Eighth Year (Drarry Fanfic)

Mischief Managed

Draco breathed out shakily, fighting to regain his wavering composure. He stood for what seemed like ages, staring blankly at the Gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. It was a beautiful Saturday morning. Freezing cold, sure, but clear and bright and absolutely perfect for a game of Quidditch. But Draco felt anything but excited. His stomach was twisted in knots; his insides thrumming uncomfortably as though a hive of Killer bees had exploded in his gut.

Gulping down shallow breaths, he willed himself to calm down. Malfoys never panic, Draco. So do get your shit together. He mentally railed at himself. When he was fairly certain that he wouldn't lose his wits on his way to the Quidditch Pitch, Draco turned and stalked down the corridor, slowly at first but steadily he began to pick up speed. He was all but sprinting by the time he turned the corner.

He wasn't entirely sure if bolting through Hogwarts like a wayward First Year would help much but Draco just had to get away. As far away as he could from the Headmaster's office where the Head Auror would be waiting for him later tonight. He was terrified of the idea of going back to face the Wizengamot over the weekend. Memories of the Ministry, the Trials, and his weeklong stay in Azkaban meandered through his mind like poisonous tendrils of mist, scratching at his newly scabbed wounds, bringing vaguely faded nightmares back into focus.

Heart racing, chest tight and heaving for breath, Draco ran past a darkened alcove and in the haze of his panic, he was vaguely aware of being grabbed and pulled behind the heavy drapes. Struggling away from the grasping hands, Draco pressed himself against the wall, wand out and pointed at his would-be assailant. It was dark in the alcove, but the faint streams of light filtering in through the cracks in the drapes still made it possible for Draco to see.

There was nobody else in the cramped space but him.

Taking a deep shuddering breath, Draco lowered his wand, remembering how useless it actually was to him. He licked his lips, a tentative smile curling at the corners of his mouth, "Harry?"

Nobody else owned a magical cloak that enabled total invisibility.

A disembodied chuckle, husky and mischievous, echoed out from the empty space a few steps away from Draco.

"You complete and utter berk." Draco breathed, reaching out a hand and was met with a very solid, very warm albeit invisible chest.

Clutching at the silky material, Draco gave it a yank and there stood Harry, sporting the most deliciously smug, lopsided grin this side of the Atlantic. Harry was already dressed in his Quidditch leathers minus the Gryffindor cloak. The thick black undershirt and tight trousers hugged his taut, lean frame like a second skin. And Draco's mouth positively watered.

Realising he'd been staring, Draco swallowed, flicking his gaze back up to meet predatory green eyes, shining with devious intent. Draco bit back the needy whimper that clawed up his throat. Instead, he arched an eyebrow and drawled, "How is it that you always find me, Potter? I thought you'd finally outgrown your outrageous propensity for stalking."

The grin on Harry's face widened, eyes dancing merrily, soft and filled with fondness. Warmth spread throughout Draco's entire body. Even to this very moment, he still found it incredible that he would be on the receiving end of Harry's smiles. And this smile was special. It was one he only ever showed to Draco.

"How?" Harry murmured, crowding Draco against the wall. "Magic, of course. We're wizards, Draco."

"Imagine that." Draco snorted, silver eyes bright with amusement. He lowered his gaze towards Harry's lips. Those perfect, luscious lips. "So you're saying you'd find me no matter where I go?"