Eighth Year (Drarry Fanfic)

New Beginnings

Draco acted like any Slytherin would. He escaped. Self-preservation was paramount, after all. His sanity was on the verge of crumbling. Not to mention his self-control had seemed to have completely deserted him. It thoroughly terrified and unnerved him that the moment he'd admitted what his true feelings were for the Chosen One, he couldn't seem to reign his emotions in. The sight, the scent, the very presence of Harry Potter simply set him off. It would seem that the moment he'd shed his final wall --- denial --- he'd lost complete control of his feelings. Most probably an adverse side effect of years of repression.

Draco hadn't slept a wink. He had been so achingly aroused the entire bloody night. It was only the last shred of his Patrician dignity that had stopped him from running to the bathroom and wanking off to the Git Who Lived to Be Stupidly Fit sleeping soundly on that god-awful Gryffindor-themed bed a few steps away from him.

The image of Harry's half-naked, lithe form --- toned chest and abs still damp from the shower, raven hair dripping wet, and those blasted pair of joggers worn so low, they revealed the delicious 'V' of his hips; it didn't take a Ravenclaw to know that the Chosen One wasn't wearing pants underneath --- was forever burned into Draco's mind. Even now, sitting in the Great Hall the following morning after his hurried escape from their shared dorm room, Draco could feel his traitorous cock stirring with wild delight at the vivid memory. Clamping his legs tightly together, Draco imagined some decidedly gag-inducing thoughts to reign in his flaring libido. Such as McGonagall in a swimsuit, which seemed to do the trick rather nicely. For now.

He was doomed. Completely and utterly so.

Draco groaned in utter defeat, uncaring of how pathetic he appeared at that moment --- slumped forward with his forehead resting onto the House Table, breakfast pushed aside. Malfoy pride be damned.

Pansy, clearly worried and mortified at Draco's pathetic display, was rubbing his back. She couldn't even bring herself to tease him. She shot a frantic glance at Blaise, who was eyeing Draco with a frown and an odd little smile.

"I thought Malfoys never slouch or slump, Draco." Blaise drawled, looking up, narrowing his eyes at the curious stares aimed at the blond.

"They do now."

Blaise's eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline at Draco's muffled reply. Pansy made a noise that sound horribly like the squeak of a strangled mouse. Draco sighed. He knew this was completely out of character. Despite how much his general outlook in life had changed after the War, showing weakness outright was still something he couldn't tolerate. Until now, it would seem, because he simply didn't have the energy to care.

"Is he alright?"

At the sound of that voice, Draco scrunched his face up against the table's cool surface. The touch of concern in Harry's voice sent a warm tingle coursing through his slumped form.

"He's just feeling ill. It's none of your concern, Potter." Pansy replied coldly, dismissing the Golden Boy. "Come, Draco. Let's go see Pomfrey."

It was a good enough excuse. Draco knew he looked like death. His own reflection in the bathroom mirror had grudgingly told him so. Maybe he could take this opportunity to escape Harry for the rest of the day and simply hide out at the hospital wing until he'd regained his sanity.

Lifting his head up from the table, he ignored the various glances aimed at him and stared instead at Harry, who was oddly missing his two constant companions. The Eighth Years didn't need to wear school uniforms, as such, Potter was currently dressed in a hooded black jumper and washed-out, gray Muggle jeans that hugged him in a way that did funny things to Draco's insides.