~Aegis~

“The measure of love is to love without measure”

[aegisreadsanything]

My Writing

Microfics:

2025 May Microfics

Sparks Fly Holy Ground Wildest Dreams

Starlight Enchanted Lucky Dive Perfect

Look What You Made Me Do Stressed Out

The Last Time Begin Again Stay With Me

Out Of The Woods Maybe It’s Time Mastermind

The Lucky One Nothing In My Way Stay

Under Pressure A Beautiful Game Speak Now

Made You Look You’re So Vain Summer

One Shots:

We are alone (just you and me) Unintended

You’ll never know (if you never try) Timeless

2026 Drarry Microfic Summer Bingo:

The Rains of Castamere

[faiell]

There was a hole in the bottom of his shoe.

He'd fixed everything else. None of Malfoy's blood remained, despite how soaked he'd been when he first tore out of that bathroom. One drying spell, and his sleeves were most of the way crisp. The next hour in front of the common room fire (waiting for his pulse to come down) finished the job. The book stayed hidden. Somewhere further away, Malfoy lay in a hospital bed, quiet and dry.

Only, his shoe was still wet. Not big enough of a problem to stop what he was doing, but--damp. Cold. He went about his days just fine, tracking water, wondering when it would go away. He left his shoes by the fire and put on a fresh pair of wool socks. The sound of firewood crackling warmed him right up.

Then Ginny threw herself over him, and he put his mouth over hers. He wiggled his toes. Still wet. That shoe was just no good anymore.

for @drarrymicrofic prompt "wet", 173 words

[coldbrewcalico]

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: wet | wc: 50

Summer Bingo squares: dialogue only, 50 words, fake dating

“A picture of the happy couple after the big win today?”

“Sure!”

“Fine.”

“You can at least look like you want to be here.”

“Well I don’t, so hmph.”

“You’re supposed to at least act like it, Malfoy.”

“Ugh.”

“...Smile…?”

“Why are you wet?”

“It’s sweat…. I just played Quidditch.”

[thistleandbee]

A Blinding Light

Prompt: Wet. Bingo card square: Down and out. Word count: 😅😅😅 609

@drarrymicrofic

***

Another trickle of sweat slipped down his spine as Harry drifted closer to the shop entrances, eyeing the crowds inside. Was finding a bit of shade on this unreasonably sunny day worth braving the wilds of muggle London’s shops on a weekend? He’d reluctantly left the oppressive gloom of Grimmauld Place, where he’d languished in the year since the war ended, with the half-formed idea that getting out for a walk might be therapeutic. Harry was coming to regret the idealistic impulse.

He wiped the beading sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and took a tentative step closer. The sun glinted off the storefront windows, momentarily as blinding as… a flash of sun-bright blond hair? Harry peered into the window’s reflection, then whirled around, eyes wide.

There was no mistaking the man slouched on a bench in a small grassy square abutting the shops, eyes fixed on the ground. Even scuffed trainers and a shabby hoodie could not conceal the graceful line of the body Harry had spent years watching, with an evolving degree of awareness as to why.

Quite unconsciously, Harry’s feet carried him closer. Of all his regrets, and there were quite a few, the one that appeared most often in the small hours of the morning was shaped like Draco Malfoy. Relief and hormones and years of apparently mutual obsession had exploded into a desperate kiss on the battleground the moment Voldemort’s body hit the ground, with Draco sobbing “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive” into Harry’s mouth while tears ran down Harry’s face.

After the crowds and the Aurors separated them, he’d never seen Draco again. Years of trauma and the aftermath of war had hit all at once, and he’d barely managed to owl in his testimony for Draco’s trial. By the time his Mind Healer could convince him to get out of bed and leave the house… well, he’d thought it was too late.

Before he knew it, Harry was standing at the bench, watching Draco raise his eyes and recognition wash across his face.

“Harry?”

At the wondering gaze and softly voiced question, the heat and the crowds fell away. Even the damp shirt clinging to his chest faded into background noise. He smiled.

“Hey, Draco.”

He settled on the bench half-facing Draco, who stared at him with a strange look caught halfway between nervousness and longing.

“How have you been?” asked Harry gently when he didn’t reply.

“Oh, I’ve…” Malfoy trailed off, still staring into Harry’s eyes. “It’s really you,” he finished quietly.

The corner of Harry’s mouth quirked up. “Afraid so,” he replied.

The ghost of a smile appeared but then Draco’s eyebrows pinched slightly, turning the expression melancholy.

“It’s… really good to see you. I’ve been a bit homesick and… well, it’s just nice,” he blurted awkwardly.

Homesick? Harry frowned in confusion. “I’m sorry, but don’t you still live here?”

Draco sighed. “If by ‘here’ you mean HERE,” he said, gesturing at the bench, “then yes. But it does not a home make.”

The dullness of Draco’s skin and the wear on his cheap clothing snapped into focus, and shock flooded through Harry. None of the questions scrambling toward his tongue made it through the mad scrabble to his mouth, but Draco saw them regardless.

“Oh, Harry. I haven’t been back there in a very long time. And where else could I go?”

The world tilted slightly around Harry, but then he looked at Draco in the sunlight, and it settled back into place. The clamor of questions receded; they were unimportant.

“I can think of a place,” he said, and held out his hand.

***

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[jungeatheart]

Wet

Prompt: "Wet", Bingo prompts: : canon re-write, + scars Words: 357 @drarrymicrofic *** Draco's lying there on the floor. Wet. Of blood or water, he's not sure. Probably both. The tiles bite into his back, sending cold shivers through his body, but he can't tear his eyes away from him.

He’s soaked too. Glistening like the cold flint of his eyes.

Red.

So it is blood, Draco thinks distantly, as though the thought belongs to someone else. As though it isn't his blood covering Potter's hands, his clothes, his face as he looms over him.

His breaths come in short, shallow rasps. He wants to tell Potter to get help, but his mouth won't cooperate. His tongue feels swollen, too large for his mouth. Maybe he'd bitten it. Maybe that was where the metallic taste flooding his mouth came from.

"Fuck. Shit. Shit, shit..."

The words reach him as though through several layers of magic, slow and unhurried. He'd always imagined dying would be louder.

With considerable effort, he manages to turn his head. The blood seems to be everywhere. It’s too much outside of his body. Too much—

"I... oh, God. Why didn’t you, fuck—”

Potter is suddenly much closer, leaning over him as though he can't quite believe what he's seeing. He must have dropped to his knees. Draco can feel the heat radiating off him. Potter draws one sharp breath, then another through his nose.

"Holy fuck...you smell..."

Before Draco's sluggish mind can catch up, Potter bends down and drags his tongue across Draco's chest. Or rather, across his shirt. Then the fabric is gone. Potter's tongue is against his skin. The scrape over torn flesh burns sharply enough to wrench a gasp from him.

"God... Malfoy."

Potter sounds awestruck. As though he can't quite believe what's in front of him. What’s on offer.

"I can't control it." Potter's breathing grows uneven, frantic. "It wants you. God…I’ve marked you and now it wants….it fucking wants—” Potter drags in another breath through his nose, “The wolf, God. Malfoy, I can’t, I’m sorry—I’ll wipe your memory afterwards, I promise.”

And then teeth sunk into the flesh of his neck and Draco knows this isn’t death after all.

---- So, @upon-poppyhills, I've been infected by your werewolf-Harry in "Crash into me"! When Harry SNIFFS Draco, ahhh!!! I've never really recovered from that scene. So, consider this my humble homage to werewolf- Harry, and thank you for feeding this fandom with so many incredible stories!! <3

[ferventt]

prompt: wet | 393 words @drarrymicrofic

So far his summer is all loose threads: nights unspooling into mornings, Draco still out at someone else’s house, or flat, a club, a front lawn, a not-sure-what-or-where basement. His own bed’s not seen him since the sky turned blue again — June, is it, and missing the last step of the stairs, the walls dripping sweat, reflecting the dim light and hot. He catches himself from stumbling, but the shock of landing in the eyes and half an elbow of one Harry Potter can’t nip the shit, oh, and horrible little gasp before it’s out of him, mortifying, or the

“What are you doing here?” either, the tone close to whining and as mortifying as the way his lungs are acting (i.e., lack thereof). It’s not been clear to him til now how far the night’s gone — Pansy gone too, and that bottle of diluted Veritaserum hidden in her bag along with her — all fun and games, free and easy, no one will know, much less this crowd. She’s the best he’s got, and evil, and Potter’s still staring at him, the music nothing but bass and chest beating, Draco ready to tear out his own skeleton if it means a quicker escape. He’ll surely die if Potter asks him anything.

So of course, “What’s that supposed to mean? Still a prick for no reason, Malfoy?” and he goes to shove past him up the stairs, but Draco’s answering, not forced to do it so much as coaxed, Pansy’d said, evil.

“No,” he gets away with, “Always a reason.” Not that the eye contact has yet broken, but that it immediately heightens — Potter scowling but the heart of it halfening, the moment hamstringing, eternalizing, just about to break as the shitty stereo music stops mid-chorus for the cracking sound of drumsticks counting one-two-three-four.

Every instrument at once, brick wall and pure static, blasts into every crevice of the universe and yanks him and every other person standing at the edges into the middle of it. Potter’s “What?” as if he can’t help it, disappears into the chaos, and Draco repeats himself, dumbly, to the back of his head as he’s swept away. Draco doesn’t try to follow. Was never his role in this, was it.

Someone lands a fist into his side and he closes his eyes. Only a matter of time.

and for summer bingo 🌞: veritaserum, drarry in the muggle world

[handledwithgloves]

@drarrymicrofic 's prompt --- wet ; wc : 50 [BINGO CROSS OUTS: freebie, shower, 50 words, scars, tattoos ; BINGO COUNT: 0]

Harry’s eyes trailed down to find a dress-shirt so transparent that anyone could see tattoos covering chest scars. He frowned.

“You’re… wet.”

“Obviously, Potter,” Draco said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a communal shower and I’ve left our wands in the car. I haven’t time to dry off.”

[ejcarpe]

still water

@drarrymicrofic | 120 words | prompt: wet

As the other champions rose from the depths, one by one, Potter was left below. In last place. It was amusing at first. 

Now, Draco can’t breathe. There’s a cruel stillness in the murky surface of the lake. The timer ticks down, down, down.

Goyle makes a joke about him drowning. Draco’s heart may have stopped beating. 

But then—

A splash. A gasp. Potter emerges with two others in tow, jaw set in that noble sort of way. Lake water drips down his face, dark hair plastered to his forehead, scar blanketed. Drops cling to his eyelashes, glittering in the few weak rays of sun. He’s smiling, shivering. He shakes out his hair like a dog. Draco still can’t breathe.

[ira-dunfort]

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: wet | wc: 785

It was Ron and Hermione’s wedding, and Harry’s eyes had been wet from the moment he entered the hall. It had been hours.

Draco looked so beautiful in his dress robes that it physically hurt to look at him, and for once Harry was glad he knew how to endure insurmountable pain.

After the vows and the rings and the kiss, they were ushered into a lush garden and handed drinks and—

The champagne had the same colour as Malfoy’s hair, and Harry was crying again, and his best friends were too busy to push a hug on him that would help him breathe through the ache in his chest.

Blaise swanned his way over, poised and not quite as violently gorgeous as his best friend, carrying his flute with such grace that Harry felt stupid for clutching his own for dear life.

He looked at Harry, followed his anchored gaze, and inclined his head in amused acknowledgement.

Pansy sidled up to them, sipping wine, lacking Blaise’s restraint.

"You look drunk any time he touches you, like he's the most exquisite champagne and makes your stomach all bubbly and—"

"Yeah," Harry wheezed. He knew all that, and his stomach was doing just that when Draco looked in their direction and their eyes met for a split second. Tears welled. He turned away and excused himself, saying he needed air. The party was outside.

When Ron, drunk off his tits, had wept in Harry’s arms about loving Hermione so much he didn’t know how to fit it all inside his chest, then thrown up, Harry had understood. He could throw up right now.

He sat on a secluded bench, the same champagne flute precariously dangling from his fingers as he lost himself in his thoughts. What good was it to love someone this much and drown in it because it had nowhere to flow, nowhere to water and nurture a shared life like Ron and Hermione’s, or Dean and Seamus’s, or Ginny and Luna’s? Even Percy was opening his heart to Oliver. They had been dancing when Harry left.

More tears fell and darkened his robes. Others clung to his glasses, while the ones that would not spill lodged in his throat.

"Ah," the single syllable came drawled. "There you are."

Harry couldn’t breathe, couldn’t lift his head. He watched Draco’s beautifully trimmed robes drag over the fresh-cut grass, staining the dove-blue fabric green.

"I caught the bouquet," he announced as if it were the Snitch.

"Congratulations," Harry tried to say, but the word came out cracked.

So Malfoy would be next, another wedding to sob his way through, envious and hopeless.

"Hm, yes, let’s see," Malfoy hummed, and the ribbon around the bouquet came undone and trailed to the ground between their feet.

Then something was pushed into Harry's hair.

"What are you doing?" he asked, unwillingly leaning into the faint touch.

"An experiment," Draco said unhelpfully. "Hold still."

A hand was in his hair, moving something around.

"What?"

"I'm trying to see how many roses your hair can carry."

"Why?"

"Because I'm partial to the idea of a traditional solstice wedding, and soltice weddings demand flowers, and your hair is in desperate need of being accentuated rather than tamed," Draco rambled, his feet shifting.

Petals fell to the ground; the green leaves joined them, discarded but carefully not stepped on.

Harry let him do whatever he was doing, and silently let his tears keep rolling down to the tip of his nose. Malfoy hummed, clicked his tongue, switched flowers from left to right, and huffed the sweetest laugh when he reached ten and Harry’s hair could still hold more.

"Oh, don’t you look absolutely darling like this," Malfoy cooed, "positively precious."

Harry sniffed, kept his head down.

Malfoy pushed the remnants of the bouquet aside with a foot, then—

Then, inexplicably, he knelt down, expensive robes pressing into the moist lawn. He took Harry's flute, downed the lukewarm rest of it, and set it on the ground. His hands found Harry’s and tenderly pried them apart so he could slip his fingers into Harry’s clammy palms.

"What do you say?" he asked Harry, grey eyes searching, his smile cocky and warm.

Harry's heart jolted, then lurched, toppling everything over with its force. It was too much, had been for years, now spilling over like a torrent.

"I can’t," Harry hiccuped. "I can’t watch you get married to someone else. I don’t know what I’ll do if you make me." He knew he was beginning to shake, ribs splintering around his heart. There was only so much that even he could take. "I love you."

But Draco's smile only widened. "I was counting on that."

[angeldog5]

this will always been true

| @drarrymicrofic | prompt: wet | bingo prompts: rated e, break-up, cuddling/non-sexual touch, second person, non-linear narrative | NSFW

You feel good when he touches you, and this will always been true. He touched you last week after dueling practice with two fingers on the side of your elbow. All right? he meant. 

From then to the end of it you will find incomprehensible. 

All right?

You shook your head no. You felt fine, but your fine wasn't all right by most people's standards. Probably everyone already knows this about you.

He frowned and put his hand on his hips and his fringe fell in front of his eyes, and you had to angle your shoulders and look around it to be sure he was seeing you. 

Months later, when you're screaming at each other, he'll call you a starved puppy. No. He'll call the face you're wearing your starved puppy face, and reference the moment two weeks ago, the first time you say you aren't all right. 

In response, you'll tell him to go fuck his mother, because he'll have buried her only three weeks ago and then asked you to marry him in the dark of your bedroom after the funeral where you said yes, even knowing he didn't mean it. 

But it's early days yet: you're listening to a record on the couch in Grimmauld and your head is in his lap, drooling on his thigh. He's touching you: your neck, your cheek, below your eye and the hinge of your jaw. The pad of his pointer finger moves to the line between your eyebrows and massages it gone. He took your glasses off carefully just a few moments ago. Spit from your mouth darkens his pants blue in the amber dusk while dust motes sit in the air like diamonds. 

Malfoy touches your bottom lip. He pinches it and pulls it out and with his free hand swipes the tip of his finger through the pooled spit right there.

"So wet for me, Potter."

He hunches down to your level, face-to-face, fist in your curls, pulling at your head.

You make a starved puppy noise.

(Later, much later, years and years, he pulls this memory out of his head and gives it to you.)

His cock comes out and you stay relaxed. He's touched you into a new state of existence, one where your mouth is open and he's moving it softly over the length of him, dragging your mouth up and down with his fist tight to your scalp. He's so patient. Somehow you had missed this about him. Draco touches his cock with your mouth for hours of lengthening shadow. You like it so much.

Harry, you love it. .

[happyholigayss]

wet- @drarrymicrofic (125 words)

Summer bingo squares: Draco POV, unrequited love, older drarry, infidelity

A small smile tugged at Draco’s lips as the lift doors slid open.

“Harry! I’ve been worried sick!”

Potter’s face paled as he registered his wife’s presence, and nervous eyes flicked to Draco. “Sorry, Gin. Catching up on case readings,” he shrugged.

Draco’s snort was automatic, and this time it was a glare he received, the lines the movements caused on Potter's face well-worn after decades. It was all he’d ever been able to get Potter to direct his way, despite his best efforts, so Draco instead focused on earning as many from him as possible.

“What were you reading, Potter? Newspapers? Research articles?”

At Draco’s tone, Ginny Potter glanced between them slowly, before Draco watched her gaze settle on her husband’s lips, still wet.

[usagidoeswords]

@drarrymicrofic Prompt: wet Word count: 250 Summer Bingo squares: De-aging, Magical Beasts, Onomatopoeia, Crackfic

The drip-drip-drop of water echoed in the silence. Wet clothes stuck to his skin. He remembered a figure in the water, following it, chasing it, a flash of scales, sharp teeth, green eyes, followed by…nothing.

Draco blinked, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Surrounding him was a vast cave that smelled of seaweed and salt.

‘Why did you come here?’ asked a figure from the shadows.

‘I’ve been…looking…for you,’ Draco’s lungs burned. ‘It is you…isn't it?’

‘Don’t know anymore…’

‘I won’t—cough—tell—anyone—’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ The figured stepped into the light.

A blush warmed Draco’s cheeks. He averted his eyes, but the image of water droplets clinging to every part of the man’s body lingered.

He had legs after all, his skin smooth. The fins and scales an invention, perhaps, of the thrashing terror of being pulled under by something.

Even now, Draco felt he was drowning.

‘You saved—me…again…’

‘I wouldn’t say that. This cave is cursed.’

‘Then…why…’ Each word was a struggle; spots began swimming before his eyes.

‘It was here or the dragon shark.’

Harry—it was Harry—crouched in front of him. Besides dark hair that tumbled to his mid-back in a braid and the conspicuous lack of glasses, not a thing about him had changed, nothing to indicate that fifteen years had passed since they’d last laid eyes on each other.

‘Come on,’ he said, holding out a hand, ‘you’ll be able to breathe in the water.’

[mihorina]

for @drarrymicrofic bingo prompt: wet. | 333 words -- bingo prompts include rated G, hogwarts professors, established relationship, and horcrux.

It's supposed to be safe, that's why they'd come back. Sirius holds Harry's fist, loosens it with a tug. 'It's all right,' he soothes and it has been, will be.

The castle stands broad and tall, spires a pin in the sapphire sky. Sirius had insisted they stay away--'what's the point of turning back,'-- after all they'd done to travel far, keep the battle from droning on: Keep from Harry having to walk alone.

'Still a sty.' Draco's reservations ring around Harry's neck, the one Draco's softening with a thumb and a palm, but when Harry turns and gives him a look, Draco's lips are shyly curled, eyes winged and lifted up. 'It's brilliant,' Harry assures him with a nudge into Draco's side, and when Draco looks back, kisses him in tender love, Harry knows it's true as it ever has been, was.

McGonagall, Hagrid, the students and ghosts, the portraits and stairs all welcome their long-missed friends. There's a fyre still blazing behind one wall on the seventh floor, a bathroom still locked to users on the third. The astronomy tower glows newly adorned. Everything is fine, almost just as they'd known. Dumbledore smiles down from his seat on the wall, though he peers as he's always done, another secret, another task still undone. Snape's in his usual smock, black and billowing even carved with canvas paint. Sirius and Draco give their greetings, rude and caustic through words of measure, proper decorum bending sideways; their tongues prowling beneath sanded teeth.

Resentment drips, drop drop drop, as they return through coiled paths to their beds where Draco slithers up, surrounds Harry, wraps him in trembling arms freshly bathed in waters of paused history. 'It'll be all right,' Harry soothes, turning to kiss Draco steady. A few slow breaths, calmed in tandem, they nestle close, sheltered in together.

And in the midst of their quelled comfort of sleep, a remnant dawns, its memory hisses: 'I'm back.'

[orolin-writes]

wet - @drarrymicrofic (260 words)

Summer Bingo squares - bodyguard, non-magical au, fighting to fucking, weather event

Draco’s red-faced, spine rigid, absolutely fuming as he yanks Harry into the safety of his hotel room and shoves him against the door.

“What the hell are you playing at, Potter?”

Harry gasps for breath, dripping rainwater over the carpet and Draco’s shiny black shoes.

“Nothing! I was just out for a walk.”

“Out for a walk in a fucking storm when we still haven’t located your stalker.” Draco’s teeth grit, his fists curling in Harry’s t-shirt as he pushes him again. “You know you’re not supposed to leave this room.”

“I can’t just hide away forever.”

Draco’s response is a frustrated growl, another shake of shoulders that rattles Harry’s back against the wood. “Can’t you just do as your told for one fucking minute? You’re going to get yourself—”

Harry tugs Draco forward and kisses him.

It’s a hard press of lips, of Draco’s body rigid against his. Harry groans, grasping at his hips, wanting him closer, and suddenly Draco melts. His fingers loosen, he exhales softly against Harry’s mouth.

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters. “And you’re absolutely soaked.”

“So are you,” Harry says, following Draco’s mouth. His lips warm under Harry’s touch.

“I had to run all over the city—” Draco pulls at Harry’s shirt, slides his palms inside the sodden fabric. “—take it off—”

Their movements turn frantic, wet clothes quickly stripped. Harry shivers, from the cold or just from being this close to Draco once more, maybe both. Draco pushes him atop the mattress.

“You’re not leaving my sight again,” he says, and slides down the bed.

[aegisreadsanything]

@drarrymicrofic | Prompt: Wet | WC: 150

Summer

Harry saw Draco reading by the side of the pool and he couldn’t help it.

He ran and cannonballed into the water, Draco’s screech as he was splashed being the last sound to reach him before he sank to the bottom.

He swam up, laughing.

“Potter!” yelled Draco, glaring at him, water dripping down his hair. “What is wrong with you?! Even my book is wet now!”

Harry laughed again and swam to the border, waving a hand to dry Draco and his things.

“Better now?” he asked, smiling cheekily.

Draco sniffed but Harry could still see the flush on his cheeks from his casual use to wandless magic and the quirk of his lips holding back a smile. “It shall do.”

Harry lifted himself off the pool and approached his fiancé. “You love me.”

“Alas, I do, but if you touch me before drying yourself I will hex you.”

[captaindingdong]

For the @drarrymicrofic prompt 'wet'

Length: 119 words

The sun is unrelenting, and Draco yearns for rain.

His chapped lips crack beneath the drag of his dry tongue. A casualty of a summer spent in hot, dry penance. 

"Get out," Harry had said, wildfires blazing in his eyes. A tinderbox gone up in flames by a single, careless gesture. A bed set suddenly ablaze.

"I'm sorry," Draco had whispered. But the words were consumed by the roaring fire of Harry. 

Harry is an inferno, and Draco barely a flicker.

He knocks at the peeling door of their home, sun bleached by an August without water.

"Please," he croaks, throat rough. Like smoke inhalation. Like drought. "Darling, I'm burning."

The sun is unrelenting, and Draco yearns for rain.

[totheprussianconsulateinsiam]

prompt:

Wet

@drarrymicrofic | 200 words | Summer Bingo | 2nd person, harry’s pov, present tense, non-magic au, fake dating, unreliable narrator, idiots in love, piercings

He’s being, just, such a fucking twat —like always— you tell him so because apparently no one else will. And he turns to you, that bitchy little half smile on his face, and he shoves you straight in the god damned pool, right in front of the entire rugby team.

You come up sputtering, missing a pair of much needed specs, and have to pretend it was all a bit of fun, because if you storm off like you desperately want to, it will be obvious you aren’t the happy couple you’re supposed to be and he then won’t hold up his end of the bargain, and you can’t afford this snobby school on your own since you lost your scholarship, getting him out of a tight spot.

You drag him upstairs to tell him off behind a closed door but before you can start he’s pushing you up against it saying “This doesn’t mean anything, Potter.” Which he doesn’t have to say, because of course it doesn’t! Because you fucking HATE HIM!

It’s that stupid, ugly, tongue ring sliding into your mouth, clicking against your teeth that has you forgetting why you came up here in the first place.