Just My Luck (Drarry)

CHAPTER EIGHT: INVESTIGATION.

Draco wasn't hiding. He was exhausted. Yes, that was why he rushed through his morning routine, completely forgetting to wash his face before diving into his four-poster bed and charmed the curtains closed. It wasn't because he was scared of when Harry Potter would return from arguing with the deputy headmistress. It wasn't because he was scared of Harry's reaction to the situation at all.

At least that's what he told himself. Draco didn't believe a word of it.

The dormitory door slammed open, bouncing off of the wall. Draco closed his eyes; Potter was mad. Not that he blamed himself one bit. Draco wouldn't have to share a room with himself either. Harry banged around the room as loudly as possible, mumbling to himself to low for Draco to hear. Finally, the noise stopped right outside of Draco's closed curtains.

"Malfoy."

Draco winced. Maybe he could pretend to be a sleep?

Without warning, his curtains whizzed open, showing a flushed and scowling Potter. "Malfoy." He repeated.

Draco pushed himself up into a sitting position before turning to the Gryffindor. He looked at the other boy's shoulder, unable to meet his gaze and see the hatred there; it would hurt to much. 

Draco had finally realised that since he was eleven years old that his love for hating Harry Potter had stemmed from simply....loving Harry Potter. And that was a truth he wasn't prepared to face, not now, not ever, because it could happen, and the knowledge tore him up inside.

"Were stuck together." Harry hissed. "Mcgonagall won't budge. She keeps on repeating that this is what's best for the two of us..." Harry snorted, clearly disagreeing with the deputy headmistress. Draco just nodded, his heart beating through his chest. He didn't know how Potter hadn't noticed yet; it must be audible. "We should set some ground rules."

"Okay."

Draco cast a glance at Potter when he didn't respond instantly. The-Boy-Who-Lived was frowning at him. Draco hastily looked away.

"We don't have to talk to each other, we don't have to see each other except for nights, and we don't have to constantly fight all the time. Were not eleven years old anymore; to much has happened for us to continue on like we used to. But, understand Malfoy, that nothing has changed in the slightest."

Every word was like a knife to the chest, but the Slytherin nodded mutely. He didn't know what else to do. 

Potter seemed to be waiting for some other response, but Draco had none. After the silence had stretched on for an uncomfortable amount of time, Draco dared to glance at Harry Potter once again. He was inspecting Draco, confusion clearly written on his face. "What, Potter?"

Potter paused for a second before shaking his head. "Nothing." He stepped away from the bed and, with a swish of his wand his closed Draco's curtains back up. Draco had always liked the dark.

Potter hadn't sent Draco an owl. In fact, Draco was beginning to question whether Potter was going to send one at all. He couldn't help himself but think of the moment that they shared their dorm at Hogwarts together. Was it then that they realised that they shared so much sexual chemistry? Was it before? Or was it much later? Draco wouldn't be thinking of this if something wouldn't of happened.

Albert Oscar.

One of Puddlemere's first-string beaters. The bloke is fit, no question about it, but dumber than a quidditch goal post.

He and Harry had apparently gone out on a date. Or so the Daily Prophet said. Oscar, the wanker, hadn't shut up about it all through his medical exams. For the entire week, Harry this, harry that was all that came out of his overly large gob. It had gotten so bad to the point where every single member of the quidditch team groaned in exasperation every time Oscar opened his goddamn mouth. Draco, on the other hand, had barely been able to restrain himself from strangling him during his medical check-ups everyday. But somehow, he wished that it was only a one time kind of thing.