Young (Drarry Fanfic)

Inside Out

Bend your chest open
so I can reach your heart.
I need to get inside,
or I'll start a war.
Wanna look at the pieces
that make you who you are.
I wanna build you up
and pick you apart.

Let me see the dark sides
as well as the bright.
I'm gonna love you inside out.
I'm gonna love you...

— Inside Out by The Chainsmokers

~oOo~

December 1998

Potter is bloody naked.

Well, nearly naked.

Why the insufferable prat is parading around in only a pair of black boxers in the dead of Scottish winter has left Draco utterly befuddled, alarmed, and more than a little uncomfortable.

Curse his pale complexion.

Why, you ask?

Because Draco is blushing. He's eternally grateful that the cold can disguise his heightened colour.

Why is he blushing?

Because Potter is bloody fit and Draco has always liked cock. Draco can't very well deny that Potter has grown up well and is now a walking wet dream.

The skinny runt who used to drown in clothing three sizes too large is long gone. Potter has grown several inches in the past couple of years. It had unnerved Draco when he realised Potter is now as tall as him. The Golden Boy has also filled out and matured; all lean, hard muscle from years of Quidditch; a strong, stubborn jawline and the greenest eyes Draco has ever seen, especially now that Potter has finally ditched his old, smudged specs for a more fashionable pair of frames.

The Chosen Git is sitting on a massive boulder by the Great Lake; school robes and uniform flung haphazardly beside him. He's blowing smoke rings into the air, watching them twist and curl above his head. He gives his fag a deft flick, scattering ash, before he takes another deep drag from it.

If he's not seeing it for himself, Draco would never have believed it: Harry Potter, lounging by the Great Lake in the middle of fucking winter, smoking a cigarette in only his sodding underpants. Not for the first time, Draco began to wonder if Potter has truly gone mad. Draco had made a joke about one too many Killing Curses fucking up Potter's mental health, but now Draco couldn't help but think he'd been right all along.

"What the fuck, Potter?" Unable to help himself, Draco exclaims, motioning wildly. He clutches his robes and cloak tighter around himself, feeling even colder at the sight of Potter without a stitch of clothing on.

Potter turns his head and gives Draco a lazy, dimpled grin. "Hey." He says; the light from the setting sun turning the tips of his shaggy, midnight hair burnished gold. Potter's hair has gotten much too long; the tousled locks curling against his neck and jaw, his fringe falling over his face. He should look like an uncouth Neanderthal, but he doesn't. Sodding Potter looks dead sexy sporting his 'just-shagged' tumble of hair.

"Don't hey me, you imbecile." Draco snaps, scowling as Potter snorts in amusement. "What the bloody fuck are you even doing? You'll freeze to death!"

"Its called a Warming Charm, Malfoy." Potter flicks his spent cigarette into the black waters of the Lake, raising a mocking eyebrow at Draco. "And you call yourself a Wizard."

Draco sputters in indignation. The nerve of the prat, but Draco did indeed forget to cast a Warming Charm. However, even a herd of hippogriffs could never pull that admission out of him. Instead, Draco sniffs derisively and levels Potter a condescending glare.