#drarry oneshot

[pottersboy]

“Okay quietly now,” Harry whispers, turning the knob as quietly as possible, “we want to wake Papa gently, remember?”

“Yes Daddy,” the child matches his tone, “no jumping on the bed.”

“Right,” Harry smiles and gives a small nod.

He follows James, who’s almost three now, into their bedroom, carefully carrying a breakfast tray.

A testament to Harry’s coaching, James, despite his excitement, does actually avoid jumping on the bed, and instead approaches Draco’s side and pokes him. Harry suspects Draco was already awake, but he pretends to stir, then opens his eyes wide at James.

“Birthday, Papa!” James says, practically bouncing in place.

“Birthday?” Draco says sleepily, “it isn’t your birthday yet! Though you do look older.”

“Not me! You!” and Draco smiles down at him and sits up in bed, grabbing James and swooping him into his lap.

“That’s right it is my birthday!” he exclaims, then points toward the breakfast tray, “what did you make for me?”

“Pancakes!” James answers, smiling, “Daddy barely helped.”

“I’m not surprised,” Draco shakes his head, but smirks up at Harry, who feels so full of love he could burst. Draco then turns his attention back to James, “why don’t you go wake up your brother?”

- a little snippet from the end of a oneshot I’m writing in honor of Draco’s birthday

Update! You can now read this fic in full :)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66386056

[drarrywords]

Mine, still

The first time Harry Potter saw Draco Malfoy again, it wasn’t in a courtroom, or at some Ministry ball soaked in champagne and past-life grudges. No, it was in a cramped, pleasantly musty apothecary tucked between a Muggle tailor and a secondhand bookshop in Soho. The kind of place no one would think to find either of them—and yet, there they both were.

Harry was holding a sleeping Teddy Lupin on one hip, the boy's dark lashes fanned against flushed cheeks, breathing softly into Harry’s neck. His other hand clutched a scroll of potion prescriptions that Andromeda had insisted be filled today.

He stepped into the shop, bell jingling above the door, and glanced around at the warm, wood-paneled interior and neat shelves lined with everything from powdered bicorn horn to dried valerian roots.

Then he saw him.

Behind the counter, pale as frost and half-bent over an inventory scroll, was Draco Malfoy. His hair was longer now, tied at the nape in an effortless knot, and he wore a charcoal-grey robe rolled to the elbows, revealing elegant hands stained with ink and herb residue. There was a smudge of green along his cheekbone. He looked tired. Lean. Different, but unmistakably Draco.

For a long, stupid moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt immediately charged, electric with the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

Draco looked up slowly, his gaze flicking from Teddy to Harry. His mouth twitched, but not into anything resembling a smile, “Potter. 

“Malfoy,” Harry returned, cautious. “You’re here.”

Draco tilted his head, something unreadable in his eyes.

A long beat passed. Teddy stirred against Harry’s shoulder, soft and oblivious.

Harry cleared his throat. “I just need these filled.” He approached the counter and slid the scroll across.

Draco scanned it, fingers brushing the parchment. “Andromeda’s still using that old potion for his lungs? Surprised she hasn't updated it.”

“She trusts what works.”

“Hm.” There was a pause, like the eye of a storm. Then Draco added, “Must be nice, Potter. Ever the perfect Godfather”

Harry stiffened. “What's your problem, Malfoy?”

“Oh, forgive me,” Draco said, sarcasm beginning to curdle in his voice. “Didn’t realise I needed permission to speak to the Harry Potter.”

Harry frowned. “Is this what this is going to be? Your bitter commentary while pretending you’re above it all?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m pretending? You walk in here, still smelling like the Ministry’s moral superiority complex, and expect me to act like nothing ever happened between us in the past?”

“I don’t expect anything,” Harry said sharply. “But I didn’t come here for this.”

“No. You came to parade the perfect godfather image, I suppose. Or maybe to see what became of the boy you hated and saved in equal measure.”

“I didn’t hate you.”

Draco scoffed. “That’s a convenient rewrite.”

“Fine. I didn’t like you. But I never wanted—”

“To see me here?” Draco cut in. “Behind a counter, selling potions, raising a child I never thought I’d have alone?”

Harry’s voice dropped, quiet but firm. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You don’t know what you mean,” Draco muttered, turning away sharply. “You never did when it came to me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was taut with restraint, with all the fights they’d never had the chance to finish, with everything that had been simmering for years. Harry tried to take a breath. “Look, I didn’t walk in here expecting a reunion. I didn’t even know this was your shop. Can we—can we not do this right now?”

Draco gave him a long, unreadable look. Then his eyes flicked again to Teddy, who had nestled deeper into Harry’s shoulder.

“I’ll get your potions,” he said finally. His voice had cooled, but not softened. He turned, pulling ingredients with mechanical precision.

A long moment passed, filled only by the quiet clink of glass and soft grinding of herbs. Harry glanced around, then spotted a pale blue pram tucked behind a curtain in the corner. His chest tightened.

“You have a son?” he asked, tentatively.

Draco didn’t look up. “Scorpius. Ten months.”

“Are you doing it all on your own?”

Draco’s hands slowed slightly. “Yes.”

Something in Harry’s chest twisted. “That can’t be easy.”

“It’s not,” Draco said, and for a second, he sounded human again. Tired. Honest.

Their eyes met. And suddenly, they weren’t shouting. They were just two men, bruised by life in different ways, standing in the same small room.

Then, it broke. 

Draco handed him the bag and he left. 

Harry didn’t mean to see him again. That was the truth.

He’d tried to forget it—the way Draco’s voice had cracked just slightly when he said he was raising a child alone. The way his fingers trembled, almost imperceptibly, when their hands touched. The fact that Harry hadn’t looked away.

But that night, sleep had evaded him. Teddy had long since gone to bed, curled up under a blanket Andromeda had charmed to emit a faint lullaby, and Harry had stood for hours at the kitchen sink, staring into the darkness beyond the window.

Ten months old, Draco had said. Andromeda mentioned a baby recently, hadn’t she? Something in the Prophet about an anonymous donor, whispered in the background of some article Harry barely skimmed.

It could be a coincidence. Probably was. Except—

He’d donated once. Years ago. Anonymously. For a Muggle clinic, of all things. He’d been twenty-three and reeling after the war, desperate for some abstract hope, some idea that part of him might go on in the world even if he didn’t know how to be a part of it. He hadn’t thought of it in years.

He didn’t want to think about it now.

But then two weeks passed. Teddy needed another round of potions. And before Harry could stop himself, he found his feet turning again down the same little alley in Soho.

This time, Draco wasn’t behind the counter. Instead, a small boy with pale blond hair and shockingly green eyes stood near the herb racks, clutching a stuffed thestral and babbling nonsense to himself.

Harry froze. 

He would have recognized those eyes anywhere.

“Scorpius!” Draco’s voice echoed from the back. Then he appeared, hands dusted in asphodel, a towel thrown over one shoulder.

He saw Harry. Then, very slowly, his eyes flicked to the boy.

Harry looked at Draco. “He has my eyes.”

Draco didn’t blink. “Coincidence.”

Harry’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. “No, it’s not.”

Draco set the towel down. Walked forward. Each step, deliberate, “I didn’t know. It was anonymous. I didn’t know it was you.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Harry repeated. “I never would’ve—”

“Wouldn’t have what? Donated? Existed in a world where you could’ve fathered a child and walked away?”

Harry flinched. “Don’t do that.”

Draco was shaking now, whether from fury or something else, Harry didn’t know. “You don’t get to come in here and make this complicated. I had a plan. I was fine.”

“He’s my son.”

“No, he’s mine.” Draco’s voice cracked. “You don’t get to swoop in with your sad eyes because you had a revelation and your moral high ground and lay claim to something you abandoned before you even knew it existed.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Would it have changed anything if you had?”

Silence.

The little boy looked between them, blinking wide green eyes, oblivious.

“I want to be part of his life,” Harry said. “I don’t know how yet. But I want to try.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “You don’t get to want. Not without earning it.”

“I’ll earn it,” Harry said, and for once, his voice was steady. “Even if you hate me for it.”

Draco looked at him for a long, long time. Then, softly:

“I don’t hate you. That is the problem, believe me.”

Scorpius dropped his thestral and waddled forward, holding his arms out.

Harry reached out without thinking—and froze as the boy grasped his finger.

But Draco didn’t stop him.

Part 2

[accio-sriracha]

"Mr. Potter! Tell me about your relationship. How did it all end?"

"Mr. Potter! If I could please steal a moment of your time to ask about the situation between you and Miss Weasley?"

"Mr. Potter! Is it true what happened between you and Ginny Weasley, the Quidditch star?"

"Mr. Potter! What do you have to say about-"

"Mr. Potter-" "Mr. Potter-" "Mr. Potter-"

Harry was at his breaking point.

Though, if he were being honest, he was at his breaking point a long time ago.

He and Ginny had broken up just after the war, deciding they were in very different places and wanted very different things.

In other words, Ginny and Luna Lovegood began dating just after the war.

Harry wasn't upset by it. He was thrilled, actually. He wasn't sure he and Ginny were ever really right for one another. She was Ron's sister, someone he'd been introduced to like family; things had felt wrong between them long before she ever realised she was gay.

It also made it a lot easier for Harry to accept his own truth.

That he was too.

To keep Ginny from getting any backlash as she moved up the social ladder throughout her quidditch career, they all agreed it was for the best if they pretended to still be in a relationship.

It was just easier that way.

Harry could see whoever he wanted if he chose, and Ginny could be with Luna without any pushback from the press.

It wasn't hard to pretend either. They didn't do anything more than they usually did when they hung out; they talked like always, went out to cafés and went shopping together.

People just assumed the lack of kissing and hand-holding was a PDA issue. Harry made sure to encourage those rumours.

And this all went swimmingly; Ginny and Luna got married, all the Weasleys were there, and it was a beautiful ceremony.

Well, it was good, until someone released photos from said wedding and outed Ginny to the entirety of the Wizarding World.

They tried to deny it, tried to claim it as fake and charmed together. But the proof was undeniable. The picture showed Ginny exchanging rings with a woman in a bridal dress while Harry stood off to the side as Ginny's best man.

The news spread like a wildfire. It went far and fast and it was all anyone would talk about for the rest of the year.

And that's how Harry ended up here. No matter what the event was for, no matter what conference he was holding or what fundraiser he was appearing at, it was always the same questions.

Did you know your girlfriend was gay?

How do you feel about being cheated on?

How are you recovering from your recent heartbreak?

Why were you the best man? Did she force you to attend?

It was madness.

They had agreed to deflect these questions. Harry still wasn't sure he was ready to come out, and Luna's face was never shown in the photo; it was better to keep the damage to a minimum and not answer anything.

"Mr. Potter?" His assistant called, drawing him out of his spiral.

He glanced up. He could see on the screens around the large auditorium how tired he looked.

He had spaced out, as he often did at these sorts of things. His introduction often took far longer than it needed to.

In his opinion, a simple 'Auror Potter' would have done fine.

The rest of that Boy Who Lived crap was just ridiculous, really.

"Yes, Beatrice?" His tone was sharp, maybe a little too sharp, given they were in public and Beatrice was actually a very nice woman.

"Oh! Um... sorry, sir, you have a question."

"Go on then." He waved in the general direction of the reporters.

He didn't want to see that spark of excitement in the journalist's eyes as they pelted him with questions about the so-called affair, or how he felt about the war, or what it was like to fucking die.

The only thought in his mind was a repeating one: Merlin, please don't ask me about Ginny.

He was surprised when he recognised the speaker's voice. Deeper now and without the typical jeering tone to accompany it.

"Can you tell me when the Aurors will be making a decision on the protection of children in pureblood homes? The petition has yet to be signed, and the community needs an answer."

Harry's eyes snapped up.

Looking directly into Draco Malfoy's.

Harry didn't reply, partially because he couldn't find his voice, and also because he had no idea what to say to Malfoy after all of these years.

He didn't care what he looked like, or what other people would think of his blatant staring.

For once- perhaps the first time since he graduated and began his journey as an auror- he completely forgot he was in the public eye.

"Malfoy." The word was barely a whisper, but the microphone placed directly in front of him ensured the entire room could hear.

This one word is what drove the room into pure silence. Harry doubted the Minister of Magic herself could manage this level of attention he gained in a single breath.

Malfoy's eyes widened and he cleared his throat, glancing around at the screens with their cameras now pointed at him.

"Potter," he greeted. The microphone made it sound like a shout in the quiet room.

Harry's heart lurched at the sound, the familiarity of his name from Malfoy's lips.

In a world where everything had changed so rapidly since the war, this was something he could count on.

Only not really. They weren't fighting anymore. And Malfoy was still waiting for an answer to his question.

"I'm sorry." Harry sat up a little straighter, actually paying attention for what was probably the first time that evening. "Would you mind repeating the question, please?"

It was the politest he'd been to a reporter in, well, ever. Malfoy nodded and looked back down at his notebook.

"The activists for the protection of children in abusive pureblood homes would like an official statement from the Auror department on what they are willing to do to help," he explained again.

Harry watched Malfoy's eyes, the way he spoke with so much passion. Harry remembered it so clearly. It was the same glint he'd held all those years ago.

The sight made his stomach flip. Maybe things hadn't changed so much after all.

"Tell me more about your organisation," Harry said.

Beatrice shot him a questioning look. The conference was to introduce Harry as the new Head Auror, and they had a strict schedule for questions that was going to end soon.

Harry didn't care.

Malfoy looked a little shocked but nodded anyway. "We've been working to remove and re-home young wizards from suspected abusive households, especially but not entirely exclusive to pureblood families."

Harry didn't know why this would surprise him. Malfoy was always strong-willed; of course he would lead an organisation for something he was passionate about.

Harry thought back to his time with the Dursleys and found himself nodding, imagining how much easier his life would have been if he'd been placed with a family like the Weasleys from the start.

"I'll have to admit you have my interest." Harry gave a half smile. He could see cameras flashing like mad.

Harry wasn't sure he'd ever smiled at a conference before.

"Enough to convince you to help?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow. And just like that, they were kids again, young and content in their own small worlds, like nothing else mattered around them.

"That depends." Harry leaned back a little. "You're the spokesperson?"

"Does that fact bother you, Potter?"

"Not in the slightest, Malfoy." He felt his lips twitching further upwards. More lights flashed to capture the monumental moment of Harry's real smile. "What's the name of this organisation?"

He hesitated. "A Chance to Choose. Most of us just call it the Chance Movement."

"You named it?" He could tell by the nervous way he checked his charts.

Malfoy's chin tilted up. "I did," he replied, gaining the confidence Harry had always considered him to be a ponce for as kids. Now, he found it rather charming.

"I like it." Harry nodded.

Malfoy cleared his throat. "What do you say, then? Do you think the Auror department will be willing to help?"

Harry let out a long breath and finally glanced over at Beatrice. Her eyes were wide. She shrugged; this wasn't something they normally had to deal with on the Head Auror's first day in position.

"I'll tell you what. I'll have my assistant find you afterwards; we can discuss this matter further when we have more time to do so."

"Would that be a yes, Potter?" Malfoy smirked, his tone hinting at playfulness.

Harry laughed softly, and it felt so freeing he wondered why he didn't laugh more often.

Cameras flashed again, everyone desperate to get his image, effectively reminding him exactly why he didn't.

"That would be a yes, Malfoy. We'll continue this?" He couldn't help the feeling of hope spreading through him, or the relief at the sight of Malfoy's nod.

"Of course. Thank you for your time, Head Auror Potter." He said the name with the same mock-reverent tone he used to call Harry The Chosen One.

It made Harry smile involuntarily.

Leave it to Malfoy to make fun of one of the Head of the Auror department.

"Any other questions?" He asked.

Every single hand in the room shot into the air.

Harry hadn't looked away from Malfoy yet, watching as he bit back a laugh.

Harry nodded and stood from his seat. "On second thought. I think that will be all, thank you."

There was a sudden uproar of noise from the crowd as everyone began talking at once.

Harry walked straight to the edge of the stage, holding out a hand.

"Would you like to walk with me? My assistant can help you with whatever you needto get our collaboration started."

Malfoy smiled and reached up to take it, letting Harry help him onto the stage.

Harry had the afterthought to give the rest of the crowd a quick wave as he led Malfoy to where Beatrice stood.

"I will kill you some day," she hissed.

Harry smiled easily at her. He still hadn't let go of Malfoy's hand.

"I'm sure you will, Bea. Can you clear my schedule for the rest of the day? You can yell at me about public relations later. Mr. Malfoy has more pressing matters to discuss with us."

She narrowed her eyes but didn't object. Something about the way she fought back a smile told Harry she was just as happy as he was about the outcome of the conference. She turned, motioning for security to follow along behind them as they left for Harry's department.

"Scared, Malfoy?" He whispered as they walked.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You wish."

[slut4drarry]

Today I accidentally went nuts and told my sister alllll about how CANON !!! Drarry is lol

The way they circle around each other for the first six books until Harry sees Draco in the Astronomy tower, pure panic, wanting a way out and Harry is CHANGED after that. He sees Draco with so much more compassion, he think about him and feels sorrow for his circumstance. And they keep saving each other. At Malfoy Manor, during the battle. Draco’s wand changes allegiance, Harry KILLS Voldemort with it! Draco’s wand! Is loyal to Harry! And ends the war! Draco’s mother saves Harry in the end! They are inextricably intertwined!

I need to write this out with more thought but whatever!

[byanteros]

post-mortem photographs [hpdm]

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.

[fates-little-crow]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Additional Tags: Drarry, draco and harry finally bang, Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch Locker Rooms, Locker Room Sex, Anal Sex, very mild dirty talk, Draco Malfoy is a Brat, and we love him for it, draco calling harry by his first name Summary:

Draco is annoyed at losing against Harry in Quidditch again. Their banter ends in sex in the locker room. That's it lol

[basiatlu]

Rush

by @mono-chromia & @basiatlu

‘He’s not kissing me, but I can taste him. He’s not kissing me, but his tongue touches mine because I meet him halfway. He’s not kissing me, but I am kissing him.’

It’s one thing to let yourself want the things you want, and another to let yourself have them. Draco does neither, but a lot can change in a single night.

A story about being queer and being shameless, about feeling out of place and falling into place. About finding your people and letting them see you, no matter how uncomfortable.

word count: 10.5k

✨Read on Ao3✨

[mono-chromia]

Team Sport

A Drarry microfic//oneshot by mono-chromia

Cover illustration by my beloved @basiatlu (alternate versions can be viewed here)

Word count: 1.015

Read under the cut, or on AO3

Draco hadn't understood, but as he comes to find out, Hermione's words had made perfect sense. Harry Potter makes a sport out of sleeping; commiting to a nap the same way he does to a game of Quidditch.

'Mione had once called Harry a "hard sleeper", whatever that may be.

"A heavy sleeper?" Draco had asked, unsure if he was missing some muggle turn of phrase. It comes up when they are trying to figure out the sleeping arrangements in the shared hotel rooms for Luna and Neville's destination wedding.

"Oh, no," she says. "Well, that too, I suppose, so he won't mind if you get back late, but he sleeps hard. I can't quite explain it." Draco doesn't mention the undiscussed assumption that he and Harry are apparently to bunk up together. "You know how he always tries to carry all the plates and cutlery to the table in a single go? Even if there's sixteen people dining?" Draco nods. "It's kind of like that."

Draco hadn't understood, but as he comes to find out, Hermione's words had made perfect sense. Harry Potter makes a sport out of sleeping; commiting to a nap the same way he does to a game of Quidditch.

Their portkey takes them from 5 A.M. in London to 11 A.M. somewhere in the Mekong Delta region, so when they arrive in their room, Harry immediately crawls into the pristinely made hotel bed, nesting the crisp duvets and the pillows into an iceberg-like structure and sleeps. Hard. Sprawled on his belly with his clothes still on (he's wearing sweat shorts at least, not jeans, thank Merlin) but with his feet sticking out for temperature regulation. He looks like he knows what he's doing. Draco watches him fuss and clumsily toe off his socks (because what lunatic wears socks to bed? Ridiculous) and then doze off immediately, squeezing in a highly efficient, half hour kip before they are expected for their lunch arrangements.

Harry seems more affected by the jetlag than the rest of the company, so Draco finds him, not unlike a cat, sleeping in strange places and at odd moments during the entirety of their stay in Vietnam.

For instance, on a couch in the hotel lobby one early morning, while Ron and Hermione argue with the clerk over the tour reservation that Ron definitely made correctly, with his head in Luna's lap, hoodie pulled low over his eyes, and his arms hugged around his chest.

Or, on the lawn chairs by the pool in the middle of the day. Which, Draco supposes, isn't that strange a place to sleep, but Harry's commitment to the activity is once again proven when Hermione ambles over to rub sunscreen on his back and place a sunhat over his head, all without as much as a twitch.

It's really quite fascinating to watch (though no one else seems to think so) and Draco finds himself somewhat jealous, because even when he diligently works through his own list of requirements for a good sleep (freshly showered, moisturized, teeth brushed, clean sheets, glass of water on the side table, window open for airflow, access to his own pillow) he still doesn't often manage to make eight uninterrupted hours, let alone any misguided attempts at a restful nap. When Draco naps it means the situation is dire, that he is unwell, that he feels like something has crawled up his ass and died there, and it usually only exacerbates his condition instead of having the much desired effect it seems to have on Harry. That effect being that he wakes up content, mellow and sleep-soft (objectively) and exists like that for five minutes or so, before moving onto stage two of his post-nap euphoria, which includes but is not limited to; a general lust for life, toothy grins, silly jokes (objectively), and a propensity for affection towards whoever is nearest to him at any given moment.

Which means that Draco finds himself subjected to the feeling of gently excited hands on his wrists and back as they ooh-and-ahh at the view on their hike, and a chin hooked over his shoulder as Harry feigns mild interest in the book Draco is reading, before asking him to come swim.

Apparently, it also means that, when Draco is keyed up with homesickness on the third of their eight-night stay, Harry invites him into bed.

"You okay?"

Draco looks back from where he has his head stuck out the window, spooked and feeling slightly caught. He stares at Harry in his bed, making up the shape of his body under the sheets from his feet (sticking out from under the cover) to his rumpled head that's more under the pillow than on top of it. Harry's voice is thick with sleep and so, so soft.

"Oh," says Draco. "Yeah. Um. Just— a bout of insomnia."

Harry just hums, low and noncommittal, and for a moment Draco thinks that he might be sleep talking. But then Harry shifts and lifts up the duvet, wordlessly and casually extending an invite towards Draco, and waits for him to get in.

Draco would object, but maybe Harry's bed is just that much more comfortable, maybe that's why he sleeps so well, and well— truly it looks much too inviting to resist. So Draco doesn't object, and quietly pads across their room to slip into bed with Harry. The blanket is bunched up and skewed, there are more than enough pillows, yet none of them in the right spot to actually fulfill their intended purpose, but Harry isn't fussed in the least, and wastes no time snaking an arm across Draco's middle and slotting his head under Draco's chin. Harry seems to fall back asleep pretty much immediately, and Draco is suddenly surrounded by an aura of sleep-warmed sheets, skin-on-skin contact and a bouquet of powdery scented curls, clean skin and sweet spearmint breath. It would have been overwhelming if it wasn't so blissfully sedative.

A robust dose of Dreamless Sleep has nothing on the deep rise and fall of Harry's chest, the dozy twitch of his toes against Draco's leg, the blooming warmth in all the spots where their bodies are touching. Draco dreamily wishes he could bottle it. Who knew that sleeping was a team sport.