daddiesdrarry

𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟷, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹

imagine an au where the potters and the blacks have been bringing their children to summer cottages in the very same holiday village since they were little.

sirius and james become friends in the most chaotic, headlong way possible, despite all of walburga’s prohibitions, and every year they count down the days until the holidays so they can return and see each other again.

but sirius’s younger brother seems completely antisocial to james. he rarely leaves the house, pointedly ignores every attempt at conversation, and spends most of his time reading impossibly complicated books while perched on a windowsill with his pale legs hanging out the window. either he simply doesn’t tan, or years of self-imposed isolation have something to do with it.

and maybe, just maybe, james is a little curious.

so every summer he tries again and again to earn the attention of this boy who appears indifferent to absolutely everything. he hangs over the fence separating the black property from the neighboring lots. one time he even falls straight into a flowerbed beneath walburga’s windows, crushing a patch of barely-blooming flowers.

when the gardener grabs james by the ear and drags him off the property, james catches the first hint of a smug little smile on regulus’s lips and feels almost blessed.

many more scorching summers will pass. dozens more painfully pathetic attempts to get regulus’s attention, each making james look like a complete idiot while reliably earning that same smile in return. until one day, at long last, james manages to convince him to escape his mother’s watchful supervision.

Speak Up for the @weheartdracofest 🤭🤭🤭🤭

a lil beefy harry because i felt like it 🙃

Breathless and spent, Draco tumbles down onto the bed. He’s laughing. A real, genuine laugh. He turns his head and finds Harry beside him, flushed and amused and a little bewildered.

The reason why sits on Harry’s finger.

A gold band.

The only thing he’s wearing.

“So?” Draco asks, shifting to face him properly.

“So what?” Harry counters.

Draco is in no mood to draw the process out. He crowds into Harry’s space, nipping gently at the sweat-slick skin of his neck, then soothes the sting with a kiss.

Against his ear, he says, “You’re wearing it.”

Harry looks at him, eyes half-lidded. “So I am.”

“I’m going to presume, then.” Draco takes Harry’s hand, draws it up, kisses the ring he had slotted onto his finger half an hour ago, then holds it tight.

“Presume?”

“That you’re saying yes. You didn’t say it earlier.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “You didn’t exactly give me the chance.”

“Is it a yes, Harry?” Draco presses.

He knows it is. It has to be.

How can it not be after everything? After the war and the trials, after both of them becoming Aurors, after the fights and the arguments, after the shared drinks where absolution was found at the bottom of a pint glass and resurrection between the sheets.

How can it not be yes, when even after all that, they spent months denying themselves the joy and love of each other because they both felt like they didn’t deserve it?

Harry tightens his fingers around Draco’s.

He tilts his head, fondness written plainly across his face. “I’m inclined to acquiesce.”

“Inclined to acquiesce,” Draco repeats mildly. “Wow. Swallowed a thesaurus, did you?”

“Swallowed something,” Harry mutters, arching a brow. “Swallowed your brain through your—”

Draco pinches his waist. Harry laughs, and then Draco is tickling him properly, ruthless with it, fingers digging into every vulnerable place he knows by heart.

“Draco—fuck—stop—”

“Answer the question.”

“I did!”

“You used four syllables too many.”

Harry squirms beneath him, panting and helpless and wearing Draco’s ring.

“Yes,” he gasps at last. “Yes, I’ll fucking marry you.”

Draco stills and for a moment, the room goes quiet around them. Then Harry reaches up, cups Draco’s face, and smiles.