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For the trope mash-up post, may I request Fake Dating and Soulmate AU for Drarry please, if it sparks any fun inspiration?

(P.S. you're wonderful and I will love literally anything you come up with, even if it's not for these prompts, I just got super excited when you posted this 💜)

No, YOU'RE wonderful!!

So this is what came to me - and I can actually see the rest of the story but I have to go adult for a bit, but I am going to come back later and write some more of this! (As per usual, this is pretty much SOOC and unbeta'd, etc etc.)

Draco’s known since the Final Battle.

He’s pretty sure Potter has no idea, whether it’s that no one’s remembered to tell him about soulmates, or that his mark hasn’t activated yet, but he treats Draco exactly the way he’s treated him since they'd all arrived at University. He’s unfailingly polite, cool and distanced, and deeply disinterested in one Draco Malfoy.

Which isn’t, you know, how you’re supposed to treat your soulmate.

The thumbprint on Draco’s wrist had flared to life when Potter had grabbed his arm to haul him onto the back of the battered broom that carried them both out of the fire. He’d almost fallen off at the way Potter’s magic had rushed over him, through him. Draco had always heard the stories that connecting with your soulmate could be disorienting, but since it happened to him in the midst of mortal terror, Draco’s not sure his experience was typical.

It’s also very rare that one person connects and the other doesn’t, although it does happen. It takes time for the bond to solidify, to grow into a true soulmate connection, and obviously, that’s not happened here. Basically, Potter is a faint echo in Draco’s mind, enough to distract and ache a little, nothing more than that.

All this to say, it’s weird when Potter comes dashing into their suite common room one Saturday afternoon, looking wild-eyed and somewhat disheveled. It’s a rainy day, raw and windy, the kind of day where Draco does not plan to leave the building if he can help it. Potter is damp and windblown, so he clearly had other ideas. Fucking weirdo.

Potter looks around wildly, and lights up when he spots Draco curled up on the couch under his favorite striped blanket.

“Malfoy,” he says eagerly, and Draco blinks up at him in surprise.

Potter’s never sounded happy to see Draco before.

“Yes?” Draco says cautiously. “Can I help you?”

Potter nods vigorously. “You can, yes, absolutely. I need you to pretend to be my soulmate and go to the gala with me tonight.”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco asks, trying to make sense of the words he’s just heard. “You need me to what?”

Potter hangs his coat on the rack by the door, kicks off his grubby trainers and makes his way around the couch to plop down next to Draco.

“I need you to pretend to be my soulmate and go to the gala with me tonight.”

“That’s what I thought you said,” Draco says. “But also, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Potter sighs, lets his head rest on the back of the couch and runs a hand through his unruly hair.

“You know how the press…” his voice trails off and he flushes.

“Follows you around incessantly and makes your life a living hell?” Draco says dryly. “Yes, Potter, I’m aware.”

“Well, someone thought it was a good idea to advertise that I haven’t found my soulmate, and to suggest that anyone who’s unbonded should come to the gala tonight and you know. Shoot their shot or whatever.”

Draco sits bolt upright, outraged. “What the hell? That’s bullshit. That’s not even how it works!”

Potter just sighs again and slumps down even further, eyes closed. “Yeah, I know that, but it’s turned into this whole thing, and every girl in the greater Oxford area, apparently, is now coming to the gala.”

“Can’t you just… not go?”

Potter shakes his head, looking miserable. “No. The Fund is really important to me. I promised to speak.”

“So your solution is to fake a soulmate bond with a man?” Draco asks and Potter snorts.

“Okay, well, when you put it like that, it does sound stupid. I just thought if I could get them all off my back for a bit… No, you’re right. I’ll just have to get a bodyguard again, I guess.”

He sounds so utterly miserable that Draco can’t help but feel sorry for him, which is why he finds himself saying, “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

Potter opens his eyes to stare at Draco. “What?”

Draco shrugs. “I’m not doing anything tonight, there’ll be wine at the gala, yeah?”

Potter looks excited but then his face falls. “But what about your soulmate? What if they’re out there looking for you?”

Draco looks away and swallows. “That won’t be a problem.”

Potter’s eyes narrow. “Why not?” He sucks in a breath and whispers, “Malfoy, do you know who your soulmate is?”

Draco just nods and there’s a long silence while Potter clearly puts some picture together in his head. He’s never been stupid, Draco concedes. Since for all intents and purposes, Draco is unbonded, Potter must know there’s something wrong with all of it.

Finally Potter says, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Draco says and finally turns to look at Potter. “It’ll be fun,” he says carelessly. “What should I wear?”

#my writing #trope mashup #Drarry vignette #fic beginning #I ask that you check in with me before finishing any of my vignettes #THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING

Scars

CW: references to self harm and alcohol abuse

The first time Voldemort fell, the marks branded onto the arms of his followers faded to nothing but a dull grey—a shadow of what they had once been. As he strengthened, they darkened. When he rose, they burned. And when he died, they disappeared into the ether as though they—as though he—had never been.

But Draco could still feel it, lingering beneath his skin, pulsing through his veins—a darkness that would not fade, an evil that would not die. His skin might be blank, but he knew, at the core of himself, that his soul was forever tainted.

He marked himself, instead—to remember, to punish, to feel. To purge the darkness that crawled through every artery until he felt like he would burst from the pressure. Stinging lines of red, a map of his sins scrawled across flesh that was clear and white but didn’t deserve to be.

—

The first time Voldemort met Harry, they both survived, but they both lost parts of themselves. The final time they met, they both died, and their pieces scattered and rearranged. When Harry returned, with his death etched across his chest, everyone hailed him as the hero that had saved them all, and they called him golden, and they thought him whole.

But Harry knew better, knew that the souls of those lost because he hadn’t been enough trailed behind him like chains, knew that everything inside him was grey and fragmented, knew that pieces of himself had been trapped on the other side, leaving him empty and raw.

He filled the gaping chasm with burning liquor that allowed the chains to float, that hid the grey under hazy amber, that dulled the sharp edges where parts of him had been ripped out in the shapes of the people he’d loved and could not save. At least for a while.

—

The first year that Draco and Harry spent together at Hogwarts, they saw each other as rivals. They schemed and fought and thought they knew hate, and they crashed against each other like waves in a stormy sea.

When they returned to Hogwarts for the final time, they saw each other as mirrors, reflecting back their own wounds. They were battered and broken and they knew, now, what hate really looked like, and they chose to bury it with their dead.

One of them was overflowing, his regret uncontainable. The other was empty, his grief fathomless. But in each other they found balance. Eventually, their painful edges melded seamlessly, soldered by a cleansing fire of forgiveness and second chances, and they glowed in the flames, melting and reforming and healing, and together they rose as something new.

Also on AO3

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry drabble #drarry vignette #my writing #sometimes I angst #but mostly I’ve been thinking about how the Dark Marks faded between wars #and what that would mean when Voldie died for good

You're the Winner

Heard this song the other day and had this little scene spring full-fledged to my mind, so I just had to write it.

Drarry (mostly implied), ~800 words, Teen. Pain with a hopeful ending. Post-redemption Draco (undiscussed). Draco and his father. (Unbeta'd and mostly SOOC so please be kind!)

'Cause now there's no one Who ever has done better At making me feel worse Now you really are the winner

“You know,” his father says, pulling one glove off, his hands graceful in their economy of movement. “You’ve always been something of a disappointment, Draco.”

His tone is mild, almost disinterested, as if he’s simply stating a fact. The sky is blue. Water is wet. Draco Malfoy has always been something of a disappointment.

#my writing #just a lil angst for a Sunday morning #drarry fic #drarry vignette

Timing is Everything

Had this little tiny scene just pop into my head, pretty much fully formed. Not particularly edited or anything. Just a moment in time.

Drarry, ~300 words, Teen? Probably?

Realizing he’s in love with his Auror partner is quite surprising to Harry. Doing it in the midst of a firefight with some asshole leftover Death Eaters is, perhaps, not the most convenient time for it, but oh well. What can you do?

Malfoy is right beside him as always, shoulder to shoulder, firing curses with a cold-blooded precision that’s really hot, and Harry groans to himself. Now that he can see it, well, it’s pretty obvious.

Malfoy has felt him go still, turns his head to give Harry an inquiring look.

“Were you planning on participating?” he asks as he yanks Harry to the side, a curse streaking by them.

It’s a virulent orange, unfamiliar to Harry, but the color alone promises bad things.

“I’m sorry, what?” Harry asks, registering that Malfoy’s said something else to him.

Malfoy shoots him another quizzical look, raises one eyebrow and it’s so familiar, so quintessentially Malfoy that Harry can tell that everything he’s feeling is written on his face.

“Any time you’d care to join in,” Malfoy says coolly, shooting from the hip without even looking, and in the distance something explodes. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t die today.”

Harry shakes it off, focuses, adds his own strength to Malfoy’s, and without thinking it through, opens his mouth.

“I would, you know,” he says, putting a burst of power into the Incarcerous he’s casting. “Die for you, I mean.”

Harry turns his head and his eyes meet Malfoy’s. He notes the bob of Malfoy’s throat as he swallows. Malfoy’s hair is a mess and there’s a gleam of sweat on his upper lip. He looks exhausted, but his gaze is sharp as he searches Harry’s face.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Malfoy says finally and turns back to the fight. “Head in the game, Potter. I prefer you alive.”

#drarry vignette #my writing #no purpose to this just a little moment #gentle reminder that I prefer people not to finish or extend my vignettes without talking to me!#thank you so much for understanding!

Drarry vignette, ~580 Words, G gentle reminder, I prefer that people do not extend or finish my vignettes without talk to me first! Thank you so much!

From the Soft™ fic prompt meme: ‘it made me think of you.’

The pounding on his front door startles Harry so badly that he falls off the couch.

It’s one of those lovely early summer days, warm enough that he can have all the windows open but not so warm as to be uncomfortable. There’s a nice breeze, Harry had a particularly delicious sandwich for lunch, and he had, until this moment, been taking a lovely nap on his extremely comfortable couch.

How quickly life can change, Harry thinks mournfully. One moment you’re having a really good dream about cheese and the next moment you’re here, flat on your back on the dusty carpet.

There’s another round of pounding, so Harry sighs, gets to his feet, and goes to answer it.

Standing on his doorstep, looking particularly rageful, is Draco Malfoy, who shoves a large, lumpy, tabloid-wrapped package into Harry’s hands.

“Don’t make this into a thing,” he says mulishly, and then folds his arms and refuses to make eye contact.

Harry looks down at the package and then back to Draco, who’s now staring up at the sky as if it’s personally offended him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said.” Malfoy sighs. “Don’t make this into a thing.”

“Um.” Harry wonders if he’s still asleep. “Do you want me to, err… Should I open this?”

“If you want,” Malfoy mutters, which clearly means yes, so Harry does, rips off the newsprint and tosses it behind him into the hallway.

It takes him a moment to understand what he’s looking at, but when he does, his breath catches in his throat.

“Malfoy,” Harry whispers and blinks rapidly. “What? How did you…”

“Pansy and I were antiquing,” which Harry knows actually means they were combing through the thrift shops at the far end of Diago, “and I saw it. It made me think of you.”

“How did you know?”

Several years ago, Harry’s flat had flooded, and he’d lost most of his possessions, including the leather motorcycle jacket he’d claimed from Sirius’ few belongings right after the war. Harry still has the motorbike, but he’d lost everything else. The jacket he’s is holding isn’t identical, but it’s so close, slightly battered black leather, heavy silver snaps and zippers. It’s even got the same deep crimson lining and the faintest whiff of masculine cologne. It’s not Sirius’s, it can’t possibly the same, but it’s close. Close enough.

Malfoy shrugs awkwardly. “I just remember hearing you talk about it one night at the pub. You were pretty upset.”

“Malfoy,” Harry begins, his mind spinning, “That has to have been five years ago.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “I told you,” he says, and it’s weirdly threatening for someone in the midst of carrying out one of the kindest and most thoughtful gestures Harry’s ever been on the receiving end of, “you need to not make, like, a thing about this.”

Harry stares down at the jacket, rubs a thumb over the heavy buckle at the waist. Thinks some things over. Recalibrates some other things. Finally, he looks up and takes in the sight of Malfoy, cheeks flushed, hands in his pockets, chewing nervously on his lip. Malfoy, who remembered something important to Harry from years ago. Malfoy, who, Harry would bet, has been looking for a jacket like this ever since. Malfoy, on his doorstep, just to give him a gift, looking pissed off about it.

“Draco,” Harry says and Draco’s gaze snaps up to meet Harry’s own. Harry steps back, pushes the door open wider. “Do you want to come in?”

#my writing #tiny little vignette #Drarry vignette #the only way I know how to do fluff honestly #not really a microfic #but my own version of a microfic #sooc #aka not beta'd #if you enjoy'd I'd be so grateful for a reblog!

Just had this tiny little moment show up and needed to write it (thanks to @notthequiettype whose incredible fic you built a city absolutely inspired this - I hope you don’t think it’s a rip off but rather an homage). I did the absolute bare minimum of looking into Quidditch lore, so please be gentle, it’s all part of the vibe, as it were. As usual for these things, unbeta’d and pretty much SOOC.

Drarry, ~430 words, Mature (mostly in the implications? I think?) Tags will definitely have to include gratuitous use of italics.

“You’re wrong.” Draco can’t even believe what he’s hearing. This is ridiculous. This is outrageous!! “You’re so fucking wrong, I don’t know where to start.”

Potter’s thoughtful little hum is smug. He’s so annoying. “I don’t think I am, though.”

Draco runs a hand through his hair, tugs at it in frustration. “You’re just. That’s stupid. How do you even survive in the wild, being this dumb?”

Potter leans back, folds his arms behind his head. The dark blue, linen sheets pool at his waist, and the way the low light highlights the definition of his abs is just unfair. He looks sleepy. His hair’s a mess, there’s a bite mark blooming on his chest, and he’s just so damn self-satisfied that it makes Draco even madder. Potter turns his head, gives Draco a lazy once-over.

“I love how red you get,” he observes and that’s, well.

That is beside the point. Draco knows his cheeks are betraying him, can feel the way the flush is spreading down his chest. The curse of such fair skin and strong emotions.

“You think,” Draco says and has to stop, closing his eyes for a moment in outrage before continuing. “You genuinely just looked me in the eyes and said you think the Canons? The fucking Chudley Canons who have been last in the league for a hundred and twenty years? You think they’re winning the Cup this year?”

Potter makes that same smug little considering sound. “I think they could do, yeah.”

Draco tries again. “I just. Do you have one single, compelling shred of evidence to suggest that you’re correct?” Potter opens his mouth and Draco cuts him off. “Compelling, I said. Something beyond ‘I just want it to happen that way’?”

Potter closes his mouth, and Draco can see the smile he’s fighting flickering over his lips. “Well, when you put it that way, maybe not.”

Potter moves, rolls over on top of Draco, gets his thigh between Draco’s legs and a hand in Draco’s hair. Kisses him deep and slow. Draco finally pulls back with a gasp. He’s got one hand on Potter’s stupidly handsome face, the other planted firmly on Potter’s stupidly gorgeous arse.

“You’re an idiot,” he advises Potter breathlessly. “Such an idiot.”

Potter’s braced over him, grinning down and Draco can’t believe that they’re here like this, after so long. Potter is ridiculous. Draco loves him so, so much.

“Maybe I am,” Potter concedes. “But what does that make you?”

Draco sighs, gives in to his fate. “Also an idiot.”

Potter kisses him again and that’s the last either of them speak for quite some time.

#my writing #drarry vignette #little slice of life moment #I think it’s very possible that the Canons DID in fact win the Cup that year #whatever year this is #who knows it’s all a blur #just a little Sunday morning offering

On a Wednesday, In a Café

(For @phoebe-delia who puts up with me and lets me pop in to ask things like WHO INSULTED TAYLOR SWIFT’S SENSE OF HUMOR?? This is just a tiny little vignette inspired by Start Again. I think this also fits for @drarrymicrofic and the prompt “hope” - in a way.)

The café is weirdly busy for a Wednesday morning.

Draco is moderately disgruntled. He’s used to having the place to himself — his Wednesday mornings are sacred. It’s the one day of the week he can sleep in, as he doesn’t have to be at work until after lunch, and he loves coming to this small, cosy coffee shop. He always gets the same thing, the largest café au lait they serve with two shots of vanilla and whatever savoury scone they’re baking that day, and he always sits in the same place, one of the big comfy overstuffed armchairs in the corner by the fireplace. He reads whatever journal he’s brought along and he eats his scone and he drinks his coffee and it’s just. Really nice. That’s all.

Okay, at least today, no one is in the other armchair, so when Draco sits down and pulls out his journal, maybe it’s a little louder than usual, but things are still fine in his world. He’s managed to tune out the sounds of the people around him, reduced them to background white noise as he reads up on the latest innovations in cauldron technology (spoiler alert: InstantCauldron™ is a misnomer because it does not, in fact, do all the prep work for you even if it does brew in less than half the time a standard cauldron takes, so there’s really nothing Instant about it, not that Draco is bitter). In any case, he’s focused on what he’s reading which is why at first he doesn’t really register the words that he’s hearing.

“Did you hear about…”

“I read that…”

“Did you know he…”

And Draco doesn’t even have to look up to know what’s happened.

Potter is here.

Draco slowly lowers the journal to his lap and learns that he is, in fact correct. Standing at the counter in a pair of ratty jeans and a giant hoodie is one Harry James Potter. His hair is ridiculous and his trainers have seen far, far better days, but he is, as always, infuriatingly handsome.

Except for the tension that Draco can read clearly in his shoulders, the way his eyebrows furrow in a frown, and the way he’s glaring suspiciously at the cashier. He has his reasons, Draco knows.

Late last year, some eight months ago now, Potter had come home from a mission to find his live-in lover in bed with not one, but two young men. Not just any young men, it turned out, but two young men who were high on the Ministry’s Most Wanted List. Potter had arrested them all on the spot (Draco has to give him credit for a cool head under what had to have been rather stressful conditions). When the now-ex was out on bail, the first thing he’d done was go to the press and air all of Potter’s… Well, not dirty laundry exactly. None of what Potter gets up to in his own bed chamber is particularly sordid or shocking (some of it sounds like great fun, actually) but it is, well, private.

And privacy is a luxury Harry James Potter has had very little of.

Potter accepts his drink, and turns around, eyes scanning the room as if searching for the knife he knows is aimed at his back, but then he catches sight of Draco and something very strange happens.

Potter’s shoulders drop, the lines in his forehead smooth out, and then, shockingly, he smiles.

Draco blinks in confusion but no, his eyes are not deceiving him. Potter is raising his cup to his lips and taking a sip, never breaking eye contact, and then, after he swallows, that smile still playing about his beautiful lips, he starts walking toward Draco.

“Anyone sitting here?” His voice is low as he nods towards the empty chair next to Draco and for a moment, all Draco can do is stare at him, dumbfounded.

“Malfoy?” Potter prompts and Draco shakes his head.

“Oh, sorry. No. No one’s sitting there,” and to Draco’s deep astonishment, Potter sits down.

Potter leans back, cross one leg over his threadbare knee, and takes another sip.

“So,” he says, “how have you been?”

#my writing #drarry vignette #drarry microfic #just a beginning #gentle reminder #I prefer people talk to me before finishing or continuing my little vignettes #THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING!!!#xox

Live, Laugh, Love

Drarry, ~400 words, G. cw: very brief mention of suicidal ideation

According to the google, the Live, Laugh, Love phenomenon came about n the late 2000s, so I’m pretending it works for this, which is just a silly little thought I had and wrote up quickly last night. SOOC.

The fact that Draco Malfoy has a Live, Laugh, Love poster on the wall of his flat is not even the most surprising part of the night.

That honour probably has to go to the fact that Harry is sitting on Draco Malfoy’s sofa in Draco Malfoy’s flat. They’d been at the same party and ended up talking in the hallway outside the kitchen for hours until Malfoy had finally asked hesitantly, “Come home with me?” and Harry had shocked them both by saying yes.

So here they are. Malfoy’s flat is nice, warmly decorated with muted colours, comfortable furniture and really a very large number of accent pillows.

And the Live, Laugh, Love poster.

It’s not bad, actually. It’s just a white background with large, blocky black letters that look like they might have been typed with an old-fashioned typewriter, if the typewriter were the size of a car.

Harry is aware of how they’ve been inching closer and closer as they’ve talked, until now, they’re pressed up against each other, no distance between them at all. It occurs to Harry that all he would have to do to kiss Malfoy is just lean in. He doesn’t know why the distance feels insurmountable.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Harry finally has to ask. He indicates the poster with his bottle. “What’s with the poster?”

The lights are low but even so, Harry can see the way Malfoy’s face flushes as he looks away, bites his lip.

“It’s a reminder,” he says finally.

“To live, laugh, love?” Harry asks and Malfoy rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, actually.” Malfoy picks at the label on his beer bottle. “After the war, after everything… I had to make a choice. About whether or not I was going to stick around, you know?”

Yes, Harry thinks. Yes, I know exactly.

Malfoy shrugs. “It wasn’t that I was happy or anything like that. I just crossed that line. So the poster reminds me, you decided to live. So live.” His voice is suddenly fierce.

“And laugh?” Harry asks and Malfoy gives a quick grin.

“Yeah. Like, look for joy. Look for things that make me happy. Like…” He swallows. “Tonight. You made me laugh.”

He’s impossibly close as Harry whispers, his voice hoarse, “And love?”

Malfoy reaches up and his fingers trace over Harry’s cheek so softly, Harry thinks, it’s almost like they’re not even touching.

“I’m working on it.”

#my writing #Drarry #Drarry vignette #Gentle reminder that I’d prefer people not finish my vignettes without talking to me!#Thank you so much for your understanding!