Once Upon a Midnight Drarry
Once upon a midnight Drarry, while I penned some snark from Harry
With my thoughts subsumed in gothic poems and the prose of old—
I admit to feeling deadened, as my eyeballs slowly reddened,
Staring at a screen for seven long and tiring hours, cold—
Fingers cramping, pained for seven long and outstretched hours, cold.
With some hunger, truth be told.
Ah, distinctly I remember, as my waning thoughts grew dimmer,
And reality’s lines did blur, beside me sat a boy of gold.
In the darkness, our dear Harry fell upon my desk chair, wary,
Like he did not mean to tarry, yet could not break woe’s bleak hold.
Like his sadboi heart was aching from some sorrow fate had doled—
A sadness not to be controlled.
And I did see it was matching with the story I was hatching,
From my pages, he was catching all the feelings I had scrolled.
Pining for his boyfriend’s candor—smirking, snarling, playful banter,
While his heart did nearly clamor for that smirk from school days old—
While his chest quite clearly hammered for that smirk from school days old—
Perfect lips and eyes so bold.
Presently my thoughts grew clearer, sharpened by this boy most queer, or
Possibly that I drew nearer to insanity’s rapid hold.
But his visage didn’t waver, and his voice held not a quaver
When he glanced with clear disfavor at the room he did behold.
“Dammit Malfoy, misbehaver! You said nine but can’t uphold
Our meeting time—well, that’s just cold.”
Deep into my chambers peering, long he stood there fuming, fearing,
Doubting Draco’s custom sneering from when their plans were taking hold.
But the blond man didn’t enter, and our hero’s face engendered
That of hurt by his tormentor, echoed in the grim household.
Tortured by his soul’s offender, whom he often had extolled—
Draco Malfoy, love of old.
Back into my desk chair falling, looking on the brink of bawling,
Our dear Harry sat there sprawling, anger gone, yet unconsoled.
For he could not help but feeling that his love, though unappealing,
With one touch could send him reeling into bliss as yet untold.
That his love could spark his healing, take his fury and remold.
Though he caused it, truth be told.
Open here I cranked my laptop, forgotten in this angsty backdrop,
Lulled by words I meant to workshop ‘til in my room they did unfold.
Thus I sat renewed in typing, lost in hopes of quickly swiping
Those deep, furrowed lines from griping—etched in Harry’s brow twofold.
What strange twist could wring the strife from Harry’s brow while pain outsold?
Nothing less than lover’s hold.
Then methought I saw it clearly - what sweet inspiration struck me!
All he needed was a sign of lover’s passion not yet grown cold!
Happily, I penned the omen—of a crow like joyous showman
Bursting through the oaken doorway, where this silvery light consoled,
Where this kind patronus had oft Harry’s doubts and fears paroled.
And its light did not withhold.
Much I smiled at how Harry’s beau—the boy who left him all aglow—
Could stutter my artistic flow and leave his boyfriend feeling bold.
How one flare of spellwork burning through the room sent his heart churning,
How it spurred his soul’s deep yearning for his lover’s kind enfold—
The way his anguish was so sated by one Draco’s warm handhold—
To, once more, his love behold.
But the white crow, perching primly on my desk lamp, shading dimly,
Cleared its throat with cackle grimly, before speaking as was foretold.
“Potter,” said it, lightly drawling, “you are likely now recalling,
That the last time we were brawling, I claimed a time to uphold—
That, on the morrow, we should meet when our clocks had nine times tolled.
Fie! My dear, for you’ve been trolled.”
Startled at confession given, Harry had quite nearly striven
To not shout in anger driven by that wanker’s tactless scold,
But alas—for he was seething—he could not help but bequeathing
Draco’s crow with heavy breathing and a laugh of mirthless cold.
“Malfoy if you don’t come home soon, I will quash your pride tenfold.”
This was Harry’s rage threshold.
But patronus, fading quickly in that greenish light so sickly,
Missed as Harry swallowed thickly, drooping deep in rolly-chair’s hold.
Then, upon faux-leather sinking, he betook himself to linking
Draco to his planning, thinking what this daft git quite so bold
Meant by ditching Harry Potter, meant by being so ice-cold,
While, within, his umbrage rolled.
This he sat upright debating, while he could not help but hating
That sure way he had of baiting Harry ‘til he lost all control.
But it was oft labored breathing, and a heart’s most treach’rous beating,
That would cause his cheeks’ quick heating, while his symptoms took ahold.
Often it was tortured pleasure that wracked him so manifold—
Sweetened havoc, on the whole.
Then, when I had lain off hoping, through the oaken front door loping,
In there stepped a stately posh man from the Wizarding days of old.
Not the least concession made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But with mien of lord quite gayly, pressed a kiss to lover bold—
Pressed a kiss to surprised lips that did utter a broken scold.
Draco through the door had strolled!
“Malfoy!” said he, “man of evil!—wanker still, for such upheaval!—
Whether work held thee, or whether someone did your presence withhold,
Regardless of your stupid reasons, it did feel like quite the treason
When upon this hour displeasing, in so smugly you did stroll!
Had you but the barest courtesy, we might yet avoid a row!
What say you then, lover/foe?”
“Harry!” said he, “boyfriend dearest!—man whom my heart holds the nearest!
I confess that it was neither of the reasons you snidely told.
For, in fact, I was quite missing your indignant, scowly hissing
That so often comes with pissing you off when you’ve no foothold.
In fact, it might be good as kissing the boy they all describe as ‘gold.’
What say you then, Potter? Fold?”
“Be that snarky invocation your last unjust provocation!”
Harry snarled as he did grab his boyfriend by the tie and pulled.
Draco’s lips, still sneering, crashed and against Harry’s teeth were slashed,
But longing left him unabashed as he leaned in and snogged him cold.
And his lips went right on smooching as the clock had ten strikes tolled.
Then Harry’s blush he did behold.
And the couple, never balking, still is kissing, still is stalking,
With rare smatterings of talking—and mostly still in dares they mold.
But the brash words and some shoving is their unique brand of loving,
And the truth is, there is nothing that could wreck what they uphold.
I close my laptop with a sigh and smile into the warmed household.
This is Drarry—come behold.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976757 (better formatting!)
