Of Taming Dragons and Charming Cupboards

“Mikael.” He accepted the offered hand, watching the guy’s smile — a little too adorable for a late-night club “So, if one’s not here to dance, drink, or shag — why bother coming at all?”

“I’ve been enjoying myself quite well so far without any of that," Nasha chuckled. "I was just explaining how the quinine in the tonic of my drink reacts under the UV lights, making it emit this blue glow.” He smiled sheepishly at the bartender, who had been watching their exchange with open amusement. “Though I’m afraid not everyone finds it interesting.”

The bartender laughed, shook his head, and moved away.

“I do,” Mikael said, sliding onto the barstool. “Find it interesting, that is. Tell me more.”

The man squinted at him.

“You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Mikael said, downing his Jägermeister. The glass clinked decisively against the counter. “Did you know that in 16th-century England there was a law that only nobility could wear purple? You’d have been fined for this.” He tugged lightly at the collar of Nasha’s T-shirt. “That’s one overly specific, boring-people-to-death bit of trivia from my field — now I want to hear one more thing you know about UV light.”

“Alright,” Nasha said, his dark eyes crinkling like stars in the flashing lights of the club. “Do you know what else turns purple under fluorescence?”

Mikael shrugged, coming up blank.

“An opossum.”

Nasha’s grin widened as Mikael threw his head back and laughed.

Drarry | Established Relationship | Angst with a Happy Ending| Pre-wedding Jitters

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just me.” “Just you,” Draco scoffed. “As if that weren’t precisely the problem.” Harry frowned. “I don’t understand.” Draco pressed his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. “Draco.” A heavy sigh fell into his hair. “Will it help if I’m naked?”

Drarry | Established Relationship | One-shot Angst with a Happy Ending | Sequel to Of Taming Dragons and Charming Cupboards, but can be read as a standalone | NSFW

“What the hell are we doing, Draco?” Harry said, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

Draco looked away.

His heart was hammering so hard it hurt.

“Nor do I. But—”

“But?” Harry prompted.

Suddenly, Draco couldn’t bear it for another second.

“Are you—are you unhappy with me?” he blurted, the question that had been eating at him for two months.

“What?” Harry stared at him.

“Are you unhappy with me, Harry? I didn’t want to think about it—but after tonight, it’s impossible not to.”

“Draco.” Harry rose to his feet.

“I’ve never pretended to be easy to live with. I know exactly what I am. It’s just that—” Draco forced the words through the tightness in his throat, “you saw me at my worst, years ago. No one knows me the way you do. And despite all that, you asked me to—” He faltered, breath catching at the memory of their betrothal. “I thought you wanted to. Wanted me. So…” He steadied himself as the room seemed to tilt. “I would appreciate honesty. So I can make a proper decision.”

“What decision?” Harry asked, his voice rough.

“Rossi asked me to move to America.”

Read the fic here: [link]

Drarry | Post-war | 8th Year Hogwarts | Slow burn | Heavy themes, happy ending | WIP (updating as I go)

“Draco.”

“Shut up.”

It was a lost battle.

He had no control over it anymore, and perhaps it didn’t even matter. Potter had already seen him cry before. He knew how pitiful Draco was, so what was the point in pretending otherwise?

“I’m going to come closer.”

“What?” Draco gurgled, wiping his face.

“Don’t get startled,” Potter said quietly. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Draco didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how Potter suddenly stood so close, or why he thought placing his stupid hand on Draco’s shaking shoulder would help—but there it was. Potter had never once done what Draco expected him to do.

Draco jerked when Potter’s fingers brushed the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop—fucking apologising all the time,” Draco barked.

“Okay.”

Potter thankfully fell silent as he guided Draco’s forehead against his shoulder.

And, Merlin.

It didn’t feel like a proper embrace, with Potter’s other hand awkwardly twitching at his side and Draco’s fingers gripping the front of his cloak—halfway to throttling the wanker, absolutely—but still. It was the closest Draco had come to feeling this warm in forever.

Pansy clung to him half the time, yes, but it was nothing like this—nothing like the tingling warmth spreading from where Potter’s fingers rested against his skin. It seeped into his spine like anaesthetic.

Drarry | Post-war | 8th Year Hogwarts | Slow burn | Heavy themes, happy ending | WIP (updating as I go)

“I’ll tell you just once, Peterson—very nicely,” Harry sneered into the boy’s shocked, frightened face. “If I ever hear that you, or any of your dumb friends, repeat that stunt with Malfoy from earlier today, I promise you’ll be lucky if you end like Williams. I reckon you heard what happened to him. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, yes,” Peterson nodded frantically. “Whatever you say, Harry.”

“Great. Let this information sink in properly. And let the others know as well. No one is to touch him, talk down to him, or even look at him wrong from now on.”

Harry let go of his throat.

“Now get lost.”

He watched Peterson fumble for the things fallen out of his schoolbag and then run down the corridor. With a curse, Harry wiped his face. This was tiring. Annoying. Why couldn’t he just let this Malfoy thing be and focus on what was really important? Why couldn’t he look away and forget?

Why, for Merlin’s sake, did it have to be him who noticed that Malfoy wasn’t eating his dinner again tonight?

Drarry | Post-war | 8th Year Hogwarts | Slow burn | Heavy themes, soft feelings | WIP (updating as I go)

Even though October rains battered the castle walls every year, Harry would’ve sworn on his life that this year they were infused with black magic. Winds pressed against the stained—glass windows, rattling them as he walked the corridors, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape his chest. Draughts howled beneath doors, whispering ugly things.

Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night, unable to breathe, convinced that something—or someone—sat on his chest, hands curled around his throat, wishing him dead all over again. He swallowed bile, opened a book, and studied until the first light of day brought the faintest relief.

Maybe Malfoy felt the same.

Maybe he, too, sensed shadows creeping at his ankles as he hurried through the castle at night, afraid of being dragged into abandoned classrooms and devoured until nothing remained.

Maybe he didn’t.

Maybe it was all in Harry’s head, and he was finally losing his mind for good.

I'm so bloody tired of being told that stories like "the Notebook" are about love. That shit's NOT love. It probably wouldn't notice love if it fell on it, down the stairs.

This is something I physically NEEDED to write, and I finally did it! Not explicit (for once), but veeery fluffy and sweet. Guys, not gonna lie, it happened solely for this one part:

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“Marry me.”

“What?” Draco’s head snapped up.

“I mean it.” Harry gripped his waist tighter, terrified and certain in equal measure. “I know it sounds mad, and you may not have planned on doing the whole marriage thing twice, but I can’t… I can’t pretend I don’t want this anymore.”

Draco stared at him, utterly gobsmacked.

“I know this came out of nowhere,” Harry said, cursing under his breath. Had he completely miscalculated? “And you’d deserve something more original than some clichéd proposal in Paris like a million other people have, but…” He caught Draco’s hand and threaded their fingers together. “I know for a fact that if I had a ring and a proper plan, I’d never find the courage to do it. So…” His heart was beating so fast it might have leapt off the balcony on its own. “Will you do me the honour? What you’d say?”

He looked into those grey eyes, breath held. And of all the reactions he thought Draco might have, it certainly wasn’t for that stunned expression to collapse into an eye-roll and a long-suffering sigh. In one smooth motion, Draco tugged his hand free and reached into his pocket, pulling out… a velvet box.

“Is that…?”

It was Harry’s turn to gape.

“Yes, you berk, it is,” Draco said, flicking his nose and setting the box on the railing. “Clichéd Paris proposal? Unoriginal? Really? Thank you ever so much for that.”

“But…” Harry’s eyes widened in horror as the realisation dawned. “This whole trip… you insisting on it…”

“Well, yes.” Draco’s smile turned sour with exasperation. “In hindsight, I might’ve spent the money on my own ring, seeing as I’m clearly not getting one. Oh no,” he snapped the box away just as Harry reached for it. “You’re not wearing this one—I’m quite sure no one’s asked you to marry them.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Absolutely not!” Draco yelped as Harry lunged, shoving the box behind his back.

“Give it to me. Give me the bloody ring, Draco! I want it.”

They wrestled; Harry was half laughing, half desperate, and finally managed to wrench the box free…almost. He had it in his grasp when Draco’s nails scratched across his palm and he jerked.

Both of them watched in dawning horror as the small, dark blue box bounced once against the railing and then vanished into the dark street below.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Draco groaned, throwing his hands up and storming off the balcony to slam the glass door behind him.

Harry stared down at the street where the ring had disappeared, and slowly, irresistibly, a grin spread across his face.

(drarry, post-war, slow burn, complete, fully published on AO3)

Honestly, it’s difficult to find one piece of this chapter that wouldn’t be too explicit, haha.

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Harry leaned his forehead against the closed door for a moment, steadying himself. When had his little girl grown up so much? Eyes shut, he didn’t notice Draco until a hand pressed lightly against his back.

“Something wrong?” Draco asked quietly.

“No,” Harry huffed a laugh. “Just… a bit emotional.”

Draco tilted his head, assessing him.

“Why don’t you go read to them, and I’ll have a shower in the meantime?”

Harry swallowed hard; suddenly his throat was bone-dry.

“Yeah… yeah, why don’t I?” he croaked.

Draco’s smirk was knowing.

“I’ll meet you in our bed, then.”

He pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Harry’s cheek, but his hand squeezed Harry’s hip hard enough to sting before he turned away toward his bedroom. Their bedroom, Harry corrected himself, his stomach flipping. All at once, he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him across the hall.

(drarry, post-war, slow burn, complete, fully published on AO3!!!)

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By the time Draco’s scones were ready, dusk had begun to settle over London’s suburbs. The sweet scent of jam and cream filled every corner of the house. If anyone asked Harry, he would describe the way his little makeshift family naturally gravitated toward the kitchen—and, by extension, toward him while he baked—as nothing short of brilliant.

He levitated the tray from the oven and set it on the counter. Rory and Scorpius didn’t notice; they had been locked in a game of chess at the kitchen table for nearly an hour. Rory’s head bobbed in time with the wireless, her grin wide. She was rightfully in a good mood; she was winning, Scorpius teetering on the edge of checkmate.

Draco, however, never missed the scent of freshly baked scones within reach. With his nose still buried in the book he’d been reading since Harry started baking, he leaned over from his perch on the counter stool and reached for one, only to have his hand batted away.

“Careful,” Harry warned with a wink at Draco’s glare. “They’re hot.”

Like you, he almost added. But Draco must have heard it anyway, since his cheeks coloured dark crimson. It was funny how the fire Draco had always lit in him calmed down into a steady hearth. It’s not that he didn’t desire the man anymore, on the contrary. But now that Harry knew he’d have Draco each night, in every way possible, for the rest of their lives, the urgency had softened into something steadier.

He could wait. Soon, Draco would be naked in his arms.

Hi guys!! I have no idea if anyone even cares but I’m fiiiiiinallyyyyy working on the first sequel to Of Taming Dragons and Charming Cupboards!

It’s called You Tame My Heart, I Charm Yours, and YES, of course it’s placed in Paris! This is Draco Malfoy we’re talking about, haha.

God, I’ve missed these idiots so much, and it feels amazing to be writing again.

It’s not posted yet, but I’ll share a little preview once it’s ready (or once I’m ready, it’s always the hardest to find the courage).

(drarry, post-war, slow burn, complete, fully published on AO3!!!) Okay, I’m definitely posting more than one snippet from this chapter, I just love it too much, haha.

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Harry fell quiet, watching him in awe.

Draco’s hands flew up, covering his face. His whole body shook, and then came a sob so raw, so violent, Harry was certain the neighbours across the street could hear it.

Draco cried.

He cried like he had no choice, a force too powerful to overcome. Nothing, his will, his fists pressing against his eyes, nothing could dam the flood. The sound tore from him, guttural, unearthly, like a howl pulled straight from hell.

“Draco,” Harry breathed, horrified.

In a heartbeat, he lunged forward and crushed him in his arms. In twenty-five years, Harry had never seen Draco shatter like this: desperate, lonely, like a soul caught in a dementor’s grip. And suddenly it all made sense: the loneliness Harry had been drowning in these past days had never been his alone. The main, overwhelming part had been coming from Draco, suffering on his own.

Harry pressed frantic kisses to his temple, hating himself.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over, wanting nothing more than to rip himself apart for causing this.

(drarry, post-war, slow burn, complete, fully published on AO3!!!

“Ginny…”

“I wonder,” she said, louder. “Why was I that way? It’s not that hard to believe in you – you’re an incredible man, Harry. Reliable, and steady. And your heart is in the right place. For some reason, I haven’t told you for the longest time. I think I…I took you for granted.”

He felt his face redden in the dark. What was he supposed to say to that?