#eighth year

[lowlycrowley]

you already know ron owes hermione 10 galleons

[graywrenhart]

when did you get hot?

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

summary: The last time you saw Draco Malfoy, he was a whiny, petulant, self-absorbed shrimp. Now, in his eighth year at Hogwarts, he's still most of that, but some things have changed...

a/n: Prompt #41: "Like what you see?" Lost the ask, but thank you anon for joining my 3k follower event! Title is from that Sabrina Carpenter song because that's all I could hear while writing this. 2.3k words

tags: [fluff] [suggestive material] [quidditch] [language] [banter] [tension] [kissing]

“No,” Cho says, wagging a finger at you. “Absolutely not. Don’t even think about it.”

“What? I didn’t say anything!” you defend, even as you lean forward in your seat, hoping to catch a better glimpse at a certain Slytherin seeker.

The sun is just finishing its descent, painting the pitch in creamy oranges and pinks that make the grounds look soft, even as two rival schools battle on the field. The players fly by in streaks of green and grey, dodging Bludgers and weaving between each other. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she continues. “You’ve got the look.”

You scoff. “What look?”

“The look! The drooling…panting, fainting…eye…thing.”

“Wow, Cho,” you deadpan, turning around to face her. “Top marks for that description. And you’re exaggerating. I was just curious! You know, I haven’t been to Hogwarts in years.”

You attended here for first, second, and third years before transferring to Ilvermory. The school in which, somehow, made it to the Cup finals, bringing you back here to Hogwarts for the final match.

But, instead of sitting with your classmates, you’re perched in the Hogwarts section. Right next to your oldest friend, Cho Chang, who has kept in contact with you via owl for years.

The crowd goes wild as Lane sails the Quaffle through the hoop, right past the Keeper’s fingers, but something pulls your attention farther down the field, where you catch sight of Draco flying up towards the stands.

He looks over his shoulder, barking an order to his teammate that gets lost to the wind as it brushes his platinum hair from his face, revealing a strong, sharp jaw.

He twists back around on his broom, his jersey pinned to his broad shoulders and narrow waist by the force of the air. His gaze is focused, blue eyes sharp as ice, but he swoops upward suddenly, and then—then you’re looking at each other.

You barely have time to blink, your breath caught in your chest. His eyes narrow slightly, glancing at Cho, then back at you, before a faint buzzing sound reaches your ears and he takes off again down the pitch after the Snitch.

Cho shoots you a look, then tucks her dark hair behind her ear.

“Listen, it’s just the stupid jersey, okay? Trust me. They ditched the Quidditch robes, and everyone's gone crazy, but he’s just the same person he’s always been.”

You hum. “Mean, sniveling, and judgmental?”

“That’s Draco Malfoy for you.”

You turn back to the pitch, watching as he weaves between defenders like a ribbon. Effortless and weightless.

“Hell of a flier, though,” you mutter under your breath.

She sighs. “You’re supposed to be cheering for your school.”

“I am!”

“I don’t think eye-fucking the opposing seeker is exactly team spirit—”

Suddenly, a shrill voice cuts her off. “And here we are at the Quidditch Cup finals!” You glance over your shoulder to see none other than Rita Skeeter up on the platform a few feet away. “Tensions are high, and tonight only one team will—oh? What’s happening?” 

She adjusts her glasses, leaning precariously over the edge, one hand pressed to her chest in dramatic concern. Her quill hovers over her shoulder, its feathered tip angled downward as if it’s looking too. 

You follow her gaze.

Below, Draco is racing towards the ground at a breakneck speed. You rise to your feet in alarm, brows furrowing. He’s going too fast. He’s going to—

Malfoy slams into the dirt, arm outstretched, and you wince as his arm twists at un unnatural angle.

Rita gasps. “A devastating fall for Draco Malfoy! Will he live to see another match? Oh, wait. Wait! What is that in his hand? The Snitch!” She turns to the quill. “Cut that part out. The first question, yes.” The quill rushes to oblige her request, the paper snapping in the air as it scratches something out.

“Slytherin wins the Cup!” she announces, her almost voice drowned out by the roar of the crowd. 

Your heart pounds in your throat as you look down again, expecting to see healers rush out, wands at the ready to help the wounded Seeker. But instead, Malfoy’s already on his feet, striding off the pitch. Even from up here, you can see the way his arm dangles unnaturally, the skin of his shoulder rubbed raw. 

The announcer sounds the horn, officially ending the match, just as Malfoy rips off his glove with his teeth. His broad chest heaves with every breath, and as he disappears through the doors under the stands, you catch a glimpse of the back of his jersey.

His last name hangs off him, bloody and torn. 

On instinct, you move towards the stairway, but Cho catches you by the wrist.

“Where are you going?”

You gesture down to the pitch. “I’m a healer, Cho. I can help.”

Rita turns toward you, head cocked, but you keep your eyes on your friend.

Cho’s lips part in surprise. “You’re not serious. He will just go to the infirmary later. He’ll be fine!” 

“He’s in pain,” you say. “This is literally, like, my duty.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the only reason.”

The two of you look at each other for a long moment before, finally, she exhales in defeat and releases you. “Fine. Go. But I want the full story later with details—”

You barely hear the rest of her sentence because you’re already rounding the tent fabric flap and taking the steps two at a time.

Downstairs, underneath the pitch, it’s dark and musty. Lanterns line the corridor, with multiple doors on each side for the players’ rooms and stairwells winding up to the viewing platforms. 

The staircase happens to deposit you in the right spot at the right time, because when you whirl around the bottom step, you bump into something solid and warm.

Draco hisses, leaping back and cradling his shoulder. 

“Watch it,” he snaps, scowling down at you like you’ve injured him further. 

His jersey has completely slipped off his shoulder now, revealing bloody, scraped flesh and a joint that looks painfully out of place. 

Ignoring his attitude, you look around for the nearest room. 

 “Here—” You brush back a curtain and gesture him inside. “I’m a healer. Let me help.”

“About time this place got some of those,” Draco says, but he takes one look inside the cramped room—with its pile of crates, wooden table, and a solitary stray lantern—before brushing past you. “Take your help somewhere else.”

“Your shoulder is dislocated!” you argue, still holding the tent flap open. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

He pauses, then looks over his shoulder. Your gazes lock, and his jaw pulses, a strand of platinum hair falling into his eyes.

You jut your chin toward the table. “Just sit down, Malfoy. You’ll be pain free in two minutes.”

He must really be in agony, because he does, finally, follow you inside and take a seat where you tell him to. The room smells like wood and rust, but it’s not unpleasant, and it’s sterile enough for a procedure like this. 

Reaching into the bag hanging across your body, you procure your wand and a small vial. 

Draco scoffs. “You carry that around with you? Just hoping to run into some injured person?”

“Oh, this?” You wiggle the glass in front of his face that’s level with yours. “This little bottle of salve that’s going to heal you right now? I sure do. Aren’t you lucky? Now, take off your shirt.”

The corner of his mouth curves into a dangerous smirk, but it falters as he starts to peel the ruined jersey over his head. Lantern lights spills over the hard lines of his stomach, cascading over his muscles flexing with the movement. Once the shirt is gone, he leans back on one lean, toned arm, and the smirk is back.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “You can look. You like what you see?”

You sniff once, trying very hard not to let your eyes wander his broad, toned frame. “You sure are cocky for a guy with a dislocated shoulder.”

He shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I be? I caught the Snitch. Won the Cup. And I didn’t even make it off the pitch before I’ve got girls pouncing on me.”

You glare at him, suddenly wishing this ointment had a bit more bite to it. “I wasn’t pouncing on you! I saw you were hurt, and I just…”

The murmur of the crowd outside fills the silence between you, but a peek up at Draco reveals he is not the least bit convinced by your statement.

“…I wanted to help,” you finish lamely.

“How noble.” His smirk grows. “Go on, then.”

You swallow hard before uncorking the salve and lathering your hands with the silky ointment. The bitter herbs bite your nose, a familiar scent after all your time in the infirmary. 

“I’m just going to put this on first to stop the bleeding on these ground burns, and then I’ll set the bone,” you say, your fingers hovering over his skin. 

“Fine,” he mutters, bracing himself. “Get on with it.”

Slowly, you bring your hands down to his warm skin. He hisses, and you jerk back, startled, but he just shakes his head and gestures for you to keep going. You bring your hands back to his shoulder, even gentler this time, fingers gliding over his bicep and shoulder, carefully skimming over his wounds.

Then, you steady his elbow with one hand, and press your wand against his shoulder joint with the other. 

“This might hurt a little, I’m sorry,” you say. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

You keep your eyes on your work, prodding his arm clinically and trying not to think about how it would feel wrapped around you. “Because it’s going to pinch. Ache. Be uncomfortable. What am I supposed to say?”

He curses under his breath, then looks away. “Merlin, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Your gaze darts up in surprise. Malfoy was always telling you to stop apologizing when you were kids. But he remembered that? He remembers… you?

Shaking those thoughts away, you focus on the task at hand, pressing the wand right under his joint. You whisper the spell behind your teeth, and then his shoulder socket slides back into position with a sickening click. 

“Fuck!” Draco gasps, jerking in your hold. “What in Merlin’s bloody name was that?”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Yes, but apologies don’t help! Fuck!” He pinches his eyes closed, blond lashes caressing his windswept cheeks in the lamplight. 

You step back, suddenly unsure what to do now as your hands turn cold, dropping from his warm skin.

“The joint is back in place, but you’ll need to go to the infirmary to get a proper fitted sling,” you say.

He sighs heavily, then tests his arm. His hair glints in the light as he carefully moves his shoulder back and forth. 

“Alight,” he says finally, voice firm and determined.

You squint at him in confusion. “Alright?”

He glances up at you and crooks two fingers, beckoning for you to step back into his space. 

“C’mon then.” His hand finds your waist, and before you know what’s happening, you’re tugged forward across the dirt floor until your chest brushes his. “You’ve tended to me, Healer. Now let’s get to the main event, shall we? The reason you’re really here?”

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly gone dry as your gaze drops to his lips, and you watch as they curve up slightly. 

You should be defending yourself right now. Arguing with him that you had absolutely no ulterior motives. But as his breath ghosts over your cheek, you forget how to form words. Merlin, you even forget how to breathe. 

He hovers there, his hand on your hip and his nose brushing yours, for a second. 

But it’s a second too long. 

You close the distance, lips meeting his with a hunger you hadn’t anticipated. Your hands fly to his shoulders to hold yourself steady, careful of his injury even as his tongue flicks against your lips, parting them gently. His answering moan brushes your lips, but it hits you low in your gut. Heat licks up your spine, and you drag him closer, kissing him harder. 

He tastes like salt and mint, and his hair is so soft between your fingers. You hadn’t even realized your hands had drifted there. His knees part another inch, allowing you to step even closer, and his fingers dig into your hips, gliding up to your waist in earnest. 

You’re so wrapped up in the feel of him, so strong and steady beneath your hands, that you don’t even notice the tent flap open and shut somewhere behind you. 

Then, you hear pop, followed by a bright flash behind your closed eyelids. 

You spring apart, panting. Draco’s hands drop from your waist as you whirl around to find none other than Rita Skeeter inside. 

She lowers her camera slowly, a devilish smile spreading across her face while her quill scribbles furiously over her shoulder. 

“Well,” she says, drawing out the word as her gaze flicks between the two of you. “There you are, Mr. Malfoy. We were coming to get a photo of just you, but this will do quite nicely!”

She spreads her hands through the air and looks dramatically toward the corner of the tent, as if picturing a future headline. 

“Malfoy wins the Quidditch Cup and the heart of an enthusiastic fan.”

Her expression turns dreamy, hands clasping under her chin, and then before either of you can stop her, she ducks back out, leaving only the faint trace of perfume behind. 

When you turn back to Draco, he’s glaring at you. 

“Brilliant,” he says flatly. “Look what you’ve done. Now, that’s something worth apologizing to me for.”

You gasp. “Me? I didn’t do anything—”

“My dorm. Nine o’clock.” 

Before you can form a response to that he stands, grabs his ripped jersey, and strides over to the tent flap. But he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder, one lock of hair falling over his eyes.

 “And don’t keep me waiting. I’ve waited for you long enough as it is.”

draco masterlist

draco taglist: @hauntedpeanutking , @jessm1203, @earth2marie , @inkedinevermore , @dreamybiitch,

@somegirlfromasgard, @ttendo , @yourlivewire , @lemonraaaw , @goodmendiet00

@rosebunnysblog , @sassycupcake12 , @vamplailaa , @petalzurzolo, if you want to be added, comment below here

[pimentoxpress]

Party games will always a top tier tag in my book, which is why I somehow gathered the power to completely restart and finish this after 8 months… Anyways v proud because I haven’t been drawing full works as much and a multi character scene was a little nerve wracking.

[sunk1ra]

survive 2 @drarrymicrofic [735 words]

When Harry came back for their Eighth Year, he didn’t expect that Draco Malfoy would have a complete reinvention.

 He’s grown out his hair, ditched that insufferable gel and let his hair out loosely clipped back, the shiny strands framing the angular contours of his face. He’s not as gaunt and sickly pale as he was a few months ago on trial; he’s toned and looks full of life. Those haunted grey eyes are now an inviting silver, his face soft but sharply defined. It probably also helped that he donated to like a million charities (including the one to rebuild Hogwarts) over the summer with his father’s money the second he got chucked in Azkaban. 

Not to mention, he talked smoothly in class, answered questions without hesitation, and somehow managed to seem perfectly composed even though most of the Eighth Years were barely holding it together. The other years fawned over his looks and words (Hermione calls it the “bad boy turned good trope”), and even the professors seem mildly unsettled by it. Harry is mostly just confused.

Because Malfoy is this new-and-improved version of himself with literally everybody (even Ron, to his disgust), but just not with Harry.

It starts off small. Malfoy is talking to Luna, and Luna invites Harry into the conversation by asking him a question. Malfoy is mid-sentence, then he suddenly derails and stares at Harry like he forgot how to speak. 

“Like I was saying- Potter, I- I mean. That’s, uhm-” Then he just stops talking, mildly mortified. He clears his throat, letting Luna talk. 

Harry frowns. Right. He assumes it’s hostility, that he’s offended that Harry would intrude. It’s what makes the most sense.

Later that week, it continues to happen. “Potter, could you- actually, no, I- forget it.”

“Do you understand the assignment? Not that I think you- I mean- yes, obviously you do.”

Each time, Draco looks increasingly furious with himself. Harry assumes Malfoy wants to lash out at him but doesn’t know how. He almost wishes Malfoy would yell at him or hit him or something, because Harry didn’t know how to react to this. Malfoy was normal with literally everyone else, even the other Gryffindors. 

The weirdest part, though, is everyone’s reactions to this situation. Lavender once whispered to Parvati, “He’s doing it again,” under her breath, when Malfoy nearly dropped his book just because Harry walked past. 

Some Seventh-year nudges her friend when she sees them talking, sighing dreamily as Malfoy walks away. “Merlin, what I’d give for him to notice me like that.”

Seamus snorts into his potion notes. “Mate, it’s actually embarrassing at this point.”

“What is?”

Seamus just stares at him. “Nothing,” he says. 

Harry and Malfoy have been weird with each other for years, and no one batted an eye. Why was everyone so interested now? It’s not like Malfoy hating him was anything new. 

Harry sees Malfoy sitting at a library table and decides to join him. It’s not a weird thing to do, considering almost all the other tables are occupied and Malfoy’s table is empty. Ron and Hermione were sitting at the table right next to it, too. He sits down, and Malfoy starts to say something, then stops immediately, looking back down at his book.

Harry narrows his eyes.

“Malfoy.”

“Yes?”

“You were saying something.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I literally saw you open your mouth.”

Malfoy freezes, and for a second, Harry actually thinks he’s going to get up and run away. Instead, he opens his mouth again. 

“I was going to ask,” he says finally, “if you understood the Potions notes.”

“...uh, yeah, kinda. But why would you need my help with Potions?”

“Right.” Malfoy pauses.

“Good point.”

Another pause.

Malfoy closes his book, looking away. 

“Forget it.”

He stands up too quickly and leaves, speed-walking away. Harry watches him, wildly confused and reeling from that interaction.

He looks to Ron and Hermione. “Did I do something to him?”

“No,” Hermione says.

“Yes,” Ron replies. 

Harry looks at the two of them, frowning.

“What?”

Ron looks at him almost pitifully. “Mate.”

“What?” He repeats.

“He only does that with you,” he says, dramatically hand gesturing to Malfoy’s empty seat. 

Harry rolls his eyes, sighing. “Yeah, yeah, he hates me. I get it, guys.” 

Ron and Hermione look at each other, but don’t reply. 

Later that week, Harry finally sees Malfoy alone in the corridor.

“Malfoy.” He visibly stiffens.

“Yes.”

“You’ve been acting strange around me.”

“I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.”

“…I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

Harry looks at him like he’s insane. Is he going insane? Was he just imagining things? What was going on? He just wanted Malfoy to treat him normally. Whatever normal was for them, anyway. They were both just trying to survive their Eighth Year. 

Behind them, some of the Eighth-Year Slytherins walk past, and Zabini whispers, not even quietly, “He’s so gone dude.”

Malfoy blushes slightly, giving Zabini a Snape-level death glare.

“…what did they say?”

“Nothing,” Malfoy says quickly.

Harry looks between him and the smug-looking Slytherins.

It takes him around several seconds, but things finally begin to process. 

“Oh,” Harry says. Malfoy looks like he wants to die. 

Harry squints.

“…Oh.”

And somewhere behind them, someone very helpfully mutters,

“Finally.”

take 1

ao3 collection

[timbersdeep]

okay i cant contain this idea any longer so ill drop something lil to satiate my raw and primal need to read about it:

The dungeon was freezing as always, but the cauldron between them was radiating a thick, suffocating heat.

It made Harry's jet black hair stick to his forehead.

"Stir it clockwise, Potter," Draco snapped, not looking up from his silver knife.

The way he said his name carried a little bit of its usual venom, but it wasn't anything Harry wasn't used to.

"If you ruin this batch, Slughorn will make us start over, and I have absolutely no desire to spend another evening breathing your air." Draco was slicing sopophorous beans with a precision that bordered on psychotic.

Harry didn't answer. He wasn't going to givw him the satisfaction. Instead, he was staring into the pearlescent sheen of their Amortentia. It was swirling in perfect, mesmerizing spirals, the steam rising in lazy corkscrews.

The instructions said it was supposed to smell like what attracted you.

Harry never understood how that worked. He thought none of the students actually knew the reason behind it. Well, none, except for Hermione. Probably.

"Well?" Draco asked, his voice dropping its sharp edge for a fraction of a second, replaced by a strange curiosity. He leaned slightly over the table, wiping his hands on his robes. "What do you smell, then? Let’s hear what the Chosen One’s deepest desires are. Dusty broomsticks, maybe? Or the crushing weight of your own ego? Rather possible, don't you agree?" The venom was starting to pool around his mouth.

Harry blinked, trying to clear his head. The vapor was thick, settling over his senses.

"No," Harry said, his voice a little rougher than intended. He leaned in an inch closer to the potion. "It’s... crisp. Like the air right before a storm." He didn't know why he was taking Draco's question seriously, while the only thing the boy expected out of the conversation was obviously a fight.

He didn't see Draco's hand pause on the edge of the table.

"And something... something sharp," Harry continued, looking up from the cauldron, his green eyes locking onto Draco’s grey ones. "Like... green apples. And peppermint." He had to swallow. "Like a ridiculous, expensive ink."

Draco froze. The smirk died instantly on his face. His pale skin went entirely flush, a bright, sudden pink spreading across his cheekbones and hitting the tips of his ears. He looked at the cauldron, then at Harry, then back at the cauldron as if it had just grown teeth.

He cleared his throat, not looking at Harry. "You're an idiot, Potter," Draco muttered, his voice suddenly very quiet. He stepped back from the table, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the desk.

"Why?" Harry asked, genuine confusion blooming in his chest. "What do you smell?"

Draco looked away, staring intensely at a jar across the room. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

"Nothing," Draco lied smoothly, though the slight tremor in his hand gave him away. He hoped that Harry hadn't seen anything. "It smells like nothing."

[weirdo458]

For: @drarrymicrofic

Prompt: Overdrive

Word count: 50

"Oh yeah? What do I get if I win?" The pitch was dim - the charmed snitch glowing between them as they hovered together in the sky.

Draco smiled, his teeth catching the golden glow as he whispered, "A kiss?"

Harry had never caught a snitch so fast in his life.

[totheprussianconsulateinsiam]

Prompt:

Please

@drarrymicrofic | 160 words

“Draco.” Harry forced the words off his tongue. “Please, don’t go.”

Draco looked up from buttoning. “I have class.” He said it lightly.

Harry swallowed. “That’s not what I meant.”

Draco broke their gaze, his eyes fitting to the floor. “I know what you meant.”

Harry crawled from the bed, went to him, curled his fingers gingerly into the fabric of the loose shirt he had just donned. “Don’t go. Please, don’t go.”

Draco stared at him, brow furrowed. “It’s not up to you.”

“I know,” Harry said, trying to make it steady, clearing his throat reflexively. “That’s why I’m begging you to stay.”

Draco bit his lip. Uncomfortably, “Is that why you let me fuck you?”

Harry let go and sat slowly back on the bed, scrubbed his hands down his face, left them there, spoke into them. “No.” He felt dirty, he hadn’t expected that. “But I thought…” His throat burned. “If you left, I wanted to have.”

[mirusdlm]

in the time between the end of the war and the start of eighth year, draco learns that classic rock is an incredible coping mechanism. why kick and scream and hate the government when you can listen to other people do it for you?

his father hates it. his mother says she hates it, but draco’s always been able to tell when she’s lying. cousin sirius used to listen to these same songs, she says. his muggle vinyl collection is probably around here somewhere, now that she thinks about it.

so that’s why there’s a record player in the eighth year common room (which no one but draco is allowed to touch because they are fragile—and he’s not joking, he has the whole thing warded). draco has his own records, so he keeps sirius’s tucked away in his trunk. he puts music on nearly every night as him and pansy and blaise lounge in the common room. if other people don’t like it, they can leave, thank you.

but wouldn’t you know it, harry bloody potter sings along under his breath to damn near every single song. sometimes he even makes noises like he’s excited when certain songs come on—says things like “ron, this one is brilliant” and “wait, this is the best part.”

at first, it pisses draco off. this is DRACO’S thing, not potter’s! he probably learned these songs from his freak muggle family as child, whereas draco is cool and edgy for knowing them! god, everything potter touches instantly becomes lame!

but then, a few months into term, someone finally asks draco the question—where’d you get all these records from, anyway? and he just shrugs one shoulder, “my mother’s cousin,” doesn’t even say his name—but merlin the look on potter’s face is so… ugh. a mix between a kicked puppy and a hopeful child, and it makes draco’s stomach lurch.

completely unrelated, but draco wraps up sirius’s records and shoves them under that stupid christmas tree in the damn common room in the middle of the night. it’s nothing —he has his own copies anyway. he’s just taking out the trash. just charity work.

except, at the end of the night on christmas, draco gets up to flip the record and all of a sudden potter’s at his side, album in hand. “this one was my favourite,” he tells draco, “of all the ones sirius played for me.”

“that one’s shit,” draco says, but his voice comes out lighter than he wants, and potter laughs.

anyway. draco adds potter to the record player’s wards.