hobitokki on Ao3

stuck way too close to each other in an overcrowded elevator.

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?”

⬇️

⬇️

⬇️

Or:

Laurent: So, what's the news?

Damen: I've come to tell you who I am.

Laurent: Yeah, I know, who you are, Damianos, I said, what's the news.

Damen: WHAT. HOW.

Laurent: Oh come on. You lack of any kind of obedience, you are exceptional in war tactics and strategy, you're good at reading maps and posess information far beyond one that is usually given to a soldier, even a general, you speak almost flawless Veretian and great Patran, you even raised your head once when Jord called me "Your Highness"!

Damen: ...oh.

Laurent: Yes.

Laurent: And I also remember your face since Marlas.

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: modesty | wc: 180

Draco was raised with manners. He was raised with a certain decorum. With dignity. With the idea that the body was to be covered with long sleeves and high collars. Most Slytherins held these beliefs. So having a joint common room with the other houses for eighth year has been quite the adjustment for them all.

Especially when Harry wandered through the, albeit mostly empty, common room in naught but a towel clutched around his waist, dripping water on the plush carpets, Draco very appropriately clutched his metaphorical pearls.

“Merlin, Potter, don't you have any modesty?” Draco cried, trying to not ogle the fit Gryffindor. He’d really filled out over the summer, no longer scrawny, but broad chested, bulky arms, and a trim waist leading the eyes tantalizingly low.

“I forgot my clothes. If it offends you, Malfoy, either close your eyes or do something about it,” Harry smirked, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he headed up to the dorms.

absolutely insane if you ask me

Her Ladyship, Katara of the Southern Water Tribe

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.

Never one to be bound by the laws of magic, Harry willingly drank the Veritaserum.

“Now, Mr Potter,” the Auror started. “Where is Mr Malfoy?”

I drew this a few years ago and decided to finally Share it, So please ignore the shaky lines . Back then I wasn’t allowed to post stuff on any social media platform so here it goes now :) I was really proud of the details especially the tattoos of pads and moony :)