Drarry Microfic

Ron had meant well, taking Harry out to the pub. A pint and some deep-fried food would surely lift his mood after he’d been axed from the Aurors a few days ago.

“I don’t know what to do with my life. I thought that was it.”

“Mate,” Ron began, putting a supportive hand on Harry’s slumped shoulder. “What’s the thing you can’t stop thinking about? ’Cause that’s what you should do with your life. Bit like fate.”

Ron gave his shoulder a squeeze and waited for him to lift his gaze from his beer and say, Quidditch.

Harry did lift his head, his eyes going wide and his mouth falling open.

This is it, Ron thought. He’s having an epiphany!

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

“What?”

“You think I’m bound to be Malfoy’s husband?”

Ron gaped, unsure where exactly he’d gone wrong in this conversation.

Harry downed the rest of his drink—and he’d already had a few before Ron arrived—then stood and rolled his shoulders as though preparing for a fistfight.

After all this time, I can read him like a book, and I love it.

“Agh—teeth!” Harry wasn't good at it, Malfoy liked to point out. As though Harry needed reminding that Malfoy was leaps and bounds ahead of him in this department. “Try harder next time,” Malfoy said after, doing up his zipper. That was the thing. He always wanted a next time.

A Beautiful Game

“That was out of bounds!” yelled Draco, outraged.

Harry looked at him with fond amusement. Who would have thought Draco Malfoy would be so passionate about football of all things?

“He can’t hear you, love.”

Draco huffed. “He should.”

“We’ll go to a live game so they can.”

“Promise?”

for @drarrymicrofic prompt: Bound. WC: 225

Harry blinked once. Twice. The vision in front of him didn’t dissipate into the lightly falling snow.  

Draco Malfoy was walking towards him, pale blond hair in loose waves about his bare shoulders. Bare shoulders that led to a bare chest that glittered faintly in the firelight.  The sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw were thrown into contrast in the low light, adding to his otherworldly beauty. 

His only clothing was a facsimile of a skirt that appeared to have been woven from dried leaves, twigs and animal fur, the garment so abbreviated that one wild sway of his hips would have all of him on display. Not that Harry would mind that so much. 

“Malfoy, what–”

“I am Princess Equinox.” Malfoy cut him off and gave a little twirl, revealing a tiny set of iridescent wings affixed to the skin between his shoulder blades. 

“What you are is high,”  Harry said.  Luna’s equinox party wasn’t as raucous as her solstice party, but it was still a Luna party. 

Once more, Malfoy ignored him, declaring, “I am bound by the laws of seasonal magic to make an offering of myself to the most handsome and virile wixen in attendance to ensure the balance between warmth and chill remains intact.”

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.

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Harry and Draco barely noticed the sound of the Floo coming to life in the living room fireplace. They’d been kissing softly, arms wrapped around each other, waiting for Ron and Hermione to stop by for tea.

Apparently, they’d lost track of time. It was the sound of Ron’s sharp screech startled them apart instantly.

Harry and Draco hadn’t been lying, per se, about recently - months ago - becoming more than just friends. They’d just been enjoying their privacy.

“Do you reckon if we ignore them long enough, we can pretend they didn’t see us?” Draco whispered.

“It was destiny,” whispered under the nurse’s breath.

“No other way that it could have happened,” a harsh voice agreed, the doctor if Draco wasn’t mistaken.

“Bound to happen,” a third voice agreed.

And it took every ounce of Draco’s considerable willpower not to laugh and break the illusion that he was dead.

“It’s only Mr. Potter that I feel sorry for,” the third voice continued. “He was so desperate for us to help.”

He resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.

A sigh and the doctor said, “Let’s go let him know.”

He only had to wait a few minutes, lying still and calm under the white sheet before he felt Harry entering the room. “Can I have a minute alone with him?” Harry asked, voice cracking with fake tears and Draco almost laughed.

“Of course. We’re terribly sorry for your loss.”

A moment later, Harry pulled back the sheet, “Are you alright?”

Draco opened one eye and grinned up at him, “Never better. Now that my death’s on record, let’s get out of here.”

Draco Malfoy just might be the most annoying person in London. No, Europe. Merlin, maybe even the entire world! They way he goes on and on ad nauseam about whatever stupid place he went over the weekend and whatever stupid person he went there with… and Merlin, don’t forget what Draco was wearing on the misadventure. Harry hears it, all day every day, for months on end.

And yet, the git has managed somehow managed to charm his way into Harry’s heart.

Stay

“Last call: Portkey bound for New York City departing at 9am, leaving in five minutes.”

The voice was metallic and almost unintelligible but Draco made his way to the Portkey bay nonetheless, heart heavy.

Minutes passed and he was there, hand on the rope when he heard a commotion.

“Draco!”

He could see the crowd parting around someone fighting with all their might to get closer.

“Draco!”

Draco turned, and there he was. Harry looked disheveled, dark circles under his eyes, stubble covering his face.

“Please, please don’t go,” pleaded Harry, standing in front of Draco.

Draco looked at him and then at the rope in his hand. Only a minute to go.

“Please, I love you… I just, I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

Draco looked up, startled. He dropped the rope and jumped into Harry’s arms.

The cold chokes Draco even as he unfolds himself from his wool coat. Even as the Muggle pub suffuses him in warmth. 

“Potter.”

Maybe it’s the earnestness in Potter’s gaze. 

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s meeting Potter here, again. At this wayward Muggle pub, sipping ales for hours and listening to Potter chatter and provoke.

Why had Potter asked him here? Sequestered him one day in the Ministry atrium.

(Malfoy, would you try this pub with me?)

Is it pity? Is it boredom? Is Draco a charity case?

(Draco would’ve, should’ve said no, but the green eyes and the eyelashes and the hope.)

A week into this forsaken arrangement, Granger had stopped by his office to tell him he was doing Harry good and had given him a meaningful look. Probably something only discernable to other Gryffindors.

Draco wants to say no to these weekly meetings, but he’s bound to the debts he owes Potter, big and small, up to and including the embers of treacherous rightness that fill him up when Potter laughs at him, emerald eyes aglow.

“Draco,” Potter greets him.

“Auror Potter,” Draco spat, giving a half-hearted tug to the restraints on his wrists.

"I presume you know why you're here?”

Draco took in Potter's crisp Auror robes and his hand-mussed hair, delighting in the dichotomy.

“Depends on what you've found.”

“This is going to be a long night,” Potter sighed.

It’s Harry’s last coherent thought as Draco emerges from the pool. Water sluices off him in waves, droplets catching in the golden trail of hair that divides his abs. Mouth suddenly dry, Harry forces his gaze up, only to lock eyes with Draco’s mouth. As he watches, the plush lips stretch into a crooked smile, a hint of tongue pressing out between his teeth. Harry, finding it hard to breathe, jerks his gaze up once more, only to fall into Draco’s eyes. Grey green so clear it’s almost translucent pins Harry in place.