ejcarpe fic

@drarrymicrofic | 226 words | prompt: grave Missed Halloween by 2 days but shhhh lets pretend

Godric’s Hollow. Halloween, 1998.

Five months of planning for this moment. Five months of throwing logs on the fire in his chest. 

Four months locked in Azkaban had left him desperate but single-minded. In prison, Draco had met a wild-eyed old man who’d been arrested for the use of Dark Arts. Now, Draco muttered the incantation he’d learned from the man, held it in his mouth and repeated it like a mantra. 

Three months of research, trading favors for Dark books he hunched over in his cell, convincing himself the plan was possible. The whole while, hope grew in his chest like mold.

Two months of bullshit with the Wizengamot. After rotting in a purgatory that felt more like Hell, he finally got his trial. It all blurred together: the Veritiserum interrogations, the mountain of names Draco gave up, the i’m ever so sorry, i’ll never touch the Dark Arts again, fingers crossed behind his back.

One month of freedom, but Draco was still chained — tied down by this life-debt, this pain he’d carried for the last five months. He spent thirty one days perfecting his spell, collecting corpses outside. A dead frog hopped across his desk; a dead bird flew in his garden.

St. Jerome's Graveyard. Halloween night. Five months since Harry Potter took his last breath. 

Potter still doesn’t suit glasses, even the updated model. Draco tells him so. “You noticed.” Potter thinks he’s clever. He might think his smile is charming, too. It’s not. Draco says so. “Mhm.” Potter probably thinks he’s irresistable. Draco will inform him he absolutely isn’t. Once his mouth becomes available.

Drarry w/ that on pic

[ one boy being deeply dishonest. (forgive him— he hasn’t realized it yet.) ⋆˙⟡ | or: harry is bad at having feelings™ | for the @drarrymicrofic april prompt: ex ]

drarry | word count: ~330 | rating: m

_ _ _

The thing is, it’s nothing.

Ron catches the bruises blooming unsubtle under his jaw, one morning, late to the shop, before he’s managed to get them covered. He doesn’t mention it, really, only says, “You’ve got something,” knuckles brushing quick and demonstrative at his own throat.

Hermione says something lightly admonishing, when he develops a habit of scrawling note after note, sending Horatio (his screech owl) out & about & again— “You’re going to run the poor thing ragged if you keep scribbling like that.” She goes a heavy quiet at the sight, one evening, of the eagle owl dropping a carefully folded piece of parchment at the window perch.

But it’s not, like, a thing. They’re certainly not anything. Not him & Malf— Not— No.

They just happen to fall into bed once in a while, when they happen to be in the same place, same time. And if they just so happen to wind up frequenting those places more frequently, well. Stranger things have happened.

(It keeps happening.)

The sex is good (okay, yeah, better than good, better than great, but like, whatever). That doesn’t mean it’s worth mentioning.

And the owls— harder to explain, fine, but. Just. Not a big deal. None of it’s a big deal.

Until the owls stop coming. Until Malfoy stops showing up. And sure, okay, it was stupid to say it out loud, to proclaim the nothing of it, but what kind of question was, What are we?, anyway?

So, his mornings go colder and meaner, and Ron tries not to mention. And his owl treat tin sits fuller than it had done, and Hermione makes every effort not to notice.

Because it was nothing, he’d told them, adamant and a bit angry, when they’d tried prying, no matter how gentle. Because why did everyone keep asking?

. . .

He still goes out. He sends letters. He waits.

—& nothing.

But the thing is, nothing can’t become nothing.

Only something can do that.

draco never gets what he wants 😔 /s