drarry things

draco:

Draco’s hands hurt, too much to move them, too much to sign his words. He looked at Harry with an expression of pure misery, and resigned himself to having to use actual words to express his emotions. His throat ached at the mere thought.

He didn’t want to. Didn’t want to speak. What was the point of using words he couldn’t hear? Saying things that had no meaning? But there is was no other way for him to communicate his wants and needs to Harry. At least not at this moment in time.

Except there was. And Harry being Harry showed him. So, before Draco could use his words, or push past the pain of regrowing bones to force his hands to sign words, Harry did something that turned Draco’s world upside down and inside out.

Harry lowered the wards around his mind, dropped them all of them all at once, every single layer of protection. He silently and without so much as a warning bared his mind and soul to Draco, giving it to him for the taking, presenting it on a silver platter.

And because Draco was an extremely skilled Legilimens, he felt it, felt the protective walls crumble. Draco felt the tug, felt the almost irresistible desire to explore but he resolutely held back, refused to enter Harry’s mind, even though it was right there, open and vulnerable.

He shook his head, closed his eyes.

But Harry’s hands cupped his cheeks, caressed him with such love. Harry simply held his face in a tender embrace. Draco’s eyes opened of their own accord but he couldn’t stop blinking furiously to try and combat the urge to cry. It was all too much, too overwhelming.

He drew in a shaky breath and when Harry smiled encouragingly, Draco’s heart stuttered to a halt.

“It’s okay, my love, I want you to.”

Draco couldn’t tell whether Harry was only moving his lips, mouthing the words or whether there was sound involved, but he didn’t care, couldn’t focus.

Harry opened his mind a little further and when he leant in to press a soft and lingering kiss to Draco’s forehead, Draco felt himself slip. He entered Harry’s mind, drawn inside by the gentle invitation and the sweetness of Harry’s kiss, and closing his eyes, he focused.

Hello my love, there you are.

Harry’s voice rang in Draco’s head and a wretched sob tore itself from the very centre of Draco’s core. He could hear Harry, could hear the sound of his voice, the tenderness with which he spoke, the deep warmth and care he infused his words with, the love and kindness, the goodness of it all.

Draco cried and his body shook with it, the sensations, the experience of sharing a mental link with Harry, of actually hearing his voice for the first time ever, it was too much. Half of Draco wanted to pull away, to cut the connection and reinforce his own walls, but he couldn’t, didn’t have the strength to leave this newly-found haven.

Talk to me, talk to me, talk to me, he thought, knowing that he sounded desperate. I beg you talk to me. Never stop. Talk to me. Draco wept as he spoke.

Harry’s warm and amused laughter thrummed through Draco’s veins, set him alive.

Let me tell you a story, my love.

Vernon had thrown a fit about boys playing with dolls. Harry had been nervous about his Uncle exploding; he had turned such a deep shade of purple.

Harry isn't certain why he wouldn't be able to play with dolls either.

Picking them out of the waste bins, he stows them away underneath his overly large jumper. He hides them underneath his blankets in the cupboard to play with later. They're the newest toys he's ever had. Still in the box with the shiny bits, and all pieces attached with nothing missing.

He opens them quietly, when everyone has gone to bed. Untwisting the plastic and placing the boxes in the corner.

There's two dolls, and Harry is so excited to have them. The one is a woman. Her longer blonde hair he enjoys combing and eventually, learns how to braid. The other is a man, which Harry realizes maybe they're supposed to be each other's companion.

No matter. He enjoys both, and he's just happy to have someone to cuddle in the dark.

Even if they are plastic.

****

When Harry first meets Malfoy, all he can stare at is the light blonde hair that is sleeked back. The boys face has a constant sneer, and Harry thinks, maybe if he smiled more he would look prettier. This thought is fleeting, and he never deems it necessary to express out loud to his friends.

He thinks about how Malfoy sometimes looks like a doll and is reminded of the two he used to have.

Hermione is the one he ends up chatting with about childhood toys. She pipes up with a "Oh! I also had a Ken and Barbie." And Harry feels a little less odd about his dolls.

She continues about how she loved to play with Barbies hair, but Ken was her favorite.

Harry thinks, he was his too.

****

It happens after a Quidditch game in the lockers. He sees Malfoy without a shirt, and his hair is loose.

That light blonde hair and toned chest is what does him in, and Harry bolts from the showers.

He's not too sure why he's running, but he suspects it's because of embarrassment. With an eventual realization of a strange attraction to Draco Malfoy.

He's jumpy for the rest of the day, and especially with Malfoy around every bloody corner of this castle. He thinks there may be something wrong with him. He can't seem to catch a break from his cheeks over-heating, and an awfully strange feeling in his gut.

He sees Malfoy at dinner, and is reminded of the dolls again.

Harry figures, he's gone round the bend. Best keep quiet about it.

****

After the war, it takes Harry some time to figure himself out.

Well, in all ways, really.

Not being constantly chased by a megalomaniac gave him some free time, after all.

He runs into Malfoy at a coffee shop years later, and expresses out loud how good he looks. Malfoy cocks an eyebrow with a smirk and tells Harry he's glad to know that he likes what he sees.

Harry is sure that his cheeks could melt snow, they're so hot.

Malfoy still has that light blonde hair, and it's tied in a small bun on top of his head, and Harry wonders, if he would ever let him braid it.

A few days go by, and Harry hopes that maybe he'll run into Malfoy again in the coffee shop. To his muddled fear and excitement, he does, and his greeted with a "stalking me again Potter?"

Harry expresses that firstly, he's not stalking, and secondly, how does dinner sound?

He's never seen Draco Malfoy speechless before, and thinks again, how pretty he is.

After dinner, they end up back at Grimmauld Place. Malfoy barely finishes a sip of his drink when he pulls Harry in by the front of his shirt. His grip tight around the collar.

Afterwards, they lay in crumpled sheets. Soft voices and light laughter against the pillows. To Harry's astonishment and contentment, Malfoy let's him play with his hair. It brings out small hums from between his lips and Harry carries on to braid it.

"I used to have these dolls once," Harry says, really without meaning too.

Malfoy blinks slowly and raises a brow, waiting patiently for the rest of the story.

"The one had hair that I constantly played with," he combs his fingers through blonde strands. "The other one, I think I liked a little bit more though."

Malfoy's lips twitch into a smirk.

"Are you comparing me to your childhood toys, Potter?"

Harry grins, and pulls him close, "I'm telling you how much I like you, you stupid git."

for @drarrymicrofic 's 'what if he wants ken not barbie'

This turned into something a little longer than expected!

Previous microfic: Flood

The first letter came with a coin. The second came with a stamp. The third came with an Earl Grey tea bag, the parchment suffused with the faint, citrus fragrance of bergamot.

Draco held the tea bag close to his nose. The tea leaves rustled between his fingers; the scent lingered in his nose.

“I have been receiving letters,” he said one day to Harry.

Harry looked up from the cook book he’d held in his hands.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Harry nodded. He came to the library every three or four days and poured cook books over the tables: Indian lunches, French pastries, dishes for breakfasts and afternoon parties. Draco had not thought, before becoming a librarian, that being enamored with recipes encompassed frequent visits to the library. He reckoned he was wrong.

“From whom?” Harry asked.

“The letters weren’t signed.”

The library was small and quiet, but the high ceilings created the illusion of space, of myths. Of echoes. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows on warm days and laid golden bands across the wooden floor. There was a small patch of garden in the back; it had been a barren, tangled, withered mess, but Draco had tidied it up, had grown bushes of red roses that now spilled and overflowed the tiny corner with blooming, crimson roses as big as dinner plates.

He’d shown it to Harry. Privately, secretly, because patrons were not allowed in the back garden, really. He had done it as a regular’s benefit.

“Why roses?” Harry asked.

“Le Petit Prince,” Draco said.

Harry smiled, helpless and confused. “What?”

“The Little Prince,” Draco said again, helpless, too, to the tiny crease between Harry’s brows. He cleared his throat. “Do you know the story?”

“You like that story?”

“Yes.”

“It’s your favorite?”

“I suppose so.”

The next letter came with fresh rose petals, crimson and creased at the edges. Draco held them lightly between his fingertips as though they would fall apart. Carefully pressed them back into the envelope. Carefully placed the letter with the rest, a pile in his drawer: folded parchment with paper cranes and leather bookmarks and buttons.

“It’s quite old-fashioned, isn’t it,” Draco said, dangling his feet on the wrought-iron bench. They were in the back garden. Harry was watering the roses; he’d offered.

“That’s not really a question, is it?”

Draco hummed. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“You like things old-fashioned.”

“Not everything.”

“But this.” Harry finished, flopped himself onto the bench beside Draco. “This, you like it old-fashioned. Slow.”

“Yes,” Draco said.

“Draco.” Harry looked him in the eye. Earnest; honest. A clarity that struck like glass. “What are you so scared of?”

Draco felt colors rise in his cheeks. Felt his fingers tremble. Felt the shape of the truth, the secret, thrumming in the space between them.

“Of being the rose,” he said. Then,

“Of being left behind.”

He was not brave. He did not know how to say goodbye. He did not know how to look at the depthless darkness of the galaxy and search, hopeful and hopeless, among the specks of light for a silhouette for the rest of his life. He could not.

“But he came back,” Harry said.

Draco blinked.

“It’s letting go,” Harry continued, “and trusting they will come back. Knowing they will come back.”

Draco let out a laugh, a dry huff. “Is that what you will do? Come back?”

“No.”

Harry slipped his hand into Draco’s. Twined their fingers together, loose and warm.

“We are not the little prince and his rose.”

He did not let go.

“I won’t leave at all.”

His face was close. His eyes were close. The dark curls of his hair falling on his glasses—close. Everything was warm; it was hard to focus.

“I knew,” Draco said, the words slowly tumbling out, “I knew it was you.”

Harry laughed. It was close, too.

“My handwriting?”

“It’s horrible.”

“Did you like them? The letters?”

“Mm,” Draco said. “I like things old-fashioned.”

Harry leaned in and kissed him. Draco closed his eyes. The brush of lips; the brief deepening. Draco’s fingers twitched in Harry’s hand. Harry squeezed, warm and tight.

“There,” Harry whispered. A tether. A promise.

AND at first of course Harry is like how dARE YOU, and no YOU are, but then it gets stuck in his head and he starts asking around. First of all, do people even like kissing? It is a thing people like? It’s always felt kind of off and gross to him and cut to Hermione talking a million miles an hour, confiscating an empty classroom to draw out a full chart on a blackboard about the benefits/social history/beauty of make outs – IF you want them. Harry nods furiously and is taking notes. 

From there the research expands into a full-scale survey amongst the 7th and 8th years about the best snogger on Hogwarts grounds [on a scale from 0 to 10, 0 being ‘like being slapped about by the giant squid’ and 10 being ‘like a veela caressing the inside of your mouth but also you’re in fire’]. Entirely unexpectedly, WHAT A SURPRISE TO EVERYONE INVOLVED, Draco Ambrosius Giselda Anne Paulus Fucking Malfoy (named after all of his auntie’s favourite corgies) ends up the UNANIMOUS nr 1. Harry and Hermione, main conductors of said research, are appalled. Especially when subject #18 (Hannah Abbott) goes all glassy-eyed staring at the survey parchment and whispers “that mouth tho”, seemingly to herself. 

Cut to Harry and Hermione holed up in the classroom with pictures of everyone from 7th & 8th year hanging on the walls with bits of red thread connecting them. Malfoy’s is in the middle, circled several times and surrounded by question marks. Harry looks frazzled, tie undone, and he’s reading through the case again. “It can’t be!” he says, incredulous, while Hermione laughs a little crazed and disbelieving. “It has to be,” she says, shaking her head. “By Jobe, it has to be.” 

There’s no sound in the room. No sound except for the summer rain pounding on the window, Draco’s owl scratching at the latch on his cage, the hush of the curtain hems over the wooden floorboards, the clink of the wind chimes Harry hung up two summers ago in the left corner of the kitchen, above the compost pail. No sound aside from Draco’s own breathing, alone. 

Draco heaves a great breath and rolls onto his side. He’s known it would be like this, this year. 

“Draco, I-”

“No, no. It’s okay.”

Harry drops his head in his hands and groans. “I’m so sorry. So sorry-”

“No, really-”

“I told them it was your birthday-”

“It’s fine. The Aurors never take much stock in birthdays anyway-”

“I don’t want to miss-”

“No,”Draco says. He puts his hand over Harry’s mouth. “Stop.” He pulls his hand away slowly. “Stop doing this to yourself. It’s okay. I’ve spent plenty of birthdays alone.” That isn’t the right thing to say; Harry’s eyebrows come together in the middle, and Draco corrects himself. “Plenty of birthdays without you.”

That doesn’t help either. Harry’s bottom lip drops, and his eyes squint up the way they always do right before he cries. 

Draco shakes his head. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Harry takes hold of Draco’s hand, resting over Harry’s chin after moving it from his mouth. He tugs Draco’s hand, tangling their fingers together on the way. 

“I want to be here.” Harry’s voice breaks. 

Draco’s face falls. “Oh, baby.”

There’s no point in trying to be okay for Harry, trying to pretend that Harry’s absences don’t break Draco’s heart every time he goes. Harry knows. 

Harry drops onto the couch and pulls Draco down with him. “I’m so sorry,” Harry says, dragging his fingers slowly through the sleepy tangles of Draco’s hair. “You shouldn’t be comforting me. I’ll be missing your birthday.”

Draco takes Harry’s face in his hands and pulls Harry’s forehead to his own. “I love you.” He puts one leg over Harry’s hips and shifts to straddle him. “It’s only one birthday.”

Even if it is only one birthday, Draco is still alone, and he misses Harry. 

He rolls over again. This side of the bed is no warmer, no cooler than the other. Neither side has Harry on it, and so the rolling is a moot point. 

All Draco wants right now, in the dim hours of the morning before the sun has risen on his birthday, is to roll over. Roll over and find Harry on the other side of the bed, bare skin and a big smile and lying right next to Draco where he can touch. Draco rolls over again. 

Harry will be back. This mission, whatever it’s for, is scheduled to last three weeks. This is the second week, and the end of the second week at that. It won’t be long until Harry is home again. 

Draco sighs and rolls over again, this time lying on his back to stare up at the ceiling. There are stars pasted up there. Some of them are stuck up with magic, and others with a stupid putty that Harry insists could hold a fruit fly away from a peach. They’re plastic, and silly looking, and they make Draco cry because they make him think of Harry. The Draco constellation is up there, in the far corner. Draco told Harry not to put it up, but Harry did it anyway, and Draco couldn’t get it down. 

“I told you. Could hold a fruit fly away from a peach.”

“Shut up.”

Now, in moments like this, when Harry’s gone, Draco doesn’t want those silly plastic stars and Harry’s lopsided rendition of the constellation that marks Draco’s namesake to be gone. He likes them right where they are. 

Just as Draco rolls over for the umpteenth time that morning, the front door slams open and shut. 

Draco sits upright in bed, his hands planted in the mattress under him. 

Boots hit the floor, the sound of the hall closet opening and something heavy clunking into the bottom of it. The boots, probably. The footsteps, quieter now (without the boots), start down the hallway. Draco doesn’t move. 

The bedroom door opens and a dark figure backs into it and then carefully pushes the door close behind him. 

Draco would scream if the shape of the figure wasn’t so intimately familiar to him. 

“Harry?” Draco whispers into the darkness. 

The figure whirls around. “Draco? Why are you awake?”

“Can’t sleep without you.”

The figure doesn’t answer. He moves closer and weight dips down on the edge of the bed. A hand comes up and smooths through the tufts and tangles of Draco’s hair. He whispers, “I made it back in time.”

“For what?” Draco can hardly breathe. The scent of lemons and laundry detergent are filling his senses, and he can think of little else. 

“Your birthday, love.”

“Oh, right.”

Harry laughs a little and scoots farther up the bed. Draco is still frozen in his sitting position. 

“You’re not supposed to be back yet,” Draco says. 

Harry’s outline shifts and bends. It takes Draco a moment to realize that he’s taking off his clothes. It is this thought that unfreezes Draco, and allows him to move again. 

He crawls through the duvet to where Harry is sitting on the edge. Harry’s robes are already off, so Draco pushes his hands under the hem of Harry’s shirt and moves his hands up over Harry’s skin, dragging the shirt along and off. Harry laughs and falls back onto the bed, and Draco does the rest. 

Buttons, zippers, the buckles of the wand holster over Harry’s thigh. And then it’s just Harry and skin and his boxers, and Draco sighs and smiles into his neck. 

“Better?” Harry says. 

“Much.”

They find their way back up the bed together, and Harry’s work clothes find their way onto the floor. 

Later, Draco says, “How did you get here? I thought the mission was supposed to go until the end of next week.”

Harry kisses under Draco’s jaw. “It was.”

“So?”

“So I finished the mission faster.” Harry opens his mouth into the crook of Draco’s neck. 

Draco’s head drops back. “Hm.”

“Eloquent,” Harry says as he bites down over Draco’s collarbone. 

“Git.”

There’s no sound in the room. No sound except for the heavy exhales of air coming from Draco’s mouth, the slide of Harry’s lips moving over Draco’s shoulder, the rustle of sheets under their movement. No sound aside from their breathing, at odds and mingled and together. 

No sound, then, “I love you.”

for @drarrymicrofic's prompt 'hope is a heartache'

The spell was broken, so Harry wasn’t supposed to feel distance like nausea anymore. Across Creevey Hall, Draco danced arm-in-arm with a handsome Veelan delegate and Harry thought he might be heartsick again. But Draco met his eyes, one flash of nervous grey, and Harry knew he wasn’t aching alone.

Draco saw Potter all around the Healer Conference though he never got within five feet of him. Mostly he saw Potter's name under bylines or citations or speaker bios which, even without his illustrious career as Harry Potter: Dark Lord Destroyer, was several paragraphs long. Draco's own career could be summarised as "the ravings of one man's self-serving quest to redeem himself in the study of the prolonged effects of exposure to dark artefacts on the human psyche". It was research deserving of an "oh that's nice" at best, and he was fully prepared to avoid Potter's notice today as he had all those other days and months and years after the war.

He should have known by now that his plans never worked out the way he wanted.

Potter leaned on Draco's hotel room door with his hands in the pockets of his coat as though he were cold, though the corridor was perfectly room-temperature. Draco took one look at him and turned on his heel, though of course Potter caught up.

Potter asked him where he was going, to which Draco replied, "Sorry I must have the wrong floor" and "Sorry about your divorce" and "Sorry about my whole life yeah okay good catching up," and tried scrambling around Potter before remembering he was a bloody wizard and could Apparate.

The alarms in Draco's lab at the manor went off as soon as they landed. Draco should have known Potter was reckless enough to side-along unannounced, but, in his defence, he was distressed, and the alarms were not helping. There was the red one for intruders, and the yellow one for "you seem a bit agitated sir, maybe cool off before handling dangerous equipment?" and the blue one for "DANGER unclassified uncontrolled dark artefact DANGER dark artefact DANGER DARK ARTEFACT!!!!!" The blue alarm was particularly concerning, as it sealed all entrances to the lab to prevent contamination at risk of the researcher's own life.

A quick survey of the room showed no sign of disturbance. In fact, the only signal Draco picked up came from Potter himself, right above the left breast pocket of his coat.

"You've got something in there," Draco informed Potter, to which Potter only smiled and held up his hands like he had nothing to conceal. So Draco had him take off the coat, the waistcoat, the tie, the shirt, the undershirt — too many layers for a healthy man under the precise laboratorial temperature of 23.8'C — until finally, Draco's hand met flesh, and there was nothing left to uncover except for Potter's heart flashing blue from the alarm system.

They stood there for a long, terrible moment of realisation with the alarms still sounding off before Potter asked, "What are the prolonged effects of dark artefacts on the human psyche?"

"You tell me," Draco said, horrified.

@drarrymicrofic prompt: technique

another microfic with a list?? oh the horror. ao3

A tail feather of a cedar waxwing, grind to bits. Add in when the solution has reduced to half.

Stir until the first hints of purple show, then lower the fire level by hand.

Combine with a bit of you, your dearest memory. Allow it to dissipate.

3 dried petals of waterlily tulips added every 3 minutes. The solution will weep into a rolling boil.

Don’t cry.

Control yourself. Check the Silencing charm.

Continue.

10 ml of distilled water. Vanish the yellow fumes as you stir.

Mix in diced ginger root and a tablespoon of honey for flavor. Make it pleasant for him.

Let it simmer. For the next 15 minutes, clean up everything. Take a quick shower, wash away the stench of potions from your body. Wear the clothes from your bag.

Turn off the fire. Make a single cup of tea.

Don’t speed up the solution’s cooling process in order to ensure effectiveness. Once it’s room temperature, add a teaspoon of it to the cup of tea. No more, no less.

It is 3 in the morning. The world is deep in slumber, and he is no exception. Wake him up anyway.

“Hmm,” Harry murmurs into his pillow, “Draco?”

“Darling, hello,” Draco whispers against his forehead, kissing away the crease between thick brows. “I have something for you.”

Harry’s hand searches the nightstand for his glasses, almost swiping all the takeout menus and little trinkets to the floor. Draco finds the glasses first, unfolds them, and places them on Harry’s nose, careful not to poke his eyes.

“Hmm, what, what’s going on?” Harry rubs his eyes as he sits up.

Draco presents him with the freshly-brewed cup of tea. Chamomile, a dash of sugar. His favorite.

“Drink, darling.”

“What? No,” Harry pushes the tea away, his lovely eyes made clearer and clearer by the lamplight, “Draco, I’m not drinking that.”

Draco shakes his head.

“You have to.”

Harry keeps pushing the cup from his face, and Draco is getting impatient.

“Draco, stop—”

“Drink it.”

“Come on, don’t do this—”

“Please, darling, just a sip will do—”

“I said no!”

Harry bats the teacup from Draco’s hand. It flies across the room, shatters, drenching the wallpaper. The broken shards are millimeters away from impaling a framed picture. Their framed picture.

Draco can’t stop his hands from shaking. He moves to gather up the pieces, to somehow salvage the tea, but Harry grabs ahold of his forearm, keeping him in place.

There is not a sliver of sound in their bedroom but Harry’s harsh breathing.

“Why?” Draco asks, staring at the stain on the wall.

“Is this why there’s a duffle bag below the stairs,” Harry says instead. Draco can feel his gaze on him. He can’t look.

“Yes.”

“Is that where your toothbrush is? You didn’t just throw it away since it's after 6 months like you said. You packed it.”

A shivery sigh. “Yes.”

He hears a sob. One hand on his forearm turns to two, and Harry pulls him close. He rests his head against Draco’s stomach. Usually, Draco would sift his fingers through that unruly mane of his, chiding Harry for buying conditioners unsuitable for his hair type. Now, he has no right to do such a thing. His hands stay by his sides, unworthy.

Harry clutches him more tightly by the second, burrowing his head into the soft wool of Draco’s sweater. Another sob.

“When will you accept that I’m not drugged?” Harry says.

It’s the Amortentia talking, Draco knows. He’s known from the start, for it’s impossible for Harry to be right of mind when he confessed to Draco all those years ago. He’s accepted it for his own sake, just wanting an excuse to bask in the love he’s desired for nearly a decade. And it’s been good, so, so good.

“I love you, do you know? You have to,” Harry lifts his head up and stares at Draco. His face is much too beautiful to be twisted like that. Like he’s heartbroken. “Baby, I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I don't usually say things like this, but you know me better than I know myself. I thought you knew, I really did. I thought after all we’ve been through… we’re it, you know? You’re it for me. You’re the kind of love that doesn’t need words. I thought you knew, baby, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

But things that are too good to be true, are. Admittedly, waking someone up in the middle of the night to make them drink tea isn’t the best plan, but Draco is tired of the charade. He knows Harry, the portion of his subconscious that is still awake and aware, is tired, too. He has to give his darling an out so he can move on in peace. Perhaps it’s a pipe dream and Draco can never move on, but at least he can love Harry by himself. He needs to.

“Draco Malfoy, I love you, you hear? I love you,” Harry’s hands move from Draco’s waist to cup his face. His thumbs are soft as they rub Draco’s cheeks, almost as if they mean it. “Say it back, baby, I know you feel the same. Say it back.”

Draco raises a palm, hesitant, and places it on Harry’s cheek in return.

“I love you, Harry Potter,” Draco says.

Harry gives a teary smile and leans against Draco’s touch, glasses knocking on his finger. His eyes are a sweet shade of green, bright and glistening.

“Let’s go to sleep, okay?”

“Alright.”

It truly is alright. In the kitchen cabinet, behind cartons of teabags and bags of coffee grounds that Harry never sorts through, is the remaining batch of the potion. Tomorrow is Draco’s turn to make breakfast. He won’t make the same mistake again, and Harry will be free.

For @drarrymicrofic prompt : Sunrise/Sunset, 100 words

The sky above stretches in all directions, until that darkness is all he can see. It would be easy to disappear into all this grey. The warming charm is waning but he hardly notices, with the way the chill of his nightmares clings to his bones.

Streaks of light coming in waves, tainting the sky purple and red, washing the night away. An exhale. He turns away from the window and marvels at the way dawn colours everything golden, reminding him where he is. Home.

A muffled voice against his shoulder — "Come back to bed, love."

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. Acorn by @balletquartet [T, 9k]

►Harry plants an acorn and falls in love.

2. Enjoy the Silence by @shealwaysreads [M, 3k]

►Draco stops speaking, gets some tattoos, and discovers that Harry’s happy to be quiet with him.

3. Harry Potter and the Great Cat Caper by Kbrick [E, 78k]

►Harry’s lonely in the aftermath of his divorce. Except for the weekends that he has the kids, Harry’s cooking gourmet meals for one in his big, empty farmhouse, with only his seven cats for company. Until, that is, Harry finds Al and Lily playing with Scorpius Malfoy in the front yard, and learns that Draco Malfoy is his closest wizarding neighbor. […]

4. A Linking of Magic by @drarryangels [G, 1k]

►Jane Wimblefon […] doesn’t understand why Professor H. Potter and Professor D. Potter have the same last name. Potter is a common last name isn’t it?

5. Parties, Private and Otherwise by @iero0 & @ladderofyears [T, 3k]

►Draco and Harry celebrate their birthdays very differently. What really matters, though, is what they agree on.

6. To all the boys I’ve loved before by @all-drarry-to-me [M, 5k]

►Draco wrote five love letters while at Hogwarts. Two years after the war, he doesn’t expect anyone to find them among his school things, much less send them — but he hadn’t counted on the meddling nature of his best friend.

—

Fest/Exchange

1. Take Care of You by @drarryruinedme7 [E, 3k]