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for the @drarrymicrofic prompt “heartstopping” (T, 400 words) for @coffeedrgn87, who requested that this “heartstopper business” be “drarrified for [their] reading pleasure so [they] can have a meltdown over gay crisis harry” I hope this works. 💖

Harry checked that none of their classmates were around before hovering his hand over Draco’s upturned one. His magic gathered in his fingertips, reaching out for Draco’s. It sparked, energy sizzling between them and waking Draco.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He yawned, looking soft in the glow of the fire, so cuddly.

“It’s okay,” Harry managed, swallowing around the confession that had been caught in his throat for weeks.

“You missed out on all the party games.” Draco pulled his hand back, picking at the chipped black nail polish on his thumb.

“I didn’t want to play anyways.”

“We could play something, just us?” He looked up hopefully at Harry. Merlin, I am so gone for this boy.

“Sure.”

“Truth, No Dare?”

They started out tame, skirting around heavier topics, until Harry recognized the opportunity for what it was and gathered his courage.

“Your turn,” Draco said.

“Okay, erm. Do you have… a crush?” Harry stared into the flames, nervous to hear Draco’s answer.

“Yes,” Draco whispered.

Harry whipped his head around. “Who?”

“Not what you asked.” Draco smirked.

“No fair!” Harry jumped on Draco, tickling him through the ratty t-shirt he’d stolen from Harry the week prior.

“No, Harry! Please!” Draco begged, giggling.

Harry stopped, realising that he was straddling Draco. They were both breathing heavily.

“Which… girl do you have a crush on?” Draco asked quietly, staring up at Harry.

“Who… said it was a girl?”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Boy?”

Harry’s breath hitched. No going back now. “You?”

“Is that a question?”

“No, I mean… you. I have a crush on you.”

Draco froze.

Fuck. Harry scrambled off Draco’s lap. “It’s stupid, forget I said anything—”

Draco cut him off with a kiss, cupping his cheeks so he couldn’t escape. Harry reciprocated after only a moment’s hesitation, Draco’s lips soft and sure against his own.

Draco pulled away. “I like you, too, idiot. I didn’t know if you were gay.”

Harry’s mouth curled up on one side. “I think I’ve slowly been coming to terms with maybe… being bisexual? There’s this blonde git—”

Draco swatted his chest. “A very handsome blonde git, I’m sure.”

“Very handsome,” Harry agreed. He paused, staring too long at Draco’s smile before deciding fuck it and leaning in to kiss him again. He could’ve sworn a breeze kicked up in the room, swirling around them, pushing them closer together. Magic.

<<previous microfic>>

nv-md

Inter-House Fuc...Unity

Ron loves breakfast.

Hogwarts has a particularly delicious fry-up—thick marmalades, perfectly browned toast, fluffy eggs, crispy bacon—and a year on the run has led to an even greater appreciation for hot and satisfying meals.

This love for all things breakfast means he’s one of the first in the Great Hall every morning, which has led to the most traumatising discovery of his life.

Harry and Draco are shagging.

Of course, they think they’re being stealthy, that no one can tell they’ve been in each other’s pants.

Well, Ronald Bilius Weasley can.

Honestly, it’s so bloody obvious that he’s not even proud of himself for figuring it out.

Ron doesn’t say anything. He’s a loyal friend, and he’d rather not think about Harry and Draco doing…whatever it is they’re doing, but most importantly, he’s much too busy enjoying his beans on toast to deal with them.

“Morning,” Harry calls, clapping him hard on the back.

“Weasley,” Draco says with a nod, his serious tone undermined somewhat by his dishevelled hair and the very dark (and very conspicuous) love bite he’s got on his neck. “Good morning.”

“Surprised to see you lot up so early…”

“Oh—er, yeah. We wanted to get a start on McGonagall’s inter-house unity thing and um…get to the library early.”

Ron wasn’t going to say anything—Harry is his best mate and he did die very recently—but Harry’s the worst liar in the world and he’s suddenly spotted the bruise on Draco’s neck and is trying to have a silent conversation with him without Ron noticing.

It’s not going well.

Draco’s far too busy pouring his tea to realise Harry’s practically strangling himself in an attempt to get Draco’s attention. Harry’s hands are tight around his own neck while Draco’s stirring way too much sugar into his cup, Ron’s perfectly fluffy eggs are going cold and his bacon is becoming less crispy by the second, and, well, he’s had quite enough.

“So, how long have you and Malfoy been fucking?”

Harry actually does start choking—eyes nearly popping out of his head—Draco has gone even paler (a feat Ron didn’t know was possible), and if Ron wasn’t so annoyed about his favourite meal of the day being ruined, he would laugh.

Draco regains his composure first. “We are not fucking. I don’t even like Potter!”

“Hey—” Harry starts and Draco shoots him a look that reminds Ron so forcefully of fifth year, that he has to stop himself from looking around for Umbridge.

“Shut up,” Draco hisses.

“We can’t keep sneaking around forever—” Ron snorts at Harry’s belief that anything they’ve done is even close to sneaky “—and I want to…well, I want to tell people that you’re my boyfriend.”

They’re staring and staring and staring, so clearly in love that Ron feels like gagging—just a little.

He’s saved by Headmistress McGonagall sweeping up to their table.

“Morning boys,” she says, nodding to them all in turn.

Ron has to answer for the group, given that Harry and Draco can’t take their eyes off each other.

“Morning Headmistress.”

“Mr Potter, could you explain to me why you and Mr Malfoy are wearing each other’s ties?”

Both of them flush bright red, spluttering incoherently as McGonagall frowns in confusion.

Ron affects a grave expression. “I think kids these days are calling it inter-house unity.”

For the @drarrymicrofic prompt: teamwork. Hugs to @academicdisaster24 for looking this over and being a shining light in my life.

Previous microfics.

textrovert-01

😆😆😆😆❤💚❤💚

dycefic

Have An Evil Day

No prompt this time, just a sequel to ‘Welcome To Evil-Mart’

Working at Evil-Mart is usually… well, it’s retail. It’s physically exhausting, you have to deal with a lot of idiots without being overtly rude, and your feet hurt. Even though the hours and pay are very good, the benefits are great, and our bosses treat us well compared to most retail employees, it’s still not what I’d call a fun job.

But it’s not what I’d call dull, either. Especially not on days like today.

I was promoted to supervisor after the Food Poisoning Incident, so I have a little more authority and a little less obligation to be pleasant and I got issued a weighted cosh because sometimes Evil-Mart customers get… feisty. I’d never had to use it, though, because those who hadn’t seen what I did to Majority Rules, either in person or on one of the cell-phone videos that circulated afterwards, had at least heard about it. They didn’t give me any trouble.

I was halfway through my shift, and the worst things that’d happened had been running out of croissants and a machine oil spill in Aisle Seven, when our greeter pressed the alarm button, which sent an alert to my handset. As front-end supervisor, that meant me, so I went over. Sam, who is unusual in the henching community for having actually aged out rather than ‘being retired’ jerked his chin in the direction of a tall, swaggering figure. “He just came in,” he whispered.

I did a full double-take before I took it in. Superdyne. Fucking Superdyne.

We’d all heard about his dramatic heel-turn a couple of months ago. The whole world had heard about it. Superdyne, who’d skated closer and closer to the line for years, had decided to cross it in a blaze of bloodshed. He was a villain now, he said. There’d been a whole speech about how ingratitude had driven him to it blah blah blah.

I work at Evil-Mart. I’m from a hench family. If someone becomes a supervillain because they hate Mondays or want to turn us all into dinosaurs or whatever, I don’t judge. I will sell depth-charges and laser guns to anyone who can prove they’re over eighteen without hesitation. But even we get kind of grossed out by the ‘I am forced to turn evil because I haven’t been given enough love’ thing. People who are actually so fucked up by emotional abuse or neglect or some superhero killing their family, we’re fine with them. But they don’t say that’s why they do it, and most of them need a lot of therapy to even realize it. People who actually say that’s why are entitled dickwads.

And now the dickwad had walked into Evil-Mart like he was entitled. Like he thought he was one of us.

Keep reading

amortentiaboys

inhaler

292 words | warnings: smoking

should i be jobhunting? yes. did i find this microfic i wrote back in june and decide to work on this instead? also yes. thank you to @moonstruckwytch for the amazing beta! inspo: this incredible piece by @avendell and the song "inhaler" by foals (definitely listen to it while you're reading this - it's a very on-brand song for Angry Draco). written for the @drarrymicrofic june prompt "suburbia".

****

Draco takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales, watching as the smoke casts a film over the quiet street.

Harry’s definitely here: his tell-tale scent lingers under the smell of sickly-sweet flowers wilting in the heatwave, the sharp steel of Muggle cars under the blazing August sun. A wildness that could only be his magic clings to the low garden wall, disturbing the neat borders that are pruned into submission.

It’s an odd place to keep him captive. A stupid one, too, if they thought Draco wouldn’t look here first.

He leans against a lampost and savours the last inhale, the smoke curling into his lungs for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. What would choke someone else only fuels him - an ember on gasoline. He dusts any stray ash from his leather jacket before popping the blackened stub into his mouth.

Draco closes his eyes, feeling a warmth that’s becoming rapidly familiar build in the back of his throat, and then...nothing. Only the residual tang of ash and rising anger.

He licks his lips. His nail beds itch, his shoulders ache, and that scent.

He scratches at the back of his neck - the first scale had surfaced there a fortnight ago, a horribly predictable iridescent green. Harry had liked it though, stroking it reverently in the fluorescent lights of the hotel bathroom. Draco had let him, despite the pain that lanced through him at the contact; a Midas touch from the Golden Boy - his golden boy, his Harry - was something too precious to pass up.

Draco slings his jacket over his shoulder and sets off down the street, giving a passerby a tight smile as the pavement warms beneath his feet.

Dragons despise their treasure being stolen.

****

thank you for reading! 💛✨

my microfics | drarry microfic

fw00shy

bare wires and a current between

cw: a teeny bit of M-ish sexual content

Electric. That's what it was like between me and Potter in Courtroom Ten that summer after the war. Pansy thought I was delusional. "You can't keep living in your head like this," she said, slapping me across the arm. The Auror on duty yelled at her to cut it out, but I didn't mind; she smacked a pack of cigarettes right up my sleeve.

I spent maybe two or three hours in Courtroom Ten every day, sometimes for myself, sometimes for my mum or dad. It was all supremely dull. Nothing killed a good murder like legalese. Not that I supported war crimes—my solicitor built a woefully convincing case that I couldn't kill a Flitterby—but couldn't a bloke contain a multitude of feels? Why couldn't I despair with the same bloody breath I used to yawn?

I don't know why I tried. Boredom, maybe. The better question is why Potter let me. There he was, every day for hours on end, sitting through trial after bloody trial with his back straight and his eyes as dead as a marionette's. I followed the jagged scar down his brow and wondered, like I'd done for years, what went on in that perfect potty brain of his. Until one day, I simply—slipped in.

McGonagall smelled faintly of cat litter.

Glorious, isn't it? My first thought in Potter's head, and it was about crap. She does, Potter insisted, his chuckle a soft rumble in the back of my mind.

I sat forward, peeking around McGonagall's crimson cap down to where they chained my body to the chair in the centre. Circe's tits. I looked awful, and I said so as loudly as I could in Potter’s mind.

No response.

I spread Potter's fingers. I cracked his knuckles. I locked eyes with old Mrs Longbottom from across the courtroom and gave her the stinkiest stink eye I could manage with Potter's thick brows. Still no reaction. When the Chief Warlock banged his gavel and ended the day's session, I got onto Potter's feet and followed everyone to the Floos.

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place," Potter said when I stepped us into the fireplace, and off we went, spinning through the tubes until we stumbled onto his hearth, a whole two people in one.

Was this Imperius? Whatever it was, it beat sleeping in a cell.

I woke up in Courtroom Ten the next day and thought I dreamt up the whole thing until I caught sight of my body again, bound in that chair, my hair greasy and dirt under my closed lids.

Good thing I paid someone to speak on my behalf, I tried joking, but Potter had hidden himself away again, giving me full reign of his limbs. I wriggled his toes; they cramped at the tip.

You need bigger shoes, I thought. Idiot.

No response.

"We're not going to the trials anymore," I announced out loud the next morning. A rooster crowed. Or maybe I imagined it; it was bloody dark still. "We're going to jerk off instead," I said and waited for his chuckle of assent before slipping a hand down our pants.

Harry Potter's dick felt about as good as anyone's, saintly or otherwise. The perfect girth for his own fist. Who'd have known that hand jobs would be the great equalizer. I sighed into the sheets, stomach tightening as the tension built, little zip-zaps fizzing down our spine and shocking us into completion.

"Jesus Christ," I murmured, wondering who Jesus Christ was.

I gave a lazy stroke of Potter's dick. As if Potter could be just anyone to me. Years spent fantasising, and now—

Years?

Bloody hell. Can't a bloke get some privacy?

So it was like this, day in and day out. Mornings jerking off, a late breakfast with Kreacher. Walks out in the neighborhood. The occasional dinner at the Burrow, where there was always enough said to say nothing at all. "You don't owe them anything. Not even the people you love," I said when we were back in bed again. Then we jerked off, little zap-zips so good, they left us shivering. Time passed like a dream. I'd have missed my own verdict if it wasn't for a chance glimpse of the headlines from a newsstand on a croissant run.

"Draco Malfoy didn't know what he was doing," Harry Potter's mouth said at my trial. "He was young and immature and fell in with the wrong people. He's very sorry."

Amelia Bones raised a brow. "He told you this?"

"Yes," I said in Potter's voice. "Yes. Every word."

They sentenced me to a year's worth of community service. The chains came off my hands as I flooded back into my own body. I wanted to cry. I yawned instead.

It took maybe a few more years than I thought, but it was all the same when Potter and I crossed paths again. Electric. Puddlemere beat the Arrows by a margin of ten for the Cup, and the crowd was going ballistic. Potter stood from his seat a couple rows down and looked me straight in the eye. I fell right into him, his mind a pillowy soft thing now, buzzing with thoughts. Nothing like the cold void that summer after the war. It was enough of a shock that I bounced right back out.

"Draco Malfoy didn't know what he was doing," Potter said later that night when he showed up at my door.

"He didn't," I said. I tried but couldn't make sense of his face; it wasn't like I looked at him when I lived in his head.

"Did you mean it? What you said that summer."

That summer, his cock in our fist, sparks in my heart when we bought him trainers that didn't squeeze his toes. He kept surprising me, little reminders here and there that I existed outside of my own mind. Or his mind. Whatever. It was nothing I wanted, and that was what made it good.

My mouth went dry. “Every word,” I said.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. I pulled him in by the neck, opening up, my entire chest stinging with anticipation. Like waiting for thunder.

for @drarrymicrofic prompt: thought. inspired by @lou-isfake's amazing microfic for thought as well! thanks to @moonstruckwytch for the read-over 🤍

hogwartsfirebolt

For "the way I said I love you", no. 14 please :) thanks!

I - this ran away from me. All I know is I was watching Tangled and this happened and it ran away from me. Thank you for the prompt! ❤️

The way you said “I love you”, 14: A whisper in the ear.

The first time Draco saw the thief, he thought perhaps he’d imagined it. It was the middle of the day, the middle of town, and he looked out the window of his big big house and saw a thief slipping out the window of the house across the street.

No respectable thief would dare steal at noon, he thought, and definitely not from the home of one of the wealthiest men in town, it was simply too odd. He convinced himself that he’d imagined it. It wouldn’t be the first time, what with it being the twelfth consecutive year he spent locked in his house with no company other than Bernoulli, his cat, the weekly visit of the man who brought him groceries and the biweekly visit of his adoptive father. He wasn’t the sanest person in the world, he knew.

Having decided that, he put the incident out of his mind.

The second time he saw the thief, it was a much more reasonable hour for thieving activities - the small hand on the clock just about grazed six, the sun barely peeking over the horizon - and as Draco looked out the window he saw him again, knew it was the same man because of his messy black hair. The thief went into another of his neighbor’s houses. Draco rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t making it up. The thief came back out with a bag full of things and left swiftly, silently, unseen by everyone but him.

The third time he saw the thief, looking out the same window, he found him walking on top of the roof of the house across the street as if it was nothing. It was the middle of the night and Draco couldn’t sleep, so he was looking out the window and he saw the thief, caught him with a bag in each hand and one foot in front of the other, keeping his balance. Draco must have made a sound, because the thief froze and looked right at him. Their eyes met.

Not knowing what to do, not even seeing him properly because of the meters separating them, Draco raised a hand and waved. The thief stared for a moment, two, then left.

That encounter set the tone for the next handful of months of Draco’s life. Any sane person would have tried to alert someone - anyone, really - to the continuous presence of a thief, but given that Draco was both locked up and not the sanest person around, he didn’t do anything. He would sit in his tiny balcony right outside the window and wait and wait until he saw the thief, and when he did, he waved.

And the thief waved back. Startled, at first, a hesitant jerk of a hand before scurrying away. That was the first few times, but after a few weeks, the thief would wave with more vigor, give Draco a big, toothy smile that made his stomach twist.

One day, Draco looked at his window and found the thief standing on his balcony, leaning casually against the glass. With his heart pounding, he opened and let him in.

Introductions happened. His name was Harry, Draco discovered, his eyes were green, his skin brown, his voice rough, low, and when asked why he had decided to dedicate his life to crime, he threw his head back and laughed heartily and uninhibited.

It was a Sunday night. Earlier, Draco had baked chicken pie, and he offered the thief two slices.

“Why are you locked up?” The thief, Harry, asked, shoveling his pie into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

“My father says it’s to keep me safe,” Draco replied. “It’s dangerous outside. I don’t know what he means, but I trust him.” Harry hummed. Then he asked, very politely for a thief, Draco noticed, if he could please have some more pie.

After that, Harry would visit him often. Twice a week, at the very least. Some weeks Draco saw him everyday, would wait for him with dinner served on the small table of his room, and Harry would come and they would sit there for hours, eating and chatting about what Harry had done that day.

If his adoptive father, Mr Riddle, noticed anything different in the two hours he visited Draco every two weeks, he didn’t say, and so Draco didn’t see fit to tell him. He didn’t think he’d like it.

So he and Harry talked. It quickly became apparent that Draco hungered for details, wanted to know exactly what the bakers’ street smelled like that morning, the color of the sunrise, because the sun rose behind his home and he could never see it.

Harry would indulge him, he’d say, “I’m pretty sure it was chocolate cookies, this morning,” and he would say, “the sun was a big red ball behind the clouds, and the sky looked half pink, half orange.”

“What kind of orange?” Draco would urge.

“Like — pff , I don’t know, Draco. Like peaches.”

“Peaches…”

And then when Harry left, he’d smile over his shoulder and say, “see you tomorrow, blondie,” and Draco’s heart would pound inside his chest and he felt it didn’t stop until the next evening rolled around and he saw him again.

He wasn’t blind. Harry was very attractive - almost too attractive, an assault on the eyes - with his broad shoulders and slim waist, the crooked nose, those thick eyebrows and lashes and his green eyes that made Draco lose his mind when he was alone at night in bed.

He was 20 years old, had been locked in since he was 8 and hence had never been kissed, never been touched in any way other than a fatherly pat on the head. But he was 20, and he knew the things that happened in bedrooms, had read about them and couldn’t stop himself from thinking them when he saw Harry in his tight white shirt.

Not being the sanest person around, but certainly one of the cleverest, Draco knew Harry looked at him too, thought those things about him too, and every time he caught Harry staring at him silently, chest rising with shallow breaths, goosebumps broke all over his skin. This went on for months, a tension tight like a string tying them together.

A year after the visits started, it became unbearable. Draco felt half out of his mind with it, his palms sweating when Harry leaned close, when he whispered and brushed Draco’s hair back.

One of those nights, right before slipping out of Draco’s window, Harry hesitated.

“I’m leaving town. I won’t see you in a couple weeks.”

It wouldn’t be the first time it happened, so Draco nodded. He started to say he would find a way to entertain himself, but found he couldn’t, because Harry was kissing him.

Startled, Draco couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and it lasted all of two seconds before Harry pulled back with a smile warmer, shyer than the usual.

“Think of me, blondie.” And he disappeared into the night.

Draco almost passed out, and think of him he did.

When Harry came back, two weeks later, Draco gave him his virginity. Three times in one night.

It was glory.

Things didn’t change much after that. Harry visited, they ate Draco’s food, talked about what Harry had done, but now there were kisses in between, touching, more than touching. Now, sometimes, they didn’t go straight for the food, they stumbled into bed, slow, rushed, young and ancient. Their sex was the most honest thing Draco had ever known, sometimes they’d laugh in the middle of their kisses, sometimes they’d be silent the whole time, clutching the sheets, clutching at each other, overcome.

Draco was over the moon. He’d never known what it felt like to be someone else’s favorite human, have someone bring him sweet, warm bread and flowers because they’d reminded them of him, had never gone days with butterflies inside his chest whenever he so much as thought about someone.

“You stole my heart,” he’d tell Harry, smiling into his lips.

“You already knew I’m a thief.”

And it was true, but in Harry’s hands, Draco knew he was safe. He told him as much once, when they were lying together naked and breathless, still a bit sticky. He leaned close to him, kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered it, right into his ear, he said, “I love you.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“Then I’m one lucky, lucky thief.”

Harry said it too, in different moments. Like when he walked in and found Draco had made his favorite tart, hugged him tight, lifted him up and said it, “God, I love you.” Right before leaving, with a kiss to Draco’s forehead, “Love you. Sleep well.” With a smile, whenever Draco blushed. “Damn, I love you.”

He was liberal and open with his love, demanded the same back with a hunger. Would say, “hmm, you love me” whenever Draco rolled his eyes at him, would ask “how much?” after Draco said he did.

“How much?” Draco would repeat, trailing his fingers over Harry’s naked chest. “Green eyes, I’d run away with you. That’s how much.”

It was true. He’d never considered it before, Riddle said Draco was safe inside, and he had never wanted to go out into the world that had destroyed his parents, but for Harry, he knew he would try.

One day, Harry came in nervous and twitchy, refused to sit, refused to eat.

Draco sighed. “Okay, out with it.”

Harry looked right at him, swallowed and said, “Do you want to go somewhere with me?”

Draco froze.

But the answer was always going to be yes. With Harry, always yes.

“Yes.”

He sneaked out. For the first time in twelve years, he slipped out his window and set foot on the street and ran.

Harry took him to the woods, and they ran along the trees and over the grass, Draco almost crying with how much he was laughing. They had a picnic under the shade of an oak, orange and cheese that gave flavor to their kisses after. Almost like magic.

When Harry took him home that night, Draco said what had been on his mind all day. He said, “Let’s do it.”

Harry didn’t even need to ask what he meant, only asked, “are you sure?”

Draco nodded.

The following week, the day after Riddle’s biweekly visit, Harry showed up with two bags, one full and one empty, and Draco knew it was time. He packed clothes, food, all the money he had into the empty bag Harry gave him, took his cat and its food and they did it.

They ran. They walked and ran and were out of town in three hours, had crossed another one in five. They had two weeks until Riddle found out, but Draco wanted to put as much distance as he could between them, as soon as possible.

So, for a week they walked. It could have been awful, and Draco’s feet were certainly killing him, but it was also the happiest week of his life. They would wake up with the sun, eat fresh fruit and start walking, fingers laced between them. At night, they would find an inn and cuddle up in a tiny cot, have uncomfortable sex that made them laugh, made them cover each other’s mouths with frantic “shhh”s, because the inns were full that time of the year and they didn’t want to get caught.

By the time the second week rolled around, there were seventeen towns between them and Riddle, and Draco woke up feeling light. Harry stirred next to him, threw an arm around him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“Mornin’”

Draco turned his face, angled for a kiss. “Morning, thief.”

Harry smiled. The previous night, the owner of the inn had offered them both a position in the kitchen in exchange for the room and food, they were even offered a few coins a month, and they had said yes. They had made calculations and, if they worked hard, they might be able to move into a small place of their own in a little under a year. Their present, that possible future, it was everything.

There was so much they didn’t know. They didn’t know, for example, that the following week there would be a town fair celebrating the lost prince’s birthday. They didn’t know that they would feel like dancing, they didn’t know that, in the middle of their dance, a palace guard would see them and recognize his queen’s features in Draco’s face. They didn’t know that they’d be called in to the palace. They didn’t know that what Riddle had told Draco when he’d kidnapped him all those years ago was a lie, that his parents were alive. They didn’t know Draco had a family. They didn’t know they were rich, that they would stay together for years, and live a happy, happy life.

But they knew they had each other, had their present and a future full of hope. And it was enough. It was enough.

phoebe-delia

Drarry and Disney? Tangled, especially? Sign me UP!!!!

lou-isfake

hey! are you still accepting prompts? i have a suggestion if u like: something with draco being like an alternate alex turner (specially in tranquility base album era): sexy, shoulder length hair, knows how to play piano AND electric guitar and has a similar singing voice. and wears those amazing black suits and is very sexy playing at a concert. i can’t stop listening to arctic monkeys’ songs and thinking abt draco writing similar songs to harry and writing poetry. also that amazing swymsuyt art of draco playing electric guitar!! that art lives in my head rent free. that’s it xx

OK I HEARD "ALTERNATE ALEX TURNER" AND "THAT AMAZING SWYMSUYT ART" AND THIS HAPPENED AND I AM NOT ASHAMED @swymsuyt, your art is a gift, thank you for letting me write a thing for it! It's an honor 🥺

Very slightly nsfw? wc: 1890

Harry flooed into Draco’s flat without even asking, which was rude, he knew, and definitely a step farther than their relationship was currently teetering at, but Harry’d had a shit day and all he wanted to do was snog Draco until he forgot about it all.

He felt the tingle of Draco’s cool magic whip around the room in the second and a half it took him to stand upright and dust the soot from his uniform.

“What was that for?” he asked, frowning, then looked up at the man on the couch.

Draco’s eyes were wide with shock, his cheeks deliciously pink. He was shirtless, all pale skin and paler scars, a sharp contrast to the tight, black jeans, unbuttoned at the hips. His wand was raised in his right hand, and on his left hand was a singular, ivory satin glove, extending up to his elbow, missing a couple fingers. Harry’s mouth went dry.

Draco didn’t deign to answer his first question, so Harry tried another.

“What’s with the glove?”

Draco looked down at it, blinking in surprise, as if it wasn’t his own glove on his own hand. Harry had seen glimpses of it, peeking out of a drawer in Draco’s bureau, but he’d never actually seen him wear the thing.

Draco recovered quickly, sending Harry a devilish grin. He beckoned with one finger of his gloved hand.

“Come here and find out.”

fw00shy

Bulletproof

It doesn't come as a surprise to Draco when he graduates Auror Academy. He scores well enough on the written exams that the practicals can't flunk him out entirely. Still, he's left speechless when Potter approaches him after their graduation ceremony and shakes his hand, saying, "Sorry about Officer Boyle; he was mean. See you around."

As if Draco needs another excuse to gawk after Potter.

In the years since, Draco sees Potter plenty, though always from a distance. Meritocracy pushes Draco only so far, so he ends up with a desk position within the Aurors, signing off this and that, and playing the bad guy for the puppetmasters upstairs when the answer is no. Potter is infuriatingly polite, his voice measurably calm and his dismissal always impersonal. The others follow his lead, their words and actions a shallow replica of their Saviour, and with that example set, Draco leads a middling, tolerable existence.

It isn't until Draco's five-year mark that he's finally let on the field. Even then, he's only allowed because they're severely short-staffed, and Draco, despite it all, is tenured. Potter's surrounded when they swarm the Muggle warehouse, twelve guns emptying into his chest as he holds out his wand mid-slash. There's an acrid smell of burning skin, and Draco's vision bursts in blues and reds, loud bangs, his own hoarse voice shouting something in between a Protego and a Stupefy.

The firefight ends quickly. Guns click empty, but magic keeps on until finally, a gentle hand stops Draco's wrist, and Draco collapses, green eyes the last he sees before his vision swims black.

Potter hands in the report at Draco's desk the next day. His shirt is neatly buttoned-up, robes sloppy over his shoulders, the broad expanse of his chest held proud as though it weren't riddled with bullets not more than twelve hours before.

"Wasn't expecting you in today," Draco quips before he can stop himself.

"And why's that?"

Draco takes out the stamp pad from his drawer, unsure how to say that he half-expected a notice of Potter's demise dropped off with his coffee this morning. He scans over the parchment before stamping it firmly and handing it back.

Draco's eyes flit to meet cool steel. He looks away, heart quickening. "No reason," he swallows.

Potter takes the report and continues to his desk. Padma stops him, and Draco watches them laugh over something Potter says before Padma moves on, smiling. Ron sits on Potter's desk an hour later, loudly joking about the birthday party he has planned for his daughter. The alarms blare sometime in the afternoon — illegal potions, two dead and counting — and Potter sets down his coffee, reaching for his wand with the same coolness as he would for a pen or a biscuit.

There is something very wrong with Harry Potter.

Maybe it's because Draco's not used to Potter on the field, or perhaps it's because he's always been hung up on Potter's every move, but no one else seems to notice how Potter never takes a day off, never so much as scrapes a knuckle during missions. Draco's heard of such sorcery before, but it's Dark Magic, locked away behind heavy wards and shrouded in cautionary tales of damnation and destruction for all who seek its powers.

Draco is not a powerful Auror, but he's known the scent of darkness since childhood and learned better than to chase it up Manor bannisters. But.

But he's never been able to stay out of trouble when it comes to Potter.

Sneaking into Potter's home is not hard. Grimmauld Place recognises Draco as family, and he pays his tribute in blood, palm slashed and dripping over every door. He finds what he's searching for under the basement trap door, suspended over a pedestal of black haze in a room with mirrored walls. Draco walks toward it until he sees clearly the deep crimson of the Resurrection Stone, and within it, the swirling image of Potter's face, mid-scream.

for @drarrymicrofic prompt: bullet.

vukovich

Quick read. Long think.

l0vegl0wsinthedark

Draco asking Harry to move in together for the sentence prompt if it inspires you 🥰

"These? Harry, what about these?"

Draco lifted the stack of plates, tightly wrapped in cellophane, and watched the disinterested green gaze.

"Uh. Yeah. Sure."

"You don't like them." Draco stated it instead of asking.

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. They look...expensive."

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

"There's nothing wrong," Harry said, laughing a little at Draco's scowl. "You know me. I have that one set of plastic stuff that I got when I moved into my place. That's it. I don't know much about all this."

"First of all, the dishware you have in your place is melamine, not plastic. I think it's time you...moved," said Draco, holding his breath.

But Harry just shrugged and poked a finger at the elegant set of red plates Draco was holding. "So what else did you want to get?"

Draco sighed, shoulders drooping. "Just...things for the house. You really won't help me choose?"

Harry looked over at him and hurriedly put down the set of dessert spoons he was inspecting. Draco must have looked very pathetic because he said, "All right, let's get you some plates. Put those down, love, you aren't fooling anyone by picking red. We all know you hate red."

Draco smirked but put away the red plates. After some discussion, during which Harry lamely kept randomly pointing out various sets, they decided that the cream plates with the gold edges were very posh and suited posh Draco's posh flat.

"Okay. Now bedding!" said Draco at last, leading the way.

Harry looked stumped when Draco started pointing out sets of bedsheets and pillow cases.

"Er," he said intelligently when Draco asked him about preferred thread count. "I...dunno?" And then when Draco glared, "Get how many ever threads you think will be necessary!"

"I want you to pick!"

"Why?! It's stuff for your bed!"

"Can't you ever take a fucking hint? I've been asking you for your opinion all day!"

"Why?"

Draco felt himself swelling up indignantly. "I was going to ask you to-- I mean, if you were open to it-- It would be your choice, of course, but--" Suddenly, Draco deflated, because Harry was just standing there looking so bored, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched.

"What," he said, when Draco just stood there sadly.

"I was going to ask you if you'd like to move in with me," said Draco, barely audible over the music playing overhead in the plush store. When Harry just stood there, face empty, "It's okay. You don't have to. We don't even have to talk about this right now. Let's just go."

Draco shoved the set of bedding with the floral print on it back onto its shelf and turned away.

"That's purple right?"

Draco turned. Harry was carefully pawing at a set of soft bedding in a pretty lilac.

"I suppose," said Draco carefully. "Why are you--?"

"I like these," said Harry. "Let's get 'em."

"What?"

"It'll look great on your giant bed." Harry finally looked at him...and grinned. "Our bed, I mean."

l0vegl0wsinthedark

Omg omg I have a prompt ! Draco got Harry's number but (because he's shy, because he's afraid of rejection) he doesn't tell him he's him, and after a while Harry is going insane because Derek sounds amazing (although he's somehow never available to go out on a date) but Draco is so fucking hot

(Is a long one sentence prompt an acceptable loophole? 😅 can't wait to see what you can come up with (if you choose to write it))

Have a good day !

(lol what a loophole 😂)

Hey. U up?

Yes, good morning :)

How did dinner with ur folks go?

Oh, it was a nightmare, as expected. How was your Sunday evening?

Lonely without u

Don't make a man blush this early in the day.

Do u blush easily?

I guess so. I'm very pale.

I bet u look pretty when u blush

I bet you say that to all the boys.

Harry surveyed the canteen another time, sighing when the bright head he was looking for remained absent. He looked back at his phone, cursor blinking as he tried to decide what to reply with.

I wish I could see u blush

Oh no, don't start.

Wat?? I just want to meet for coffee or something

Oh, Harry. I'd be such a disappointment.

I doubt that

Harry waited but Derek didn't text back immediately. He looked around the canteen, ignoring his half eaten omelette and sipping his coffee instead. Then, his heart cartwheeling wildly, he saw Malfoy walk in, cloak over one arm, briefcase in one hand, his hair blinding in its pale brightness.

He was always so polished and beautiful, Malfoy. His clothes were perfectly tailored and ironed, tie knotted with military precision, shoes highly polished. Harry felt like everything Aunt Marge ever labelled him in comparison to Malfoy. Stupid posh git.

Stupid posh git who was just so fucking hot.

Harry ducked his head, sliding low in his chair, when Malfoy picked up a plate, joined the short queue at the breakfast buffet and looked around as he waited. Harry stayed slouched out of sight until Malfoy had served himself some sliced fruit and toast before finding a table on the other side of the pillar Harry was half hidden behind.

As Harry straightened up, his phone buzzed.

You're worth someone...perfect. Because that's what you are.

Harry's fingers fumbled as he punched out a reply with his thumbs, his belly fluttering.

U cant stay stuf like that ubless ur gona meet me so I can show u how much u mean to me

I know, I shouldn't lead you on. I'm sorry. I just like you too much and I wish I was brave enough to take this to the next level.

I promise u wont regret it

I know I won't but you will.

I wont!

Harry... You won't like me.

I doubt that

I mean it. I'm not what you're looking for.

I don't know wat I'm looking for

You don't have a type?

Harry looked at the pillar as if he could see Malfoy through it and bit his lip. If only he had the balls to walk up to him and just ask him out like he'd been dying to for almost two years, he could stop begging Derek to meet him like some sort of desperate freak.

Harry looked at his phone, sighing. He recalled the drawled conversation he had overhead Malfoy having with a coworker in the tea room and the way Harry had hurried out so he wouldn't be caught laughing madly.

I like...gits who challenge me. And make me laugh. U do that

What else?

Fuck. I like them pale and mouthy with an arse I could kill for but he is so fucking beyond my league, Harry wanted to bellow.

I don't know. I just wish we could meet

I know. Me too.

Harry sighed again and pushed away from the table, picking up his tray and turning to go dump it into the slot on the other side of the room. Belatedly remembering that Malfoy sat on the other side of the pillar (looking fancy and unattainable) Harry detoured by walking into the balcony that ran along the back of the room, connecting to the canteen through several open doorways.

Harry walked all the way to the other end of the room, deposited his tray and then doubled backed through the balcony again, pausing to peer into the canteen through the window that was directly behind Malfoy...

...who was bent over a Muggle cell phone he held under the table.

Harry's mouth dropped open. Even Hermione hadn't agreed to get a cell phone but Malfoy had one?!

Unable to resist, Harry slipped inside and crept up to Malfoy, turning over cleverly phrased greetings in his mind.

Malfoy's knee was bouncing restlessly and he was holding the phone so tightly that his knuckles bulged. Harry stopped and fidgeted for a second, glancing at the screen once more.

And then almost had a heart attack.

Across the top of the screen was the name of the person Malfoy was texting, clear as day, the font large and square:

"Harry <3"

and beneath that, the long exchange of familiar looking text messages.

Harry's breath suddenly whooshed out of him so loudly that Malfoy heard it and turned, frowning in bewilderment.

Harry and he blinked at each other for a moment. Then,

"Derek?"

(Send me a one-sentence prompt for drarry and I'll do my best!)

lou-isfake

@drarrymicrofic prompt: king. I had a weird spontaneous urge for this one that I will certainly regret tomorrow because it has kept me up way, way past my bedtime. Oh, well. wc: 1402

Dear Potter,

Bloody buggering shitting hell, I am so tired of seeing your fucking photograph in the paper. How many times will they insist on capturing your pained, brutish expression before it actually starts to deteriorate the paper it’s printed on?

Forgive me, I’ve had a bit to drink. A bit of a few of a couple bottles. One of those nights, as I’m sure you know. And yes, tonight’s strop is entirely brought to you by your ugly fucking mug.

The thing is, Potter, what number was this? The third? fourth? date you’ve been on in the past two months that the Prophet has somehow found their way into. The third? fourth? date that has been memorialized in print, and I do say memorialized, because it’s bloody tragic is what it is. They look like funerals, Potter. They’ve got your vaguely disgusted and depressed expression blown up front page for all the world to see. You’re trying so hard, aren’t you? And something about these girls just isn’t quite right, it never is.

hogwartsfirebolt

Desvelo (or: The Case of Subject A1534: Harry James Potter)

Draco turned on the recorder as soon as he walked into the lab. Two of his colleagues stood by the main table, fastening the unconscious subject’s limbs, and a third one handed him his notes, which he took without looking up as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

There was a hum of magic around the body, keeping it safe, keeping it still. He forced himself not to think too hard about who it belonged to.

“What’s the status?” he asked the room at large, approaching the table.

“Alive, under a magically induced coma to prevent strain to the core. We haven’t identified the curse,” replied Zeller, holding her hands over the subject’s head to hold the charm. Draco nodded at her, turned his face towards the recorder and spoke clearly.

“This is Draco Malfoy, code DM17008512, head of the Dark Arts BioStudies division, reporting from Level 9, on the 25th of June, 2008.” He walked around the exam table, lowered Zeller’s charms and replaced them with his own, finding the subject’s vitals with his magical awareness. “Subject A1534, Harry James Potter, is alive, kept under a magical coma. Slight bradycardia, as expected, blood pressure of 110/60, core unstable at 250 joules and climbing by the second.”

The manic energy of Harry’s magic zinged his forearms, crazed, looking for an outlet. Draco felt it around his fingers, underneath his nails. He clenched his teeth.

“This is Rose Zeller,” she picked up as he fell silent, “code RZ19003276, member of the Dark Arts BioStudies division, reporting from Level 9 on the 25th of June, 2008. Subject Harry James Potter arrived unconscious in the emergency department of St Mungo’s Hospital in the early hours of the 24th of June, 2008, and was referred to the Dark Arts Biostudies division that very morning, after the medics failed to identify the curse responsible for his condition.”

Draco knew all that, and yet it made his hackles rise once again to remember what the medics had said, the call he’d received the previous day, informing him of his new subject. He looked at Harry’s prone form now, the easy rise and fall of his chest as the coma imitated sleep, the peaceful drop of his eyelids, and had to will himself not to think as he ran his hands down the tan neck, the long clavicles. This was just a subject, he told himself. Nothing was different. He cleared his throat, “Curse entry identified over second rib, at midclavicular line on the right side. Trifocal, seeming to suggest a curse of the Imperial family. No exit mark apparent upon inspection.”

He took his hands off the body, clasping them together so he could pretend they weren’t shaking, and retracted his magic, pulling it free of the magnet of Harry’s. It was quiet, only the static hum of the spells keeping Harry unconscious broke the silence of the insular room. His soft breaths. The occasional brush of Zeller’s pen against paper. Draco tried not to stare, and couldn’t. There was so much brown naked skin on display, so much history, that no matter how hard he attempted to root himself to the present, he found himself falling into memories of that body, of those hands, of years of watching. Years of wanting.

“No exit mark apparent upon inspection,” he repeated. Made up his mind. “Impossible to reach further conclusions until the subject is woken up. Zeller, Nott, rennervate him. I shall stabilize his core.”

It was a testament to how far he’d come that neither of them thought to argue. They moved, one of them standing at each of Harry’s sides, and Draco stayed near his head, reaching towards his core with his magic, coaxing it into stillness, easing it from the entropy the curse had unleashed.

“Rennervate,” Zeller and Nott whispered in unison.

lou-isfake

hi lou i have a mix up of things for you as a prompt : ) steamboat, stars, a secondhand sweater; and includes the sentence “who are you?” -softlystarstruck

love me a lil alliteration! thanks bee!! <3 cw: mention of past child abuse. wc: 729

Draco cupped his mug of tea in both hands, relishing in its warmth. Colorado was still too cold for his tastes, but he loved to sit out on his balcony every evening, wrapped in a flannel blanket, watching the colour and light shift over the ski slopes as the sun set. The sky directly above his isolated mountain home always turned the richest violet, then indigo, and he stared at the faint blinks of stars breaking through the retreating sunlight, flickering in greeting.

It was lovely, but it wasn’t home. He wasn’t sure where home was, anymore. He’d move soon. He’d keep looking.

He pulled the cuffs of his—Harry’s—sweater over the palms of his hands for warmth. The tea was getting cold, but he didn’t dare try a warming charm. Contrary to popular—Harry’s—belief, he didn’t have a death wish.

He sighed, standing reluctantly and padding back into the house. He closed the glass door behind him, longing for a place he wasn’t sure existed.

Well, he was sure. It did exist. Just not for him, anymore.

“This place suits you.”

Draco jumped, the blanket falling from his shoulders, the mug falling from his hand and shattering on the hardwood floor. His wand was in his hand before he could think about it, aimed directly at a man sitting leisurely on his leather couch.

“Harry,” he gasped, nearly doubling over with the rush of emotion.

Harry smiled, that familiar, lopsided smile, those sparkling green eyes watching Draco like a cat. Draco lowered his wand, trying to catch his breath.

“Why are you…?”

Harry shrugged. “I missed you,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Draco swallowed as Harry stood. Cold tea was seeping into his knit socks.

“You didn’t drink your tea,” Harry observed, frowning at the mess in confusion. Something uncomfortable twisted in Draco’s gut. His grip tightened on his wand.

Draco almost never drank his tea. He made it out of habit; he found the ritual soothing. He liked the comforting feeling of a warm mug in his hands.

Harry knew this about him—had teased him for it relentlessly, a long time ago. May as well stop wasting tea and give you a mug of hot water, he’d grumble, but he’d put the tea bag in anyway, because he knew Draco loved the smell.

And Harry would have flinched at the sound of shattering glass. He’d freeze up a moment, eyes wide in terror, until he could convince himself he wasn’t hearing the echo of his aunt and uncle’s heavy footsteps storming down the stairs, until he was sure no one was going to yell at him. He’d always insisted on going in first on raids, with Draco, so he could be in control of any glass that broke.

And he’d never let Draco just stand there, with cold, wet feet, surrounded by shards of broken glass just waiting to cut his feet open. But Harry did nothing, furrowing his brows at Draco’s socked feet, then flicked a pale wand out of his sleeve.

Not holly. Not Harry. Draco raised his wand again—

The glass door behind him shattered, causing them both to jump. A fist found the back of Draco’s sweater, yanking him backwards, shoving him behind a broad back.

Draco gasped again, and immediately recognized the scent that filled his lungs, the charged, crackling air of furious magic. He got his bearings, gingerly, quickly, ignoring the pain in his feet—no, there wasn’t any pain. Draco glanced down; the remnants of his tea and his mug and his sliding door had been Vanished completely.

“Who are you?” Harry growled—the real Harry, aiming a familiar wand at the Harry by the couch, whose pale wand was aimed at Harry's chest. Harry's other hand was behind his back, subconsciously reaching for Draco, as he always had when they fought together.

The impostor’s lips stretched in a wide, cruel smile.

Draco adjusted his grip on his wand, took another deep breath of ozone and pine, of Harry, of home, Draco was finally home.

There was nothing for it now, he thought. They’d already found him, somehow.

With a subtle, practiced flick of his wrist, he severed the chain and cord suspending the antler chandelier above the couch. The house went dark, the chandelier fell, the impostor yelled in surprise, and Draco gripped Harry’s arm hard, apparating them out of there.

babooshkart

with whom can you sit in water

nv-md

Harry ambled into the kitchen, his feet leading him towards the overwhelming scent of coffee. Truly and dreadfully exhausted after screaming his way through a series of unending nightmares, the sight of Draco, bathed in golden light and soft with sleep, was a balm to battered heart.

Draco turned as he reached the counter and silently handed him a cup. Harry grabbed the warm porcelain in one hand, reaching the other to Draco’s waist and pulling him in. He felt Draco’s smile under his lips, and Harry reveled in the tenderness and richness of Draco’s warm mouth.

Draco broke away first, gently pressing their foreheads together. After so many years of marriage, they didn’t need to say anything. Conversation like a familiar dance and they knew all the steps, knew where the other would lead.

The nightmares?

My parents…Fiendfyre…a litany of the dead…the Forest…always the same. I’m sorry.

Never apologize. I’m here. You’re safe

Draco reached behind his back, grabbing a dark bowl overflowing with vibrant fruit. Sweet melon, tart grapes, refreshing oranges. Flavors burst across Harry’s tongue as Draco fed him the divine harvest.

Draco’s soft fingers dripping with juice as he nourished Harry, no words necessary for I love you.

—————

Draco insisted on running a bath after their sticky breakfast. And it’s all for Harry.

Harry can’t even put up a fight, fatigued as he is.

He sinks into the bath, hoping to wash away the lingering horror from his nightmares. However, it’s Draco’s hands that offer the most relief. Soft fingers against his scalp, lemon shampoo worked into a lather, Draco humming softly in his ear. Suds running down his neck, conditioner smoothing his curls under Draco’s careful movements, love in every gesture.

Once Harry is clean, sorrow washed away, Draco gives him yet another gift.

Harry luxuriates in the warm water, the scents of lavender and peppermint heavy in the humid air. He feels the remaining fear leaching from his body as Draco’s words echo in the small room. He reads children’s stories to chase away Harry’s nightmares, fairytales passed down through the Black Family.

As Draco’s melodic voice recounts the tales of the stars, Harry fits the words around his heart, between his ribs, breathes them into his lungs, swallows them whole. He slakes the thirst in his soul with Draco’s words.

Harry knows that when the past chokes him, clawing up his throat in the middle of the night, he will pull Draco’s words to his skin, a remembrance that he is loved.

I was so inspired by @babooshkart‘s beautiful amazing perfect art that I wrote this little piece of domestic fic. I threw in kitchen love for her and some extra bathtub love for @lou-isfake.

lou-isfake

WAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH 😭❤️😭❤️😭❤️😭❤️ THIS IS TOO GOOD

thusspoketrish

I've a Room Here.

CW: some violence, angst, secrets

written for the prompt KING over @drarrymicrofic

word count: 1965

I’ve a room here.

When Harry comes to slowly, he realises that he is bound to a chair in the middle of the room.

A quick assessment of the space shows that he’s alone. His wand is gone from the nightstand next to the messy, majestic four-poster bed. There’s a fire now crackling in the hearth directly facing the bed, the littering of clothes he had so eagerly pulled off still scattered across the floor. He tries to turn his head, but a throbbing sensation from his left temple causes his vision to temporarily blur, a moan escaping him as he sucks in a breath to curb the sudden roll of nausea that hits him. A slick slide of blood runs from what is probably a gash there, down his neck, and across his bare chest. The candelabra that was no doubt used to knock him out rests at his bare feet.

He notices then that he is still completely naked.

The door opens and in walks Draco. He's dressed in all black, hair perfectly coiffed as if Harry’s hands had not run through it earlier. He pauses, hand still on the doorknob. His shoulders hunch forward, lips press into a thin line, and eyes drain of emotion as they fix upon Harry.

“Did you think I wasn’t going to find out?” Draco asks this as if he’s gently chastising a child. He turns to shut the door, facing away from Harry. Something slips by his mask because Draco shudders and rests his head against the door for a few beats. “I trusted you,” Draco’s small, broken voice hitches.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, his throat tightening around the words. “Draco, please. Look at me.”

KEEP READING BELOW.

drarrymybeloved

the shape of your soul (fits mine)

written for the 2021 Summer Writin' Challenge. prompt: wonder, trope: accidental marriage, craft: outsider POV, character/object: a gilded mirror. thank you @the-starryknight for looking this over!

It’s been years since I saw him last, but I recognise him. The same unkempt hair, those familiar round glasses slightly crooked from being mended one too many times, and of course, that lightning bolt scar. Harry Potter has come to visit me again.

He enters the room I have been stored in and closes the door softly. He does not move for long minutes. He looks drained, like he’s lost something essential and doesn't quite know how to navigate it's loss.

Harry's dulled emerald gaze traverses my gilded edges, soft nostalgia edged with profound grief writ across his face. I do not know what he saw in me, all those years back. Such is my magic – private. I wonder if the shape of his soul has changed, if he will see a different reflection now, all these years later.

He lets out a gust of air and straightens, steeling himself. Despite his apprehension, I can see a flicker of anticipation in his eyes, a wistful set to his mouth. He approaches me slowly, both the hunted and the hunter. Stopping two feet away from me, he closes his eyes. Strange, how he seems so scared of what he most desires. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. His jaw slackens and his eyes widen. He stumbles back a few steps but comes closer just as quickly.

Harry has changed, then. His deepest desire has changed.

A pained noise escapes him. His face crumples before me and his eyes shine with unshed tears. He lifts a shaking hand towards me, almost touching my surface, but then withdraws before he can make contact. His hand moves towards his chest. He’s still looking at my reflection, but his hand presses into his chest. I see his fingers trace the shape of a ring pressing through his shirt.

He takes several deep breaths. I watch as determination hardens Harry's face. He presses his hand flat over his chest, covering the ring with his palm. With one last glance, he is gone, leaving far faster than he entered.

The door opens again some time later. Harry is back, but he hasn’t come alone. There is another man with him, unfamiliar to me. He is all sharp angles, pale skin and pale hair. As soon as he catches sight of me, his nostrils flare, grey eyes flinty. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Harry?” he asks harshly.

“Please,” Harry entreats. “Please, Draco, just look at it.”

I can pinpoint the exact moment Draco gives in by the slight slump of his shoulders.

He eyes me warily as he draws nearer. Whatever he sees reflected back at him makes his shoulders stiffen. His lips press into a thin, hard line and he lets out a controlled breath.

“If you think I’m going to tell you what I see–” he starts, addressing Harry without turning around.

“I see you.” Harry cuts him off.

Draco’s head snaps up.

“I see you and me, in Grimmauld’s kitchen,” Harry continues, voice shaky. “You’re trying to teach me how to make beef bourguignon, but I keep getting distracted. The sun is coming through the kitchen window in just the right way, and you look,” Harry swallows, a small smile on his face. “You look beautiful,” he whispers.

Draco has not turned around and I can see the maelstrom of emotions on face. His eyes dart over my surface, before he closes them. He takes a trembling breath. “We never did finish making that beef bourguignon."

Behind him, Harry smiles. He walks up to Draco and places a gentle hand on his cheek. He doesn’t spare a glance for me.

“Darling,” he whispers. A request and a reassurance.

Draco laughs, a watery sound. His expression is open, hopeful. He covers Harry’s hand with his own, his other hand going to Harry’s chest, over his heart.

Draco inhales sharply and slowly brings out the ring Harry is wearing. “Harry,” he breathes in wonder.

“The marriage may have been accidental, but I fell in love with you anyway,” Harry says.

Draco smiles, his face awash with a contentment I rarely get to see. He pulls Harry in for a kiss, familiar and intimate.

"Take me home," he whispers when they break apart.

As they are leaving, Harry turns to look at me and it's the oddest thing — for the first time, I feel seen. Not my reflection, me. He smiles crookedly and then he's gone.

That is the last time I see Harry Potter.

lou-isfake

For prompts, this is p specific but allodynia (maybe look it up, but it's a condition where it hurts to be touched (I think - I briefly learned about it in psych class) maybe something like that through a curse + being touch starved? Or something in that area? I love your writing <3

This prompt is cool as hell. I had to cut what I wrote in half, I had too much fun 😂 Thank you, lovely! Wc: 839

“That’s what you get for stepping in front of a curse, you imbecile,” Draco muttered. Harry rolled his eyes.

“As if I’d let it hit you, Draco.”

“Perhaps, next time, you can exercise your hero complex with a simple protego, like the fucking wizard you are?” Draco snapped. There wasn’t any heat in it. Harry heard it for what it was: it kills me to see you hurt.

Draco’s mouth twisted and he leaned back, away from Harry’s subconsciously reaching hand. Harry pulled it back again, annoyed at himself.

“I’ll keep that in mind, next time,” he said, trying to inject lightness into his tone. It didn’t seem to make Draco feel any better.

Harry wanted to smooth that crease of distress between his pale brows, wanted to run his fingers soothingly through that sleek, blond hair, wanted to squeeze Draco’s hand, for both of their reassurance.

“It might help if you leave the room, Mr. Malfoy—”

“No,” Harry interrupted the Healer vehemently.

“Mr. Potter, until we figure out how to remove this curse—”

“He stays,” Harry said firmly. Draco shook his head in exasperation, clenching his fists in his lap. The Healer huffed, but relented, and left them alone.

Harry sighed, torn between not being able to keep his eyes off Draco, and wanting to close them to fight the temptation to touch him.

But whenever he closed his eyes, he only wished that Draco would reach for him, instead, despite the consequences, despite knowing that Draco was infinitely smarter than he was, and would never do such a thing if it would cause Harry pain.

His throat tightened. His eyes burned. Had he really always needed Draco’s touch this badly?

“Close your eyes, and don’t touch me,” Draco ordered softly. Harry didn’t want to obey, but he’d do anything Draco asked. Not that he’d ever tell Draco that. He took a deep breath and did as he was told, laying his cursed hands over his own stomach.

He heard Draco scoot his chair closer, felt the air by his side grow a little warmer, felt the side of the pillow dip next to his head.

“Do you remember that trip to Majorca, with our friends?” Draco murmured next to his ear. Harry shivered, and nodded. “How I told you that sun protection charms weren’t as effective as muggle sun cream?” Harry nodded again.

“I lied,” Draco said. Harry could hear the gentle grin in his voice. “I just wanted you to put your hands on me.”

Harry smiled. He’d suspected as much. It was the only thing Draco had ever claimed muggles did better.

“I didn’t get a single sunburn that whole trip,” Draco said. “We were very thorough, weren’t we?”

Harry chuckled. He had insisted on reapplying every two hours, if not more. He’d loved massaging it into Draco’s smooth, sun-warmed skin, the way Draco had melted under his touch, every time.

“Remember our wedding day?” Draco asked. Harry snorted.

“Of course,” he answered. “I was there, after all.”

“Fuck off,” Draco huffed. Harry felt the fabric under his head pull slightly—where Draco was no doubt clenching his hand in the pillow, to keep from smacking Harry on the shoulder.

“Remember how much of a mess I looked the second I got a drink in my hand?” Draco continued. Harry grinned wider, the images replaying behind his eyelids. Perfect, pristine Draco, white shirt untucked and half unbuttoned, his sharp cheekbones flushed with happiness and drink—

“I wasn’t drunk at all,” Draco said. Harry furrowed his brows.

“Yeah, right,” he said.

“I’m serious,” Draco chuckled. “I was stone sober that entire night. I had one glass of champagne for the toast. The rest was juice or water.” He adjusted his head on Harry’s pillow. “I acted drunk so no one would think twice about me untucking my shirt, unbuttoning it at the collar and shucking the tie, because I knew how much you’d love to be able to slip your hand beneath the fabric.”

Harry’s lips parted in mild shock. He’d been surprised to see Draco looking so discomposed, in front of all their family and friends, but it had indeed worked out in Harry’s favour. He couldn’t keep his hands off Draco—sliding his hand up his hips to feel the warm skin of his waist while they danced, intertwining their fingers; playing with the soft hairs at the back of Draco’s neck, his fingers slipping beneath the open collar to trace the knob of his spine, around his neck to the jut of his collarbone.

Merlin, he truly was addicted to touching Draco.

“Remember that brawl we got into in fifth year?” Harry said. Draco hummed. “I had wet dreams about it for weeks.”

Draco spluttered and pulled his head back before letting out an uncontrolled bark of laughter. Harry opened his eyes just to see it, the sound pulling up the corners of his own lips.

He already felt better, seeing that bright, uninhibited smile on his husband’s face.

Draco always knew just what he needed.

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