“love, please turn off the lamp.” harry raises his head to look at his husband, bent over the corner desk of their room, hook on one hand and thread on the other.
“just one last square, potter,” draco mutters. harry highly doubts that, sighing. draco probably didn’t even register his question and only gave the automatic reply. he just wanted a nice night cuddling with draco, but apparently not. rose’s blanket is so much more important than giving harry attention.
he sighs again, a heavier one for more dramatics. he’s putting on his pout, fiddling with the blankets that draco also crocheted, although it took way less time because he wasn’t obsessed with microcrocheting of all things at that time. “you’re making a face.” harry hears draco say, almost in a whine, as he raises his gaze.
the blond is twisted around in his chair and wearing his own pout. there’s a fond look behind it, though. harry inwardly cheers, a smile overtaking his put-on sulk.
“we have lamps right here, love.” he gestures to their night stands. “come crochet here.”
“you’re impossible, potter.” draco turns back to his desk, gathering his things and hiding the grin that harry knows he’s sporting.
“you know it doesn’t make sense that you’re calling me potter, right? because you’re a potter too?”
“whatever, potter.” draco kicks him lightly on the leg, laying down his materials on the spot harry vacated. after draco settles in, however, harry goes back to invade his space and lays on the other’s lap. draco sighs, exasperated, but doesn’t say anything.
“i love you, draco,” harry whispers, staring up at draco’s rapidly blushing face. draco simply hums, but after harry closes his eyes and burroughs his head further into draco’s stomach, he feels a brush of soft lips on his cheek.
i love you too, harry.
harry wraps his arms around draco’s waist and snuggles down for the night.
Harry sighed, merlin why do i have a husband like this?
"HARRY I SWEAR I CAN DO IT, I SWEAR, JUST GIVE ME LIKE ANOTHER MINUTE"
Harry sighed again, "Draco darling, you've been saying this for two straight hours. Let me help you"
"NO NO I CAN DO IT, I CAN DO IT," the dough was rock hard as he stabbed it with a spatula in hopes of breaking it up.
Oh merlin why me.
"It's all about technique dray, it's not something you can just eyeball, and how many bags of flour did you use anyways?!?," Draco gulped as he started at his umm, masterpiece?
Draco sighed, mumbling "Fine, I need your help oH sAiNT pOtTah"
"Potter-Malfoy and of course you need my help, I knew you would come back to me anyways," Harry smirked as he walked over to the mess Draco had created on the kitchen island.
"Oh don't be so cocky you'll regret it later when you have nothing to hold onto in bed.," Harry gulped this time trying not to think of what will happen later and instead choosing to clean up the mess Draco had made.
He finally made his way to Draco who was standing in front of the stove, taking in his appearance. And oh man. He couldn't help but try not to laugh, a hand covering his mouth and a smile growing on his face.
"What are you laughing at huh?," that was it, Harry bursted out giggling.
"POTTER," a light pink spread across his cheeks in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it.
"I-i it's just, it's just," his sides where hurting, and Draco himself couldn't hold the small smile that formed on his face, eventually starting to laugh with Harry.
"OH YOUR NOT GOING ANYWHERE AFTER THAT," he started chasing Harry through their house, running through the halls like little kids till Draco finally pinned Harry against a wall.
"HHAAHAH, GOTCHA," they were panting, cheeks red, and smiling like mad mans.
Harry outright giggled as he brushed all the edible glitter in Draco's hair and his flour covered face.
They were extremely close, pressing against each other and Draco couldn't help but stare.
Harry noticed and pulled Draco into a kiss, his hands looped around Draco's neck, and Draco's own hands firmly on Harry's hips.
It was short and sweet, and they pulled apart.
Merlin how do I have a husband like this?, Draco beamed.
Can you do a drarry blurb from #1 on your first prompt list?
1 - “Is that my shirt?” “You mean our shirt?” from this prompt list
Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Harry Potter
Warning(s): implication of smut
A/N: You didn’t specify which section so I just took the one from fluff, if I chose the wrong one just lmk and I’ll write another one with the correct one
Switch
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Hiding under his cloak, Harry snuck out of the Slytherin Dungeons at around six in the morning. The Slytherins knew that the portrait door didn’t just magically open and that a certain brown-haired boy was leaving but it wasn’t them that he was hiding from. It was Draco.
Yes he was sneaking out of said boy’s dorm but, Harry had switched their robes as a prank as revenge for last weeks prank when they ‘accidentally’ wore the wrong ties to Transfiguration. By the time he made to his dorm they boys were still asleep which meant he would have more time in the shower. It was rare to get any peace during a shower with his dormmates, let alone time to shower since there was always a fight to use the bathroom.
When he was finished in the bathroom and most likely hogged all of the hot water, he quickly got dressed and waited for Ron to finish getting ready, which took no more than ten minutes, before heading downstairs to the Common Room where Hermione was waiting for them.
He knew they had noticed that he wasn’t wearing his own robes but didn’t say anything. The only people to react when this sort of stuff happens were Draco and Harry.
“I give him 10 minutes.” Ron whispered to Hermione as they walked down the stairs towards the Great Hall.
“10? I bet he’ll be waiting when we get down there.” Hermione whispered back and just as she had said, a particular blond was waiting by the entrance to the Great Hall.
“We’ll be waiting inside.” Hermione told Harry as she dragged Ron inside.
“You’ve got something of mine.” The blond said and Harry decided to play dumb as he looked down to try and find what it was. “Really Potter?”
“What? I’m only wearing your robes and-”
“Is that my shirt as well? Bloody hell it looks horrible with the robes. Why would you take that shirt and wear it with the robes.”
Despite annoyed at the fashion advice he received, Draco was right. He took a navy blue shirt which did not go well with the robes at all but he didn’t have much time to rummage through Draco’s wardrobe to look for a white one.
“You mean our shirt? And it’s not my fault your wardrobe is a mess. I just grabbed the first one I saw and left.”
Draco rolled his eyes and stuck his hand out. Confused, Harry thought he wanted to hold his hand but after he clasped his hands with Draco’s, the boy pulled away. “My robes Potter, you can hold my hand after you give me my robes back. I’d rather not have Snape question why I’m wearing Gryffindor.”
Hello!! This is probably not what you want from the asks but I've just moved house so i would love to hear your thoughts about HOW DRACO AND HARRY WOULD GO MOVING IN TOGETHER!
OH MY GOSH YES! Le!!! You gift of the universe!!! I got so excited to see this!
I’m sorry it took me a bit to get my thoughts together on this; I’ve never moved before so I took some time to imagine what it would be like. I’m seeing a lot of sassy banter and fond eye rolls with them, though.
(Congrats on moving, by the way! I hope you’re settling in well!! Don’t try to do too much at once and tire yourself out! 💙)
~
I feel like Draco would be incredibly stiff about moving in together. Everything would have a place hidden away, right? Especially when influenced by an upbringing of such rigid, formal decor. Sure, there were some frilly, decorative things in the Manor, but it was never placed with the intention of being useful or pleasant for those residing within the house. Every object was just indicative of status. So most of his personal belongings - things of emotional value to him - were kept hidden away. Having those things out in the open would make things feel messy, make him feel vulnerable. He wouldn’t want that.
On the other hand, Harry would be much more cluttered and lax. He wouldn’t be messy, really; I mean, he didn’t really have anything of his own for years, so he was excellent at keeping things tidy. Everything had a place in his cupboard, though there were only a few trinkets to have a place.
Regardless, he would like to have comfort items strewn around the house. They made the house feel more like a home, and Harry desperately wanted to cultivate one of those.
When they moved in, it would be a little chaotic. Harry’s boxes would be rather mismatched, and Draco’s would be so well packed that you couldn’t see what was inside them without digging through layers of protective packaging. Blaise and Ron both offered to help with the moving; it was nice to have a few extra sets of hands. Though Draco would be more than a little uncomfortable watching Weasley carry boxes of his valuables and handle his furniture, he was capable of sucking it up for Harry’s sake… mostly.
When the guys had left (through floo and after a beer and takeout each for all their help), it was up to Harry and Draco to begin the process of unpacking. I’m sure you can imagine how pleasant that would go.
“No, Potter, the cups can’t go there!”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, ‘Why not?’ Surely you don’t plan on walking across the kitchen for a glass and then walking all the way back every time you want a drink?”
Harry shrugged. “I mean, I don’t mind.”
He pursed his lips to avoid chuckling at the annoyed eye roll Draco gave him. “Put the glasses in that cabinet. The one by the sink.”
He pointed toward the one he wanted, long finger curling outward like the cast of a wand directing his desires.
“But that one’s already full.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. Confusion and exhaustion etching across his brow. “Of what?”
“Plates.”
A pause. A long, uncomfortable pause. And then Draco sighed, rubbing his hands across his face. “Circe’s tits, Potter, you’re insufferable.” He turned, looking into the hall at the boxes lining the floor. “Help me find which box the sheets are in. Let’s go to bed. We can deal with the kitchen in the morning.”
Harry looked down at the cup in his hand. “I’m almost done.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’ve just got-”
“We’re not keeping the cups there, Potter,” Draco said, turning around the corner to start searching for the box with the sheets.
Harry sighed, putting down the glass and following Draco into the hall. He was hunched over a stack of boxes, tugging the cardboard open in search of a flash of cream, a dash of Harry’s favorite burgundy blanket that Draco despised. Reaching around Draco, he wrapped his arms around the silky shirt over Draco’s stomach and nuzzled his head against the nape of Draco’s neck. “You’re a pain in the arse sometimes, you know that?”
“I believe you’ve mentioned it before.”
Harry smiled. “Then it’s a good thing I love you.” He kissed Draco’s neck, smiling at the pleased little sound Draco made when he found the sheets. Scooping up the box, Harry carried it down the hall to their bedroom.
It took as long for him to make the bed as it did for Draco to find their pajamas haphazardly stuffed in the boxes on the floor. Draco changed first, tossing Harry’s clothes across the bed. All that was left were the pillowcases and a few blankets, which Draco was happy to take care of while Harry dressed.
Before he changed, Harry fished the snitch out of his pocket and placed it in the glass holder beside his bed. He always kept it close, too deeply personal an item to part with yet. The casing was worn, faded in spots, but still shimmered elegantly in the light. Next came a few coins, his watch, Sirius’s ring, Harry’s wand. A bit of a mess for a bedside table, but certainly good enough for now.
Then he dressed, glancing around the room as he did so. Draco’s wand was on his bedside table, exactly parallel to the length of the bed. There was a glass of water, too, clear and crystalline, poised on a coaster (where Draco had managed to find it, Harry would never know). Their walls were still bare and closets empty, but the day had been a start, and they’d managed to conquer enough to feel satisfied. Though, Draco disliking his kitchen organization was a bit of a setback…
Slowly and carefully, Draco reached into the bottom of the box and pulled out Harry’s blanket, fanning it over Harry’s half of the bed with a disgusted but accepting look on his face. Draco loathed it, finding the Gryffindor colors and fringed edges absolutely revolting, but still he let it stay on Harry’s half of the bed. He understood how important it was for Harry - his first apartment gift from Molly - to have it near.
He smiled, making a noise that caught Draco’s attention.
“What?”
“If you can tolerate my blanket even though you hate it, maybe I can find a way to compromise on the kitchen.”
And it was like the world had lit up in Draco’s eyes, his face curling into that excitable grin that always made Harry’s heart melt. And Harry remembered exactly why he loved Draco so much, why this big step, while exhausting, was worth it. His smile was contagious.
Hi guys this prompt was sent to me by the amazingly wonderful @framedfaun!!! I hope you enjoy it! 💗💛⚡️
Draco: lights up a cigarette Harry: ... Draco: "Dont worry I don't smoke, it's just for the aesthetic." takes a drag of the cigarette Harry:...DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY YOU PUT THAT CIGARETTE OUT RIGHT NOW OR IM GON- Draco: blows smoke in Harry's face
Draco stood on the astronomy tower balcony and peered down at the lake below. Everything seemed so serene, almost as if half of the castle wasn't destroyed in his 7th year. He missed this castle though he wouldn't ever admit it out loud to anyone. The last time he had been here he had been about 30 steps from where he currently stood. Draco had been given a choice, kill Dumbledore or let his family be killed. Obviously for any 17 year old the choice was clear, so how could anyone blame Draco for choosing his family?
When the time finally did come to kill the Hogwarts headmaster, Draco couldn't do it, believe it or not. Dumbledore was good to Draco, despite Draco's malicious words to him. Not that Draco would ever tell a living breathing soul this, but he also hadn't been able to kill the headmaster because Dumbledore meant a lot to Harry and he knew if he killed them all possible redemption attempts would be whisked away.
Yes, Draco the snake king and maker of 'Potter stinks' badges had a crush on the golden boy. If choosing who you loved was a choice, Draco would've picked anyone but Harry Potter, unfortunately though for Draco life had never worked like that and never will. So for now Draco was stuck pining over Harry Potter and his perfectly disheveled hair.
He never dreamed of telling anyone about his fondness of Potter. It scared him senseless. He knew his father would disown him if he was to ever find out. And although Lucius and Narcissa had shifted opinions on things after the war, Draco figured 'gay for potter' fell no where on that list.
Since this year had begun, the year of revival for Hogwarts, Draco and Harry had given one another mutual respect. They weren't friends, but neither were they enemies. This, of course, caused Draco's crush to grow because now instead of scowling at him every time they made eye contact, Harry smiles, teeth and all. They wouldn't ever speak more than I rushed 'Hello', but whenever the green eyes of Harry's met Draco's silver ones they would give another a curt nod and a smile if it was a good day.
The loud splash of the lake's giant squid pulled Draco from his thoughts. He brought a cigarette to his lips and Inhaled deep as he watched the squid swim carelessly through the almost black water. He wasn't proud of it, but he had picked up smoking while living in Muggle London for a bit. He found it relieved his tension and make him focus less on the stress of his life, even though the war was over. Draco knew that the cigarettes were deadly, it had been repeated on the television set that sat in the corner of his apartment, but anything to get his mind off the bloody war was his new best friend.
Not a lot of things were able to do so though. Not even coming across Weasley and Granger snogging in the room of requirement fazed Draco long enough to cease his thoughts of the war. In all honesty, it made Draco feel more lonely than he had previously been feeling.
This caused Draco to be more observant of Harry, or rather Harry's lack of a girlfriend these days. Harry often walked to class alone, when Weasley and Granger were busy. He no longer held the hand of Ginny as he traveled class to class. Draco also observed that Ginny now had a fondness of a certain dotty, blonde haired girl named Luna. Harry hadn't even glanced at the girls now, once again, throwing themselves at him, which gave Draco a little spark of hope. Although he knew nothing would ever happen between him and Harry because Harry was oblivious to everything and Draco was a coward.
As Draco slowly lit one cigarette after the other he finally found himself at peace. His head, less congested with intrusive thoughts, began to drift to a less violent place. He thought about the last year. Draco had spent a month in Muggle London right after the war, but began traveling after discovering that staying in a musky apartment begins to eat away at your subconscious and drive you a bit mad. He then traveled to the Americas, then to Tokyo, and Ireland, Scotland, and Norway for a while. He had discovered more about himself on this trip that he would've preferred.
It was the Rolling green hills of Ireland that made Draco think of Harry's striking green eyes, and finally for the first time in his life, Draco came to terms with liking Harry Potter.
He couldn't stop picturing the perfect quite life in those hills, a life he would love to live. For some reason the 'perfect' scene was never complete without Harry in it. He then knew, the boy he was believed to hate actually meant more to him than he thought.
A quick set of footsteps caused Draco to reach for his wand then turn around with it lifted threateningly in the air, in fear it was more 6th years that had come to hex him. Luckily it wasn't them, unfortunately for Draco who had previously cleared his intrusive thoughts, it was Harry Potter who was surely to cause a storm inside his mind. Draco lit another cigarette in an attempt to prepare himself.
Once Harry's eyes landed on the small stick in Draco's hands his eyes widened. Harry was raised from a baby to age 11 in the muggle world, of course he knew of the toxicity of the cigarettes. He knew what it could do to Draco. And that caused his nose to scrunch ever so slightly in disdain. Draco noticed it immediately.
"Don't worry yourself into a fit Potter, it's only for the aesthetic." Draco joked in an attempt to ease the tension that suffocated the room.
Draco was embarrassed of his habit, even more so now that Harry saw. Draco lived through the war, he was a survivor, when more deserving people were dead, many close to Harry. He know threw that away by slowly killing himself with a stupid addiction. He also was embarrassed because of the look of worry that spread over Harry's face like a wild fire, the look that slowly formed into one of disappointment.
But the amount of concern that flashed on Harry's face hardly went unnoticed by Draco and it scared him. He didn't want Harry caring about his wellbeing, no one but Narcissa had cared about him before, so caring was foreign enough to Draco. He clearly remembers the feeling in his stomach when Hagrid, the schools gamekeeper, walked onto the school grounds with Harry's seemingly lifeless body. Draco also remembers the screams that threatened to escape him after the screams of "Harry potter is dead" echoed through the air. If that is what caring felt like Draco hadn't wished anyone to feel that for him, let alone Harry.
But of course, Draco's stubborn personality refused to quit, so naturally he once again brought the cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag.
"DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY, YOU PUT THAT OUT RIGHT NOW OR IM GON-" Harry began to shout.
But in order to get Harry to quit yelling and worrying, Draco took all the smoke held in his mouth and blew it back in Harry's face. This caused the golden boy to cease his yelling immediately.
Once the smoke cleared it revealed a very blushed Harry with a scrunched up face. Draco smirked as he waited for words to finally catch up to Harry. And once they did, he noticed the soft eyes that now stared him down.
"Draco what are you doing?" Harry asked, while searching for any sign or emotion on Draco's face, but Draco kept his face completely neutral, refusing to loosen up.
"I believe I'm doing what I want Potter. And I'm not seeing why it's any of your bloody business." Draco knew he was being rude, but he honestly couldn't help it. He feared that had he not been, his affection for Harry would become evident as the day.
"It became my business when I saved you in the room of requirement, I hadn't been aware that you were going to throw it away."
"I never asked to be saved, Saint Potter." Draco spat, not being able to stop the hurt that soared through his body at the thought of Harry regretting saving him.
Harry let out a frustrated groan and ran his hand harshly through his hair.
"Why do you have to be such a twat? I am trying to help you Draco!"
"I don't want your help! Why can't you get that through your thick skull? Or are you just so heroic that you have to 'save' every person you ever laid eyes on?"
Now they glared at one another faux malice burning in both of their eyes. Both dated one another to look away first, but after awhile both of the big began to see the childishness in their action. It wasn't until Draco started laughing, did the Harry finally break. Draco didn't just give a short laugh, it was a laughter that shook his whole body. At first this action stunned Harry, haven't ever seeing Draco like this but he too soon started laughing and beaming at the blonde boy.
There was a glow that emanated from Draco's body in this moment, one that Harry hadn't seen since their fourth year. A glow that Harry had missed.
Once they had composed themselves once more they turned back to one another. No more malice, no more rivalry between them. They were once again just two boys, not a golden boy and a death eater, just teenage boys.
Harry didn't know what possessed him to speak but he did it anyway.
"You know I never thought a Malfoy was capable of laughter, let alone You."
"Oh piss off Potter. I don't believe friends say that about one another." Draco joked.
"Friends?" Harry had said in a disbelieving tone.
Draco felt himself stiffen. Had he read the situation wrong? Fear consumed him like the night did the day. He shouldn't have ever even opened his mouth. Now Harry was going to spit his words back at him. All hope of things being different between them had been crushed.
Draco's flare for the dramatics had definitely taken over at this point. He should've known that Harry wouldn't ever spit something back at him, especially not now.
"I like that. Draco Malfoy, my friend. Definitely has a better ring to it." Harry smiled.
His words caused Draco's eyes to widen. He soon found himself beaming at the shorter boy. Things really had been changing, and Draco decided that maybe it wasn't so bad. He and Harry were friends now, and that was one step closer from where they had been. Draco felt luckier than any tosser who was running around high on the power of Felix Felicis.
A new title for the boy who lived now occupied Draco's mind, this own currently better than any others. Harry Potter was now his friend.
⚠️* Thank you for reading!!! Let me know if you enjoyed it and if you have any prompts you would like written just drop them in my ask box! 💕💗*⚠️
synopsis: when harry volunteers for the ministry mandated search and seizure of dark pureblood properties, he doesn't expect to be met with a memory in a picture.
content: rated mature, angst, major character death, harry is sad but he's also numb, draco is adorable, unhealthy coping mechanisms, slight dissociation, symptoms of ptsd (referring to the war and harry's childhood), post second wizarding war, no explicit romance; heavily inspired by @longdaytogo 's art and blurb
word count: 3k
masterlist
harry is suddenly hit by vicious unease the instant he steps foot inside the grounds of the manor. he is still unaware of the true reasonings behind his wanting to take part in the ministry ordered cleanup and seizures of dark pureblood residences. the war just ended, and yet he’s still fighting.
“it’s not healthy,” is what hermione told him, but harry doesn’t think he cares very much about that at the moment. he wants the opposite of it, really—he doesn’t want the time to be able to think.
he vaguely registers the path he took just a few months ago as he goes up the malfoy manor. despite the lack of death eaters and carnage, somehow, harry feels more dreadful walking up the steps.
his breathing is fairly normal, not the ragged ones he took as he was brought as prisoner. it’s a sunny day with clear skies, and he’s wearing dry shoes and clean clothes.
still, he feels like escaping, apparating himself out of this stained property, just to isolate himself and have a good cry. but if he does that, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop. so he continues walking.
as he walks up the spiralled stairs and down the long corridors, it hits harry that not only is he in the place where voldemort took residence for a year or so, but he is also where malfoy spent his childhood in—the malfoy ancestral home.
the eerie quiet is interrupted by the sound of a crying child, followed by murmured hushes from a corridor further up the walkway. harry moves towards the sound and is greeted by a long line of portraits, all old and dead. they glare at him and immediately disappear into their paintings. harry wonders if it’s because he’s there to seize their ancestral home, or simply because he’s freely strutting about the halls despite not being a pureblood. regardless of their being portraits, harry still hopes it’s the former.
he continues down the path and spots the source of the noise—a young boy in a portrait crying, fisted hands covering his face. harry feels palpable heartache for him, to be the only youth among hundreds of portraits whose only source of entertainment are beratements and scoldings. harry feels the loneliness in his bones, as well as in his memories.
the portraits near the boy’s tell him to “pipe down,” that a malfoy crying is “unbecoming” and to “cease immediately”. before harry can tell them that reprimanding a clearly distressed child will bring them nowhere, the portraits disappear, leaving only harry and the little one. harry lets out a morose sigh, approaching the portrait to ask if he’s alright, only to stop dead in his tracks.
the boy must have been around six or seven when the portrait was taken. with flowing blond hair and a not-so-pointy chin, draco malfoy wears a white dress shirt with a ruffle collar, paired with a navy waistcoat and an amber bolo tie necklace. harry thinks distantly that he doesn’t have any memories of malfoy in anything other than his slytherin uniform or his preferred black suit and trousers.
he observes the painting silently, with a pounding heart. malfoy hasn’t noticed him yet; he’s begun hiccuping now and has abandoned trying to hide his face behind his fists.
he’s so small. much smaller than when he became the first wizarding kid harry met, than when he first asked for harry’s hand in friendship. harry’s never liked malfoy, he doesn’t think, but seeing young malfoy brings him an unambiguously great amount of pain.
this crying malfoy reminds him of dark bathrooms, screaming ghosts, and bloody floors.
harry exhales loudly, making malfoy finally open his eyes and look up at harry. he sniffles and wipes away at his tears. “who are you?” he asks in gasping breaths.
“i was hired to look over your house.” harry replies. he doesn’t think the child knows about anything that’s going on outside his portrait.
malfoy regards harry, still with furrowed brows and wet lashes. “it’s a manor,” he says after a few moments. of course, malfoy was raised to never tolerate any sort of belittlement of their name or their fortunes. with the company he’s had for however long he’s been here, harry should not be surprised with this child’s priorities.
“where are mother and father? will they be coming for me soon?”
lucius malfoy was immediately sentenced to spending the rest of his life in azkaban when he was captured at the battle of hogwarts. narcissa malfoy, on the other hand, was exiled from the country and, from what harry has heard from others, is currently residing in the south of france with distant relatives. this is a seven-year-old malfoy that has no awareness of what the future will bring, harry reminds himself.
“they’re taking care of business outside the country right now. that’s why they hired people,” he reasons. wealthy people usually work outside of their countries, he remembers from the dursleys’ envious complaints about this very thing.
malfoy is once again silent, only looking at harry. harry stares back and lets his eyes take in the other details of the portrait. there is a burgundy curtain behind malfoy and harry almost smiles at the irony of it. a bouquet of flowers are on the floor, however; and there’s no furniture visible in the portrait. he looks back at malfoy, who is still staring at him, and his mouth twitches at the thought of this young boy holding the bouquet and smiling for an extended period of time just so the artist can paint him.
“you said my parents hired you?” he finally addressed harry. “yes,” harry raises his eyebrows at the boy. he predicts an order from the young malfoy coming very soon and sighs internally. “i can arrange for you to keep me company, then.”
this is what he gets for being considerate.
“you can just ask me nicely, you know,” harry looks around and finds a table a few metres away. he starts walking towards it when he hears a small noise emit behind him, not unlike a whimper.
“i’m not leaving, i’m just getting something to sit on. keeping you company, remember?” he grins softly at the boy and places the table a few steps in front of the portrait. malfoy’s wearing a frown now, but harry notices his red ears and offers another smile.
“i’ve even asked for house elves as company, but none came,” malfoy says to him after a few awkward minutes of silence. “dobby always comes whenever i call for him, but even he never came!”
a bucket of ice; the innocence of young malfoy allowed him to forget the reality of the situation.
but malfoy keeps on talking, “i’ve been here for a while now. perhaps a few weeks? i’ve asked the other portraits how and why i happen to be here but they simply ignored my questions, the gall. i’m the heir to this family and they can’t even answer such straightforward questions!”
harry is getting lightheaded from the similarity of their speech patterns. of course, what did he expect? this is only a younger version of malfoy, not an entirely different person. but more than that, he can’t help but notice the continuous use of present tense, making him nauseous for an entirely different reason.
“great-great-aunt belvina and grandfather cygnus are especially rude. i understand they are older and, thus, better-informed, somewhat, but do they need to be so disagreeable? ‘cease your whinging, child’ this, ‘you are being quite an unsightly child’ that. it’s very annoying,” he rants, but harry is only half listening. he came here to calm a crying child, not to listen to petulant tirades from his former nemesis. “they never even call me by my name! speaking of, you never did tell me your name. what am i supposed to address you as?”
“harry is fine.”
“harry?!” malfoy exclaims, making harry wince at the sudden increase in volume. “how about your last name?” malfoy is leaning so forward that if harry didn’t know any better, he would be afraid that the boy would fall out of the portrait.
“presley. harry presley.” harry provides and sees how malfoy visibly deflates from his revelation, or lack thereof. “why, were you hoping for some other harry?” malfoy’s whole face reddens as he avoids eye contact with harry. harry thinks he hears a mumbled, “not particularly” before silence once again takes over the corridor. this time, however, it’s not eerie or awkward. a rather bashful stillness takes over them before harry asks about the flowers on the floor.
the fading red on malfoy’s face comes back as he suddenly remembers the bouquet’s existence. “mother was insistent i hold her beloved english rose shrubs,” he pouts and picks up the bundle, rearranging them and then placing them in his arms. “she’s quite proud of her garden,” he grins at harry, as if he is also proud of narcissa malfoy's garden. harry, on the other hand, is merely forcing a smile onto his face. malfoy doesn’t have to know that their estate has long been destroyed, not even able to grow weeds from the amount of dark magic the soil has absorbed during the death eaters’ reign at the manor.
“will they be coming soon?” malfoy asks. harry hums in question and malfoy gives him an obvious roll of eyes. “my parents. you said they’re out of the country for business?”
“oh, yeah. they’ll be back soon,” harry feels guilt for lying, but he’d feel even more guilt if he tells the boy his parents most likely will never be coming back, ever. his remorse is somewhat appeased by the lucid light in malfoy’s eyes, and a slight smile on his lips.
“you shall keep me company, then,” he drawls loftily in that signature way of his that he has even at seven years old.
“yes, i’ll be staying for a while. do you have any messages for your parents? i think i can relay them when i leave for the day.” the light dims. harry, surprisingly, also feels dismal at the thought of leaving.
“it’s dreadfully boring here,” malfoy says in a way that harry suspects he wants to replace the word boring with lonely. “i would like if they took care of their business shortly.”
harry looks at him with expectancy. malfoy raises a brow in return and harry realises his message was complete. he doesn’t know whether to be concerned that he didn’t ask for souvenirs, or that malfoy didn’t offer any words of affection. but what does harry know, anyway.
“alright, i’ll tell them that, then.”
malfoy offers him a nod and, finding a willing listener in harry, tells him of stories from his childhood. or, harry guesses, were things that occurred to the seven-year-old malfoy quite recently. he tells harry about that one time pansy and theo fell face first in a puddle of mud near the forests of the manor as he and blaise watched, giggling as he reenacts the episode.
he recounts stories of his new toy dragon (“that breathes real fire, harry!”) from diagon alley, his first flying lesson (“i was a natural, of course.”) and his new broomstick, and his potions tutoring sessions (“potions is fascinating so i like attending classes for it.”) from his godfather.
harry quietly listens, noticing that malfoy still points his nose up tauntingly, and the way his haughty air of confidence seems to permeate the conversation even now. as opposed to his absentmindedness earlier, harry now tries to absorb all that he can, overlapping this young malfoy with his malfoy—noticing their similarities and differences. one easy to smile, light dancing in his eyes, with the red of shyness colouring his face; the other a mere husk of a boy, always bearing a gloomy aura, with the grey of ash marking his arm and life.
“say, harry,” malfoy starts. “do you know of anyone named harry potter?”
harry startles, although he really should’ve known malfoy would know of him at this age. he was the reason voldemort was defeated in both wars, after all. “yeah, i know of him. i think it would be ignorant of me to not know, no?”
malfoy again goes red in the ears, fiddling with the paper holding the bouquet. harry thinks it endearing and laments the fact that he will never see these habits on the malfoy he knows. knew.
“once i go to hogwarts,” harry looks up at the malfoy in front of him. the one with rosy cheeks and a gentle smile, “i’m going to be the best of friends with harry potter.” he says this with such conviction and pride that harry feels his chest constricting.
harry looks up at the manor’s high ceiling, breathing hard and slow, willing his tears away.
“i made father buy me all the books on harry potter and i insisted mother read it to me at night rather than those useless beedle fables. did you know he was born a month, three weeks, and five days after me? that means we’ll be in the same year at hogwarts, so there’s a relatively high chance of me befriending him!” he exclaims, excitable at the concept of spending his seven years at harry’s side instead of opposite him.
june fifth, he remembers abruptly. harry remembers a litany of sweets, a rowdy slytherin table and an excessively gleaming malfoy.
his gaze strays from young malfoy and onto the plaque under the portrait: draco lucius malfoy, dated the 5th of june, 1987. malfoy would be turning 18 in three days and the reality of the situation once again strikes him.
harry suddenly wants to protect this boy, wants to gather him in his arms and tell him if he could do it again, he’ll grab his hand. he’ll hold a conversation with him instead of throwing around scalding insults and actually make an effort in maintaining a friendship. they’ll play quidditch together, draco would help harry with potions and harry would help draco with defence. they’ll eat together at the great hall and drink butterbeer at the three broomsticks and laugh under the tree at the black lake.
draco would help harry with the triwizard tournament, maybe even go to the ball with him. he would comfort harry after sirius died, and he would go with them to hunt horcruxes.
he wouldn’t be covered in scars that harry inflicted on him. he wouldn’t have been forced to make choices that killed him inside. he wouldn’t have been engulfed in those bright sentient flames in the room that became his perdition.
“swear to me that you won’t tell anyone?” draco brings harry back to their conversation, to existence. the number of times he’s drifted during this conversation is terribly concerning. “yeah, i promise,” he smiles ruefully, knowing that his promise is futile, both because he won’t be able to keep it (he needs to talk about this with a mind healer, or at least hermione), and because it’s simply pointless.
draco malfoy is dead. keeping or breaking this promise won’t change anything.
“listen, draco. i need to go—”
“not this soon? you haven’t even been here for an hour!” he whines.
“i know, i’m sorry. i just, i have other work to do, yeah? i told you your parents hired me to look over your house?”
“we have house elves for that. can’t you stay a bit longer? if you leave the other ones are going to come back and their discussions are absolutely banal,” draco pouts more, using the bouquet as a pointing tool. curiously, none of the petals are disturbed. “and they’re rather crass towards me.”
“i’ll make sure they’re moved then, so you don’t have to talk to them anymore. but i really do have to go. the house elves have been dismissed from the manor, that’s why they couldn’t attend to you when you called for them. so i’m here, along with a few others to look over the property, ok?” harry reasons. he stares at draco almost pleadingly, while draco simply regards him with a furrowed brow.
“fine,” draco relents. “but you’ll come back soon?”
“i will, don’t worry about that,” he smiles. a genuine one this time, mirthful instead of sorry.
“and you’ll relay my message to my parents?”
“yep, you can count on me.”
“alright, then. farewell for now,” he nods at harry, giving him a reluctant smile, like he doesn’t believe that harry will really come back for him, so harry adds on a promise of “i’ll see you later” before draco disappears into his portrait. harry watches the boy go, and turns to leave down the corridor he came.
he passes by a junior auror on the way back and requests to move draco’s portrait to a more isolated, but comfortable area, preferably in a wing the hasn’t been tainted by the war. hopefully draco won’t be too disgruntled by being moved.
the auror seems to be displeased at the fact that a non-auror is giving him orders, but he’s harry potter so they oblige. harry thinks using his name for things like this, personal sentiments, is more than acceptable given how much he sacrificed for the wizarding world.
walking down the stone path back to the gate, he recalls pale, slender fingers, cold on his own amidst the scorching flames. despite the touch being only a slight brush of limbs, harry thinks his right hand will be perpetually frigid.
he recalls shorter fingers toying with wrapping paper and baby pink rose petals, and blood rushing to pink cheeks and even pinker ears.
he leaves the manor feeling choked and a little worse than when he arrived. harry finally lets the tears fall, hot against his cheeks and glistening under the bright sun of wiltshire. all the same, he knows that he’ll be coming back.
it’s the only way he’ll be able to feel draco’s warmth again, after all.
content: rated teen, fluff, light angst, royalty!au, arranged marriage, knight harry potter, prince draco malfoy, slight period-typical homophobia; for @drarrymicrofic's february 2024 prompt: royalty
word count: 1.0k
masterlist
draco tugs at his ruffled collar and long balloon sleeves. he doesn’t understand why he has to wear all these stuffy clothes while travelling. ser harry is the only one of importance that will be able to see him anyways, and he’s not even in the carriage with him.
ser harry is the coachman, as well as draco’s knight and guard on his journey to be betrothed to astoria greengrass. draco scoffs, his face turning an ugly sneer that his mother would scold him for. he’s never seen princess astoria, nor does he know anything about her. everything he knows about the greengrasses is simply about the elder sister’s rebellion, the princess daphne — stories about her eloping with a commoner and returning with a family of her own years later.
draco presumes this is the best arrangement his parents could have procured for him. after all, he has his own share of rumours that must have lessened his opportunities to tie with one of the more powerful families.
the carriage slows to a stop, the lulling falls of the horses’ hooves ceasing, much to draco’s chagrin. the constant clip-clops was the only aspect of the travel that draco can tolerate (with the exception of being in ser harry’s company, but even that is debatable, what with its influence on draco’s pulse).
the door opens and ser harry looks him over, like someone could have harmed draco while inside the carriage and while the knight was so near in proximity.
“how do you fare, my prince?” ser harry breathes.
“why have we stopped?” draco ignores the sudden heaviness in his chest at the sight of ser harry. his raven hair sticks to his forehead as sweat drips from his temples, to the ends of his curls, and then to his shoulders. he’s flushed and draco doesn’t want to think about how hot he’s feeling under all that armour.
“it is midday, my prince. the horses need to rest. under the shade, preferably.” he steps back a bit and looks around the edge of the forest that they’ve stopped in. he sounds genuine, the horses need to rest, not him. “i can scour the nearby areas and see if we can rest under the trees. remaining inside the carriage might be suffocating,” ser harry mutters, still roving his gaze on the trees.
“i shall wait here, then.”
ser harry turns back to him with a nod, then promptly disappears. unfortunately, ser harry is correct — the carriage is unbearably warm and stifling. like a summer wedding with a woman. draco dreads the very thought even though it will be reality in a fortnight.
draco pulls at his collar again, wanting to cry from the lack of comfort it provides. why must all formal clothes he owns be so itchy?
he sighs, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. it’s only ser harry. not a royalty, nor a nobleman, and very loyal to draco’s family. he will not utter a word that may stain draco’s reputation.
with that, draco opens the chest under the seat and fishes out the silk blouse that he stole from his mother’s wardrobe. the clothing is still cool to the touch, making draco smile.
he quickly takes off his vest, followed by the shirt that has been vexing him the whole ride through, and puts the blouse on. he leaves a few of the top buttons open and rolls up his sleeves to allow for more of the very little breeze that comes in contact with his flushed skin.
he sags on the leather seat, his head thrown back on the backrest. even if the weather is against him, he wishes this moment will never end. in a few days, he will be entering the greengrass castle, bowing to yet another royal family and kissing the hand of a princess he never wants to marry.
he imagines instead, a knight kissing his own hand, asking his parents for it, for their blessing. he imagines black curls tangled in his fingers, plump pink lips on his nape in the early hours of the morning. he imagines soft laughter around the dinner table and tight embraces at the randomest of times.
the door opens again. “my prince!” ser harry beams at him. draco cannot contain the smile that blossoms on his face at ser harry’s sanguine expression. “i’ve found us a spot, it’s near the river too, so you can—”
ser harry stops, more wide-eyed than when he burst open the carriage. he looks more fevered than before. he must have been exploring at a very brisk pace, or perhaps he covered more ground than draco expected him to. draco’s chest aches at the thought.
“i can wash?” draco asks after ser harry fails to continue his sentence. ser harry is still looking at him incredulously, the sounds of his erratic breaths clearly audible. “are you quite alright?”
“yes!” the knight stands up straighter, meeting draco’s eye for a second before quickly turning away. “please follow me, m-my prince. it’s only a bit of a walk from here.”
“alright, then.” draco says, stepping out of the carriage. ser harry is a few steps ahead of him, his strides longer and faster than draco’s. draco is walking silently behind him when he suddenly stops and turns around.
“my prince,” ser harry starts. “how would you feel about delaying your arrival at castle greengrass? i—” he averts his eyes from draco’s, fiddling with the indentations on the hilt of the sword strapped to his belt. “i saw a town not far from here during my search and it looked beautiful. houses with climbing vines, a bakery, i believe, and a library, possibly, i didn’t get quite a good look, i did see a couple of stray cats, tho—”
“ser.” draco stops ser harry’s rambling, something of a plan forming in his mind. perhaps daphne greengrass will not be the only sovereign infamous for deserting their royal duties. “that would be lovely.”
the brilliant grin that ser harry gives him only emboldens him more. draco cannot suppress the dreamy sigh he lets out as both of them continue on their way to the spot beside the river, this time side by side.
harry potter who constantly has nightmares about almost being a murderer at sixteen. harry potter who thinks his most grievous mistake is uttering a spell that caused horrifyingly great pain, so much so that it haunts him through his time on the run with his friends, after the war, and even into his career as an auror. harry potter who, despite having seen death and cruelty before, had never seen so much crimson at once, mixing with water and painting an illusion of slow, agonising loss that’s so unlike a particular flash of green.
harry potter who hears a loud thud and a ghost screeching — the putrid smell of rust — whenever he sees draco malfoy. harry potter who apologises with shaking breaths and salt tracks on his cheeks months after simply existing in each other’s presence, sick of heavy silences and the blaring depth of their lack of interaction.
harry potter who kisses draco malfoy’s scars with tender care, both those caused by his own hand and those he failed to protect. harry potter who makes tea for two in the mornings — his with a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk, and the other with a drop of cream and a generous amount of honey — and eats an already-prepped dinner for two in the evenings. harry potter who loves so wholly, so purely, and draco malfoy who loves in synonym, building a life of healing and forever.
