Drarry Microfic

D: I’ll sell you both if you want.

H: I don’t have that kind of money.

D: Didn’t you inherit the Black vault? And your parents’?

H: Doubt mum and dad would approve of me spending their gold on weed.

D: Shows what you know. Sirius Black and his brother, Regulus, used to supply the whole school with drugs. It was a well-known secret. It’s why he was always feuding with his family, even before the war. Their war, I mean; not our war. Though I suppose it’s all the same. Anyway. Since he and your father were thick as thieves, and your mother apparently agreed to marry into such company, I would bet my lands and titles that they smoked too. Probably a whole lot. And even if they didn’t—no, let me finish—even if they didn’t, Potter—do you really think these people, who died so you could live and be free, would want you to put every last knut of your inheritance into… education, or charity, or whatever it is that Granger wants you to spend it on, and never have a spot of fun? You did get to meet your godfather, right?

H: Are you fucking with me, Malfoy?

D: Do I look like I’m fucking with you?

H: That’s the trouble: I can’t tell anymore.

D: Well. I’m not. I’m perfectly serious. And if we’re still on speaking terms by Christmas, you’re welcome to come with me to the Manor to look for old photographs of your folks smoking weed.

H: You have photographs of my parents?

D: Very likely. Your father and Sirius were inseparable, and there are plenty of photographs of him from his youth. I think Mother had some kind of mildly incestuous crush on him when she was young. She probably knew your parents too. You know they were all of age, give or take?

H: Christ. It’ll turn out you know more about my family than I do.

D: Which is why you can trust me on this, Potter. Your lost loved ones would be delighted to see you stoned.

H: Even if I did believe that, I’d need to go to Gringotts. This is all I have on me. Already spent most of my allowance on your stuff.

D: There are other ways to pay me, Potter.

H: …

D: Now I’m fucking with you. You truly couldn’t tell? I might need to dial down the Occlumency.

H: What?

D: Never mind.

(some context under the cut)

It wasn't fair. It really wasn't. Harry glowered down at his firewhisky as if the alcohol was the reason for his hammering heart, but he knew it wasn't. It was the singer on the stage, all tall and dressed in gorgeous, fitted robes that sparkled in the bar lights.

Stars shining bright above you Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you" Birds singin' in the sycamore tree Dream a little dream of me

It was the way he held the microphone in an elegant grasp, his pinky spread low and resting against the cable. Harry couldn't look. It was too much. He looked anyway. Merlin, the way that long white-blond hair spilled down Malfoy’s back, swaying as he moved to the languid rhythm of the jazzy music, glistening like silk.

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear Still craving your kiss I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear Just saying this

Merlin's fucking everything—who was Malfoy singing about? The—fuck—he was either very good at pretending, or his yearning was bone-deep and achingly real, and Harry was getting bloody jealous.

Sweet dreams, 'til sunbeams find you Sweet dreams, that leave all worries far behind you

Harry's date arrived. He could see him standing beside him from the corner of his eye, waving at him, saying hi. Harry couldn't bring himself to look at the man Hermione had set him up with. He couldn't even remember his name. How could he, when Malfoy had locked eyes with him and missed a beat in time with Harry's heart skipping one?

He sits up on his bunk, finds green eyes blinking at him from across the room.

‘I’m Harry,’ the boy says, pulling scraped up knees tight into his chest. ‘Who are you?’

Draco can’t talk yet, his throat still raw from screaming.

Harry shrugs, picking at a ragged nail. ‘Anyway, welcome to Wools.’

The first in an AU microfic series, where Draco and Harry meet in a children’s home for boys

On May 2nd, 1988, Voldemort was killed, but not by Harry Potter, as everyone expected. Neville Longbottom had been the one to kill him, while the Chosen One's body lay on Hagrid's arms, cold and still, unaware of the war raging around them.

After the war finally ended, they buried the dead, Harry Potter amongst them. Every birthday and death anniversary, Draco left him lily flowers by his tombstone, tracing the carved name with his long, elegant fingers before walking away.

For decades, he lived quietly and worked to fix the problems his parents left behind even if, deep down, he knew nothing could erase the mark his blood had left in the wizarding world.

Eventually, Draco Malfoy accepted his fate, never marrying or having an heir to inherit the Manor. The only person he'd secretly loved was dead.

The moment he stopped breathing, his soul went back home. It wasn't his childhood home, though.

Surprisingly, it was Hogwarts, standing proud and beautiful before him. The day was warm and sunny, and by the quidditch pitch, Draco found who he'd been looking for.

"Took you long enough," Harry Potter said with a cheeky grin, dressed in his red and gold quidditch robes, holding a firebolt in his right hand.

"I'm... dead"

"Or I'm alive, and we're both delusional," Harry commented while walking away, gesturing for Draco to follow him. He obliged, heading toward the changing rooms, where a pair of green and silver quidditch robes were sitting on top of one of the wooden benches six feet from him.

"Is this... heaven?" Draco asked him as he got changed.

"I don't know," Harry explained, "but I've been here long enough to stop asking questions. After hurting for so many years, I've found peace here. This is my home, and it's been waiting for you, judging by the ugly robes you're wearing"

"I missed you." Draco blurted out as a response, not being able to contain what he'd waited ages to say aloud.

"Don't get soppy, Malfoy" Harry said while passing him a broomstick and intertwining his free hand with his. "We can talk about that later, but for now... I dare you to try catching the snitch without cheating"

"I know I will win, Potter," Draco sneered as Harry stepped on his foot, laughing and running away from him when Draco began chasing him, wanting to retaliate.

Draco followed Harry out of the changing room, sure of one thing only: He had the rest of eternity to be with Harry Potter.

He had the rest of eternity to become his friend, or even more than that if he allowed it.

Harry’s vision dilutes to grey and crimson, fuzzes spastically like the telly used to at the Dursleys’ when Uncle Vernon fell asleep on the sofa.

He’s no longer sure what’s real. 

Greys and crimson. 

Is he seeing ghosts and blood? 

The Bloody Baron? he thinks hysterically.

Between jolts of his head, he drifts in and out where he’s shackled to the moist stonework of the Malfoy dungeon. 

.

“You acted almighty but you called for my name in your sleep.” Potter sat up, blinked sleepily, legs folded on the bed. Not for the first time since they were assigned roommates, Draco desired to hex his smug face.

“It's a nightmare, idiot.”

Potter casually stretched, shirt pulled up, showing a little more skin under the low light. His teeth glinted as he grinned. “Still, you think of—”

“You dreamt about Voldemort.” Potter's face dropped like rain. Draco's blood rushed in triumph. He won. “Exactly.”

“Prickly.” Potter shrugged. He fumbled through his drawer in darkness. Draco wondered if he should cast Lumos. Before he moved, Potter offered a vial. “Drink.”

Draco hated how small this place was. How there was barely a space between their beds. How achingly reachable Potter's sleepy face was. “Just fucking take it. I know it's subpar, but beggars can't be choosers. Unless you fancy weeping in my funeral in your sleep.”

“If it's your funeral, I'd celebrate.”

“Draco.” Potter's tone was too gentle to Draco's liking. He uncorked the vial, took Draco's hand, and wrapped Draco's finger around it. “Drink.”

Draco wasn't immune to the saviour's ability to command the universe to his liking, no matter how hard he tried. Potter was smug once again as Draco laid back down, mouth bitter from both the potion and Potter's audacity. “Now sleep. Try not to profess your undying love when unconscious."

“I did nothing of such.”

Draco wakes as he often does: to warmth.

A solid body beside him. Limbs tangled with his own. Fingers clasped together beneath the duvet as if they had found each other in sleep and refused to let go.

For a moment, he does not move.

He lets himself surface slowly, blinking against the early morning light pouring through the sheer curtains, soft and gold across the room.

“Morning,” Draco murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

He turns, and there is Harry.

Messy-haired. Bare-shouldered. Warm-eyed.

“Morning, love,” Harry says. “Sleep well?”

Draco hums, shifting closer until his face is tucked against Harry’s chest. He breathes him in: musk and skin and the faint, familiar trace of laundry soap. He kisses the bare skin beneath his mouth and smiles when Harry presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“You?” Draco asks.

“Like a baby,” Harry replies. “Had this weird dream, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, bizarre. You and Scorpius were making pancakes, and every time you flipped one, your outfit changed.”

Draco chuckles. “What outfits?”

“All sorts. Really odd ones. At one point you were wearing Hagrid’s coat, and then you were wearing nothing but those tight swimming shorts from our honeymoon.”

Draco pulls back, amused and offended in equal measure. “Tight swimming shorts in front of our son?”

“Don’t blame me. I don’t control what my dreams do,” Harry says defensively, though he is smiling, gaze dipping down Draco’s body as if he’s imagining them now.

“You’re a heathen,” Draco says flatly. “A perverted heathen. Now you’ve made me crave pancakes.”

He sits up on the edge of the bed, stretching until his spine clicks.

“Make me some?” Harry asks, moving behind him, thighs bracketing Draco’s hips, arms wrapping around his waist. “The fluffy ones.”

“You’re on coffee duty, then,” Draco says, leaning back into him.

Harry kisses his shoulder.

Draco tilts his head, giving him more room. “This isn’t making coffee, Potter.”

Harry hums against his skin. “No, it’s much better.”

Knock-knock-knock.

Draco sighs. “That’ll be Scorp. I bet you anything he sensed pancakes.”

Knock-knock-knock.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming,” Draco chuckles.

He stands, and Harry’s hands slip from his body.

Draco turns back to him with a smile still on his face.

Then—

He wakes as he often does: to cold.

The cold press of a stone wall against his back. A thin blanket twisted around his waist. Morning light spills weakly through the open barred window of his cell, grey and misty, smelling of sea-salt.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Inmate 3946,” an Azkaban guard calls through the door. “Wake up. If you do not respond, we will enter.”

Draco lunges forward, heart battering against his ribs, breath tearing through him.

“I’m awake,” he calls, too loudly. “I’m awake.”

He’d rather not be, because his dreams are a sweeter place. Even if they provide him nothing but the ache of a life he’ll never have.

Draco presses his shaking hands to his mouth and closes his eyes.

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: dream | wc: 500 | rated: mild m

The dreams had begun years earlier. Sometimes lurid, all sweat-slicked skin and desperate moans. Sometimes sweet, hands clasped on dates—one time they went to the zoo. Sometimes a litany of nightmares: the tower. The bathroom. “I can’t be sure.”

The strange thing was, he always dreamt through Harry’s eyes. His own face, lust-blown pupils and pink cheeks; Harry’s thumping heart. Feeling a leap of hope in Harry’s throat as saw himself bite his lip, eyes shining down at a ring as he nodded. The same nightmares, tempered by Harry’s sympathy, regret, pride.

The dreams were an unconscionably cruel move by his subconscious. His mind healer suggested a dream diary; he stopped after a year. It hurt too much, seeing what he could never have, feeling things he knew Harry would never feel. He didn’t need a book about it.

—

A knock distracted Draco from his calculations; he scowled as Harry strolled in.

“Do the Unspeakables need a potion?”

“If they did, I don’t know why I’d know,” Harry said, grinning. Draco rolled his eyes. Less subtlety than an erumpent in a dollhouse.

“Why are you here, then?”

“For you,” Harry said, then flushed.

Draco stared, heart racing. He didn’t let himself speak.

“Right,” Harry said. “What do you know about dreams?”

Draco swallowed, refusing to remember the previous night’s dream: Draco in Harry’s body, licking his own scars with a lascivious groan, whispering into his own ear, with Harry’s voice, how he wanted to—he shook himself.

“Do I look like a dream expert?”

“No. But Hermione is. And I was doing some research”—Draco scoffed—“and she. Well. She found out. When I explained, she gave me a book.”

Draco leant back, arms behind his head. “And you need me to read it to you?”

“No, you tosser, I managed.” Harry’s smile faded. “But … I think you should read it too.”

Draco frowned, heartbeat thudding in his throat. “It’s about dreams.” 

“Yeah. And … other stuff. Anyway, I just—here. I’ll need it back, Hermione’d flay me alive if I—I’ll go.”

Looking far more cowardly than any Gryffindor should, Harry shoved the book across Draco’s desk and fled. Draco tugged it closer.

A Short Treatise with Various Observations and Theories on the Metaphysicks of Soul-Bonds and Certain Peculiarities of Shared Dreams

Draco stared, mouth dry, before noticing the scrap of parchment tucked inside.

Draco— If I’m wrong, this might be the creepiest gift you’ve ever received. I hope I’m right. Can we talk? Tonight, 7pm, my place. —Harry

Draco sat, hands shaking, and opened the book to the first page.

At 6:59, Draco stood, book in hand, at Harry’s door. He took a breath and lifted his fist to knock.

Harry opened the door, rumpled and beautiful. He looked hopeful. He looked frightened.

“They’re your dreams?” Draco blurted. “I—they’re your dreams.”

@drarrymicrofic | wc: 279 | prompt: dream

Malfoy had Harry pressed back into the mattress, one pale hand buried in Harry’s hair, fingers tightening just enough to tip his head back and expose his throat. The other was braced beside Harry’s head, sleeve rolled to the forearm.

Then Malfoy’s mouth was on his neck, hot and wicked, biting and kissing and dragging helpless sounds out of him. Harry’s hands found Malfoy’s waist, then his back, then the fall of his hair; he wanted to touch him everywhere at once.

“Greedy,” Malfoy said, sounding pleased.

“You started it.”

“I rather think you did.” Malfoy’s lips brushed his ear. “It’s your dream after all.”

“What?”

Harry didn’t have time to think on it for too long, because then Malfoy’s hips were rolling down against his, slow and deliberate, and it was too much, heat and pressure and pleasure from every direction at once. Malfoy’s breath hitched. Harry wanted to hear it again, so he arched up into him and—

Harry sat bolt upright in bed.

The room was dark and empty. Quiet, except for his own ragged breathing.

No Malfoy. Thank Merlin. Well no, not thank Merlin. Absolutely not thank Merlin, because apparently Harry wanted Malfoy here. Wanted his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing him back into the mattress. Wanted him to—

Harry fumbled blindly for his mobile before his brain could recover any dignity.

Hermione answered after several rings, except it wasn’t Hermione.

“Mate,” Ron croaked, voice thick with sleep, “it’s four in the bloody morning. This had better be good.”

Harry stared into the darkness, painfully hard and awake. “I think I want to shag Malfoy.”

for @drarrymicrofic prompt bond | WC: 56

They were not bonding over Quidditch. Or Teddy, for the matter. They were competing. Snitches are just easier to get than this child's trust or love.

Not that Draco deserves anyone's trust. Or love.

Crap.

Now, Teddy is running back to Andromeda, crying, because—

Enchanted

It took them almost a year to plan their bonding ceremony. With Narcissa and Molly coordinating everything—and often disagreeing on color schemes and themes.

Still, Harry thought it was all worth it as he watched Draco walk down the aisle, hair flowing freely and framing his face. He looked like a dream.

“Hi,” he breathed once his and Draco’s hands were intertwined.

“Hello, darling, don’t you look edible.” Draco’s smile was suggestive.

Harry chuckled and relaxed, as was Draco’s intention. “Merlin, I can’t believe I’m this lucky.”

He could barely remember the ceremony. He only remembered the way Draco’s eyes shone and went misty as Harry said his vows. He could remember crying as Draco said his.

Harry’s needy, nuzzling hot at Draco’s throat even though the first round ended in tangled linens and the starburst bruising of fingertips around hipbones.

“Again, Potter?”

Draco tugs at his hair, enjoys the ragged whimper ripped out of kiss-stung lips.

“Mm. I had this dream…”

@drarrymicrofic prompt: Dream. WC: 100

Sometimes the fire licked at his back, reaching its great clawed fingers out to rip him off the back of Potter's broom and into its ravenous, gaping maw.

Other times red, goat-slitted eyes loomed over him while fire of a different kind radiated from the venomous serpent on his forearm, ripping his soul to shreds.

WC - 318 words.

Thank you @drarrymicrofic for the prompt! Also thank you UnaBol for your suggestions and corrections! Definitively made the drabble better