Just a silly collab ficlet courtesy of @april-thelightfury115 and I!
Drarry | 1k | Teen and Up | Fluff, Bickering, Head Shaving | Read on AO3
“Potter, help! There’s a giant furry rat in the kitchen! It’s going to eat m—Oh, it’s just you.”
Harry glared at his boyfriend’s stupid, smug face before turning his attention back to the carrots he was chopping. Draco, the bastard, merely sniggered, winding his slender arms around his waist. As if forgiveness could be bought so easily.
“What’s for dinner?”
“You can have whatever you want, as long as you make it yourself.” Harry twisted out of his grip.
“Hey, it’s not my fault your hair looks like you’ve been shocked by lightning,” Draco pouted. “Besides, you promised to cook for me every night.”
“That promise was based on the understanding that you wouldn’t tease me about my hair every chance you got!”
“That’s fundamentally untrue, Potter. I have always been vocal about the mop you call hair, so you knew exactly what you were getting into. Thus, I shall ask again: what’s for dinner?”
As a hand gently slid down and cupped Harry’s bum, squeezing gently, Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. There was just no winning with him. He’d have to come up with something to shut the bastard up once and for all.
*
“I’m home!”
“Where the fuck have you been, Harold James Potter?!”
Harry grinned as angry footsteps stomped towards him.
“I have been worried sick! Not a note! Not a letter! Not a—What have you done?”
Harry raised an eyebrow innocently as Draco stopped dead in the doorway, grey eyes glued to his head, expression melting into bafflement.
“Needed a haircut.” Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance as he busied himself hanging his coat and scarf. “Do you like it?”
Draco approached him with hesitant steps, slowly reaching out his hand and running it through Harry’s soft—if slightly spiky—buzz cut.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence as Draco’s fingers tickled along his scalp, and Harry bit back a smirk, waiting for Draco’s actual reaction to erupt. But when a few seconds passed and it didn’t, Harry began to worry he had actually broken his boyfriend.
“Er,” Harry started, and Draco’s fingers stilled, though they didn’t leave his head. He was gazing at Harry with impossibly big eyes that made Harry’s heart pummel in his chest. “It’s just a prank, love. I can make it grow back overnight.”
Draco shook his head minutely; brought his other hand to Harry’s head, rubbed it with both hands, breathed out softly with his mouth still open in silent surprise.
Just when Harry was about to ask if he needed to sit down, Draco spoke.
“It’s so…” His voice was barely an exhale. “Soft.”
Harry arched his eyebrows.
“You like it.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, but, as if to answer it, Draco brought him closer and pulled him down a bit so he could rub his cheek against the side of Harry’s head.
“It would appear that I do,” Draco said a moment later, pulling back. He sounded just as surprised as Harry felt.
Harry smiled, teasing words already taking shape at the back of his mind. But then Draco turned his head around and kissed him, open-mouthed and hot and trapping Harry between himself and the door, and all coherent thought left him entirely.
*
Harry’s magic, trained since early childhood to grow his hair overnight when it was cut shorter than he liked, responded that night, and the next morning it was as though he’d never shaved his head at all.
And although Draco, still warm and heavy with sleep, hummed as he carded his fingers through Harry’s messy strands, Harry didn’t miss the small glint of sadness that shimmered in his eyes for the rest of that day whenever he glanced at Harry’s head.
So he made a decision. After work the next day, before returning home, Harry visited a Muggle supermarket and bought a razor.
“What’s this?” Draco asked that evening when Harry handed it over to him after dinner, carefully wrapped.
“It’s… an invitation,” Harry said slowly, thinking his words through. “My hair will always grow out overnight. It’s… it’s something it’s always done. My aunt used to shave my head against my will when I was a kid, you see.”
Draco held Harry’s hand over the table and nodded silently.
“I used to hate it. I used to feel so cold and vulnerable and unsafe whenever she did it. But after feeling your hands all over it the other night…” He swallowed. “I’ve realised I want that again. I want it whenever we’re home and you feel like it. How does that sound?”
“It’s…” Draco licked his lips, looking at the razor before him and then back up at Harry. “It’s a huge display of trust on your part.” His thumb moved over the bumps of Harry’s knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. Draco always fidgeted when he was nervous, and Harry loved the idea of him playing with his head like that when he needed it. “Especially because you know I so love making fun of your mop of hair. Won’t it bring back bad memories?”
Harry stood without letting go of Draco’s hand. He pulled him up, drew him close. Kissed him on the cheek.
“You are a fucking prick to me, that’s true,” he began, and Draco huffed, hugging his waist. Harry looked him in the eye. “But you’re my fucking prick, and I love you. And I know I can trust you. I’m… I’m somewhat excited to hand that power over to you. It feels good, you know. To know I can be vulnerable around you.”
A flush crept up Draco’s neck, even as a soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Like I can with you,” he murmured.
Warmth sparked in Harry’s chest and he leant forward, capturing Draco’s lips in a deep, unhurried kiss. Arching into him with a low hum, Draco’s hands wandered to his hair once more, and Harry smiled.
maybe that i haven’t written anything in a thousand years just attests to my loss of ability in everything i do, in eating and sleeping and breathing and especially hydrating. all round, i’ve fallen down the deep end of things and i don’t care to climb back up. better rest down here until at least the sun rises for real and i’m warm again. summer’s such a long time coming. i’ve never lasted the winter before.
A collab with @april-thelightfury115! 😍 I had a lot of fun with this collab, and this was also a great way of combating writer’s block 💪🏼 we hope you enjoy!
Drarry | 2k words | General Audiences | Eighth Year, Getting Together, Spiders, Arachnophobia, Fluff, Truth or Dare | Read on AO3
“AHHHH!”
Harry and Ron exchanged a confused look as a yell from the bathroom interrupted their sleepy morning shuffles. Eighth year was in full swing, lessons began at the crack of dawn, and no-one was happy about it this morning. But that didn’t mean it was worth screaming about.
A second later, a half-shaven Malfoy stumbled out of the bathroom, hair flying in every direction as he panted. Wild eyes finding everyone’s confused attention on him, he paused, quickly smoothing a hand down his rucked shirt.
“Um…” he stumbled, visibly taking a breath. “Blaise, I’m in need of some assistance.”
The Italian sighed.
“Can’t you just… vanish it or something?”
“Vanish what?” Ron asked, suspiciously.
“Nothing that concerns you, Weasley,” Zabini muttered in a bored tone.
“Blaise, I mean it."
“Fiiiine, keep your hair on, I’m coming.” After hauling himself off his bed, Zabini strolled past the practically twitching Malfoy into the bathroom, re-emerging a few seconds later looking just as bored and refined as ever. Only his tightly curled fist—that Malfoy vehemently avoided with comically wide eyes—suggested anything was wrong. Before Harry could ask what the hell was going on, Zabini had opened a window, stuck his hand out, shaken it, and was closing it again.
“There. Done. Finish getting ready," he commanded. To Harry’s surprise, for once in his life, Malfoy did what he was told without comment, practically scurrying back into the bathroom.
What in the…?
“What was that about?” Harry asked. But of course, Zabini merely donned his robes, ignoring him entirely.
“What was in your hand?” Ron demanded. But still, the Italian simply grabbed his bag and breezed out of the dorm. Arrogant bastard.
Exchanging a final look of utter bewilderment with him as the sound of running water joined the periodic sighs and curses that always commentated the dorm’s morning routine, Ron shrugged, donning his robes and leaving Harry no choice but to do the same. Apparently, Malfoy screaming in the morning was just another oddity he was going to have to get used to now he was rooming with the Slytherins.
*
He held the handle tightly, edging the door open inch by inch, determined to make as little noise as possible as he entered the dorm way past curfew.
Old habits die hard, Harry thought to himself with a wry smile. A long Potions lesson had left him in dire need of some tea at Hagrid’s, and then the cool night air had been too nice to resist. Before he’d known it, he’d been staring at the stars for a few hours. Only the looming threat of McGonagall’s wrath in Transfiguration in the morning had forced him back into the castle.
Bypassing his bed for the bathroom, the snores of his dorm-mates sent a yawn shivering through him. Bed definitely sounded like a good idea…
“Are you going in there?”
Harry wheeled around, coming face to face with a silhouetted figure sat cross legged on the bed.
“Jeez, Malfoy! What are you doing, trying to kill me?!” he whispered, trying to slow his racing heart.
“If I was trying to kill you, you’d be dead, believe me,” Malfoy bit back. Harry just rolled his eyes, the pressure in his bladder reminding him of more important things.
“Whatever, Malfoy. Go to sleep before you terrify someone else.”
“Wait!” The sound of Malfoy’s feet hitting the floor reached his ears. “I—Um—Are you going into the bathroom?”
Harry frowned.
“No, you see, this is actually a secret door to an alternate universe where I own a bakery and I’m late opening it, so if you’ll excuse me."
“Oh fuck off, Potter," Malfoy spat.
"Gladly."
But as he pushed the door open, an honest to god squeak came from behind him. Incredulous, Harry turned back to the pointy git, studying him. One of his feet was mounted over the other, avoiding the cold stone of the bedroom, and he was shaking slightly. No—he was doubled over like he was in pain. Harry squinted.
“Malfoy, why are you awake?”
Malfoy tried, and failed, to seem nonchalant.
“N—No reason.”
Harry huffed.
“Look, I’m exhausted. If you don’t want me to know, go wake Zabini up and ask him again to deal with whatever—”
“I—I can’t. He has an Ancient Runes exam in the morning.”
“Well, then. Whatever’s in there isn’t worse than a Basilisk, is it?”
“Depends on who you ask.” Malfoy grimaced. When Harry glared at him, he muttered, “Okay, fine. It’s not. You’ll be fine. Probably.”
“Good enough,” Harry said. He opened the bathroom door, but looked back at Malfoy, who hadn’t moved and was looking at him intently. “Malfoy.”
“What?”
“You’re staring. It’s weird.”
“Oh. Oh! Yeah. Don’t mind me.”
“Fucking hell,” Harry grumbled, but decided to ignore the Slytherin and go pee regardless. Malfoy was old enough and ugly enough to take care of himself.
Despite his efforts, Harry couldn’t stop himself from staring around as he did his business. There weren’t any ghosts around; no strange voices hissing behind the walls, no Boggarts crawling in the corners. The most exciting things he could spot were the annoying, constant dripping of their wonky tap, and a small spider chilling on the ceiling right above his head.
Unless…
Nah, that couldn’t be it. Could it? It did sort of make sense, what with Zabini carrying something in his fist that one morning and throwing it out the window… But the idea of Malfoy being scared—no, terrified—of spiders was... absurd. Hilarious. Interesting.
When he walked back into the bedroom, Malfoy was still exactly where he’d left him. Harry smirked to himself, leaving the bathroom door ajar and walking past him without a word. Waiting to see what Malfoy would do.
“Did you—” Malfoy murmured after a moment of silence, just as Harry sat on his bed. “Did you... see anything?”
“I did, actually,” Harry said casually as he untied his shoes. “There was this ginormous dump that someone had left there, floating endlessly in the deep waters of the toilet—”
“I’m serious!”
“Oh, and there was also a tiny spider somewhere around there.”
“It wasn’t—! It wasn’t tiny,” Malfoy grumbled, raising his nose in the air. “It was… moderately intimidating.”
Harry bit his lip so as to stifle a chuckle.
“Just go pee, Malfoy. It’s not going to kill you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It didn’t kill me.”
“You’re Harry bloody Potter, it doesn’t count.”
“Malfoy…”
“You know I have a point!”
Harry sighed. “Do you want me to get rid of it?”
“You… would?” Malfoy said, tone shifting to an almost pleading one. How long he must’ve been lying awake trying not to pee himself, only Merlin knew.
“If it’s going to shut you up…”
“Yes. Yes. Most certainly it will. Please—?”
Rolling his eyes, Harry got back to his feet and made his way to the bathroom, followed at a cautious distance by a visibly distressed Malfoy.
While he climbed the toilet, Harry murmured, “I always used to sleep with several of these over my head, you know. They mostly leave people alone. And even when they don’t, their bites don’t hurt that much.”
When he climbed back down, spider in hand, Malfoy was staring at him from the threshold in a mixture of awe and horror.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t, then,” Harry shrugged. “How come you’re so scared of them, anyway?”
“It’s called being sensible, Potter. Anyone smart or without a deathwish would want to keep their distance around them.”
“And by keeping the distance, I assume you mean screaming to the top of your lungs?”
“That was different! The fucker was right in front of my face when I leaned into the mirror.”
The spider, still in his fisted hand, crawled around in his palm, making him shiver slightly. He might not mind spiders, but the sensation wasn’t exactly pleasant.
“You’re impossible,” Harry concluded with a shake of his head. “I’ll get rid of this one. You go… pee, or whatever. We’ll talk in the morning.”
*
He was about to follow a very grumpy Ron down the stairs to the Common Room when a hand grasped his wrist and pulled him back into their dorm.
“Good morning to you too,” Harry said, too sleepy to sneer back at Malfoy when he caught sight of his expression.
“You’re not going to tell him about last night, are you?” Malfoy pointed his chin toward the stairs as he talked. “Because if you do, I swear to Salazar, Potter, I will turn the rest of your school year into a living hell.”
“Sure, sure.” Harry yawned. “Look, I’ve had enough terrible years already. I’m not about to do anything that could disrupt the shaky peace of our dorm. Relax, okay?”
Malfoy leaned forward, giving him a glare that he was sure was meant to be intimidating. “You’d better.”
“Mate, why are you—oh.”
Harry watched with increasing horror as Ron’s expression changed into one of realisation, his cheeks turning a bright shade of red as he took note of the way Malfoy was leaning over him—the way he was pressed against the bedroom wall. Fuck, why the hell had Malfoy cornered him against the bedroom wall?!
“Er—I’ll—I’ll wait in the Great Hall, then. Leave you two to…” He gestured vaguely. “Yeah.”
“Ron, it’s not—!” Harry started, pushing Malfoy away from him and running for the door. But Ron was already out of sight. He leaned against the doorframe, cursing silently.
“What the fuck?” said Malfoy from behind him.
“Congratulations,” Harry muttered, slowly turning around. “Ron still doesn’t know you’re terrified of spiders. He simply thinks you were about to snog me senseless!”
“What?! Why in Merlin’s name would he think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you had me pressed against the bloody wall?!”
“I didn’t—!” Malfoy started, cheeks aflame, but gave up with a huff when Harry raised his eyebrows at him. “Look, let’s just—let’s just go get breakfast. And you”—he pointed an accusatory finger at Harry—“had better convince the Weasel that we were arguing over something completely heterosexual and absolutely not spider-related. Is that clear?”
“Whatever, Malfoy.” Harry turned to leave, letting a small smile slip now that the Slytherin couldn’t see him. Gosh, Malfoy was so funny when he was flustered it was almost endearing. “Come on.”
*
“Mate, you can’t be serious.”
Harry felt Malfoy’s groan in his very soul as they walked out of the Potions ingredients cupboard.
“It’s the third time this month!” Ron hissed as they made their way back to their cauldron. “And we’re in the middle of class! You know I love you, Harry, but this is getting out of hand.”
“Zabini wasn’t around to help him,” Harry muttered. “You know, if you really did love me, you’d believe me when I tell you that—”
“Ah, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley!” Slughorn chirped. “I take it you’re finished with your potion, since you’re having such a fun time in my class! You won’t mind if I give it a sip, will you?”
All eyes on him, Harry muttered an excuse and gave Ron a death glare.
*
“So, Harry,” a very tipsy Hannah said, wiggling her eyebrows, “what will it be? Truth or dare?”
Why did I agree to this again? Was the only answer his scattered thoughts supplied.
“How about you give your boyfriend a snog, then?” A chorus of giggles exploded around them. “I think we’ve all been wondering what you two get up to in the cupboards.”
“He—Malfoy’s not—” Harry spluttered, but his words caught in his throat when he saw the state Draco was in: pink from throat to ears, mouth slightly parted. Eyes filled with dread, but keen on straying from Harry’s gaze down to his lips. He’d clearly had one drink too many.
A push on his back made him topple forward, and, as several people cheered, Harry crawled toward Draco, unable to remember or care why his sober self would think this was a terrible idea.
“Potter,” Draco breathed, a hand grasping Harry’s waist. Half-lidded eyes falling on his lips again. Harry’s breath hitched.
“We can—I mean, we don’t have to—”
“Potter.”
A pull at his hip; a fist clenched around his jumper. Urgent.
“Okay.”
Draco’s hands slid against his scalp and into his hair, making him shiver.
“Thanks,” Draco murmured against his lips. “For… you know. Your assistance.”
“You’re w—”
Draco’s lips parted and caught Harry’s lower one in a kiss. The last thing Harry noticed before the last of his coherent thoughts left him with a low moan was Ron’s half-frustrated, half-victorious cry of, “I knew it!”
if i said anything were tearing me apart, you’d know i was lying right away. or you should’ve known, because there’s nothing tearing about this. there’s not a single scarf being knifed to shreds in the back of my closet, and all my electric wires are still flowing from point a to point b. the current continues. i’m not drowning in it either. picture this: me, standing in the ocean. post-epiphany, after the waves have surged, and there i am, feet not dug in the sand, but the water doesn’t move me. i’m invincible, rock hard. i’m a boulder with no feelings. i mean, what else could i possibly be? a hermit crab (scuttling back and forth to survive) foreclosing home after home in search of something better? psh. no, i’m not that. i’m just that boulder, miraculously turned up in the middle of your pristine beach. see me, there? no, don’t try to talk to me. i don’t have a mouth to answer. even if i did, why would you want to listen to me? it’s not like i would have anything to say. i’m a boulder with no feelings.
there's the glitter of the ocean at night when the stars are blank
there are nights when i fall asleep in ten minutes before i do anything so destructive that i wake up the next morning in a cold sweat on the floor, like a demon's been chasing me
there are days where we speak forever, never an hour apart and i always feel like someday is going to happen, no matter what
there are hot baths and leaves in fall more worn than my restless eyes
there are sisters and mothers and fathers and cities that hold me together when i'm falling apart, faster than sugar dissolves when it's trying
and then there are all the yous, at the center of my universe so gravitational it's hard to hold you up
blurry vision from one too many episodes and hours at the grindstone, flipping out the pages like banana peels
tired fingers that trip over every note i miss and then my face red because i swear i'm better than this
and i'm always trying to get better, stronger, harder, faster, more beautiful than what i see
so when i'm lonely at night i don't have to wait for someone to come rushing to me
i’m not feeling poetry today like the way i feel my left eye, blurry for a bit but i figured it’d go away on its own and also,
poetry is contrived.
bet you didn’t think you’d hear that from me, who turns hell and high water into stanzas but
don’t spout to me how poetry is soaked into every
centimetrical crevice
i run to when i’m lonely because i don’t see deer in the forest scuttling about on how nice the sun on their hides is. it’s just us,
lonely humans starved and lusting for a companionship of intelligence in this enormously tiny world, who write imaginary lines about the flowers. beauty, too, is contrived. that much at least should be obvious when everything is all the same and yet we still set beauty standards for gardens, how roses are more sophisticated than
daises. are they? isn’t the commonplace, easy to grow and nurture and not nearly so much of a fuss, deserving of the title of beautiful, too? even if it is contrived, we still appreciate hearing it after a long day of hard work.
imagine the difficulty, in the tundra, of blooming in a dry winter, permanent even when they foolishly tell you it’s summer, come out and play. you know it’s still cold, you know the weather’s not changed in centuries. you still come out when they cajole you because of beauty. of sunlight and lustful heat and music and dance parties in ever frost that goes on and on and on and on for miles. for poetry, right?
so what if it’s contrived?
i’ve been born as a human with forethought and a conscious core in mind, and i don’t waste my time wondering if contrived things deserve a place in my heart. i’m here aren’t i?
living, breathing, making poetry and lines with my bare hands and opposable thumbs. and it’ll stay that way for a good while, clacking at a calculator and watchings everyone around me age a couple centuries as the minutes
tick
by. i’m contrived, too, aren’t i? that calculator, and this pen, and your pencil case and mine, all made up of something to make us think that caring is important. to fool us into believing we have some ridiculous higher purpose, to please some nonexistent god
or whatever.
i got over that long ago. we’re contrived of ourselves more than any invisible god, and if you saw that, your purpose would be stronger. your sense of self-contrivation would let you write poetry too, better than mine and more
posed in daisies,
poised in rose, and
then you’d believe me, too. instead, you sit at your calculator,
two songs exactly the same length.
tell me i'm not seeing things, that you're
actually here and
it's past midnight and
i'm not yet drowning.
the water isn't up my nose
yet
as far as i'm concerned.
the problem is that
i'm not concerned enough
about anything, really.
i've a million proofs but
i graduated geometry
(to hell)
2 years ago
and i'll have no more of that.
i don't go back
and i mean more much more than geometry
so why would i follow my dusty footsteps back to the oily gates?
drowning is much preferable
especially in the cold waters
in earlier than daylight
morning.
today's kind of slow, kind of breathless, kind of too high up in the atmosphere to get a lungful of smokeless air and i told you that it didn't break the skin left a little scratch, maybe a bruise darker than purple sky but i promise you you're okay. (please be okay.) so we rush about in the on-and-off rain just for the sake of your panic and your fraidy-catness of the steep slopes and i'm miles ahead already waiting for you. i'm not reckless, you're just slow so speed up because with me in front of you you can't possibly fall and i guess i'm more steady than you think. it's cold here but i'm scared to move. still, we're going places warmer in a day and i'll fly through a murderous cloud of heat just for fruit and being spoiled and seeing the elephants up close. half of this is my imagination of course because walking is part of the deal and god you're gone and i should miss you but we still talk and sometimes i wonder what happened in the first place since you're gone and you don't get to lament to me your lost possibles and how you would've been friends with someone else if only you'd known. isn't it enough to be satisfied with those who love you?
