Welcome to Drarry Microfic, an 18+ writing community dedicated to shortform fanfiction. Every Monday, we unveil a new prompt for all you writers out there to use as inspiration to create a story in 50 words. Use the prompt in any way you like: base your fic around it, or take it as a loose form of inspiration — you have total creative freedom! Post your work to Tumblr, and don’t forget to tag @drarrymicrofic so that we can reblog it.
Below the cut are a few guidelines that we hope will answer any questions you may have about how we operate:
This project is part of the Drarry (Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy) fandom. We ask that all creations are written with the ship in mind, from Pre-Slash or Gen to the filthiest E-rated work!
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Our guideline wordcount is 50 words, but we don’t want to stifle anyone with a strict word limit, so feel free to go as far over or under 50 words as the muse dictates!
The Drarry Microfic community is an 18+ space, so you can expect to see Mature or Explicit writing on our dash. We encourage you to add basic tags or ratings to your posts, so that readers know what to expect. We also recommend that you use Tumblr’s Mature content warning on your post if you feel the material warrants it.
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Send prompts! Our ask box is open for prompt submissions, and we credit all prompters, so this is your opportunity to engage with the community and help us get our writerly juices flowing. We welcome prompts of 1–2 words.
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And finally — you are all very welcome here. We aim to provide you with a supportive and engaging creative space, whether you’re a brand-new writer or reader, or an old hand in fandom. Thank you for joining us.
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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?
But in your dreams, whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me
— written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt "dream", 274 words
The alarms didn't go off when Draco Malfoy stopped breathing. He was seventy years old, living alone in Malfoy Manor alongside the bitter memories he knew he could not escape from, no matter how much effort he put to forget about the innocent lives that haf perished there under Voldemort's reign of terror.
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.
Perhaps dying had been the next best adventure he'd been waiting for. If it was a dream, which he was sure it wasn't, he never wanted to wake up from it.
@drarrymicrofic | 120 words | prompt: dream | CW for implied capture and torture, angst, in my mind this is a Voldemort Won the War AU
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.
He’s not sure if he is dreaming of the silvery Patronus in the shape of a dragon, swearing he’ll be rescued, to just hold out, that Draco loves him. In the next moment, he’s dreaming of Draco choking him to death with his bare hands, eyes crimson, laugh a frantic burst of excitement.
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“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."
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.
For one impossible second, he can still feel Harry’s fingers tangled with his own.
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.”
Harry smiled and reached out. His fingers threaded through Draco’s like on the trip to the zoo they hadn’t yet taken. “They’re our dreams, Draco.”
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.”
There was a long silence, then Ron said, “I’m waking Hermione.”
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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.
The things that mattered the most, he remembered. Like the moment they both said “I do” and a golden light bathed the field. He would always remember the moment that bonded him to Draco forever.
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.
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.
Those were not the dreams that hurt the most; those were expected, deserved. The ones that truly broke him were of lazy Sunday mornings, smiling green eyes over the breakfast table, clasped hands and soft brushes of lips. The dreams of what might have been.
Thank you @drarrymicrofic for the prompt! Also thank you UnaBol for your suggestions and corrections! Definitively made the drabble better
“Fourth year,” he mutters, sounding the way he does after sex. A little off. A little more open.
Harry caresses his hair. “Mh?”
“Did you think of inviting me?” Draco asks.
He must feel it in the way Harry breathes.
“Of course not,” Draco amends. Harry hears Draco’s self-loathing smile in it.
Draco kisses the skin that’s just under the scar of Harry’s torso.
“I wasn’t aware back then,” Harry admits, still a little ashamed of the time it took before clicking.
They were so young, he thinks, with tenderness. Mostly.
“Did you?” he asks, then.
“Yes,” Draco chuckles.
His fingers are now gently playing with Harry’s nipple.
“Hardly could think of anything else,” Draco admits.
“Yeah?” Harry asks, smitten.
“Mostly I dreamed you asked, and I told you to fuck off,” Draco mutters, as Harry breathes in the smell of his hair. Harry snorts.
“It’s the saddest, most absurd thing, isn’t it? To have fantasies about how morally superior it would make me to resist…” Draco trails, and doesn’t finish. Harry plants a kiss on his finger.
“I was so stupid and unhappy,” Draco says, not moving at all. Like it’s still crushing him. All those choices he made. All those things he thought and said. “Even if you had asked, I’m convinced I would have said no. That was the only possible answer.”
Harry wonders for a second, about growth, about reassurance.
“Well. There’s that ball happening next week…” Harry hints.
“… Obviously. It’s the season.”
“We could go. Together. If you’d like.”
Draco gets on his elbow. Harry almost sees the 'You can’t be serious?' that he doesn’t say. The 'Of course not', that is haunting there. The 'You don't have' to in ambush. The venemous 'I don't need your pity', that's never that far.
“I’m serious,” Harry says, anyway. “And sure.”
Something wonderous happens. Draco blushes. Then, in a husky voice, he says. “I’d really like that.”
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We ( @coppercatbird, @orolin-writes and @angeldog5 ) are thrilled to be taking over moderation of this tumblr account and our discord Drarry Microfics community. This community has been and continues to be so important to all three of us, and we’re so excited to be here!
If you’re new to Drarry or to microfics, we want to welcome you! Micros are a fantastic way to dip your toe in, meet people, and start getting words down on the (paper or metaphorical internet) page. Our pinned post includes all the details, but a few highlights from the new mod team:
* 50 words is our “official” word count, but we encourage you to write as much or as little as your muse inspires. We see and love a huge range of definitions of “micro” here, and we want all of them!
* Whenever relevant, please note M and E ratings, major AO3 warnings (i.e. noncon, MCD, etc.), and/or hate speech so that readers know what to expect
* Our asks are open for prompts (word, song, or image) until further notice
* If you aren’t in the discord server, send us an ask for an invite! We post and chat about prompts, share micros, discuss upcoming events, and more
* We are planning some events starting this summer, so keep an eye out for announcements!
Finally, we want to offer our warmest gratitude for the incredible modding done by @citrusses, @maesterchill, @sweet-s0rr0w, and @tackytigerfic. You all did such an amazing job stewarding this community, and we are so grateful for all of it (and not even a little bit overwhelmed by the shoes we have to fill ☺️)
[ boys dancing & daring. ⋆˙⟡ | or: one inebriated draco malfoy, one dutiful harry potter, an effort at dancing, and some rather public proceedings. ♡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: ball ]
drarry | word count: ~800 | rating: m
_ _ _
The charity ball had been a horrible idea.
“Draco— Merlin’s sake, watch your feet.”
Draco’s Oxfords go traipsing over Harry’s brogues. Again.
“Your fault, Potter. If you’ll recall, you’re the one who kept—” (here, he stumbles) “—kept handing me glasses of Merlot.”
“God, it was a Malbec. You taught me that.”
Draco’s right heel finds his left foot, and Harry winces.
“You’re also the one who taught me to dance, though I very much doubt anyone would believe that at the moment.”
The following step on his toes feels more pointed.
The music swells, and he loses the frame, form shifting against Draco’s self-righting grip on his jacket— pulling himself upward, inadvertently closer.
“Hello,” Draco says, nose bumping against Harry’s chin as he straightens.
“Hi,” Harry answers, quiet, the pinched edge of panic ebbing a moment. “You could try for composure,” he murmurs. “There are photographers.”
“Photog—?” Draco’s gaze swings sideways, spotting the young woman from the Prophet, Qwik Quill scribbling at her shoulder. “Hm,” he breathes, forehead dropping to Harry’s shoulder.
Harry’s hand finds his elbow, steadying. “What? We can sit. Do you need—”
His words stall— hands, cold and hands, are suddenly beneath his shirt. He can feel the fabric rucked upward, his back and sides exposed.
He tugs at Draco’s wrists, immediate and adamant, until the offending appendages drop to his sides.
“Hands, watch your hands,” he hisses, skin tingling under the memory of his palms.
Draco’s mouth curls into a slow smile. “But you told me to watch my feet.”
“You’re a menace,” Harry says, with far less bite than could be reasonably afforded.
Somehow, they’re still moving, slow-spun circles that have lost the better sense of timing.
Draco leans in (and in) and laughs direct into his collar, the soft hum of it a heady warmth against Harry’s throat.
“We could give them a picture worth printing, don’t you think?” Draco says, low, stepping closer, their chests practically flush.
Harry’s feet stop, the Morganese waltz brought to sharp conclusion in spite of the ongoing lilt of the orchestra. His hand at Draco’s waist has gone a bit desperate, fingers all ache and restraint.
“That’s it. I’m taking you home.”
Draco hums approvingly.
“Your home,” Harry amends, certain the plum stain of his cheeks must be visible fifty meters out.
“Good,” Draco mumbles, nodding, then effortfully pulling himself into near-proper posture.
He dips his lips to Harry’s ear, too close, brushing his jaw just so as he sways, whispering: “I have better bedsheets.”
Harry’s grip goes rigid at his wrist. He does not deign an answer.
As he tows him toward the cloakroom, into its meager privacy, unmistakable is the mechanical shutter, the camera flash, accompanying their retreat.
.
“You’re being ridiculous. And nothing could happen anyway,” he tells Draco, practical, tossing his cloak (grey wool, dovish) around his shoulders, helping to fix the fasten at his front. “You’re drunk. Very drunk.”
Draco’s mouth pulls into a pout, and Harry forces his focus elsewhere, suddenly intent on buttoning his own coat.
Then, Draco’s fingers, just above the top loop, catching tight and tugging him forward. Harry startles, the proximity even more… proximous than prior.
“I’ll take a sobering potion.”
Draco’s free hand wraps around, finds the nape of Harry’s neck. The steady press of his fingers sends a shiver stippling through Harry’s shoulders, outward and through. Draco’s eyes are alight, expectant, as he whispers: “And I’ll still want to fuck you.”
Jesus, Mary, and Merlin.
Harry stammers out: “That— You— I—”
He takes a breath and gently pulls Draco’s grasp from his skin.
“I’m not negotiating this until we at least get you through the Floo.”
Draco snorts, then covers the sound, pink tipping his ears. He coughs, a clearing thing.
“Negotiation,” he says, fixed flat and smirking. He pokes at the breastpocket of Harry’s coat. “Very sexy.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but feels the smile insisting at the edges of his mouth. He guides Draco out of the gallery, down the corridor.
“Potter,” Draco whispers, his fingers once again seeking, finding, touching. They thread themselves through the very ends of his curls.
“Hm?” Harry says, maneuvering open the gate on the lift, trying to carefully tuck Draco inside without having him stumble over the edge of it.
Draco drops his chin, finding the downward slant of Harry’s focus.
“You danced very well,” he says, the sound of it too soft, his gaze searingly sincere. He slumps against Harry’s shoulder, letting out a huff, mildly disgruntled. “But I won’t say that sober.”
Harry warms, and whether it’s the cramped space (it isn’t), the stuffy robes (wrong again), or the easy presence of the man beside him (…), he finds he doesn’t mind.
