Drarry for the Light Hearted

summer bingo: fake dating, omegaverse, free space

—

“You’re wet,” is what Harry finally settles on, breaking the heavy silence that had formed between them. His mouth waters as the smell of—what? Cinnamon? Vanilla? Something so divine that Harry can scarcely name it?—permeates his senses. He wishes more than anything that he had something to do with his hands to quell the monster in his chest urging him to just reach out and take.

“Well done, Potter,” Draco’s voice is strained, and when Harry sneaks a look at him out of the corner of his eyes, he can’t discern whether the shine on Draco’s forehead is from rain or sweat. “Education hasn’t been lost on you after all, seeing as it’s raining.” Next to Harry, he shifts, and that same smell—sweet, intoxicating, irrevocably him—catches in the wind.

Merlin have mercy.

“No,” Harry corrects, swallowing thickly, “you’re wet. You know, that type of wet. Slick wet—”

Draco cuts him off with what Harry can best describe as a snarl, its effectiveness paling considerably when another pretty blush climbs up Draco’s cheekbones. It’s followed by a breathy whimper that has blood rushing to places Harry rather that it didn’t. “I know what type of wet I am. Idiot,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re in heat?”

“Because it’s none of your business,” Draco hisses, and pulls his robes tightly around him but not before Harry catches sight of a damp spot spreading quickly across Draco’s trousers. “We may be dating, if that’s what you want to call this farce, but that doesn’t give you the right to know—”

“Right. And people aren’t going to find it strange that I took my in-heat Omega to a fucking,” Harry absently gestures to their surroundings, “garden party.”

The more Harry thinks about it, about Draco being surrounded by other Alphas who would only be too happy to sink their teeth into him, the more vicious his chest monster becomes. It’s possessive, this monster, angry that Draco—his Draco—isn’t tucked away safely in Harry’s house. In Harry’s bed. It’s furious that the slick trickling down the inside of Draco’s thighs isn’t soaking Harry’s bedsheets, the taste sweet on Harry’s tongue as he laps it up. It’s livid that others can smell Draco and that they might think that they may lay claim to what’s Harry’s—

But that’s not possible, is it? Draco isn’t his, not really. They’re only pretending to date to keep Harry’s friends from forcing him into unwanted date after unwanted date, and to stop Draco’s parents from forcing him into an arranged marriage. At the end of the day, Harry truly has no claim to Draco’s heart. None at all. The realization feels like ice settling in his chest.

“You’re not my Alpha,” Draco grinds out through clenched teeth, and the ice only grows.

“I am to them.” Harry gestures to the other party guests, glowering at the ones eyeing Draco with interest. “They think you’re mine. And… I wish you were.” He confesses quietly, unsure where this sudden boldness came from.

The silence is disquieting.

“This isn’t real,” Draco says softly. Harry’s gaze snaps up, heart in his throat, as Draco cradles his face between his hands, thumbs smoothing a path over his cheeks. “You know this.”

Like Draco’s waist is the sun and Harry’s hands are trapped hopelessly in orbit, he finds his waist—so slim, the curves perfect—and pulls him close. Although they’ve been here before, something about this is different. The way Draco’s breath hitches, the way his chest presses against Harry’s feels real.

“Let me.” Harry nuzzles against Draco’s neck.

In turn, Draco shivers and clutches at Harry’s shoulders. “No.”

“Draco, please.”

“Stop it.” Draco clutches at the front of Harry’s robes. For a second, Harry fears he’s going to be pushed away, but instead he’s pulled closer. “I’m not yours.”

I know, Harry nearly agrees, but instead: “You can be, you just need to let me in.”

He knows the moment Draco gives in because his scent blossoms and blooms and welcomes him in. “Take me home, then.”

"Why are you all dolled up?" Harry asked when Draco swanned onto the deck of the yacht they had rented. "This is a boat party, not a wedding."

Ron lowered his beer and lifted his brows. "It's not?"

Harry looked at the confused faces of their friends and family, the fond smile on Molly’s, and the smirk on Blaise’s.

Then he looked down at himself, at the outfit Draco had insisted he should wear today.

"Darling," Draco purred in his ear, slipping his hand into Harry's, lacing their fingers, "you're not going to back down now, are you?"

Scorpius had wet the bed. He was crying, partially because he was uncomfortable in his sullied pyjamas, but also because he had been so proud of not needing night nappies anymore.

Harry was useless. Draco had delegated him to the star-shaped beanbag with, “Breathe, darling. I’ll handle it.”

“Mummy! Harry pissed himself again!”

And Draco did. He vanished the sodden sheets, spelled the mattress clean, and reassured Scorpius that it was no issue, no trouble, and that his bed was not ruined.

“You filthy good-for-nothing brat deserve to sleep in your own piss if you can’t hold it in!” “But you locked my door!”

“Let’s get you all clean too, mon chou,” Draco said, poking at their son’s belly and casting more cleaning spells—the whimsical ones he had learned from Luna that made sugar-scented bubbles fly around his wand. Scorpius giggled and jumped to reach the ones floating away.

“You wash your bed yourself!” “But how?” “Figure it out, boy. The smell better be gone when I get back from work, or else.”

Scorpius wound his arms around Draco’s neck. “I love you, Papa. Nighty-night.”

“Love you too." Draco replied and stroked the baby-soft blond curls, "I’ll put your potty closer to the bed, just in case.”

Harry blinked rapidly as his eyes began to swim.

“Thank you.” Scorpius crawled back into bed and drew the duvet up to his chin, rubbing his cheek against his favourite hippogriff soft toy.

“Papa,” he whispered—or tried to—“Daddy needs a hug.”

It was Ron and Hermione’s wedding, and Harry’s eyes had been wet from the moment he entered the hall. It had been hours.

Draco looked so beautiful in his dress robes that it physically hurt to look at him, and for once Harry was glad he knew how to endure insurmountable pain.

After the vows and the rings and the kiss, they were ushered into a lush garden and handed drinks and—

The champagne had the same colour as Malfoy’s hair, and Harry was crying again, and his best friends were too busy to push a hug on him that would help him breathe through the ache in his chest.

Blaise swanned his way over, poised and not quite as violently gorgeous as his best friend, carrying his flute with such grace that Harry felt stupid for clutching his own for dear life.

He looked at Harry, followed his anchored gaze, and inclined his head in amused acknowledgement.

Pansy sidled up to them, sipping wine, lacking Blaise’s restraint.

"You look drunk any time he touches you, like he's the most exquisite champagne and makes your stomach all bubbly and—"

"Yeah," Harry wheezed. He knew all that, and his stomach was doing just that when Draco looked in their direction and their eyes met for a split second. Tears welled. He turned away and excused himself, saying he needed air. The party was outside.

When Ron, drunk off his tits, had wept in Harry’s arms about loving Hermione so much he didn’t know how to fit it all inside his chest, then thrown up, Harry had understood. He could throw up right now.

He sat on a secluded bench, the same champagne flute precariously dangling from his fingers as he lost himself in his thoughts. What good was it to love someone this much and drown in it because it had nowhere to flow, nowhere to water and nurture a shared life like Ron and Hermione’s, or Dean and Seamus’s, or Ginny and Luna’s? Even Percy was opening his heart to Oliver. They had been dancing when Harry left.

More tears fell and darkened his robes. Others clung to his glasses, while the ones that would not spill lodged in his throat.

"Ah," the single syllable came drawled. "There you are."

Harry couldn’t breathe, couldn’t lift his head. He watched Draco’s beautifully trimmed robes drag over the fresh-cut grass, staining the dove-blue fabric green.

"I caught the bouquet," he announced as if it were the Snitch.

"Congratulations," Harry tried to say, but the word came out cracked.

So Malfoy would be next, another wedding to sob his way through, envious and hopeless.

"Hm, yes, let’s see," Malfoy hummed, and the ribbon around the bouquet came undone and trailed to the ground between their feet.

Then something was pushed into Harry's hair.

"What are you doing?" he asked, unwillingly leaning into the faint touch.

"An experiment," Draco said unhelpfully. "Hold still."

A hand was in his hair, moving something around.

"What?"

"I'm trying to see how many roses your hair can carry."

"Why?"

"Because I'm partial to the idea of a traditional solstice wedding, and soltice weddings demand flowers, and your hair is in desperate need of being accentuated rather than tamed," Draco rambled, his feet shifting.

Petals fell to the ground; the green leaves joined them, discarded but carefully not stepped on.

Harry let him do whatever he was doing, and silently let his tears keep rolling down to the tip of his nose. Malfoy hummed, clicked his tongue, switched flowers from left to right, and huffed the sweetest laugh when he reached ten and Harry’s hair could still hold more.

"Oh, don’t you look absolutely darling like this," Malfoy cooed, "positively precious."

Harry sniffed, kept his head down.

Malfoy pushed the remnants of the bouquet aside with a foot, then—

Then, inexplicably, he knelt down, expensive robes pressing into the moist lawn. He took Harry's flute, downed the lukewarm rest of it, and set it on the ground. His hands found Harry’s and tenderly pried them apart so he could slip his fingers into Harry’s clammy palms.

"What do you say?" he asked Harry, grey eyes searching, his smile cocky and warm.

Harry's heart jolted, then lurched, toppling everything over with its force. It was too much, had been for years, now spilling over like a torrent.

"I can’t," Harry hiccuped. "I can’t watch you get married to someone else. I don’t know what I’ll do if you make me." He knew he was beginning to shake, ribs splintering around his heart. There was only so much that even he could take. "I love you."

Sirius Black starts wearing gold jewelry bc of Remus’s lycanthropy in third year until Remus notices and tells Sirius silver doesn’t affect werewolves and he’s so embarrassed he commits to gold jewelry for the rest of his life because “gold suits me, Lupin” and definitely not because he was wrong

I'm so mutha fxxking tired all the time🎶🎶🎶

我真的***的每天累成狗，

why am I so mutha fxxking tired all the time🎶🎶

Malfoy's house arrest was over and done with, and Harry wallowed in the pain that preceded admitting that he missed seeing the vain tosser once a week.

"Every time I went to the Manor to check on him," Harry told his friends at the Leaky for the umpteenth time, "it turned into a wild goose chase to find him!"

"And Harry was the one getting chased while he was searching for Malfoy!" Ron chimed in, laughing.

"Yeah, by this white peacock! Not albino, actually white! He didn’t have red eyes; they were silver!" Harry set his butterbeer down to have his hands free to gesture in a wide arc. "He always unfolded his entire tail fan and came strutting at me as if I were a possible mate, and—"

Harry stopped mid-sentence when the front door opened and into the dimly lit pub swanned Malfoy—free to go wherever he pleased—in a white three-piece suit, a white shirt, and a white tie with a peacock-feather pattern.

"Wait, no!" Ron gasped, then grabbed his wife for support.

Malfoy turned towards them without searching, as if he had known Harry would be right there, and winked at him.

"Do you think—" Harry started, then swallowed the rest of his words when Malfoy picked up two glasses of white wine and unmistakably headed their way, strutting.

Harry blushed crimson in an instant. He wouldn’t even look at Hermione when she waved her arms about to get his attention.

Draco erupted out of the huge cake, naked as the day he was born, yelling "Happy Birthday!" His proposal started the "Do it With a CockRing Instead" craze that would go down in history.

Draco had one wild and precious life to live, propriety be damned.

From a young age, as far back as he could remember, Draco had been taught decorum.

Manners, elegance, modesty, charm.

He’d been taught that in order to get what one wanted and where one wanted, you had to act within a very particular set of parameters.

Circe, if his mother could see him now.

He laughed at the thought, throwing his head back and continuing to move his sequin covered hips to the beat of the music he could feel reverberating in his chest.

“What?” Harry shouted above the music, his fingers sliding under the barely-there, sheer satin blouse and grasping at Draco’s ribs.

Draco grinned, leaning in to kiss him, joy-filled and carefree; the youngest he’d ever felt. “I’m happy!” he called back when he broke away.

Harry looked at his son, who was crafting a little broom with a twig from the apple tree in their garden and colourful pipe cleaners Hermione had gifted to him.

“I can’t do it,” Harry wheezed to Draco. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

Scorpius pushed his mop of blond curls back for the umpteenth time so he could look for what he needed next, then reached for a length of baby-blue ribbon to wind around the broom’s bristles.

Draco took Harry’s hand in his and gently opened his cold, clammy fingers to take the scissors from him.

“Darling, sit and watch how a parent is meant to handle this,” Draco told him, giving his shoulder a gentle push. “His teacher said his hair is in the way, not that it needs to be gone.”

He placed a kiss on Harry’s forehead, then went to sit on the ground beside their three-year-old boy.

“My star, may I try something?”

Scorpius merely nodded, fiddling with the angles of the pipe cleaners, his tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth.

Draco carded his fingers through the blond curls, bunched them together with one hand, and bound the wild hair with the blue ribbon, adding a little magic to keep it secure.

Scorpius looked up and up, as though trying to find where his fringe had gone.

Never one to be bound by the laws of magic, Harry willingly drank the Veritaserum.

“Now, Mr Potter,” the Auror started. “Where is Mr Malfoy?”

@drarrymicrofic | wc: 330 | prompt: tremble

For three days, the Auror Office had been tearing London apart for Harry’s missing partner, and he had not slept a wink. 

Now, Harry was at Malfoy’s side, blasting through the restraints. Malfoy slumped forward, and Harry caught him before he hit the floor.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, gathering his trembling body carefully into his arms. “Malfoy, look at me.”

Malfoy’s eyes opened, unfocused and dulled.

“Potter,” he rasped.

“I’m here. Help’s coming.”

Malfoy blinked at him. “You look dreadful.”

Harry let out something that was almost a laugh. “You’ve been tortured for three days and you’re insulting my appearance?”

“Priorities,” Malfoy whispered, closing his eyes.

“Stay awake.”

“I’m trying. Don’t sound so bossy.”

Harry pressed his fingers to Malfoy’s throat. His pulse was there, fast and weak.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I’ll ask nicely next time.”

“Liar.”

Harry’s hand shook where it held him. “Yeah.”

Malfoy stared up at him, breathing shallowly. His whole body kept jerking in little aftershocks.

“I thought about you,” Malfoy said.

Harry swallowed. “What?”

“I—.” Malfoy’s fingers twitched against Harry’s sleeve. “I imagined you, when the pain got too much.”

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered, and Harry tightened his arm around him.

“No. Stay with me.”

“Trying,” Malfoy said again, irritated even now. “Merlin, Potter.”

“Good. Be annoyed. That’s good.”

Malfoy gave the smallest broken huff. 

“The thought of you kept me alive,” he continued. “Without you, what do I live for?” 

“Malfoy.”

“I know. Terrible timing. Always had terrible timing.”

Harry stared at him. “Are you under Veritaserum?”

“Yes, but that means you have to believe me.”

Harry brushed his fingers through Malfoy’s hair, matted and bloodied. “I do.”

“I want you,” Malfoy said bluntly. “There. Bloody humiliating.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do have to. That’s rather the point of truth serum, Potter.” 

Harry’s vision blurred.

“Just believe me,” Malfoy whispered. “Please.”

The door burst open. Voices filled the room as Aurors and Healers flooded in.