"There, there, Potter," says Draco, trying to sound patient and kind—a combination that goes against his very nature. "Into bed you go." Potter staggers into the bed obediently, before glancing at Draco through his lashes.

The young Malfoy groans. Don't ask for the cactus, don't ask for the cactus, don't don't don't don't—

"Can you bring me Felix, please?"

Damn.

"Accio Felix," intones Draco dully.