#drarry poem

[maesterchill]

How the Minister Stole Christmas

(or at least tried to cancel it)

Happy Holidays @otpcutie !! Written for your @drarrymicrofic Wheel of Drarry prompt 'Grinch'. I hope you enjoy! I had lots of fun writing this 💖 (646 words)

Old Minister Malfoy is brooding alone, On a paperwork hill. A bureaucracy throne.

But just why is the Minister feeling so flat? So spiky and lonely and cross as a bat?

While the season is sparkling with laughter and cheer. He has nobody (no one!) to wish “Glad New Year!”

Outside, all of London is twinkling with bliss. Which only makes Draco more certain of THIS:

“Christmas SPIRIT is a scourge, It’s a pain and a bore! It plagues every wizard and witch by the score. They should behave with decorum! With grace and discretion! Not indulge in this mistletoe snogging obsession!”

He clenches his jaw as he pictures a scene: The Weasleys all merry and red and obscene. Sitting around eating puddings and pies, Drunk on cheap mead, he thinks, rolling his eyes. With vile jumpers! And singing! And terrible jokes! And Potter with GINNY! “Disgusting”, he chokes. “Canoodling by the fire, all cosy and SMUG, While I get NO present! No pudding! No hug!”

He paces in fury, his boots striking sparks. He grouses, “I’ll end it. I’ll stamp out their larks.”

Then suddenly—POW!—like a hex to his brain, A wicked thought hits him, fast as a train. His eyes narrow slowly. His grin curls and gleams. “Oh yes,” he declares, “what a WONDERFUL scheme. What an awful and terrible and LOVELY idea. I’m a mastermind. Genius! A great puppeteer!”

He leaps to his desk with dramatic elan, And pens a quick edict to kick off his plan:

“CHRISTMAS IS CANCELLED.” (All caps, naturally.) “Due to very real threats of concerning degree. Report without fail Christmas morning to work, OR FORFEIT YOUR JOB!” he adds with a smirk.

He signs, duplicates, before sending away, The owls racing off as if hunting their prey. Then sits back, content (now the missives have flown) That NO ONE will revel if HE is alone.

Draco cackles, actually cackles, yes CACKLES with glee; A whole day of boredom and bureaucracy. No sparkles, no twinkles, no laughter or cheer No mistletoe, mince pies, no bloody reindeer.

“Let THEM be the lonely ones! Let them despair! And Potter so blasé, with no sodding care That I, their dear Minister, so dashing! So tragic! Is left friendless, bereft, with no Yuletide magic.”

On the 25th he dons his big cloak with the cowl. In the mirror he perfects a sharp sneer and a scowl. Through Floo-space he whooshes, rehearsing a speech, But crossing the Atrium, he halts with a screech.

“There you are, Malfoy! Merry Christmas, boss!” Potter—his voice warm, His voice bright and NOT CROSS.

Potter scratches his neck, His hair is a sight, And Draco’s lungs go all stuttery, fluttery-tight.

“I’m glad you’re here, Minister. I hoped you’d appear. You vanish on holidays every damn year.”

Draco’s glower subsides like a house made of cheese. His chest wrenches and whirls with a bloody great squeeze.

His brilliant and villainous plan falls apart, For Potter's HAPPY to see him And it wallops his heart… Which thumps and it bumps like a runaway hex, Expands, explodes, grows thrice in his chest.

“You missed me?” he gasps. Potter nods. “Yes, of course.” Now, what’s that Draco’s feeling? Why yes, it’s REMORSE.

The world seems to wobble, to flicker, to totter. A voice in his head says, Oh Merlin! Oh Potter!

“But Christmas! I cancelled it… I’ve been such an arse! You and Weaslette… I thought— Oh, what a farce!”

But Potter just laughs, pulls him close, soft and steady. “You prat. You magnificent prat. I’ve been ready To tell you I want you, for AGES AND AGES. And you cancelled Christmas? That’s… actually?… courageous.”

Draco blinks, quite bemused by the change in his lot, But Potter keeps grinning, all eager and hot.

And Draco, still breathless, can only decree: “Fine. Christmas is BACK. But you’ll spend it with me!”

🎁

[dodgerkedavra]

A Way for the Lightning

This poem is also on AO3!

[lupine-trees]

in a name.

[ found this lovely little thing i wrote ages ago & remembered i’m rather fond of it. i hope you enjoy it, too. poem-adjacent? (happy ending, i promise!) ♡ ]

drarry | word count: 248 | a rumination on names.

_ _ _

The Malfoy line is at long last ended.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

.

Lucius Malfoy, at the end,

has no

power,

money,

friends.

He takes his name

(for it’s all he holds)

to the waiting grave.

Lucius Malfoy is dead.

.

Narcissa Malfoy singly knows,

no-where is her sudden home.

She walked eyes clear to

a gilded cage,

a glasswork house,

a burning stage.

The Manor felled her.

The ancestral home

knows her no more

and offers her no shelter.

She acquaints,

intimates herself

with the clawing marks

of shame.

She signs the papers

in her sister’s kitchen,

severs a tie,

stitches a wound.

She departs for France,

clutching tight on the plane—

a hope,

a fear,

a new-old name.

She arrives, she knows:

C’est la maison.

Narcissa Black is a woman untethered.

Narcissa Malfoy is dead.

.

Draco Malfoy who cursed the stars

is going to give up the ghost.

Haunted by the laugh of a spitfire man

who insists upon keeping him close.

Aye, there’s the rub.

What’s in a name?

A man he reads,

named Shakespeare claims,

“A rose by any other name...”

There’s something sweet

in letting go,

in healing the hurting

caused once by the rose.

He turns the thorns

from whence they came.

He lets the petals fall.

He marries, is merry,

with lover, his Harry,

who holds him

and whispers,

“Potter.”

“That’s Mr.”

Draco Potter kisses the sun,

the boy who lived,

and finds his life abloom.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

[lqtraintracks]

I haven't written a word of fic in a month. I was seriously thinking that might be it for me. Then Draco's love for Harry's small cock accosted me in the shower. I can't tell you how good it felt to want to write again finally!

So here's 50 words (rated: Mature) for @drarrymicrofic's prompt micro:

Harry's dick is so small like a lollipop in my mouth

it fits my tight hole just right; Harry says it feels like it's sucking him off

it’s smaller than the word beautiful small like: hot fuck yes

Harry’s dick is so small. it’s not a story— it’s a poem.

[thusspoketrish]

A Life In Colour

Draco sees his fate in shades of blue.

His surroundings are warped by subtle greys of grief.

His blood pumps vermilion,

but weakly—his heart is still healing from the damage

of a mark that oozes vantablack.

He breathes in ochre sunshine, yearning, exhaling

remorse against various shades of pink in plush lips.

He seeks forgiveness in iridescent pools of emerald,

and shivers against golden brown,

forever asking to be painted vibrantly,

in the most gorgeous shades of colour.

many thanks to @moonstruckwytch for the read-through

Written for the prompt Blue over at @drarrymicrofic

[mxmaneater]

Here was my drabble/drawble for this month’s challenge! 😊  Read it here or on AO3 (but pls AO3, because they don’t screw over my formatting LOL).

Draco’s Antlers 

Twas the night before Christmas, when straight up in bed

sat Draco with two cumbersome horns on his head.

His confusion was high, and his panic was mounting—

as for this occurrence, there was no accounting.

 As tradition had dictated, he’d gone right to sleep

aft’ considering the gift that would make his heart leap;

he’d written it down in shame and in fear,

crossed his wand thrice above him, then shed a quick tear.

 For the present that, this year, his heart longed for most

was none other than Potter: an enemy to boast.  

There was no use in trying; he had not a shot—

for Potter’s friendship, it seemed, could not ever be bought.

 He’d turned Draco down that day on the train,

and from that moment forward, he’d serve to drive him insane.

But hate, Draco was finding—that hot, blurry line—

hid feelings much deeper than at first he'd opined.  

 And it seemed that these feelings he’d quite like to dull

had coalesced in antlers sprouting right from his skull.

He’d messed up the spell—or the incantation’s smooth sway—

for it had never preempted such a literal display.  

 He thought of his father, down the hall in his room,

and knew this was graver than he could yet presume;

for Lucius hadn’t knowledge of his son’s slight condition

that guaranteed his both dour and gay disposition.  

 He’d have to hide then—he hadn’t a choice,

lest these antlers disprove lies he spoke with his voice.

Perhaps he could fit in the South Wing guest bath

or pop up the chimney without inviting pixies' wrath.

 The latter he tried—and to his cool dismay,

an army of bird-sized blue creatures did bray;

they caught on his horns, and—in no time at all—

had each found a nook in the wide prongs to sprawl.

 Draco unshuttered a window and threw up the sash,

then leaned on the sill, feeling properly abashed.  

For his secret—it's true—was oft thought of as bad,

but he couldn't live his life to just please his dad.

 For the stag on his head was the stag in his heart,

and if he must yet accept that, he thought: why not start?

[hdowlpost]

H/D Owlpost Surprise Gift for DAVONYSUS!

Gift from: anon (creator will be revealed on January 8, 2021)

Enjoy on AO3: Be My Friend

Summary: Harry knows that Draco doesn’t like the expectation of intimacy that most “dates” bring. So, instead he asks Draco to accompany him to the Christmas Ball a different way. Word Count: 177 words + Christmas Baubles Rating: G Contains: Poetry, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Asexuality Notes: Merry Christmas, Dav! I hope you enjoy the poem (and that it fits the theme); you're a wonderful writer and a bright spark in the day. I hope these Christmas Baubles bring you joy.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, @davonysus​!

[temnurus]

For Lily

This might technically be a bit late, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right? I wrote this for a brumal poet who loves two summer boys the same way I do. Happy birthday, @triggerlil.

Our Love Language

When I dream of fire, I wake to the memory of your hand reaching for mine.

The same hand you refused to give at eleven due to my own careless words.

Each callus you earned catching Snitches, grasping your wand, wielding a quill.

That hand rests on the curve of my hip, fingers splayed and possessive in sleep.

I remember each press of your fingertips against my skin in vivid detail.

You like to comment on the contrast of the dark and the light of our skin.

I can only revel in every moment that you touch me with such careful reverence.

Your love is conveyed whenever our fingers twine together as we walk.

Mine is in my surrender, letting your hands go places no one else has ever been.