Drarry and Other Things

Link to chapter 1

Chapter 13: Tea

Don't you have any real tea?” Draco grouses. He’s holding his cup and playing with the string of the tea bag, twisting it around his finger.

“That's real tea.”

“It's in a bag!”

“It's efficient.”

“Fuckin’ tragic,” Draco murmurs.

Harry grins behind his cup, relieved Malfoy is throwing insults again. It's not ideal but insults and overall rude behaviour is Draco's comfort mechanism … what makes him feel safe when he's vulnerable. Harry wonders how he missed it before.

“My godfather … uh … Sirius Black. He spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't even commit.”

Wow! Apparently saying wrong things, at the wrong time, is Harry's way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation.

Draco doesn't crumple at the mention of Azkaban though. He looks interested even. “I heard. Wha … what was he like, when he got out?”

Did Azkaban ruin him? is the unasked question. Harry doesn't know how to answer.

“Well, I didn't really know him before …”

“Yeah.”

“So I've no way of comparing –”

“Got it.”

“I mean he was still himself. And he was everything to me. Even the version I got.”

Draco rubs his face and stares out the window. “Makes sense. If a person is amazing before, they'll still retain a bit of it after … but –”

“Not my problem.” Harry's voice is raised, echoing strangely in the open field.

“It's everyone's problem.” Malfoy is strangely calm, but for that manic gleam behind his eyes. “I'm making it yours. Come here.” Malfoy steps forward and Harry steps back, nearly twisting his ankle when a rock gives way under his bare heel.

“I'll report you.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. He looks ready to say something more, but he catches himself, wrinkles his nose. "Come on," is all Harry gets.

Malfoy's robes catch in the grass as he walks, purposeful strides eating the distance. Harry wavers for a moment, then follows.

Day whatever, yawn

Draco: What are you in the mood for?

Harry: World domination.

Draco: That's a bit ambitious.

Harry: You are my world.

Draco: Aww...

Harry:

Draco:

Harry:

he hid a vial of veritaserum in his sleeve and snuck it into draco’s drink when he walked pass their table at the three broomsticks. the plan was to confront draco and his posse as they leave, he’s already planted a recording device inside of his coat.

It was easy to feel rather dejected after spending forty-five minutes waiting for your date. And those forty-five minutes were on top of the fifteen Draco had taken to be fashionably late!

He'd already switched from whisky—sophisticated, classy, adult—to a rather cheap white wine that made him feel properly miserable about being so obviously stood up. He was eyeing the waiter, but the guy was only so-so on the handsomeness scale and had further points knocked off his score for pitying him. What a waste of a night…

He had just begun wondering whether Potter had simply forgotten him or if this was some particularly cruel and deliberate rejection when the man of the hour rushed into the restaurant, flower petals flying everywhere in his haste, and stopped, abruptly, in front of Draco's—rather startled—face.

"Draco, I am so so sorry," Potter wheezed, his whole body shaking with his attempts to regain the ability to breathe. "I couldn't find tulips anywhere…!"

The bouquet was made of tulips: dozens and dozens of violently red blooms quivering with Potter's apologies.

"How did you know I liked tulips?" It was the only thing Draco could bring himself to say.

Potter smirked—and Merlin damn him, how did he always manage to look so dashing?

"I have my sources," he said and pushed the flowers towards Draco, who stayed put, only raising a single eyebrow.

"Do you have a watch?" Draco knows dry responses were not conducive to successful dates, but Potter left him to wait for forty-five minutes.

"I have three vaults full of gold," Potter countered quickly. "Can I treat you to a drink?"

"You're treating me to dinner. Come on, Jacqueline's is around the corner—I'm sure they'll find a table for the Chosen One."

My favorite boys <3

drarry microfic, 222 words

When Harry arrives on the shore of Azkaban, he brings with him a fresh set of clothes, an extra-warm coat, and a homemade meal that he once got compliments for.

The sky fills with crystal tears, and Harry finds Draco in the midst of them.

Free. Older.

He can do nothing but stare. The weight of a chandelier with ten long, lonely, unburned candles, hangs over them, crashes down on him all at once—out of reach.

"Draco," Harry chokes out.

There's a lone wick sticking out of his heart, lovingly tended, and Draco's touch is made of icy flames, the bluest of them all, when he wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders. Tired, delicate, so very strong; now willingly unguarded.

"Hey."

Draco says it like no time has passed at all. When he presses his cheek against the crook of Harry's neck, he stinks of near death and laughs—laughs as if none of it had touched him, as if none of it matters.

Warm, warm in his embrace like neither of them has been since that summer after their seventh year, and Harry cries when he promised not to.

"Crying, Potter?"