Eighth Year (Drarry Fanfic)

Part One: Brand New

Seven agonising months since he'd last seen, smelled, touched, and kissed Harry.

Draco's hands shook as he upended the box, spilling its contents all over the desk's surface. The most recent one was from last month, June. It was an article on the Hogwarts Graduation Ceremony. He watched the photograph of the proceedings—a rare, full color image. It was bittersweet seeing his Yearmates board the very same enchanted boats that had taken them to the castle on their First Year. They had left the same way they had arrived—ferried across the Black Lake. Not everyone in their year was accounted for, true. Some would never leave Hogwarts while others had never even returned. And Draco... well, it was something he would never get to share with them.

Draco had finished his education at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, with the grace and kindness of Madame Maxime. He was grateful for the fact that the Wizarding community in France was mostly indifferent towards him. He was just another nameless, faceless wizard. Voldemort, his Death Eaters, the Malfoy name were all just a distant echo. Some though—those who kept themselves apprised with international news—did recognise him, but it was with caution and veiled fascination that they approached him, never with outright hostility. It made Draco wonder just how different the world would've been had Voldemort succeeded in his unhinged endeavors.

The photograph looped itself over again. The Ceremony had been subdued, solemn even. The underlying significance behind Harry Potter leaving Hogwarts for the final time hung heavy in the air. Even through the photo, Draco could feel it. The War was done and Harry had fulfilled what he had been destined to do. It was finally over. It was time to leave. In the background, the partially renovated castle loomed, stark against the fading twilight. The scene was melancholic yet strangely beautiful.

Draco traced Harry's outline, once again admiring the way the school robes fit Harry. The Gryffindor had finally managed to wear the uniform properly. No doubt Hermione had a hand in it. But what had reduced Draco to tears the first time he'd seen the photograph was the fact that Harry was wearing a necktie in Slytherin colours. It clashed quite terribly with his Gryffindor robes but Harry didn't even seem to care. Every so often, Harry would touch the tie, a faraway look in his eyes, and Draco knew... He knew Harry was thinking of him just as much as he was thinking of Harry.

And Draco watched him now as he boarded a boat, along with Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Pansy, and Blaise. Draco smiled wryly. It was strange; Gryffindors and Slytherins sharing a tiny boat and secret little smiles. His and Harry's friends. Their friends. Draco clenched his fist over the looping photograph. There was an enormous hole in his chest, right where his heart would be. He ached for Harry. He missed his friends.

The days were difficult but mostly tolerable. Draco had kept himself busy with his studies as he prepared to sit for his NEWTs. It was the only way to take his mind off things, else he fall apart. There were some days, however, that seemed nearly impossible to get through. Every single thing would remind him of Harry and he could barely function, no matter what he did. During those days, Draco would stay cooped up in his dorm room and stare into space, losing himself in memories of Harry.

Come nighttime, true torment would begin. Draco hadn't been sleeping well. He craved Harry's touch and reassuring warmth. It was like a drug and he was irrevocably addicted. Alone in his bed, enveloped by darkness, Draco could distinctly feel Harry's absence gnaw at him from the inside out; the pain of it growing more pronounced as the hours ticked by. And even when he did fall asleep, his nightmares of the War devoured him. He would scream himself awake, drenched in sweat and tears and terror, with nobody there to soothe him. It had become easier once he'd left Beauxbatons and returned to the Villa. His mother was there to calm him. Draco often wondered how Harry was sleeping. He knew Harry's nightmares were no better than his own, perhaps they were even worse.

Draco opened his eyes and inhaled a shaky breath; his gazing flitting across various news clippings before it fell on the only thing that had nothing to do with Harry. It was an article from last Winter. It announced the Malfoys exile, the release of their Gringotts Vaults to Draco as Lucius' sole heir, the War reparations they had paid that drained nearly half of the Malfoys' assets, and Draco's startling declaration that he was donating the Manor in Wiltshire and everything in it to the Ministry. Considering that the place used to be Voldemort's Headquarters and was a veritable treasure trove of Dark Artefacts left behind by Death Eaters and the Noseless Ponce himself, it would no doubt significantly aid the DMLE and the Aurors in locating and rounding up the scattered remnants of the Dark Git's followers. Narcissa was only too happy to be rid of the place and Draco, for his part, couldn't agree more. The Manor had stopped being home when Voldemort set foot in it.

He needed a drink. Badly. Draco shook his head, trying to clear it. He stalked out of his bedroom, leaving the news clippings scattered all over his desk. He stood in his sitting room, eyeing the decanter of whisky. He could mope in his rooms all day, finish the whole thing, and get utterly pissed... or he could go out to a local club—even Apparate to Paris—dance, and get even more spectacularly pissed. He hadn't left the Villa since the School Year ended. He knew he couldn't just stay inside with nothing to occupy him. He would definitely lose his mind if he did. September was still a month and half away. He still had quite a bit of time before he needed to start preparing for his Curse-Breaker Training at the French Ministry.

A self-deprecating grin curled at the corners of Draco's lips as he made his decision.