A conversation between me and Sammie on tumblr of combat boots and surprising Slytherins created this drabble. Enjoy :)

New Year, New Look

The day started off so ordinary, following almost the same routine and pattern as the previous first days back at Hogwarts.

First-years eagerly venturing off into their houses after the Sorting Hat called out their best placement. Second-years and third-years leaning over to the fresh faces to offer nuggets of wisdom on the best places to hide from Flitch during his late-night patrol, the teachers to befriend and the teachers to avoid. Fourth to sixth years talking about the summer they had, lending a helping hand in rebuilding the castle, over bites of muffins and fried eggs. Returning eight-years focusing less on the previous summer (and war) and chatting more about plans for the future.

An ordinary, simple morning. Even if the returning eight-years were a small fraction compared to the number they were first-year. Even if there were notably empty chairs over at the faculty table.

Which was why when the doors swung open and a leather boot came through, followed by another, the atmosphere of the simple morning began to shift.

It started with a Hufflepuff who noticed the heavy clank, clank of the boots, the rattling of the chains. Curious, the boy pulled his eyes away from his plate over to him that doubled in size from shock. Then another student's fork slipped from their hand. Then one did a double-take while another did a triple. One nudged a friend, who nudged another and another and another with light-tapping, finger-pointing, and head-jerking. Curiosity spreading from student to student, table to table, until all attention-all glances, all whispers-were focused right on him.

He stood in the center of the room, letting them stare, letting them soak in all in.

The laced-up, black combat boots that were pinned with chains, Muggle jeans in a faded blue color with slashes and rips on the knees that flashed patches of pale skin, a white t-shirt underneath a black leather jacket with the collar turned up, and sleek black sunglasses that completed the look, his white-blonde hair free and loose.

Who was he? That was the question bouncing from student to student, bewildered by the stranger. A new student? A transfer?

He simply stood still and let them stare. The thoughts were so clear, he could practically sense them.

He was the every girl's bad-boy fantasy come to life.

He was the walking, breathing persona of an overdone but well-loved fictional trope.

He was the image of authority disapproval and teen rebellion.

And he loved every bit of it. He couldn't happy a time he felt so good, so liberated.

Absolutely no one had any clue who he was, until the Headmistress leaned forward in her chair, pressing her glasses more against her squinting eyes, and looked like she was about to kneel over any second when she pieced it together.

"M-m.m…Mister Malfoy?" she stammered.

The reply to that question was a slow, sharp unraveling of a smirk that played across his lips as the shades were lowered just a bit to reveal glinting gray eyes.

He was met with gasps, astonishment, and crazed demands and questions on what the hell happened to him, but as entertaining as they were, they weren't on his agenda. The bewildered, green-eyed Gryffindor sitting in the lion's den, on the other hand, was.

Smirk broadening to a sharp smile, Draco sauntered over to the lion's den, ignoring the measly cubs for their speckled-eyed prince and worldly savior that didn't peel his eyes away from him, his breathing growing harder and harder with each step he took forward until he was standing right in front of him.

"So, Potter," Draco drawled, peeling off the shades and tucking them inside his jacket. "Like the new look?"

Potter stared at him, taking in every detail that was a sharp contrast to the cowardly heir that he was, his head slowly swinging back and forth like a pendulum as if he were under a spell. When he managed to still the head motion, he sucked in a deep breath and opened his mouth. Only Draco lunged forward and crushed his lips against them before a sound came out.

It was a hard, bruising, demanding kiss that was all take, no give. Downright filthy and brutal and better than all his fantasies put together. Through it, Draco spoke of his determination of starting the year-the rest of his life in fact-on his own terms. The utter joy and liberation of doing what he wanted, wearing what he wanted, with who he wanted. The clear, unmistakable eagerness and intensity of who exactly he had in mind-and had for years.

Seconds, minutes, an eternity later, they separated and Potter never looked more better (or delicious) in his opinion. Hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes but dazed and heavy.

Definitely better than his fantasies.

Draco brushed a thumb against that swollen mouth. "Three Broomsticks. Tomorrow night at seven." His hand wondered up and tugged at an inky-black curl. "And don't be late."

Potter was too flustered to even form a reply. Draco shot him a wink and made his way out.

"Did hell just freeze over?!" bellowed a startled weasel.

No, Draco smirked. But a prince of theirs may been released, deciding to start the new year off with a bang.