For @drarrymicrofic prompt: “River” wc 663
“I’m not doing it!” Draco snaps. “You can’t make me!”
“It’s the only bloody way, Draco,” Harry replies, clenching his fist into the night air.
They’ve been at this for the better part of half an hour, and Harry is tired, exhausted, and very ready for bed. Unfortunately, the cabin is on the other side of the river—along with their wands.
This is entirely Harry’s fault. It was his stupid idea to walk into the village.
“Just a quick drink,” he’d said.
The quick drink became several. Now it’s nearly midnight.
“My shoes cost more than this holiday,” Draco says tightly. “I refuse to get them wet.”
“I’ve already told you, I can lob them across easily,” Harry insists. “They’ll be fine. I got mine across.”
At least he hopes they’ll be fine. The river looks wider now. And it’s darker than it was earlier.
“You are not lobbing my Italian loafers, Harry!”
“Tuck them in your pockets, then.”
“My pockets aren’t big enough!”
Harry kicks at the ground in frustration and nearly slips in the mud on his bare feet. Draco, at least, has the decency to grab him.
“Oh, yes,” Draco says acidly. “‘We won’t need our wands, Draco.’ ‘We’ll be fine, Draco.’ ‘There’s no chance the bridge will flood, Draco.’”
Harry straightens. He both loves and hates it when Draco speaks in first person.
“I never said any of that,” Harry mutters.
“No, but you did say, ‘Oh, Draco, love of my life, wouldn’t it be fun if we spent a week away in a cabin and only used our wands for emergencies?’” Draco flutters his eyelashes—faux sweetness. Then he points at the river—jaw tight. “I would consider this an emergency.”
“If you take your shoes off and roll your trousers up—like me—you’ll be fine.”
“And catch the death of a cold?” Draco demands. “Do you want me to die, Harry?”
Harry opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. Gives up.
“You’ll have to carry me,” Draco says, almost bitterly, as if he can’t think of anything worse.
“Yes. Across the river. In your arms.”
“In my arms? Draco, you’re taller than me.”
“I know,” Draco says calmly. “But you’re meaty. Like a bear. I believe in you.”
Harry supposes he should feel some warmth at the notion of Draco believing in him, if it weren’t for the bear comparison.
“Fine,” he says. “Come here.”
He doesn’t give Draco time to reconsider. He lifts him carefully, arms tight around him.
“My shoes!” Draco squawks, fumbling just in time to snatch his loafers. He settles with a sigh. “Right. Forward, my fine steed.”
Harry wades in, water biting at his calves, then his knees. He winces—his trousers aren’t rolled up high enough—but at least the mud is washing off his feet.
“Who decides to wear Italian loafers in the middle of a forest?” Harry mutters.
“Who suggested spending our fifth wedding anniversary in the middle of a forest?” Draco fires back. “I told you Canada was a better idea.”
“I’ve told you,” Harry says through his teeth, “those hockey players are fictional. It’s Muggle television.”
Draco scowls at the reminder.
Then, slowly, a smile forms—small and gentle.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Draco says.
“What?” Harry asks. They reach the bank, and he steps up carefully, legs burning, trying not to let on that Draco isn’t as light as he looks as he sets him down.
“Our wedding,” Draco says fondly. “When you carried me over the threshold all those years ago.”
“Granted,” Draco adds, already walking toward the cabin, “we’d defiled every room by that point. But your respect for tradition was noted.”
Harry doesn’t answer, how can he when pleasure pools low. He just lunges, scooping Draco up again and slinging him over his shoulder.
“We’ve still got the sofa to defile,” Harry says.
“Unhand me, you heathen,” Draco laughs.
His shoes hit the ground.
