#rain's fics

[rainjulyx]

For @drarrymicrofic prompt: charm. Wc: 280

.

Pain shot through Draco's cursed legs. “You're already holding my hand, it's gonna be weird if we aren't actually dying.”

“Charming. We're definitely dying, don't worry.” Potter sighed.

Draco couldn't get his eyes off the bleeding wound on Potter's lips. He wet his own to compensate for the need to fix Potter's. “Dying should feel grander. This feels like any other Tuesday.”

Potter's eyes, this close, were forest green in contrast to his grey skin, the gloomy wreckage of this building, and his dusty crimson Auror robes. “Maybe we really should retire.”

Draco's body felt heavy. His eyelids were drooping. He opened them when Potter let out a pained noise. “Maybe you and I have met, you know, in our past lives.”

“No,” Draco said flatly. “But I'll find you in the next life so I can torment you better.”

Potter let out a dry laugh. “You can't do it any better than this.” His rough hand was squeezing Draco's. They were head to head. If they really died today, the last thing Draco saw would be Harry Potter's annoying face. His long lashes. Half-burned eyebrows. His ashy cheek. His lightning bolt scar. Green eyes. His whisper, saying, “We won't die. I want to know how far you can torment me.”

“The saviour's word is my command,” Draco managed. He pulled himself with all his might to get closer, so their foreheads would touch. Potter tried, too. But Draco's body couldn't—in seconds, Potter's face blurred, and the world fell into darkness.

When Draco woke up, Potter was lying beside him, holding his hand.

“Dying, are we?”

Harry flicked his finger on Draco's forehead, then kissed it.

[cottonraincoat]

I read through the latest insomnia-prompted impulse-posted ficlet and decided I didn't hate it! so here it is!

---

Charming

wc: 1.1k | rating: G | relationship: Mozart & Salieri

Salieri is accosted by the Mozarts at the theatre, after a revival performance of Figaro.

The premise is - what if Salieri's gotten over himself and sincerely tried to befriend Mozart & make up for what he did in envy, but Mozart still can't fully trust him because Salieri has never fully put away his facades?

[busukawa-rain]

MHA Fic: Burn Your Heart Out by Rain_Busukawa (AO3)

Long story short: Izuku gets back his quirk after AFO stole it, he doesn't know how to feel.

Short story long: Izuku can only remember pulling one thing to himself as a young child, Bakugo. However, after going to the doctor he could never pull anything to himself again. After years of being quirkless a detective knocks on his door and tells him of a classified case and makes him sign a confidentiality agreement. A big villain was finally defeated by All Might, and a database of medical records shows the stolen quirks this villain had. An underground hero can deactivate this villain's power and make him give back a quirk if the person is close by. Midoriya Izuku is a 14 year old quirkless middle school student, and he never gave up his dream of being a hero. He doesn't know if he wants it to happen this way.

:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆ Please give my fic a chance if the summary interested you :｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[rainjulyx]

Wc: 330 for @drarrymicrofic prompt : tremble.

.

Grey eyelashes resting on burning cheeks. Noisy breath as his chest rose and fell. Flesh-pink lips on folded arms. Wet splotch on his sleeve. White hair all over the half-written report.

Harry took his mobile and snapped a picture.

Malfoy drools in his sleep, he wrote to Ron. Stop sending cursed images, Ron sent back, missing the joke.

It was funny. Harry laughed every time he looked. Malfoy, crumpled and messy as he slept. Malfoy, looking stupid. Malfoy and his disgusting drool.

The picture brought Harry endless glee.

Malfoy would die if he saw it.

But it had been a week since Harry had it. He was still waiting for the perfect opportunity to show it to Malfoy. In the meantime, Harry kept it safe in the mobile, in his pocket. But he didn't care much about it.

Harry only looked at it when he woke up in the morning and before he went to sleep. He looked at it whenever something troubled him. To lift his mood, of course.

“Just print and frame it on your desk, if you like it that much.” Malfoy didn't even look up from his paperwork.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Or,” Malfoy stood. Their desks faced each other in this cramped office. When Malfoy leaned in, he was hovering over Harry. “—you can just sleep in my bed. Look at the real thing, it's always better.”

“That's not—”

“Really? You don't want that?” Malfoy's face was smug and punchable.

“Well,” Harry leaned back, creating a gap between them. He licked his lips, stared at the mobile on his desk. “I didn't say that, exactly.”

“And?"

Harry took a deep breath, finally looking up, right at Malfoy, who wavered. It gave Harry a little bit of confidence. Those damn grey eyelashes were trembling—the way it did when he slept. Those cheeks were still burning. Those lips—

Harry put them in his mouth.

[rainjulyx]

Prompt: hesitate. Wc: 300. For @drarrymicrofic

.

Beyond imagination, Malfoy falls to his knees.

Everything blurs. The rain is hot against Harry's eyes. His feet are still rooted to the earth. Drenched pale hair is bowed down. Strange to look at from this angle. Potter, let me. You did enough.

This isn't right, Harry never says, call me stupid. Fight me. Give me a cold shoulder. Scold me when you have to bail me out or sit next to my hospital bed. But let me go.

But Malfoy is on his knees.

Tell me what I should do, you know I’m more than capable, the fingers clenching Harry's hands were pruning and rough. Harry's lips started to tremble. His feet are getting cold. He should—

This isn’t in the script.

Malfoy is on his knees.

The thing about Malfoy, he doesn't touch anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary. But now, against the odds, those bony hands wrap themselves tightly around Harry’s cold fingers.

Harry falls to his knees.

Noses so close they can touch. The rain is hard, but Harry’s will is harder. He keeps his eyes wide open—catching the details on Malfoy’s angular, harsh face. Harry doesn't like to linger, but this time he does. Through the pouring water, Malfoy looks like a thin, white flower, bowed, but keeping itself open, bravely facing the heavy fall.

Harry takes their entwined hands together. He cradles them and lets his lips fall onto Malfoy’s wet wrist. Tasting the cold skin covering delicate blue veins. Malfoy watches—eyes wide, as grey as the sky.

Maybe this isn’t written in the script either.

There is no hesitation. If there is anyone Harry would not let to jump to the hell he's in, it is this man.

Harry closes his eyes, lets go, and Apparates.

[rainjulyx]

Two ghosts for @drarrymicrofic | 600wc

○

“Professor, how's your hair all grey at 36?” Malfoy's long fingers reached out to touch, it froze just a hairbreadth away. He smiled thinly and retracted his hand.

Harry stared at the single fleck on Malfoy's pale skin, a little crescent on the tip of his nose. “Thirty…”

Malfoy leans towards the fence, hair wild, swayed by the wind. Eyes reflecting the stars that he knew like the back of his hand.

Him, the same, always.

Any moment, his finger would point at a celestial object and recite its lore. And Harry would listen like he did years ago, in this very place, like a rerun. Back then, Malfoy had talked animatedly, eyes glimmering, youth etched in the way he slipped in immature insults between the lore—just to annoy Harry—pale skin under a thick Slytherin scarf. Harry remembered how he had smirked that one night, a day before graduation, his lips pink and wet. “Sinistra retired. I'll just take it, you know. Mcgonagall asked me.”

Harry had been young and stupid, he'd scrambled for excuses not to leave and begged McGonagall to let him stay a few more months after eighth year. He'd told himself he hadn't been ready for the world. Nothing more.

Little liar, you haven't even left since.

Malfoy moved, his pale long hair nearly swiping against Harry's face. A finger pointed to the sky. “You know how to find the Leo constellation?”

Harry shook his head. So, this was Regulus' night.

Malfoy described the constellation; introduced its brightest star; and asked… do you know that he was named after it? Then he recalled the stories he heard from Narcissa about the man.

Harry listened, patiently. Looking at his own hands, pretending he wasn't staring at Malfoy's long eyelashes or the little fleck on his nose. Or his icy grey eyes. Once Malfoy was out of things to say, it was Harry's cue. He asked, “So what about your namesake, professor?”

“Good question, you'd make my best student at this rate.”

“Better than Rose Weasley?”

Malfoy smiled, eyes faraway, maybe thinking about his most prominent student. “Never.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Harry watched, agonised as he waited, as if anticipating for a miracle to unravel. There, the little smile on those pale lips. Eyelids opening to showcase the light in grey eyes. Malfoy leaned on his side to face Harry. “Draco is a constellation. It's shaped like a dragon.”

“Dragon?”

Malfoy was so close. He must have felt Harry's breath this near. He must have heard Harry's bloodrush. He must have seen Harry's mess of heart written all over his eyes. Those lips, so near. Harry gulped, still this anxious, even after all these years, even after reliving this a thousand times and more.

“The biggest star in Draco's constellation is called Eltanin, or Etamin. Do you know that?”

Yes. I asked every night. You always answered.

“Is it time?” Draco asked, this time, his voice is caught at the back of his throat. He sounded awfully young and tired.

Harry looked away. Refusing to see it unfold. He had enough of this. He closed his eyes, and waited.

There was, mercifully, no sound when Draco dematerialised.

The tower was quiet. The metal fence was cold under Harry's hand. The winter was unforgiving. Draco's office was dusty and vacant. Rose Weasley has long since graduated.

And Harry was a tired sixty year old.

He came back to his chambers as the clock struck two, like the night before. And before. And before. He slept unwell, dreaming about Draco Malfoy and his youth. About the endless nights on Astronomy tower. About... about... about...

[rainjulyx]

For @drarrymicrofic prompt: River 500wc

House by the River

Malfoy’s house is by the river. 

Harry is not supposed to know that.

The forbidden fruit lies in the glass box on Harry's stupid Unspeakable desk. Just a week ago, the fruit caused Harry's close encounter with death. No one else could know. Not even the Ministry. So, that night, Malfoy took Harry home.

It still feels like a dream to Harry. And Malfoy never talks about it.

That night, Harry's—Malfoy's room—faced the river. On the calm water, the moon rested all night and the sun danced in the early morning. Harry was half conscious. Oh, how pretty, to have dawns in this charming home with Draco fucking Malfoy. Malfoy sat on the left side of the bed, crumpled in his pyjamas. He put another bitter potion down Harry's throat, all the while cradling Harry's jaw as if he was holding a fallen star. And before Malfoy sent him home, he'd cooked Harry a bowl of soup.

It was good, which was weird.

But Harry can still picture it all. The lawn, overgrown, where Malfoy might lay down with a book, pale hair spread on the warm lap of his lover. Or him running around with his lover, pale feet bare, laughing. 

Harry heard Malfoy has someone. It’s mentioned somewhere. They don't really talk much about that.

Time is suspended on level nine. 

But, it's good. Because in this enclosed room with no windows, Malfoy is not anyone's. 

He is soft here. Unguarded. 

But still, Harry knows about the house by the river. He knows about Malfoy's midnight-blue flower pot and tomato-shaped bowl. He knows Malfoy’s knitted duvet and his cat Lyra. And about the second toothbrush in the mug. And the Muggle Magazines which could not be Malfoy's.

The visit starved Harry more than sated his hunger.

“It was a bad idea, tasting it.” Malfoy passes by Harry's desk. His hand somehow rests on Harry's back, finger fiddling with Harry's nape like it's nothing. “It was a bad idea, not following the protocol.”

“It was your idea.”

“You convinced me.”

“And I trusted your calculation.” Harry looks at Malfoy's face the way he look at their specimens in the labs: closely. As close as humanly possible. Malfoy looks back. With the same intensity. It's maddening, because he always looks back. Sweltering grey, dreadfully cold.

Harry catches the hand on his nape and rubs his face with it. Long fingers on Harry's cheek. Pink nails on Harry's nose.

Malfoy sighs. “We've been studying the bloody fruit for years, and you can't even resist it.”

“It's the name, you know. Come up with something better,” Harry says, but how can Harry? When Malfoy might as well grow the forbidden fruit in his home, with its warm sun and tranquil river. Harry will simply eat the fruit over again, jump to the river, and risk death. 

Look closely, there.

Pink lips. 

Knitted duvet.

Pale hair.

Warm home.

A fleck of turquoise in grey eyes.

Golden river sparkling in early morning.

Mm, tempting.

[rainjulyx]

Rule | 600-something | for @drarrymicrofic

“Myhdndsewethy.” Potter breathessly catches up, hovering, jittery.

Draco doesn't look at him. Tries not to, but that's not relevant. Draco has been in a weird mood all day. All week, if he's being honest. He glares at Potter's bowed head, at his stupid shiny hair that curls around his ears, reflecting the warm neon light in the alleyway.

Draco keeps walking. “Speak in a language that exists.”

“My hand was sweaty!”

Draco halts. “What?”

“That’s why I pulled away.”

Pull away?

Fuck. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Look at me." Potter sounds desperate.

Draco is busy staring at the liquid stain on Potter's emerald coat to look at him. It annoys Draco greatly, how Potter has no care for his possessions. And it was a gift. From Draco. He should be a little careful with it. He should be more careful about most things in life.

All these years, they have been unwilling partners, witnessed each other's making fool of themselves, and reluctantly saved each other's neck countless times. It all only works because there are two rules they never break. Well, two unspoken rules.

1. Let's not talk about it.

2. If we don't talk about it, it never happened.

And fucking Potter is feeling carefree enough tonight to break them. Or—with him standing there with his pink nose and chapped lips, earnestly watching Draco with wide green eyes—careless.

Draco is ready to pretend he didn't hear anything. Then, Potter says, “You definitely know. You grabbed—”

“I did nothing.”

“—my hand. But my hand was sweaty!”

Draco braces himself as he looks up to stare into Potter's eyes. What is Potter doing? Is he cursed, or worse, dying? Why is he talking about it? Why is he not following the rules? “I don't care about your sweaty hand.”

“But did you care about my sweaty forehead?”

“What the fuck are you—”

Potter sigh is audible. He takes a step closer. Draco barely manages not getting cornered to a fucking lamp post.

Potter points at his own forehead. There are strands of hair falling softly over the spot. “You kissed me—” the earth stops rotating “—on here when I was half-asleep, half-drugged in that cottage in Madrid. I was in so much pain from that explosion but I knew.”

Fucking hell. Draco glares at the likely-firewhisky stain in Potter's cashmere coat. It still grates on his nerves. Even more now. “You knew nothing.”

Draco came here for a celebratory drink. For the cocktails. Not to be utterly humiliated by Harry bloody Potter, Draco's—fucking hell. Draco doesn't talk about this. He is not breaking the rules. “So what are you saying?”

“You've been brooding all week! It's driving me mad!”

Draco grits his teeth. “You think I was mad because I accidentally touched your hand? Dream on!”

Potter's eyes crumble. The nerve. “We were both exhausted that night! We almost died. And you tried to hold my hand. But it was sweaty.” Potter's voice trembles. Potter wipes his hand on that cashmere fabric. “It was sweaty. I wasn't in the right mind. I'm sorry.” Then, just barely above a whisper, in a quivering breath, the admission escapes Potter's lips. “I regret it every day.”

What. The. Fuck.

Draco's lungs give up on air.

A sweaty hand catches Draco's hand. Sweaty fingers latch between Draco's fingers.

Draco has no idea whose hand is sweaty anymore. Or shaking.

Draco can only stare. The way their skin contrasts. The way the fingers fit. The way the hands are tethered close. The way the the palms are wet.

Draco raises the taut hands. He locks his gaze to Potter's eyes. He doesn't breathe as he brings Potter's wrist closer to his face. He ducks and rests his nose on Potter's skin, breathing in, smelling soap and sweat. Draco's lips linger on Potter's pulse, in a tender touch that broke the chains around Draco's cold heart.

Potter smiles. His eyes beam.

Draco diverts his gaze. Fuck the rules. He clears his throat. “I kissed your hand.”

There's a smile in Potter's voice. “Kiss me, fucker.”