Eighth Year (Drarry Fanfic)

Eighth Year Dorms

"What do you make of that mate?" Ron raised an eyebrow, furtively glancing towards a group of their fellow Eighth Years seated around the Common Room fireplace.

"Hmm...?" Harry hummed, distracted, playing idly with his wand, twirling it in his fingers.

"That." Ron repeated, voice full of meaning.

Grateful for the distraction, Harry followed his best mate's gaze and it landed right on the subject of his scattered thoughts. He inwardly sighed, frowning.

He'd been pretending to play Wizard's Chess with Ron but his mind had clearly been elsewhere. It had been preoccupied with a certain blond Slytherin, who, to Harry's immense shock, had not uttered a single insult to anyone. Even the blond's patented sneer was absent from his face.

Draco Lucius Malfoy had been the picture of a polite gentleman --- civil, almost friendly, towards his fellow Eighth Years and unnaturally quiet, subdued, by Malfoy's previous standards. And Harry was struggling with the sudden change. He didn't know how to act around Malfoy. He'd been so used to trading insults, barbs, curses, and hexes. Now that there was nothing but curt nods and cool indifference, Harry was at a complete loss.

Choosing to feign ignorance, Harry ordered his Knight to smash Ron's Bishop to pieces and asked. "What do you mean, Ron?"

"Blimey, mate, don't tell me you haven't noticed how odd Malfoy's been acting?" Ron hissed under his breath, eyes wide.

Shifting his gaze once again towards the blond, Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "People change. The War changed a lot of things, especially the way people think. After the shite he's been through, I'm not entirely surprised."

"Malfoy? Change? C'mon, mate." Ron scoffed derisively. "I'd sooner think he's up to something rather than believe someone like him could change." Turning his attention back towards the chess board, Ron lowered his voice even further. "That bloody Death Eater is probably cooking up a plan to break dear ol' dad out of Azkaban."

Suddenly feeling oddly defensive, Harry straightened in his seat and shot Ron an icy glare. "I know more about his situation than you do, Ron. That was the main reason why I spoke for him at his trial. I wouldn't expect you to understand though and that's fine." Smoothly rising to his feet, Harry ignored the look of shock on Ron's face. "I'm going to bed."

Striding towards the stairs that led up to the Boy's Dormitory, Harry felt eyes following his progress. On instinct, he looked over and emerald green met stormy gray.

Malfoy was laying on the couch, his head cradled on Parkinson's lap. The girl was chatting animatedly with Zabini, carding her slender fingers through Malfoy's silken hair. This show of affection was nothing new. Everyone in their Year believed the two were together --- had been together since Fourth Year. But for some reason, it sent a troubling surge of something through Harry's insides. Odd, that.

Malfoy had divested himself of his fashionable gray coat, leaving him in only his black short-sleeve shirt, clearly exposing the Dark Mark. But what had fascinated everyone, including Harry and, although he'd never admit it, Ron, was the fact that the Mark had been artfully hidden in an intricately and gorgeously designed forearm sleeve tattoo. Draco had wryly admitted that it had been done by a Muggle Tattoo Artist based in London, much to the shock of his fellow Eighth Years.

The half-sleeve was beautiful. Looming trees, coiling vines, winding rivers, a mosaic of shrubbery and soaring birds wound around Draco's pale forearm. It was a gorgeous painting of a vibrantly dark forest with the Dark Mark expertly integrated within. It reminded Harry of the Forbidden Forest, strangely beautiful and undeniably dangerous; very much like Malfoy himself. Harry frowned at the unbidden thought. He gave Malfoy a cursory nod before turning away, taking the stairs two at a time. He didn't bother to see if Malfoy had acknowledged his lame attempt at 'good night'.