Something small and white flew out of Malfoy’s mouth like a down feather. It drifted aimlessly until it rested against the crook of his wrist. Malfoy’s laugh caught a hard edge in his throat and broke into coughs. More came out, scattered by the bursts of air.
They were petals. Harry caught some in his hand and felt how soft they were. They were wet with Malfoy’s spittle.
“Oh fuck,” someone said. “Is that…?”
companion illustration for root rot, my 8th year hanahaki gift to @popqorn for the drarry charity event, #santaiscoming2025!
Malfoy's teeth eventually stop chattering. There's not much room on Harry's bunk. They're close; he can feel Malfoy's breaths grow warmer against his wrist. He can see Malfoy's shoulder shift under the hem of his sheets.
A gift for @upon-poppyhills for the @drarrymicrofic wheel of drarry exchange. I hope the holidays have been good to you!
prompt: bond | 785 words
Potter is still slumped on top of him when the bell tolls.
The sound, low and luxurious, spills through Draco’s body like warm oil, smoothing out what’s left of the sloppy fuck ten minutes prior. His chest grows heavy until it’s hard to breathe. He doesn’t mind. He lets it sink in, believing it will breathe for him.
At the second toll, his core starts to hum along. He lays in a stupor, listening—to the bell, to himself. There’s magic in this sound. Good magic; good enough to make water taste sweet, like it does in the creek behind the manor woods.
The third toll is clear and bright. Draco’s gone. The only thing keeping him from floating right off the sheets is the steady crush of Potter’s skull against his chest. Potter sighs, comfortable in his sprawl, and it’s this slight shift that brings Draco back to himself. He blinks downwards and sees the smile on Potter’s face.
“That feels good,” Potter murmurs. His lips barely move.
Then the bell tolls one last time, and with it comes a strange, uncomfortable tug in Draco’s stomach. He shudders lightly and pulls away, but nothing budges. He’s caught. Someone’s got a hook through his very core. Magic flows through to him, first a trickle but quickly a flood. It becomes unbearable. Searing hot. Familiar.
Mid-incantation. Potter’s hand over his. A spell is being pushed out through Draco’s wand.
Oh no.
A few feet away on the table, Potter’s empty glass of wine explodes, sending glass flying to all corners. The sound of the bell dies with it.
Draco shoves Potter off of him, hard. Potter tumbles gracelessly to the floor. He’s uncharacteristically slow to react, shaking his head like there’s something stuck. Draco frowns past the cotton in his ears. He assesses. They’re both stark naked. There’s marks all over their skin. He presses down on a bruise against his leg and feels nothing. He breathes into his hand and holds it to his nose. Flowers.
There’s a growing commotion on the other side of the door. They’re holed up in one of the guest suites. The door is thrice-locked, but he’s not sure if Potter’s slapdash spells will hold. He begins to dress as fast as he can. He can’t quite get his fingers nimble.
While he works the buttons on his dress robes, Potter stares at a piece of glass stuck in his hand, a searching expression on his face. “What’s going on?”
Potter’s eyes rove from his own body, to the sheets-strewn bed, and then to Draco.
“Did we…” he starts. But his mind finally catches up with him, and he leaves the question hanging.
Draco groans inwardly. He’d been counting on Potter to be easy—drunk enough that the lightest tap of obliviate would keep the memory down. But now… now he can feel Potter’s growing alarm somewhere in his gut. It’s a whole other beast, a separate thing from his own fear, which takes residence near his throat and only makes him want to scream.
He wonders if Potter can feel it in his throat. He throws Potter’s trousers at his face. “Get dressed before they find us.”
“They?”
“Pansy, mostly. Blaise will probably think it’s funny.”
Potter’s alarm spikes again, and it makes Draco want to find his wand and clutch it. There’s another tug at his core—a stronger, purposeful one this time, and it knocks the strength from his knees. It feels as if his heart has just skipped three beats in a row. He has to brace himself with one shaky arm against the bedframe.
He tugs back, twice as hard, and watches the color drain from Potter’s face. Their eyes lock.
“Stop doing that,” Potter gasps. “Jesus, what’s wrong with us?”
“We’re—we’ve been bonded.”
“Explain.”
“Pansy’s old-fashioned,” he says. “And flashy. She wanted a traditional wedding. It’s why the rules list was about a mile long.”
“Oh, yeah. Ron was telling me. She hired a bunch of specialists. They’re consummating the marriage right after the vows, which…” He trails off. “You don’t think… that bell…”
The bell had been the centerpiece of the venue, unearthed from the ancestral Parkinson family tomb and wheeled in after a six-month restoration period. None of the guests had really known what it was for. Pansy’s idea of a surprise. If he searches back he can remember Pansy’s smug, bullshit-loaded face saying, It tolls at true love.
He feels sick, and there’s a matching green on Potter’s face. Potter who is still naked. He hears the thundering clack of heels coming closer.
“That’s right,” he says glumly. “We beat them to it.”
There was glass in his face and glass in his palms. His mother's wand was steady, somehow, but Draco couldn't stop shaking. It was slow work. One by one they came out, red twinkling pieces.
But the burning in his hands wouldn't go away. He'd landed palms first amidst the chandelier wreckage; Potter had ripped the wands from his grasp soon after. He was left with nothing but his hands. Trembling, open hands, red with excess blood and heat. Hands that burned.
Even at war's end, they burned.
The culprit was clear. If he tilted his palm to the light he could spot them—tiny pinpricks. Malfoy opulence ground into fine dust, living in his skin. Potter knew about it too, Draco was sure. It was why he always held Draco's hand the way he did, firm fingers pressed in against places Draco had picked raw. It was why it always hurt more than Draco expected.
Draco let him press anyway, in case he could grow inured to it. Inside Potters grip, he could dream. This was a different kind of burning.
Malfoy isn’t expecting anyone. He's hunched over his work with elbows like two knife points stabbed into the desk, one hand threading through his soft downy hair and the other fidgeting on his face, knuckle running back and forth against his bottom lip. The yellow light from his lamp flickers temperamentally, barely able to offer anything other than a glow on Malfoy's cheek. Malfoy squints at the cascade of parchment before him, then pushes his fingers against his eyes. He inhales, slow. Blinks his eyes back open, exhales.
Harry's been standing there a while. "Sorry to interrupt," he says.
Malfoy's mouth parts in surprise. It takes a moment before he registers that Harry is a very real thing, and not some conjured spectre. Then every part of him straightens into place. The papers flutter as he sweeps them back into their folders, snapping the covers shut—away from Harry's prying eyes, presumably.
"What are you doing here?" There's none of the usual bite to it, not when the small hours have got Malfoy whittled down like this. He looks feather-light, blurred to softness in the midnight blues and greys.
Harry approaches the desk and sets down his peace offering. It's Muggle coffee in a nondescript paper cup--Malfoy's favourite order from his favourite café, though he doesn't know it yet.
"My shift just started," he offers, which explains nothing at all. He sees Malfoy beginning to think through it, mouth and brow curving towards each other. "Picked this up for you on the way."
Malfoy’s expression of bafflement is delightfully wide-eyed. All of his usual mechanisms don't seem to be working. Harry keeps expecting a switch to flip, for Malfoy to shore up and retreat into icy waters, but it doesn't come. Instead his pale hands reach for the cup and cradle it, fingers skittering against the paper texture, thumbnail underlining the scrawl of 'Harry' on the side. The steam tickles his chin. With the coffee clutched close to him, Malfoy speaks, voice flaky and uncertain, "I can't accept this."
"Don't be daft," Harry insists. "It's two in the morning, take it."
Malfoy's frown grows deeper as he contemplates this additional fact. "There's nothing open this late."
It's true. Harry's kept that coffee under a stasis charm for twelve hours now. "I got it for Ron, but he's not in today," he amends, and gestures with the cup in his other hand, "Got myself one too."
Malfoy wants the coffee, craves it badly. Harry can see it in the way that he holds the warmth of it towards himself, shoulders drooping as he savours the rich chocolatey aroma. He's about to give into it, has brought the coffee all the way up to his mouth when he stops, eyes trained on Harry, glinting like burnished steel. "You must want something from me."
Harry shrugs, nonchalance teetering on his shoulder. He takes a sip of his own, lets it sit bittersweet on his tongue before swallowing it down. Malfoy's gaze slides from his mouth and catches on his throat, before it scuttles back to his own hands again.
"No, I don’t. You don't have to overthink it, Malfoy. It's just a favour."
The word holds more tension than it should. Harry knows Malfoy hates owing him, and that's why he's gone to all this trouble, cajoled him so carefully. He’s been at it for weeks now, first out of kindness, then out of spite, and now because…—well, because he’s tenacious, probably. The room slips into silence as Malfoy considers, until both of them become invisible and there’s just the coffee on the desk, lit up by weak lamplight.
Harry’s so hopeful he forgets to breathe. His pulse climbs from his chest up to his head until it’s deafening. He’s sure he’s about to burst when, abruptly, Malfoy gives in with a little jerk of his shoulders, the scarcest of shrugs. He drinks. His lips wrap around the plastic and he tilts it back, slow and delicate, taking the shallowest sip.
Malfoy's eyes widen just a fraction when he recognizes the flavour of it. His tongue works inside his mouth as he rolls the taste around, once, twice, and again, just to be sure. A small, pleased sound comes out then, and before Harry can even register what that means, Malfoy brings the cup to his mouth again and takes three big gulps.
He sighs, eyes closed, contentment chasing away the shadows dragging at his face, and suddenly he’s years younger. There's cream on his upper lip. Harry is transfixed. The flickering lamp grows a bit brighter, buoyed by Malfoy's magic and finally illuminating the workstation properly, bathing his washed-out figure in warm hues.
"Well thanks," Malfoy says, smirking, because that's what he does instead of smiling. A pointed tongue darts out to catch some cream, missing most of it. "You should probably go, Potter. You don't even work on this floor."
Restraint is a funny thing. Draco can manage it well, as long as it’s wrapped safely in a lie. The easiest way to stave off starvation is by pretending hunger itself isn’t real. Therefore, he doesn’t want Potter. He can’t.
Tags: Comeplay, Breathplay, Infidelity (not between drarry), Journalist Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Invisibility Cloak, Exhibitionism, Cuckolding
Thank you: @kamaela and @kanamycine for the stellar betareading!
Author's note: written for a Kinkuary event for the prompts of Comeplay and Breathplay. thank you to everyone who's read and sent good vibes so far. enjoy freak4freak slutty harry and a draco who gives him exactly what he needs.
thank you @garagepaperback for the tag! go read the beautiful snippet they shared.
i was gonna try to post just a line or a paragraph like you are supposed to but whatever!!!! this is from my latest 8th year hanahaki wip and the whole chunk is better so have it:
"Malfoy," Harry says, swaying.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Malfoy whispers, eyes wide. "Get out of my way!"
"No—Calm down," he says, frowning, and reaches out to grab at Malfoy's shirt. "And shut up, I just—I've got to ask you something."
Malfoy moves smoothly out of reach, just a single step back down. Harry's fingers swipe at nothing. A hot irritation spreads through Harry's chest. He clenches his fist, and now Malfoy looks scared, body tense like he's about to bolt back down the stairs.
"Would you just—" And he reaches out again to grip at Malfoy's arm—to hold the flighty bastard in place, is the idea. Malfoy takes another step back. Just like that, Harry's stomach swoops. His reflexes are as dead as his legs. With a helpless lurch he's plummeting head-on towards the look of utter bewilderment on Malfoy's face. It's a slow fall; he even has time to find the whole thing extremely funny, to be accidentally dropping into Malfoy's rigid, unwelcoming arms, of all things.
Then Malfoy takes one additional step back, and Harry hits the stone.
tagging: you! and @pl0tty @fastbrother @sleepstxtic @kamaela (y’all already read this haha and ty for being amazing cheer readers) and @its-the-allure @desertforestfic @phoenixortheflame @the-forbidden-forest @lemonlimelea @erin-orolin @moonflower-rose @slightweasel
