July Prompt: You're so vain | @drarrymicrofic

The parchment rustled and almost flew out of his hand as a sudden gust of wind blew across the courtyard. Instinctively, Harry tightened his hold on it, breaking out of a daze.

"Tch. You're crumpling my homework, idiot." Malfoy was glaring down at him.

"The fuck it is."

It was the furthest thing from homework, because Hogwarts didn't have an art class, and Harry was holding a very explicit drawing of a bespectacled man with dark hair fellating a wand - Hawthorn, ten inches.

"Is this supposed to be me?"

"Merlin, you're so fucking vain!" Malfoy snatched the parchment from him. In the blink of an eye, he was already halfway across the courtyard, walking away from Harry.

Draco doesn’t know why he always ends up in situations like this. The common factor is that Potter’s involved in it in some way. Perhaps that says it all.

“I did say so, though,” he says, looking away ostentatiously whilst Potter tries to pick the lock with various spells. “Quite literally. Something along the lines of ‘don’t close any doors in this house, they might be enchanted.’”

“If you’re not going to help, please keep your mouth shut,” Potter replies curtly.

Draco sighs and rolls his eyes. It’s exhausting working with The Boy Who Lived. Everyone’s always going on about the brilliant things he’s done, but no one ever mentions the fact that he’s a proper pain in the neck.

He tries a few other things, but then he seems to have run out of ideas. He sighs and slumps down onto the floor against the door.

“Well,” he says. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait. Ron knows we’re here. He’ll probably raise the alarm.”

Draco rubs the centre of his forehead with his palm. “Lovely. Just how I wanted to spend my Friday evening.”

He stands there for a moment, pacing round the room, but then decides there’s no point. He sits down too, deliberately leaving plenty of space between himself and Potter.

They remain silent for quite a while.

After a while, Potter must have calmed down, because he speaks up.

“Grimmauld Place has one just like that too,” he says, nodding towards the old clock on the wall. It’s an antique piece with delicate wood carvings.

“I know,” says Draco. Potter looks at him strangely. “I used to go there quite often as a child.”

“Ah, right…”

Draco glances at the clock. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I lost one of my favourite toys there once.”

“What was it?”

“A soft toy dragon. It blew sparks out of its nose when you pressed its tummy.”

Potter turns a shade paler.

“What?”

“Royal blue with silver accents?”

“How do you know—” he sits up straighter. “Did you find it?”

“Uh… Well, he’s got a spot on the sofa. He keeps me company when I watch telly in the evenings…”

Draco’s eyes widen. “Really?”

He sounds overly hopeful, and Potter’s eyebrows twitch strangely.

“I can give him back to you, if you like.”

Draco would love that. It reminds him of better times, before all hell broke loose and, for him, the term Death Eater was meaningless.

He’s about to agree, but just then they hear a commotion in the corridor. A few seconds later, the door clicks open and a head of red hair peeks in.

“Found you,” he grins, then calls out to someone in the corridor. “See, I knew they’d be here!”

They leave the building and all head home, and over the weekend Draco almost forgets the conversation he had with Potter. Until he arrives at the office on Monday, where the little dragon is sitting neatly on his desk, waiting for him. There’s a little card next to it.

Back with his rightful owner. Let him drop by every now and then to say hello.

H.J.P.

The realization hits me like a bludger out of nowhere. You’re sitting in the chair closest to the fire, feet tucked under you, the blanket Molly sent Ron draped across your lap. You’ve some ridiculously large book propped open, making notes in the margin. What’s Hermione always calling it? Annotates? Annotations? Whatever it is you’re doing it in my hoodie. One string is clamped between your teeth, brow furrowed, as you write.

I normally try to keep this blog strictly about the glory that is art history, but I can’t avoid sharing a good architecture pun!

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: modesty | wc: 400

The first time, Harry thinks it’s political glad-handing as Malfoy chats to the Undersecretary of Some Boring Thing Harry Can’t Remember at a Ministry banquet.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Malfoy.”

“Well, I try.”

—

The second time, Harry’s certain Malfoy is trying to curry favour—when had he ever been so demure about his academic pursuits?

“Thank you, William, but I think I can do better. I have much to learn.”

—

The third time, Harry’s absolutely positive that Malfoy’s fucking with him.

“Oh, come on,” Harry groans after the diagnostic charm fails for the fourth time in a row.

“You could ask for help,” Malfoy says, not looking up.

“Know anything about diagnostic charms?” Harry asks, sarcastic. They both know Malfoy’s better at charms.

Malfoy removes his goggles with a pensive expression. “I’ve been known to dabble. Show me what you’re doing.”

—

By the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth times, Harry’s committed to tripping Malfoy up.

“Hey, you’re good at potions, right?”

“I have a few skills, yes; what do you need?”

—

“Would you say you’re a well dressed bloke?”

“I suppose I have some sartorial charms, if one cares for such things. You clearly don’t.”

—

“Headache, Potter?”

“Yeah—d’you brew a decent cup of tea?”

“Passable, so I’m told.”

(It was perfect, the tosser.)

—

By the twentieth time, Harry’s at the end of his patience.

“Malfoy, you still play quidditch?”

“… I do.”

“Any good?”

“Well … probably not as good as you.”

Harry makes an aggravated sound. “What is up with you?”

Malfoy raises one perfectly manicured brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“This fucking humility thing!”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Malfoy looks unimpressed.

Harry folds his arms. “You any good at arithmancy?”

“I can muddle through.”

“Board games?”

Malfoy flares his nostrils. “Terrible, as you well know. And a sore loser.”

“Cooking?”

“Capable, what is your point?”

“Playing the piano.”

“Intermediate at best.”

Harry has an idea. It’s perfect. He smiles, sharp and cutting; the little wrinkle in Malfoy’s brow deepens. “How are you in bed?”

Malfoy’s mouth falls open. For a long moment, he stares, his cheeks going pink. Then, he smiles, devious, and steps forwards. Leans in close.

“Why don’t I show you?”

—

“Oh my God,” Harry gasps as he rolls over, chest heaving and glistening with sweat. “Oh my God.”

DISCOVERY

Finally alone and shirtless in the locked and silenced broomshed, nothing stands in their way. Weeks have gone by since their first kiss. They’ve exchanged stolen glances in the corridors between lessons and have shared, in hushed whispers, what they want to do to each other.

“Let's see it, then, Potter,” Draco murmurs, arms crossed, leaning against the wooden broom lockers.

Heart racing, Harry slowly pushes down his trousers and pants. He releases a shaky sigh as Draco draws nearer and looks down.

“My, my, weren't you being modest.”

Harry smiles, arching an amused brow, then glances down Draco’s bare, muscled torso. He slides his hand down the pale, marred skin—drawing a sharp gasp from Draco’s lips—and pushes beneath his waistband.

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: hesitate | wc: 250

“You have to be confident.”

“I know.”

“You can’t waver for a second.”

“I know, Ron.”

“They smell fear.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying to protect you! You almost died last time.”

“I didn’t—all right, fair point.”

“Leave him be,” Hermione said over the din. “He’s ready.”

“Am I? Maybe this is a terrible idea.” Harry’s heart rattled in his chest, his breaths short. He hadn’t felt this frightened since … well, since the last time, when he had wavered, and he hadn’t almost died, but he’d fallen flat on his face making his escape, which was painful and humiliating enough.

“You don’t have to do this,” Hermione said. “Ron’s right. If you’re doubting yourself, maybe you’re not—”

“I know what you’re doing,” Harry grumbled as he straightened.

“Is it working?”

“Yes, fucking fine. I’ll do it. And I won’t die. I hope.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ron said. “It’ll be over quickly anyway. I’ve got your back—I can shield you.”

“He won’t need a shield,” Hermione said. “He’ll be fine. Now stop avoiding your fears; it’s very unlike you.”

“Right,” Harry took a deep breath. He’d been training for this. He reviewed the rules. Shoulders back. Eye contact. Don’t let them smell your fear. Don’t hesitate.

“Right,” Harry said again. He strode forwards, counting his paces to calm himself as he avoided the obstacles in his path. His heart raced.

Eight eyes blinked with a cool, predatory gaze. 

Don’t hesitate.

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.