Welcome to Drarry Microfic, an 18+ writing community dedicated to shortform fanfiction. Every Monday, we unveil a new prompt for all you writers out there to use as inspiration to create a story in 50 words. Use the prompt in any way you like: base your fic around it, or take it as a loose form of inspiration — you have total creative freedom! Post your work to Tumblr, and don’t forget to tag @drarrymicrofic so that we can reblog it.
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A solid body beside him. Limbs tangled with his own. Fingers clasped together beneath the duvet as if they had found each other in sleep and refused to let go.
For a moment, he does not move.
He lets himself surface slowly, blinking against the early morning light pouring through the sheer curtains, soft and gold across the room.
“Morning,” Draco murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
He turns, and there is Harry.
Messy-haired. Bare-shouldered. Warm-eyed.
“Morning, love,” Harry says. “Sleep well?”
Draco hums, shifting closer until his face is tucked against Harry’s chest. He breathes him in: musk and skin and the faint, familiar trace of laundry soap. He kisses the bare skin beneath his mouth and smiles when Harry presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“You?” Draco asks.
“Like a baby,” Harry replies. “Had this weird dream, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, bizarre. You and Scorpius were making pancakes, and every time you flipped one, your outfit changed.”
Draco chuckles. “What outfits?”
“All sorts. Really odd ones. At one point you were wearing Hagrid’s coat, and then you were wearing nothing but those tight swimming shorts from our honeymoon.”
Draco pulls back, amused and offended in equal measure. “Tight swimming shorts in front of our son?”
“Don’t blame me. I don’t control what my dreams do,” Harry says defensively, though he is smiling, gaze dipping down Draco’s body as if he’s imagining them now.
“You’re a heathen,” Draco says flatly. “A perverted heathen. Now you’ve made me crave pancakes.”
He sits up on the edge of the bed, stretching until his spine clicks.
“Make me some?” Harry asks, moving behind him, thighs bracketing Draco’s hips, arms wrapping around his waist. “The fluffy ones.”
“You’re on coffee duty, then,” Draco says, leaning back into him.
Harry kisses his shoulder.
Draco tilts his head, giving him more room. “This isn’t making coffee, Potter.”
Harry hums against his skin. “No, it’s much better.”
Knock-knock-knock.
Draco sighs. “That’ll be Scorp. I bet you anything he sensed pancakes.”
Knock-knock-knock.
“Alright, alright. I’m coming,” Draco chuckles.
He stands, and Harry’s hands slip from his body.
Draco turns back to him with a smile still on his face.
Then—
He wakes as he often does: to cold.
The cold press of a stone wall against his back. A thin blanket twisted around his waist. Morning light spills weakly through the open barred window of his cell, grey and misty, smelling of sea-salt.
Knock-knock-knock.
“Inmate 3946,” an Azkaban guard calls through the door. “Wake up. If you do not respond, we will enter.”
Draco lunges forward, heart battering against his ribs, breath tearing through him.
“I’m awake,” he calls, too loudly. “I’m awake.”
He’d rather not be, because his dreams are a sweeter place. Even if they provide him nothing but the ache of a life he’ll never have.
Draco presses his shaking hands to his mouth and closes his eyes.
For one impossible second, he can still feel Harry’s fingers tangled with his own.
The dreams had begun years earlier. Sometimes lurid, all sweat-slicked skin and desperate moans. Sometimes sweet, hands clasped on dates—one time they went to the zoo. Sometimes a litany of nightmares: the tower. The bathroom. “I can’t be sure.”
The strange thing was, he always dreamt through Harry’s eyes. His own face, lust-blown pupils and pink cheeks; Harry’s thumping heart. Feeling a leap of hope in Harry’s throat as saw himself bite his lip, eyes shining down at a ring as he nodded. The same nightmares, tempered by Harry’s sympathy, regret, pride.
The dreams were an unconscionably cruel move by his subconscious. His mind healer suggested a dream diary; he stopped after a year. It hurt too much, seeing what he could never have, feeling things he knew Harry would never feel. He didn’t need a book about it.
—
A knock distracted Draco from his calculations; he scowled as Harry strolled in.
“Do the Unspeakables need a potion?”
“If they did, I don’t know why I’d know,” Harry said, grinning. Draco rolled his eyes. Less subtlety than an erumpent in a dollhouse.
“Why are you here, then?”
“For you,” Harry said, then flushed.
Draco stared, heart racing. He didn’t let himself speak.
“Right,” Harry said. “What do you know about dreams?”
Draco swallowed, refusing to remember the previous night’s dream: Draco in Harry’s body, licking his own scars with a lascivious groan, whispering into his own ear, with Harry’s voice, how he wanted to—he shook himself.
“Do I look like a dream expert?”
“No. But Hermione is. And I was doing some research”—Draco scoffed—“and she. Well. She found out. When I explained, she gave me a book.”
Draco leant back, arms behind his head. “And you need me to read it to you?”
“No, you tosser, I managed.” Harry’s smile faded. “But … I think you should read it too.”
Draco frowned, heartbeat thudding in his throat. “It’s about dreams.”
“Yeah. And … other stuff. Anyway, I just—here. I’ll need it back, Hermione’d flay me alive if I—I’ll go.”
Looking far more cowardly than any Gryffindor should, Harry shoved the book across Draco’s desk and fled. Draco tugged it closer.
A Short Treatise with Various Observations and Theories on the Metaphysicks of Soul-Bonds and Certain Peculiarities of Shared Dreams
Draco stared, mouth dry, before noticing the scrap of parchment tucked inside.
Draco—
If I’m wrong, this might be the creepiest gift you’ve ever received. I hope I’m right. Can we talk? Tonight, 7pm, my place.
—Harry
Draco sat, hands shaking, and opened the book to the first page.
At 6:59, Draco stood, book in hand, at Harry’s door. He took a breath and lifted his fist to knock.
Harry opened the door, rumpled and beautiful. He looked hopeful. He looked frightened.
“They’re your dreams?” Draco blurted. “I—they’re your dreams.”
Harry smiled and reached out. His fingers threaded through Draco’s like on the trip to the zoo they hadn’t yet taken. “They’re our dreams, Draco.”
Malfoy had Harry pressed back into the mattress, one pale hand buried in Harry’s hair, fingers tightening just enough to tip his head back and expose his throat. The other was braced beside Harry’s head, sleeve rolled to the forearm.
Then Malfoy’s mouth was on his neck, hot and wicked, biting and kissing and dragging helpless sounds out of him. Harry’s hands found Malfoy’s waist, then his back, then the fall of his hair; he wanted to touch him everywhere at once.
“Greedy,” Malfoy said, sounding pleased.
“You started it.”
“I rather think you did.” Malfoy’s lips brushed his ear. “It’s your dream after all.”
“What?”
Harry didn’t have time to think on it for too long, because then Malfoy’s hips were rolling down against his, slow and deliberate, and it was too much, heat and pressure and pleasure from every direction at once. Malfoy’s breath hitched. Harry wanted to hear it again, so he arched up into him and—
Harry sat bolt upright in bed.
The room was dark and empty. Quiet, except for his own ragged breathing.
No Malfoy. Thank Merlin. Well no, not thank Merlin. Absolutely not thank Merlin, because apparently Harry wanted Malfoy here. Wanted his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing him back into the mattress. Wanted him to—
Harry fumbled blindly for his mobile before his brain could recover any dignity.
Hermione answered after several rings, except it wasn’t Hermione.
“Mate,” Ron croaked, voice thick with sleep, “it’s four in the bloody morning. This had better be good.”
Harry stared into the darkness, painfully hard and awake. “I think I want to shag Malfoy.”
There was a long silence, then Ron said, “I’m waking Hermione.”
It took them almost a year to plan their bonding ceremony. With Narcissa and Molly coordinating everything—and often disagreeing on color schemes and themes.
Still, Harry thought it was all worth it as he watched Draco walk down the aisle, hair flowing freely and framing his face. He looked like a dream.
“Hi,” he breathed once his and Draco’s hands were intertwined.
“Hello, darling, don’t you look edible.” Draco’s smile was suggestive.
Harry chuckled and relaxed, as was Draco’s intention. “Merlin, I can’t believe I’m this lucky.”
He could barely remember the ceremony. He only remembered the way Draco’s eyes shone and went misty as Harry said his vows. He could remember crying as Draco said his.
The things that mattered the most, he remembered. Like the moment they both said “I do” and a golden light bathed the field. He would always remember the moment that bonded him to Draco forever.
Harry’s needy, nuzzling hot at Draco’s throat even though the first round ended in tangled linens and the starburst bruising of fingertips around hipbones.
“Again, Potter?”
Draco tugs at his hair, enjoys the ragged whimper ripped out of kiss-stung lips.
Sometimes the fire licked at his back, reaching its great clawed fingers out to rip him off the back of Potter's broom and into its ravenous, gaping maw.
Other times red, goat-slitted eyes loomed over him while fire of a different kind radiated from the venomous serpent on his forearm, ripping his soul to shreds.
Those were not the dreams that hurt the most; those were expected, deserved. The ones that truly broke him were of lazy Sunday mornings, smiling green eyes over the breakfast table, clasped hands and soft brushes of lips. The dreams of what might have been.
Thank you @drarrymicrofic for the prompt! Also thank you UnaBol for your suggestions and corrections! Definitively made the drabble better
“Fourth year,” he mutters, sounding the way he does after sex. A little off. A little more open.
Harry caresses his hair. “Mh?”
“Did you think of inviting me?” Draco asks.
He must feel it in the way Harry breathes.
“Of course not,” Draco amends. Harry hears Draco’s self-loathing smile in it.
Draco kisses the skin that’s just under the scar of Harry’s torso.
“I wasn’t aware back then,” Harry admits, still a little ashamed of the time it took before clicking.
They were so young, he thinks, with tenderness. Mostly.
“Did you?” he asks, then.
“Yes,” Draco chuckles.
His fingers are now gently playing with Harry’s nipple.
“Hardly could think of anything else,” Draco admits.
“Yeah?” Harry asks, smitten.
“Mostly I dreamed you asked, and I told you to fuck off,” Draco mutters, as Harry breathes in the smell of his hair. Harry snorts.
“It’s the saddest, most absurd thing, isn’t it? To have fantasies about how morally superior it would make me to resist…” Draco trails, and doesn’t finish. Harry plants a kiss on his finger.
“I was so stupid and unhappy,” Draco says, not moving at all. Like it’s still crushing him. All those choices he made. All those things he thought and said. “Even if you had asked, I’m convinced I would have said no. That was the only possible answer.”
Harry wonders for a second, about growth, about reassurance.
“Well. There’s that ball happening next week…” Harry hints.
“… Obviously. It’s the season.”
“We could go. Together. If you’d like.”
Draco gets on his elbow. Harry almost sees the 'You can’t be serious?' that he doesn’t say. The 'Of course not', that is haunting there. The 'You don't have' to in ambush. The venemous 'I don't need your pity', that's never that far.
“I’m serious,” Harry says, anyway. “And sure.”
Something wonderous happens. Draco blushes. Then, in a husky voice, he says. “I’d really like that.”
We ( @coppercatbird, @orolin-writes and @angeldog5 ) are thrilled to be taking over moderation of this tumblr account and our discord Drarry Microfics community. This community has been and continues to be so important to all three of us, and we’re so excited to be here!
If you’re new to Drarry or to microfics, we want to welcome you! Micros are a fantastic way to dip your toe in, meet people, and start getting words down on the (paper or metaphorical internet) page. Our pinned post includes all the details, but a few highlights from the new mod team:
* 50 words is our “official” word count, but we encourage you to write as much or as little as your muse inspires. We see and love a huge range of definitions of “micro” here, and we want all of them!
* Whenever relevant, please note M and E ratings, major AO3 warnings (i.e. noncon, MCD, etc.), and/or hate speech so that readers know what to expect
* Our asks are open for prompts (word, song, or image) until further notice
* If you aren’t in the discord server, send us an ask for an invite! We post and chat about prompts, share micros, discuss upcoming events, and more
* We are planning some events starting this summer, so keep an eye out for announcements!
Finally, we want to offer our warmest gratitude for the incredible modding done by @citrusses, @maesterchill, @sweet-s0rr0w, and @tackytigerfic. You all did such an amazing job stewarding this community, and we are so grateful for all of it (and not even a little bit overwhelmed by the shoes we have to fill ☺️)
[ boys dancing & daring. ⋆˙⟡ | or: one inebriated draco malfoy, one dutiful harry potter, an effort at dancing, and some rather public proceedings. ♡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: ball ]
drarry | word count: ~800 | rating: m
_ _ _
The charity ball had been a horrible idea.
“Draco— Merlin’s sake, watch your feet.”
Draco’s Oxfords go traipsing over Harry’s brogues. Again.
“Your fault, Potter. If you’ll recall, you’re the one who kept—” (here, he stumbles) “—kept handing me glasses of Merlot.”
“God, it was a Malbec. You taught me that.”
Draco’s right heel finds his left foot, and Harry winces.
“You’re also the one who taught me to dance, though I very much doubt anyone would believe that at the moment.”
The following step on his toes feels more pointed.
The music swells, and he loses the frame, form shifting against Draco’s self-righting grip on his jacket— pulling himself upward, inadvertently closer.
“Hello,” Draco says, nose bumping against Harry’s chin as he straightens.
“Hi,” Harry answers, quiet, the pinched edge of panic ebbing a moment. “You could try for composure,” he murmurs. “There are photographers.”
“Photog—?” Draco’s gaze swings sideways, spotting the young woman from the Prophet, Qwik Quill scribbling at her shoulder. “Hm,” he breathes, forehead dropping to Harry’s shoulder.
Harry’s hand finds his elbow, steadying. “What? We can sit. Do you need—”
His words stall— hands, cold and hands, are suddenly beneath his shirt. He can feel the fabric rucked upward, his back and sides exposed.
He tugs at Draco’s wrists, immediate and adamant, until the offending appendages drop to his sides.
“Hands, watch your hands,” he hisses, skin tingling under the memory of his palms.
Draco’s mouth curls into a slow smile. “But you told me to watch my feet.”
“You’re a menace,” Harry says, with far less bite than could be reasonably afforded.
Somehow, they’re still moving, slow-spun circles that have lost the better sense of timing.
Draco leans in (and in) and laughs direct into his collar, the soft hum of it a heady warmth against Harry’s throat.
“We could give them a picture worth printing, don’t you think?” Draco says, low, stepping closer, their chests practically flush.
Harry’s feet stop, the Morganese waltz brought to sharp conclusion in spite of the ongoing lilt of the orchestra. His hand at Draco’s waist has gone a bit desperate, fingers all ache and restraint.
“That’s it. I’m taking you home.”
Draco hums approvingly.
“Your home,” Harry amends, certain the plum stain of his cheeks must be visible fifty meters out.
“Good,” Draco mumbles, nodding, then effortfully pulling himself into near-proper posture.
He dips his lips to Harry’s ear, too close, brushing his jaw just so as he sways, whispering: “I have better bedsheets.”
Harry’s grip goes rigid at his wrist. He does not deign an answer.
As he tows him toward the cloakroom, into its meager privacy, unmistakable is the mechanical shutter, the camera flash, accompanying their retreat.
.
“You’re being ridiculous. And nothing could happen anyway,” he tells Draco, practical, tossing his cloak (grey wool, dovish) around his shoulders, helping to fix the fasten at his front. “You’re drunk. Very drunk.”
Draco’s mouth pulls into a pout, and Harry forces his focus elsewhere, suddenly intent on buttoning his own coat.
Then, Draco’s fingers, just above the top loop, catching tight and tugging him forward. Harry startles, the proximity even more… proximous than prior.
“I’ll take a sobering potion.”
Draco’s free hand wraps around, finds the nape of Harry’s neck. The steady press of his fingers sends a shiver stippling through Harry’s shoulders, outward and through. Draco’s eyes are alight, expectant, as he whispers: “And I’ll still want to fuck you.”
Jesus, Mary, and Merlin.
Harry stammers out: “That— You— I—”
He takes a breath and gently pulls Draco’s grasp from his skin.
“I’m not negotiating this until we at least get you through the Floo.”
Draco snorts, then covers the sound, pink tipping his ears. He coughs, a clearing thing.
“Negotiation,” he says, fixed flat and smirking. He pokes at the breastpocket of Harry’s coat. “Very sexy.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but feels the smile insisting at the edges of his mouth. He guides Draco out of the gallery, down the corridor.
“Potter,” Draco whispers, his fingers once again seeking, finding, touching. They thread themselves through the very ends of his curls.
“Hm?” Harry says, maneuvering open the gate on the lift, trying to carefully tuck Draco inside without having him stumble over the edge of it.
Draco drops his chin, finding the downward slant of Harry’s focus.
“You danced very well,” he says, the sound of it too soft, his gaze searingly sincere. He slumps against Harry’s shoulder, letting out a huff, mildly disgruntled. “But I won’t say that sober.”
Harry warms, and whether it’s the cramped space (it isn’t), the stuffy robes (wrong again), or the easy presence of the man beside him (…), he finds he doesn’t mind.
@drarrymicrofic | 391 words | prompt: bond | beta: @hodgepodgebooks
Pansy was happy—no, elated—to finally have Draco here. Their favourite watering hole in Knockturn was swamped with its normal Friday crowd.
Somehow they’d not wound up in Azkaban. In lieu of incarceration, they were serving their time by working for the DMLE—Draco as an Auror; Pansy a forensic specialist.
Their bottle of nero d’avola arrived—a silent ode to Blaise—and Pansy opened her mouth to vent about her week working under Gryffindors, only to be cut off by Draco snarling, seemingly apropos of nothing, “Potter.”
Fuck, this again. Draco’s Harry Potter obsession flaring back to life.
Before she could redirect the conversation to the ills of Granger’s dastardly, arse-hugging pencil skirts that couldn’t possibly be Ministry-approved, Harry Potter manifested before them.
It was infuriating enough Potter had gotten fitter with age, add on his Auror robes and all of sundry were staring.
Pansy was trying to stay below the radar. Great. Soon that sodding cunt Skeeter would be here.
“Draco,” Potter said, and Draco jolted in his seat. His grey eyes owlishly wide and his mouth dropped open. His flushed cheeks rounding out the visage.
Gods, this was embarrassing.
“What do you want, Potter?” Pansy asked.
Potter, without class or decorum, grabbed Draco’s wine and glugged it down. Draco made an affronted noise.
“Potter, what the fuck—”
“Draco, Robarbs just made me Head Auror.” Even more shocking than the use of Draco’s name or an explanation of why he was here, disturbing their evening, was when Potter dropped to his knees and buried his face against Draco’s thigh.
Pansy prided herself for her quick thinking in outlandish situations, but all her brain cells were in absentia.
With a sharp glare to Pansy, promising death upon interruption, Draco lowered his hand to the nape of Potter’s neck and stroked.
“Harry, you don’t have to take it.” Draco waved his wand conjuring a new chair at their table and waved over a server. “Firewhiskey, please,” Draco said as he helped Potter to his chair. “Please keep out the press.” And despite Potter’s flailing objections, Draco offered over an obscene pile of Galleons.
Pansy didn’t put on her best lipstick for this shit.
“What in Circe’s rosy tits is going on?” she hissed.
“Er,” Potter said. “We might have a bit of a bond now.”
Draco buried his head in his hands, his face aflame.
For @drarrymicrofic prompt: “Bond” wc 690 / TW: Grief
“No, you—you don’t get to come in here, Ron, and—"
“Harry—”
“No! I love him. I have for so many years. So many wonderful years.”
His eyes burn. The back of his throat is dry. He tries to swallow, but the lump there is thick and impossible, and it is this small, stupid failure of his body to obey him that finally breaks him.
The tears spill on a sob.
“I know it never made sense to you, and I’m sorry for that. I am. But you don’t get to come in here and tell me it’s time to move on.”
“We’re just worried about you,” Ron says desperately. “All of us. We just think if you saw a Healer, then maybe it would help.”
Harry doesn’t want to hear it.
He can’t.
They don’t understand. They never have. Harry knows they tried, for his sake, and he loves them for that, but they never got Draco.
They never saw him properly.
They never saw all the small things that made him who he was. The things reserved only for Harry.
The soft kisses on Sunday mornings.
The cups of tea in matching mugs.
The Seeker matches they played in the garden.
The arguments over shoes never put away.
The lazy sex after a hard day at work.
The little inside jokes. The secrets. The language they built over years of loving each other.
The acts of service Draco did to ease Harry through a world that seemed hell-bent on making every day harder than it needed to be.
Draco would fill their water bottles before bed.
Draco would do the weekly food shop.
Draco would sort the laundry.
Draco would feed the cat.
Draco would... would... would...
He won’t anymore.
Harry presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, but it does nothing to stop the sound that tears out of him.
They never knew Draco. They only saw who he used to be, not the man he had become. Not someone brave and kind and so fucking sweet that he made sugar in tea seem bitter.
They didn’t know the man who saved Harry’s heart and soul.
“Get out, please,” Harry says. Pleads. His voice is weak and rough. He drags both hands through his hair, not caring when his fingers catch on a knot. “I can’t do this tonight. I’m allowed to be—"
“You are allowed to feel whatever you want to feel, mate,” Ron says quickly. “I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to speak to someone. To at least try.”
Ron looks at him, eyes wet, mouth twisted tight. It’s pity. It's not meant to wound but it does. It cuts sharper than any jab from Draco ever did.
“Please, mate.”
Harry stares at him. “If I say yes, will you just go?”
Ron swallows. “Yes.”
“Then yes. I’ll speak to someone.”
Ron looks as if he wants to say something else. To offer comfort. To say one of the soft, useless things people say when they don’t know what to do with grief this ugly. But Ron and Hermione and Ginny and everyone in the world and their mother have said it all a million times already.
There are no words that can reach the place Draco left behind.
Nothing can resolve the ache Harry has carried since that boring, shitting, wanking Wednesday morning nine months ago.
It should have stayed boring.
It should have been tea and paperwork and Draco complaining about the weather. It should have been a kiss at the door and a promise to pick up dinner. It should have been any other day.
But it wasn’t.
Because Draco had decided to die like a fucking Muggle and get hit by a car.
Thankfully, Ron says nothing else.
He nods once and leaves through the Floo.
The moment the green flames die down to embers, Harry makes his way into the kitchen and pours himself another glass of whisky.
People talk about bonds as if death is enough to break them.
Draco opens his door to Potter on a Monday morning.
Potter is thicker than Draco thought he'd ever be. In five years, he's grown into himself, heavy and strong. The ocean wind ruffles his hair.
"No," Draco says, closing the door.
Potter puts his foot in the jamb.
"Malfoy—"
"No—I said no."
"Do you want to die, Draco?" Potter's voice shakes in the struggle: Potter's got his hand around the edge of the door and Draco's got his shoulder against the back. "That's it, isn't it? You want to die."
"Go away."
"Why didn't you tell me!"
Draco snarls as Potter bullies his way into his roof apartment, broad shoulders rustling the sketches taped to the walls.
"I've been looking for you everywhere." Potter is dressed like a wizard, which is strange. Everything fits, which is stranger. He sounds desperate, and Draco wonders what his life is like now. "There's no more time left."
Under Potter’s gaze, Draco feels naked, so violently seen. It's always been like this. Potter rips everything out of him with just a look, and doesn't even realize.
"I deserve better," Draco whispers.
Potter is shocked, then angry. "You would rather die than bond to someone…what? Too stupid? Too common? Too—"
"I don't want to beg you to love me! I don't want to force you to, and I don't want to beg. And if we complete the bond it will be both. Please don't make me do both. I don't—I don't deserve it. I deserve someone who actually, who really—"
Potter kisses him. Draco makes a high sound, arms twining around Potter's shoulders. He jumps at the same time Potter moves his hands to catch him. Draco's ankles hook in the small of Potter's back.
"I don't want to," Draco says between kisses. "Don't let me be the thing that traps you."
Potter rests his forehead against Draco's. "Stop," he says. "Just stop."
Draco is tired. He feels a little less alive each day. He doesn't believe Harry will ever love him, but Harry's hands are warm and their lips fit together like they were made to, and the one time they'd shagged they'd both held each other after and sobbed. Draco's been running a long time. Harry chased him. Harry found him.
Quietly, Draco says, "Alright."
Harry's face crumples into ugly tears. He squeezes Draco so tight it's painful. They're both crying like the first time they fucked and accidentally formed half a soul bond. Draco runs his fingers through Harry's salt-sprayed hair. He breathes against Harry's cheek. He gives in.
Harry gasped as he was hauled back up from the Pensieve, sputtering. Beside him, Draco doubled over, coughing, every inch of him just as soaked.
Ron crossed his arms. “Do you remember your bond now?”
“It’s not a bond!” Draco raked his fingers through his sodden hair, scattering droplets.
“I say it is.” Ron jabbed a finger at them. “You promised each other. That’s good enough for me. And you two better get your shit together so it can be good for you, too.”
Harry ran a hand down his wet face. “Ron, mate, we were drunk.”
Ron smacked Harry’s shoulder. “Yeah, because you need liquid courage to bloody talk to each other!”
“Ronald, you’re reading far too much into this,” Draco said, straightening his robes with a wet slap.
“Am I, you tit?” Ron threw his hands up. “Merlin, both of you! A pair of tits! You belong together, and your pining is doing everyone’s head in!”
“Ron, that’s not—”
“Down you go again.”
Ron shoved them both back into the Pensieve and reset the tiny brass timer he had nicked from his mum.
Three minutes.
He had kept that memory safe for the exact moment he lost his patience with them.
Three minutes of Harry and Draco, years ago, at Ron’s birthday party in the Burrow’s garden. Drunk off their faces, leaning into each other on the grass, like gravity had set special rules just for them.
“If I’m still a bachelor when I turn thirty,” Draco slurred, then giggled and toppled sideways into a patch of forget-me-nots, “I’ll just marry you.”
Harry flopped down next to him, raising his wobbly legs up into the sky, kicking at the moon. “Fine with me. You’re so pretty.”
“You’ll have to have my baby, Potter.”
Harry gasped, delighted. “Will you fuck me for it?”
Draco tried to sit up, failed, and pointed vaguely towards the house. “I’d do you right now, but—ssssshh—Ronald is listening.”
Everyone heard. Everyone saw how they looked at each other: gone, smitten, one little nudge away from finally touching. It was obscene.
And it had only got worse.
Harry held a lax hand to his own mouth. “Ssshhh! Ron doesn’t know I fancy you.”
“Do you know you fancy me?” Draco asked, squinting.
Harry frowned. “Do I?”
“Salazar, marry me, you must, you adorable fool.”
“I will, I promise. When you’re thirty.”
The timer dinged.
Ron yanked them both back up.
Harry stumbled, blinking, cheeks flushed. Draco clutched the rim of the Pensieve, chest heaving, an incredulous laugh bubbling up.
Ron smiled, wiping his hands on his shirt.
“Happy thirtieth birthday, Malfoy. Ceremony’s at ten.”
— written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt "bond", 450 words
The Bludger hits Harry right in the back of his head. He couldn't see it, the way it went, and the stupid twins were too slow. He goes down like a stone, the broom flailing after him pointlessly. Just a second, and he will hit the ground, and Draco will win this game. There is no other option. No other seeker would come close.
Just now he couldn't care less. He can literally see the Snitch, and he couldn't give less of a damn. If Harry's impact hurts him, kills him, even, what is the victory worth then? No one will call it worthy, no one will celebrate him.
Draco ignores the little winged ball and dives down instead. Just in time, just in time, catching a breathing, invaluable thing, more important than victory.
If he can beat Ginny Weasley who'll take up for Harry afterwards, all the better. He never liked her anyway. All over the guy, with her hero-worship. Really... the oh so great saviour should have better taste.
