Eighth Year (Drarry Fanfic)

Just Until...

Sometime in between the distressing spiral of Draco's thoughts, Harry had grabbed the newspaper, jaw clenched tight as his blazing green eyes quickly skimmed through the article. In disgust, Harry then slammed the Prophet onto the table, face contorted in fury, mumbling about squashing a despicable dung beetle, who knew nothing but to write utter rubbish. Harry turned his attention towards Hermione but placed a protective hand on the small of the Draco's back, rubbing soothing circles. Draco sighed, leaning close to Harry, as the latter listened intently to Hermione, who was whispering urgently about blackmailing some unregistered Animagus. Draco was barely paying attention. The Eighth Year Table was conspicuously subdued --- friends and acquaintances shot Draco worried and sympathetic glances, while the others carefully avoided looking in his direction.

The din in the Great Hall suddenly became doubly loud, no doubt the result of Rita Skeeter's article. Draco could feel pinpricks on his skin from the numerous stares impaling him. Once again grateful for his years of strict Patrician upbringing, Draco managed to maintain his cool composure, elegantly eating his breakfast as though the hubbub around him had absolutely nothing to do with him. He focused solely on the reassuring warmth of Harry's hand resting on his back.

Draco had known all of this was bound to happen when they'd gone to Hogsmeade the past Saturday. Even though they'd been in the company of friends, Harry hadn't been too subtle with his attentions --- secretly holding Draco's hand, lingering touches, even a few stolen kisses. Draco had tried to curtail as much of it as he could, without hurting Harry's feelings, but it was damn near impossible and he'd been swept up in it nonetheless. It was a delightfully hopeless situation.

Harry, the incorrigible Gryffindor, simply didn't give a shite and he'd made that quite clear to the rest of the school when he'd walked into the Great Hall last Saturday morning, holding Draco's hand. Draco had been a delirious mess of mortification, amusement, and giddiness. The resulting reactions had been rather blasé as though the entire school had been expecting it. If the rolled eyes and knowing smirks from their friends and Housemates hadn't been telling enough, then the vast amounts of Galleons exchanging hands between the students had certainly made everything crystal clear.

Apparently, Luna Lovegood had raked in the most winnings. Harry, the infuriating prat, had laughed about it until he was in tears, crowing breathlessly about Wrackspurts. Draco, although secretly amused, had frowned in displeasure, which Harry cheerfully snogged right off his face. Ron Weasley, the poor chap, had nearly frothed at the mouth, a little green in the face, as he handed Blaise Zabini five Galleons. Hermione and Pansy had both looked like the bloody kneazles that finished all the cream. It had been utter bedlam in the Great Hall that one fine Saturday morning. Even McGonagall had seemed to have been in on it. She'd sported a rather smug little grin as she fiddled with a few Galleons in her hand.

Remembering the rather hilarious series of events, Draco couldn't help the grudging smile that curved on his lips as he studied Harry's profile. The Chosen One was wearing a new pair of glasses. Harry had apparently fallen asleep with what he called his contact lenses --- some Muggle invention to correct bad vision --- and had thus irritated his eyes. Draco loved the new spectacles. They made Harry look more mature, smart, and stupidly sexy. It was nothing like the round, dorky frames he used to wear.

Draco had once teased Harry about his image upgrade. The latter had simply laughed it off and replied rather too casually that he'd never expected to survive the War, which was why he'd never really cared much about how he looked. Harry's offhand words had been like a punch in the gut for Draco. Numbing realisation had quickly settled in Draco's chest, heavy and suffocating, when he'd thought of the insurmountable odds Harry had had to endure and overcome in order to make it to this point in his life, because by all rights, Harry was right, he shouldn't have survived. Yet he did and he was still here.

Shaking off the unpleasant memory, Draco swallowed past the constricting lump in his throat. He let his eyes trace the delicate contours of Harry's cheekbones, the strong sweep of his jawline, down to the provocative line of his neck; memorizing the way Harry looked as he did now --- grinning widely as he chatted with his friends, looking young and happy in a way that he'd never had before, when he'd had a prophecy hanging over his head and a Dark Lord eager to see him dead.

Harry was like the sun. Warm. Bright. Out of reach. Draco knew what they had would never last. Not in this lifetime. They stood on opposite ends of the spectrum: Light and Darkness; their paths may intersect, meeting for a brief moment, but were never meant to merge.

The past few months had been a dream, one that Draco had never thought he'd ever get the chance to live. The days they'd spent together had almost made Draco forget who he was, who Harry was. But the news article was a jarring wake up call. Draco was only all too clear on the fact that the choices he'd made the past couple of years, whether forced upon him or not, would inevitably define him for the rest of his life. That was something he could never escape. It was a stigma he would carry with him for as long as he lived.

Draco lowered his eyes, blankly staring at what remained of his breakfast, cold and unappetizing. The ache blooming in his chest was making the edges of his vision blur, taking on a grayish hue. He suddenly felt unbelievably cold, a bone-deep chill that even erased the steady warmth of Harry's hand on his back.

"Draco?" A warm hand cupped the back of Draco's neck, calloused thumb sweeping softly across his jaw. Draco looked up and met smoldering green eyes. "Hey... Don't worry about it, all right? We know it isn't true. That's all that matters. We'll figure it out together." Harry whispered, worry etched on his face.

Draco stared mutely at Harry, trying and failing to form a string of words that would put a voice to his crippling fears. Silence stretched between them and Draco had never felt so helpless. He gazed at Harry; the enormity of what he was going to lose engulfing him like a towering wave, dragging him under.

"Like what you see, Malfoy?" Harry tilted his head, a teasing smirk beginning to curl at the edges of his mouth. "Don't tell me you also have a glasses kink."

Taken aback, Draco blinked then huffed out an incredulous little laugh and rolled his eyes. Harry grinned, carding his fingers into the fine strands at Draco's nape. "There you go. You look a lot better when you smile."

Despite himself, Draco chuckled, leaning into Harry's touch. Harry was a naive fool. But he was Draco's naive fool. And for whatever remained of their time together, Draco chose to momentarily forget about the outside world. He would simply exist in this safe little bubble Harry had built around them.

Just until...

***AN: Some minor grammar edits.