[ boys not dying (romantic). ♡ for the @drarrymicrofic halloween wheel prompt: dementor. happy spooky season! 🕸️]
drarry | word count: 306 | rating: t
_ _ _
“Expecto patronum!” Potter practically snarls, and the soul-sucking creature shrinks into the rafters, up and away.
“You might’ve tried that sooner,” Draco calls from the floor, rasping, recovering.
“Shove off,” Potter answers, low, dropping to his knees, his hands a frantic skitter down Draco’s front, checking for anything fatal. His brow draws down, fingertips faltering. “You’re freezing.”
“Must be the specter of death,” Draco says, smirking through a shiver.
“Not funny,” Potter throws over his shoulder, rising, eyes again on the fresh-shattered glass of the windows.
Draco hisses beneath his breath, the sight of more of the charcoal-cloaked bastards sweeping inside.
“Could use a happy memory if you’ve one to spare,” he hums, and it’s half a joke, but Merlin’s sake, there are three of them closing in now, and the haunting howl of more resounds from just beyond the ramshackle walls of the safehouse (safe— HA).
“I’ve got it,” Potter says, because he’s as stubborn as he is self-sacrificial.
Draco grunts as he stumbles to his feet, the aftermath of a near-miss Bombarda still reverberating over his ribs.
“Pardon me,” he says, tipping Potter’s face toward him, fingers featherlight on the bowstring of his jaw. Potter huffs, forced to turn.
Draco meets his mouth, the kiss a hot press, searing and quick— he feels Potter melt toward him, buckling.
He breaks away with a breath that could be a laugh, in another light, a different landscape.
A smile snakes over his face at Potter’s expression, soft and stunned. He takes the moment, a few hastily-strung seconds, committing it— the lilt of his lips, the flush fanning fast over the crook of his throat— carefully to memory. Draco pulls his wand, angling away, pressing back-to-back, battle ready.
“That should do the trick,” he murmurs, the warmth in his sternum still burning bright and close.
[ boys dancing & daring. ⋆˙⟡ | or: one inebriated draco malfoy, one dutiful harry potter, an effort at dancing, and some rather public proceedings. ♡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: ball ]
drarry | word count: ~800 | rating: m
_ _ _
The charity ball had been a horrible idea.
“Draco— Merlin’s sake, watch your feet.”
Draco’s Oxfords go traipsing over Harry’s brogues. Again.
“Your fault, Potter. If you’ll recall, you’re the one who kept—” (here, he stumbles) “—kept handing me glasses of Merlot.”
“God, it was a Malbec. You taught me that.”
Draco’s right heel finds his left foot, and Harry winces.
“You’re also the one who taught me to dance, though I very much doubt anyone would believe that at the moment.”
The following step on his toes feels more pointed.
The music swells, and he loses the frame, form shifting against Draco’s self-righting grip on his jacket— pulling himself upward, inadvertently closer.
“Hello,” Draco says, nose bumping against Harry’s chin as he straightens.
“Hi,” Harry answers, quiet, the pinched edge of panic ebbing a moment. “You could try for composure,” he murmurs. “There are photographers.”
“Photog—?” Draco’s gaze swings sideways, spotting the young woman from the Prophet, Qwik Quill scribbling at her shoulder. “Hm,” he breathes, forehead dropping to Harry’s shoulder.
Harry’s hand finds his elbow, steadying. “What? We can sit. Do you need—”
His words stall— hands, cold and hands, are suddenly beneath his shirt. He can feel the fabric rucked upward, his back and sides exposed.
He tugs at Draco’s wrists, immediate and adamant, until the offending appendages drop to his sides.
“Hands, watch your hands,” he hisses, skin tingling under the memory of his palms.
Draco’s mouth curls into a slow smile. “But you told me to watch my feet.”
“You’re a menace,” Harry says, with far less bite than could be reasonably afforded.
Somehow, they’re still moving, slow-spun circles that have lost the better sense of timing.
Draco leans in (and in) and laughs direct into his collar, the soft hum of it a heady warmth against Harry’s throat.
“We could give them a picture worth printing, don’t you think?” Draco says, low, stepping closer, their chests practically flush.
Harry’s feet stop, the Morganese waltz brought to sharp conclusion in spite of the ongoing lilt of the orchestra. His hand at Draco’s waist has gone a bit desperate, fingers all ache and restraint.
“That’s it. I’m taking you home.”
Draco hums approvingly.
“Your home,” Harry amends, certain the plum stain of his cheeks must be visible fifty meters out.
“Good,” Draco mumbles, nodding, then effortfully pulling himself into near-proper posture.
He dips his lips to Harry’s ear, too close, brushing his jaw just so as he sways, whispering: “I have better bedsheets.”
Harry’s grip goes rigid at his wrist. He does not deign an answer.
As he tows him toward the cloakroom, into its meager privacy, unmistakable is the mechanical shutter, the camera flash, accompanying their retreat.
.
“You’re being ridiculous. And nothing could happen anyway,” he tells Draco, practical, tossing his cloak (grey wool, dovish) around his shoulders, helping to fix the fasten at his front. “You’re drunk. Very drunk.”
Draco’s mouth pulls into a pout, and Harry forces his focus elsewhere, suddenly intent on buttoning his own coat.
Then, Draco’s fingers, just above the top loop, catching tight and tugging him forward. Harry startles, the proximity even more… proximous than prior.
“I’ll take a sobering potion.”
Draco’s free hand wraps around, finds the nape of Harry’s neck. The steady press of his fingers sends a shiver stippling through Harry’s shoulders, outward and through. Draco’s eyes are alight, expectant, as he whispers: “And I’ll still want to fuck you.”
Jesus, Mary, and Merlin.
Harry stammers out: “That— You— I—”
He takes a breath and gently pulls Draco’s grasp from his skin.
“I’m not negotiating this until we at least get you through the Floo.”
Draco snorts, then covers the sound, pink tipping his ears. He coughs, a clearing thing.
“Negotiation,” he says, fixed flat and smirking. He pokes at the breastpocket of Harry’s coat. “Very sexy.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but feels the smile insisting at the edges of his mouth. He guides Draco out of the gallery, down the corridor.
“Potter,” Draco whispers, his fingers once again seeking, finding, touching. They thread themselves through the very ends of his curls.
“Hm?” Harry says, maneuvering open the gate on the lift, trying to carefully tuck Draco inside without having him stumble over the edge of it.
Draco drops his chin, finding the downward slant of Harry’s focus.
“You danced very well,” he says, the sound of it too soft, his gaze searingly sincere. He slumps against Harry’s shoulder, letting out a huff, mildly disgruntled. “But I won’t say that sober.”
Harry warms, and whether it’s the cramped space (it isn’t), the stuffy robes (wrong again), or the easy presence of the man beside him (…), he finds he doesn’t mind.
[ boys falling forward. ♡ for the @drarrymicrofic september prompt: spell ]
drarry | word count: ~216 | rating: t | warnings: n/a
_ _ _
Draco wakes in St. Mungo’s, surrounded by the soft shushing of monitoring magic, the cool, crisp climate charms. Hardly conscious, he begins scrabbling for the exit, bleary, covers tossed wayside, curtain torn asunder.
This place— the setting of too many a nightmare. His yellow-stockinged feet hit the floor.
“Hey-o,” says the voice attached to the hand steady at his elbow, and he’d whirl with his wand, if he knew where it was.
“Alright,” Harry says, and Draco hears the beepbeepbeep blare of his heartbeat slowing to something stabler. The world settles into something real around him. He exhales.
“God, sorry,” he says, pulling his face into his hands. “I don’t even remember what happened.”
Harry tugs his fingers away, unfurled, curls them in his own.
“Just a dizzy spell,” he says, quiet, bashful of a sudden.
Draco pokes at his chin, indignant, an easy stretch from where they’re tangled together.
“You’re behaving awfully strangely for a dizzy spell.”
Harry laughs.
“Yeah, well. The unconsciousness was a little unexpected.”
He dips one of his hands into his suit jacket. The box he withdraws is pale green, velveteen.
“You know, the standard response is a simple yes or no.”
- - -
Chart Notes:
Disregard 23:17 heart rate anomaly.
Reason - Proposal
Patient discharged under care of partner fiancé at 00:14.
[ boys doing laundry. ♡ for the @drarrymicrofic september prompt: fold ]
drarry | word count: 254 | rating: t | warnings: n/a
_ _ _
He’s never known Potter to be particularly presentable. Shirts too big, hung haphazard over the frame of his shoulders; jeans too wide, low-slung on his hips; and everything always, always rumpled.
He’d have never guessed that Potter knew his way around an iron, could starch a shirt or press a seam. But there it is, evident.
Harry folds the trousers carefully over the wooden hanger, tucking them into the oak armoire, alongside all the others.
“What are you doing?” Draco catches himself asking before he can stifle it, shape it into something softer.
Harry startles, turning to where he’s halted in the doorway, hardly half in the room.
“Er, laundry?” Harry offers.
His own small pile of clothes (one night’s stay turned into another turned into another) sits tangled at the end of the bed.
“You ironed,” Draco says, increasingly eloquent. “You never iron.”
He gestures, pointed, at Harry’s Weird Sisters t-shirt, his admittedly better-fitted denim— wrinkled, both.
Harry scratches beneath his hem, absent, as he sits, thoughtless, (tempting), on the edge of the bed.
“No,” he answers, “not really.” He pulls a sock from the pile, then another, pairs them, tucked into one another. “But you do.”
Like it’s simple, like it’s nothing, easy— that he would know that, would do this.
Draco’s gaze flits to the armoire, thinking of Harry’s careless heart (unguarded), his careful hands (unabashed).
“Right,” he answers, that timekeeping thing in his own chest ticking furiously (helpless), tumbling.
one boy finding his feelings hard to explain. | harry pov | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: incline
drarry | word count: ~125 | ⋆˙⟡
_ _ _
He tries to tell them, but the matter doesn’t seem to stick.
“That’s great, Harry,” Hermione says, eyes barely flicking up from her parchment. “Maybe he can help with that cursed amulet project you were working on.”
“Oh. Nice, mate,” Ron affirms, then draws his gaze up from the chessboard. “You’re not, like, stalking him again, are you?”
Hopeless, they agree, and it’s fond, if not strained. Harry can’t help feeling he’s closer to helpless.
So, maybe he hasn’t expressed himself clearly.
Maybe, “I think Malfoy and I are friends now,” doesn’t quite strike the heart of it.
Maybe at its center, the feeling is something more like:
Drowning. Diving. Floating. Flying.
Maybe like:
Draco’s throat is an incline. He’d like his lips to scale it.
the history book on the shelf / is always repeating itself
[ at waterloo, napoleon did surrender. — boys meeting their destiny in quite a similar way. ⋆˙⟡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompts: history & book ]
drarry | word count: 800 | title from “Waterloo” by ABBA (obvs ha) | ♡
_ _ _
Hogwarts: a History (the 1990 - 1999 Appendices) is published in the summer of 2004.
“It takes a few creative liberties, as far as form is concerned, but it’s a rather grounded retelling. Impressive, really, for someone who wasn’t actually there,” Hermione offers, by way of review, summative.
“What makes you think they weren’t there?” Harry answers absently, digging the carton of cream from the back of the fridge, freed from behind the tower of takeaway containers. “Could be a pen name.”
Hermione’s response is immediate, as though the thought had long since been considered and discarded.
“Well, surely we’d know if someone we know wrote it. Even supposing it were an alias.”
Harry tips a dash of the cream into his tea, sets it aside on the table for Ron to peruse, once he’s pulled his nose from the volume in question.
Ron flips a few pages, murmuring aloud, like a list, “Noble. Selfless. Devoted. Just. Amiable. Chivalrous.”
He scrunches his nose, slanting a glance at Hermione over the kitchen table.
“Merlin, I mean, it’s not, like, egregious while you’re reading, but once you notice it…”
Hermione breaks into a grin before she forces her face back toward neutrality. “I know.”
“What?” Harry asks, outside the reference and put-out by it. His question flicks between the two of them— Ron, Hermione, back, & forth again.
She sighs.
“It’s just a bit… grandiose. When it comes to… certain subjects.”
Ron scoffs a laugh.
“You, mate. Book’s downright obsessed with you.”
Harry blinks a moment, response bubbling quick and unexamined.
“Okay, but like…” He cringes. “Plenty of people have been obsessed with me. And I am, you know… arguably somewhat central to the War. Historically speaking.”
“Ah, damn. Knew I was forgetting something. Thank you for the reminder, O Chosen One.” Ron gives a quick bow in his direction before flicking a piece of crumpled parchment at him.
Hermione breezes past Harry’s indignant noise, ducks the paper as it’s batted her direction.
“The odd part, I think, is that in spite of the— how shall I say— evocative language, it’s almost as though this is the tempered version.”
“Which, allow me to say again, is bloody mental,” Ron is quick to add. “I mean, Donovan says your eyes are poignant and prone to bouts of indeterminate pining. Apparently,” he continues, flipping pages, “your nature is, quote, ‘more astute than often given credit.’”
“Donovan?”
“Read him the bit about his ‘troubling penchant for generosity in the face of almost certain doom,’” Hermione adds with a wry grin.
“Donovan Falmouth,” Ron answers, an aside.
“The author,” Hermione appends.
Harry halts, the consonants and the shape of the sounds lending themselves to pause. He says, aloud, intent:
“Donovan… Falmouth.”
Hermione carries on, any nuance to his ruminating lost upon her. “And then, there is that— this thing where he can’t seem to decide whether to praise you or poke fun.”
Her fingers, ink-blotted easily thrice over, trace over her notes for work, mind still firing in at least two other directions as she speaks. “It makes for an interesting tone. Not strictly objective, but certainly engaging.”
“Remind me of the publication date again?” Harry says, all effortful nonchalance.
“June 5th,” Ron says, as Hermione catches something in the line of his questioning.
“Why? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Harry says. “Coincidence.”
At Hermione’s pointed glance and Ron’s quizzical brow, he improvises.
“Just had a thought about the author’s astrological chart,” he lies, sort of, a small thing, inconsequential.
They are each suddenly and sufficiently disinterested.
“Anyway,” Hermione offers, “I daresay it’s adequate as a reference text. The facts are sound, in spite of the handful of fanciful notions.”
“Harry’s very good at inspiring those,” Ron prods with an easy smile, scooping a handful of popcorn with the practiced poise of a snack connoisseur. He tips it into his mouth with notably less elegance.
Harry grabs the dust jacket from where it’s folded on the table. Flips it to & fro in his fingers.
There is no photo of the author. (Of course not.)
But on the back flap, a few brief lines:
* * *
The author resides in the rolling countryside of South West England. These Appendices mark his first foray into formal publication.
An amateur astronomer, he is also fond of flying, café au lait, sweets of a great many varieties, and cultivating his at-home greenhouse.
Himself a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, he also holds a Computer Keyboard & Touch Typing Certification from City, University of London, and a Third-Class Potioneering License from Bonguérison Académie.
* * *
Harry lets two and two fall together, make four. Lets coincidence become conjecture, in the face of consistent occurrence.
[ boys being brazen & stubborn & stupid about each other. ⋆˙⟡ feat. one delightfully charming barn owl. for the @drarrymicrofic august prompt: switch | summer bingo - epistolary, enemies to lovers, idiots in love (completing my superstar bingo! ☆) ]
drarry | word count: ~1.5k | rating: t | warnings: n/a excessive use of the word ‘fuck’
_ _ _
Potter:
Find attached your most recent letter.
Unopened.
Correspondence is not necessary at this time.
Kindly refrain.
Owl returned post-haste.
Forego any efforts at response.
Formally, DLM
. . .
Malfoy—
I know you’ve been sending my owl back with undeliverable notices. (Might be worth switching your stationery. The slips the post-master uses are more turquoise than teal— just for the record.)
Fortunately, your parole officer was more than happy to be of assistance.
Coy little trick with the first letters, there. ‘Acrostic’— did you know that?
Anyway, as before:
Could I stop in to review some of the details of your sentence? I know I’m not formally affiliated with your case, so you’re not like, legally obliged to. But it is rather urgent, so don’t be a dick.
I eagerly await your response.
-hjp
. . .
Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off.
P.S. Give your barn owl my regards. She’s been a much more amenable interlocutor— and cleverer, too.
Formally, DLM
. . .
Malfoy—
Her name’s Biscuit.
She is undoubtedly a creature of higher intelligence, but that’s not on account of any deficit of my own.
(You might try some of her good nature.)
I noticed you didn’t answer my question— perhaps it slipped your attention.
To restate:
Can I visit the Manor? I have some pertinent questions about your house arrest, best asked in person. Your cooperation would be most encouraged.
Answer at my convenience. (See what I did there?)
-hjp
. . .
‘Biscuit,’ honestly. For such a noble creature. It’s tactless, Potter.
A question, hm? What was it?
Oh, yes. See, I believe my answer was fairly clear. (See it restated below.)
FUCK OFF.
Formally, DLM
. . .
Malfoy—
Well, Teddy Lupin named her, so it was either Biscuit or Lego. Personally, I think she got the better end of the bargain.
(Do you know what a Lego is? I’m happy to illuminate. It’s a sad world where a grown man doesn’t know his Lego. Can’t have that.)
Regarding your answer:
Well, fuck. That’s awfully fucking insufficient. Do you think you could muster a better fucking answer?
(Seriously, though, what’s with all the fucking? what gives? Or, to translate: what the fuck?)
-hjp
PS What treats are you giving Biscuit? She’s starting to snub mine & I think you must have her spoiled.
. . .
Potter:
Ah. Yes, well, given that, I suppose ‘Biscuit’ is perfectly suitable.
I know of Lego blocks, et cetera.
I assume you’re familiar enough with my Ministry case (given your established penchant for both stalking and badgering) to know that one of the terms of my sentencing was a course of Muggle Studies. The Lego came up.
Rest easy, knowing all is right with the world— your childhood nemesis has government-mandated knowledge of plastic bricks. (Do you think they’ll give me a medal?)
Re: Fucking
I’m prone to colorful language of the explicit variety. Sue me. And you’re not getting a better answer, though I’m happy to repeat it if need be.
Formally, DLM
P.S. ‘Spoiled,’ please. Such a remarkable creature could hardly be spoiled.
P.P.S. (They’re Brillig & Toves— premium owl treats. Open your coffers! But I’ll say, a worthy investment on Biscuit’s behalf.)
. . .
Malfoy—
Huh. The more you know. (Did they teach you about TV? Public transit? The Queen? Lidl? The Spice Girls? Just curious.)
Re: Re: Fucking
Did they teach you about email, too? AIM?
Anyway, it’s just weird is all. You never cursed in school. I mean, not like that. Is this some kind of delayed teenage rebellion thing?
(If so, I get it— ask the good folks at the Prophet for their thoughts on my motorbike. Or my tattoos. Or the clubbing. Or the whole ‘being gay’ thing.)
(And if not, well… fuck.)
-hjp
PS You’re buying 42-galleon owl treats?! I thought your budget I didn’t realize the Manor How did you afford Merlin wept. No wonder she won’t have the Limericks. Saboteur.
. . .
Potter:
The syllabus is public record. I won’t do your busy work for you.
I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re implying. You think my use of the word ‘fuck’ is somehow corollary to your, what, quarter-life crisis? Merlin.
(If I were rebelling, rest assured that you’d be the first to know. Birds of a feather or some such. And what would the ‘fine folks’ at the Prophet have to say about that?)
Formally, DLM
P.S. No, I’m not spending my government-allotted allowance on owl treats, you twat. (I’m being forced to consider that perhaps you haven’t read my file after all. If you had, you would know what a stupid fucking question that was.) The Brillig & Toves were in stasis. Our owls were seized post-war— or anyway, those who weren’t already otherwise dispatched by the Dark Lo during it were.
P.P.S. Do not mistake this as a bid for sympathy. You asked a question, you received an answer. That is what you wanted, is it not? Cheers.
. . .
Malfoy—
Fuck, yeah, no. Stupid question. That’s my bad. To be honest, I’ve really only read certain sections of your file. (In fairness, it’s a pretty big file.)
I’m sorry, about your owls. And all the rest of it, really.
Listen, this is actually a bit relevant. Do you think we could revisit my initial question? About reviewing your case?
-hjp
PS What do you mean birds of a Are birds an innuendo for Are you Do you Merlin’s saggy
PS I did buy the Brillig & Toves. I made sure Biscuit knows this extravagance was all your doing.
. . .
Potter:
Not this again. Don’t you grow bored of rejection?
Formally, DLM
. . .
Malfoy—
Yes, this again. Really not trying to badger. I promise it’ll be worth your time.
-hjp
. . .
Potter:
Take a hint. My time is particularly valuable. I don’t think you can afford it.
Formally, DLM
. . .
Malfoy—
Yeah, really clever. Seriously, though. Could I stop by the Manor? I don’t want to show up uninvited, but I do need to speak with you.
-hjp
. . .
Undeliverable.
. . .
Malfoy—
Very funny, ha-ha. For real, though. I just need a few minutes.
-hjp
. . .
Undeliverable.
. . .
Malfoy—
Really?
-hjp
PS Your wax work is shoddy— I can tell you’ve opened these.
The parole board is considering your appeal this very moment. I am determined to send this letter before their verdict.
I find myself in the uncomfortable position of offering you my gratitude.
Regardless of outcome, your kindness care unnervingly unshakable goodness commitment to justice (however it is you define it— personally, in this instance, I find myself rather baffled) is appreciated beyond expression.
If the board deems me worthy of a shortened sentence, my life will be changed.
And if they don’t. Well. My life has already changed regardless.
Most sincerely, DLM
P.S. Please feel no obligation to respond. This is half sentimental rot, and I can’t expect you to endure it, much less to reply.
P.P.S. Thank you.
. . .
Malfoy—
I just saw the news in the Quibbler. Congratulations, truly.
Justice, ha. Yeah, I guess. I think the truth is this: Most broken things are fixable. And when they are… I think they’re worth fixing.
Not to say you! You’re not broken. Fucking hell. I just mean systems, processes, relationships, maybe. You get it. The Ministry’s a bit of a mess right now.
You deserve to be free from that. I just did what I could to move things along.
So— the world is your oyster. Any plans?
For your consideration: If you’re at all interested in me the idea, I thought you might pencil me in. We could go for a coffee?
-hjp
PS I’m rather fond of sentiment myself, though perhaps you could tell me to ‘fuck off’ a few times to restore balance to the universe.
PPS (Maybe not in response to this letter, though. I find myself in the uncomfortable position of confessing that I’m rather hoping for a ‘yes.’)
. . .
Potter:
Hm, I think I’ve room in my schedule.
How’s Jinx & Java? Over on Later Alley? I’ve been looking for an excuse to go.
Friday at 4?
Oysterfully, DLM
P.S. Truthfully, this is all part of my ploy to steal Biscuit away from you. Feel free to be lulled into a false sense of security by lattes and what I’ve heard are top-notch pastries.
