for @drarrymicrofic prompt: STEAL
wc: 250
thank you to @its-the-allure for being my saviour once more!
"I'll fix it," Harry says, once the Aurors leave with Draco's confiscated wand. He squeezes Draco's shoulder reassuringly, as if he isn't at fault for this, as if he didn't cast the damn spell—that was obviously firmly off limits—in Draco's vicinity.
Draco's dizzy. He's probably going into shock. The words still echo inside his skull: violation of parole, standard procedure, hearing date notice...
"I'll get your wand back and we'll run away somewhere," Harry continues, ever optimistic, always so cock-sure. "And it'll be good."
Draco wishes he could hex him. He kicks him instead. "And you think they'll what? Just relinquish it to the amazing Boy Who Lived?"
"Nah—I'll steal it from evidence."
"You'll get caught."
Harry shrugs, nonchalantly. "I'm the amazing Boy Who Lived—they'll let me get away with it."
"They won't let me get away with it!" Draco cuts himself off before he comes even closer to screaming. He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes for five whole seconds. "I refuse to got to Azkaban because of your carelessness."
"You won't." Harry catches Draco's hand in his. It's tender. Draco pulls away. "I won't get caught. I robbed Gringotts, didn't I? The Ministry is easy compared to that."
"You had to run away from Gringotts. On a dragon."
"And this time, I'll do it with a dragon. Of sorts. If you want to, of course."
Draco rolls his eyes, but something inside of his chest loosens too. "I'll wait for you at yours."
thank you to @newskyillusion for cheerleading<3, and extra special thanks to @its-the-allure for helping with vibe-check this one! (check out her entry for this prompt here!!)
"Draco—" Harry said suddenly, sinking to his knees.
"Potter, what are you doing?" Draco hissed at him, even though it was very obviously what his idiot boyfriend was doing in the middle of the Burrow for Merlin's sake!
"Just… bear with me, please?" Harry whispered. He cleared his throat. One of his hands disappeared into the pocket of his jeans. "I… I—"
"You're tying your shoe and about to get up, yes, of course—"
"I have a speech, you menace."
"You're not proposing to me in front of half a million Weasleys," Draco hissed again, and then, after glancing around, "No offence."
Somewhere to Draco's left, Ron snorted at his suffering. Harry, still kneeling in front of him, sighed deeply, but the idiot was still smiling so the likelihood of this misery ending any time soon was close to none.
"Draco," Harry said. Draco met his eyes. His heart was beating a mile a minute, his boyfriend of six years was fiddling with a ring box in his hands, and half a million Weasleys were staring at them both. "Draco, I have a speech."
"I don't need a speech, this is so uncomfortable—I don't like being gawked at, Potter, I know you don't either so—just get up here, for the love of—"
Harry's hands were visibly shaking when he cracked open the box. The ring shone brightly, the silver twisted in an intricate design Draco couldn't figure out from this distance… and with his eyes as blurry as they were.
"Will you marry me?" Harry asked, softly.
"After this stunt—"
"And all the other stunts, yes."
"Yes, obviously, Merlin, can you just—"
A second later, Harry finally got up from his knees—to hug his fiance—and shut up—to kiss him. The box was digging into Draco's back as they kissed, but he could hardly mind such a thing. At least, not right now.
When they separated, a disjointed cacophony of clapping and hooting came from around them, but Draco could concentrate on nothing except for the low stuttering string of words Harry was whispering in his ear: "—have made me happier than I could have ever imagined, and I don't want to imagine it. I don't want to even think about living my life any other way but with you by my side. It would mean everything to me if you decided you want the same thing—and I promise I'll do my best to never make you regret it because you're it for me, Draco—"
"Did you practice that in front of the mirror?" Draco muttered against Harry's shoulder.
Draco sticks out like a sore thumb: young, angry, haunting not the castle but his murderer.
He rushes through Harry again, spitefully, making him shudder, and then stops. Draco's figure is glinting in the otherwise empty hallway.
His wounds bleed still, sluggish but perpetual. Face. Neck. Chest. Forearms. His robes are stained with it. He's glaring, but he always glares.
And he doesn't speak.
Harry's guilt ebbs and flows regardless. Every brief glance digs it deeper: a stake through the heart. A piercing gaze of a ghost now forever looming over his shoulder.
for my Halloween @drarrymicrofic prompt: BITE
word count: 100
"Wasn't I supposed to be the biter in the relationship?" Harry asks, tracing his newest set of hickeys, dark and red and blatantly obvious.
Draco snorts as he slides up to him. "Well, quid pro quo, no? You marked me, it's only fair I mark you."
Harry turns in Draco's arms, his fingers unconsciously seeking the nearly-scabbed holes on Draco's neck — it's thrilling to know he'll get to reopen them in a few days, that Draco trusts him enough to offer it.
"In other words," he murmurs against Draco's lips, "you're a possessive bastard."
for @drarrymicrofic prompt: RING
word count: 100
thank you @mono-chromia for previewing it! 💛
The Ring never warms, no matter how many times Harry turns it in his hand.
Draco's presence next to him, when it's summoned, is always equally as cold. It's hard to look at him: still in his blood-soaked uniform, forever a… shadow of his real self. It's more an ache than a touch when he puts a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Sorry for calling," Harry whispers, shaking with the need to lean into the empty space to his left. "I just… miss you again."
"You always miss me," Draco whispers back—a mere murmur, a withering echo in the wind.
for @drarrymicrofic prompt: SWITCH
and Summer Bingo spaces: IDENTITY PORN, MYSTERY, and ACTION (which makes blackout!!🎉✨)
wc: 613 [also on ao3]
My deepest thanks to @shewhxmustnxtbenamed for being such an amazing beta! I had loads of fun polishing this one with you so thank you for your help <3
The flesh of his thigh splits soundlessly; Harry's trousers are soaked in seconds. He curses, shoots another handful of spells, and then something slams into his back.
"It's me."
The flash of red fabric fills him with more relief than the extra wand. He stuns a guy shooting wide Avadas, and wonders how many more men he can down before he faints from blood loss.
"You say that like I know who you are."
"You do," Red says—still Harry’s secretive guardian angel. "How's your leg?"
"Fine."
The room fills with white light. Bodies drop. Someone yells. Red grips Harry’s hand and pulls. "Switch with me. I'll heal you."
"I'm fine—"
"I said switch with me, Potter!"
Red yanks him backward and then Harry's looking at a pile of men who ambushed him. A wand is pressed to his leg. Pain blooms, then disappears. He blinks away the dizziness just in time to pull both of them away from a Bombarda.
"What are you doing?!" Red hisses.
"Saving your life!"
The enemies' backup is a horde of flies: avoiding spells with ease Harry lost half-a-gallon-of-blood ago.
"I'm supposed to be—" Red grunts "—saving—" curses "—you."
"If we get out of here alive, we'll call it even!"
"Not how that works!" Red shouts back, and then, "Duck!"
[cont. under the cut]
Spell-fire crackles over Harry’s head. His hair is singed, ears ringing, vision spotty. Sending a cutting curse at a pair of ankles makes him feel only slightly better.
"Where's your partner?" Red asks as they dance around the middle of the room.
"Stomach flu."
"Why are you here then?!"
"Impedimenta! Expelliarmus! Stupefy!" A man drops, and Harry exhales. "I had a hunch."
Something explodes behind him. Dirt and dust rain over them. And then—silence.
Red stumbles away. He's hunched over, hands on his legs, breathing ragged, loud.
"Are you okay?"
Red lifts his head. Harry can imagine the glare thrown in his direction, even if he can't see it.
"Fuck you and your hunch, Potter." He groans as he straightens. "There are two more out there."
"How can you tell?"
"I just can. They'll be here in two minutes." Red's wand glows briefly an unidentifiable orange before dimming. He turns to Harry, all fabric and mystery. "Any other injuries?"
Harry stares into the artificial void inside the man's hood and shakes his head. It's moments like these—of brief respite—that are the most tempting; it would be so easy to pull the cloak off Red’s shoulders.
Harry doesn't even care what he looks like; he just wants to know that he looks like something.
Red’s head snaps up. "One's at the back door, one at the front. We can get them at the same time. Ready?"
"Ready."
"Three, two, one… Stupefy!
The men fall in sync.
A second later, Harry follows them.
"Potter."
He's caught before he hits the ground, and falls instead into warm cotton. It stinks of sweat and smoke, but it's soft. Red's hands are gentle as they lower him.
"We have to stop meeting like this," Harry mutters.
"Like what?"
"Like… with you all face-less… and in too much danger for me to figure out how to see you."
Red snorts, and helps Harry sit up.
"Do you think you'll survive side-along?"
"We going back to yours?"
"In your dreams, Potter." When they're standing, and Harry is leaning too much of his weight against his saviour to move, Red says, "We're going to St. Mungo's."
"I don't need—" Harry chokes on air as they disappear.
.
.
.
Once home, Draco curses magical bonds and life debts and idiotic recklessness.
And then, he collapses onto his bed to sleep off his stomach flu.
find my other entries for Drarry microfic prompts HERE
for @drarrymicrofic prompt: REBUILD and Summer Bingo spaces: VERITASERUM, FIRST PERSON, and TROPE SUBVERSION
[wc: 862]
My deepest thank you goes to @mono-chromia for helping me whip this into shape - I probably would have scrapped it without you!!!💗
The plan is so simple it almost feels like I wasted a favour; a couple drops of Veritaserum poured into Harry's tea, a layer of glamour applied to my face so I can masquerade as Pansy's assistant, and some of Pansy's vicious determination to do a Harry Potter profile for her Witch Weekly column is all it takes to get to the bottom of a conundrum.
Two weeks ago, I probably would have felt awful about slipping Potter potions, but he's been ignoring me, and also, he's potentially broken my heart. So I feel like it's at least partially justified.
The first half hour is strictly business: Harry begging for Puddlemere summer program sponsors while Pansy drills him about team dynamics. I'm extraordinarily careful to avoid looking in Harry's direction. The effort is not really necessary, though, because the man barely spared me a glance when he entered, and has absolutely no chance of ever recognising me as the person he's been shagging for the last two months.
When she has everything she needs for the article, Pansy gets into the meat of things.
I do my best not to fidget.
"Why haven't you answered Draco's owls?" she asks with the same detached curiosity with which she has asked all of her questions so far. I'm watching a master at work; taking time to appreciate her no-nonsense efficiency means I'm not thinking about all the circumstances which may explain Harry's sudden cold shoulder.
Anyway, I'm not prepared for his answer.
"I didn't want to." The sentence bursts out of Harry's mouth with such force I almost roll my eyes, but then… "Did Draco tell you to ask me about him? H-He...Merlin, he's too much for me right now."
I should have guessed really. How typical. Of course there's nothing wrong with him—I should never have spent a single fucking second being worried about some awful disease stopping our correspondence. Of course it's me. It's always me.
The slow-bubbling bitterness in my chest makes it so easy to ignore the furrow forming between Harry's brows; the spiteful part of me revels in his confusion.
"Why is he too much?" Pansy pushes, indifferently ignoring Harry's squirming.
"He thought we were in a relationship."
It's true. I did. Foolish of me, really.
"And what did you think?"
"We were just having some fun." Harry's frown deepens. He bites his lip. Clears his throat. It doesn't help of course; Veritaserum is not so easy to resist. "It wasn't serious. I never meant it to be serious."
Of course he didn't—I must have just... misread the situation. I want to strangle him. I want to jump out of the window. After all, it's completely normal to ask your nothing-serious to have dinner with your friends. It's completely normal to spend entire days lounging around together. It's completely normal to see each other five out of the seven days in a single fucking week.
"And you never wanted it to be serious? Ever?"
Half of me wants to rush out of the room, and the other half is still stuck on lunging at Potter and wringing his neck before he says another word. In the end, I stay paralysed next to Pansy and her unrelenting desire to know.
"No."
"Why not?"
Potter presses his lips together for a split second, and then, suddenly, leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest and… stops resisting.
"Because he's in love with me."
Am I?
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it's obvious."
I am. Of course I am.
"And are you in love with him?"
"No."
It strikes my heart like a dagger. It hurts extra that it's not even a confession; Potter said it so easily, so carelessly, as if the potion barely had to loosen his tongue at all. And this single nonchalant, honest, uncomplicated, guilt-free word is the last stab needed for me to bleed out on a squeaky sofa in front of my best friend and my... ex-something.
In a way, the dagger is mine: why did I ever get my hopes up? Why did I ever ask Pansy to do this whole… theatre act? Why did I ever follow Potter back to his in the first place?
Here, now, rooted on the spot, staring at Potter's frowning, lightly-perspired face, I so easily choke on hindsight. What a stupid idea it was to let Potter into my life, into my bed. And just how much stupider it was to let him dismantle my carefully assembled defences. Each kiss toppled a brick, each night a layer of plaster.
Mouth dry, heart hammering, I do my best not to appear desperate and hurt and... lonely. I hope the glamour hides the most of it. I hope I look okay.
I don't feel okay. I want to scream. And shout. And lie on the floor and cry and rebuild every single inch of the "safe for public consumption" mask I had thought forever abandoned on Potter's doorstep. Turns out, it really is more palatable; it really is better just to pretend.
Who in their right mind would prefer the real Draco Malfoy anyway?
.
.
.
and with that, I finally have bingo! (I'm still shooting for filling the whole board but oh my God did it take me way too long to get here!!)
