Lizziedrip

@drarrymicrofic prompt: Survive. WC: 216

“No, you—you don’t get to come in here, Ron, and—"

“Harry—”

“No! I love him. I have for so many years. So many wonderful years.”

His eyes burn. The back of his throat is dry. He tries to swallow, but the lump there is thick and impossible, and it is this small, stupid failure of his body to obey him that finally breaks him.

The tears spill on a sob.

“I know it never made sense to you, and I’m sorry for that. I am. But you don’t get to come in here and tell me it’s time to move on.”

“We’re just worried about you,” Ron says desperately. “All of us. We just think if you saw a Healer, then maybe it would help.”

Harry doesn’t want to hear it.

He can’t.

They don’t understand. They never have. Harry knows they tried, for his sake, and he loves them for that, but they never got Draco.

They never saw him properly.

They never saw all the small things that made him who he was. The things reserved only for Harry.

The soft kisses on Sunday mornings.

The cups of tea in matching mugs.

The Seeker matches they played in the garden.

The arguments over shoes never put away.

The lazy sex after a hard day at work.

The little inside jokes. The secrets. The language they built over years of loving each other.

The acts of service Draco did to ease Harry through a world that seemed hell-bent on making every day harder than it needed to be.

Draco would fill their water bottles before bed.

Draco would do the weekly food shop.

Draco would sort the laundry.

Draco would feed the cat.

Draco would... would... would...

He won’t anymore.

Harry presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, but it does nothing to stop the sound that tears out of him.

They never knew Draco. They only saw who he used to be, not the man he had become. Not someone brave and kind and so fucking sweet that he made sugar in tea seem bitter.

They didn’t know the man who saved Harry’s heart and soul.

“Get out, please,” Harry says. Pleads. His voice is weak and rough. He drags both hands through his hair, not caring when his fingers catch on a knot. “I can’t do this tonight. I’m allowed to be—"

“You are allowed to feel whatever you want to feel, mate,” Ron says quickly. “I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to speak to someone. To at least try.”

Ron looks at him, eyes wet, mouth twisted tight. It’s pity. It's not meant to wound but it does. It cuts sharper than any jab from Draco ever did.

“Please, mate.”

Harry stares at him. “If I say yes, will you just go?”

Ron swallows. “Yes.”

“Then yes. I’ll speak to someone.”

Ron looks as if he wants to say something else. To offer comfort. To say one of the soft, useless things people say when they don’t know what to do with grief this ugly. But Ron and Hermione and Ginny and everyone in the world and their mother have said it all a million times already.

There are no words that can reach the place Draco left behind.

Nothing can resolve the ache Harry has carried since that boring, shitting, wanking Wednesday morning nine months ago.

It should have stayed boring.

It should have been tea and paperwork and Draco complaining about the weather. It should have been a kiss at the door and a promise to pick up dinner. It should have been any other day.

But it wasn’t.

Because Draco had decided to die like a fucking Muggle and get hit by a car.

Thankfully, Ron says nothing else.

He nods once and leaves through the Floo.

The moment the green flames die down to embers, Harry makes his way into the kitchen and pours himself another glass of whisky.

People talk about bonds as if death is enough to break them.

Harry knows better.

Got some adorable new brushes and wanted to try them with something equally as sweet..

So I decided Young Narcissa and Baby Draco would be the right call.

Ron just smiled against Draco's lips, tangling a hand in the collar of his overly expensive shirt. "Shut up and kiss me, Malfoy."

Draco: I would, Weasley, but considering your distinct lack of coordination, you'd likely trip and crack your skull. And I refuse to be the one to explain to your terrifying mother why I let you die in an alleyway.

Ron: You're literally abducting me.

Draco: I am escorting you. With flair.

Anyway, I hope you like it 🥹❤️

[ two boys reaching toward a pulse point. ♡ | or: harry’s fallen. draco’s helping. | for the @drarrymicrofic april song prompt: two ghosts by harry styles ⋆˙⟡ ]

drarry | word count: ~1,070 | rating: t

_ _ _

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

He wakes on the lino tiles of the kitchen, and there isn’t much more to it than static, all at the edge of his vision, and the speckled pattern of the floor, the kind he’d picked because it reminded him of grey plover eggs and the trip their eighth year class had taken to Rye Harbour, after the Christmas holiday, mid-winter, and the way they’d tiptoed around the nests they’d happened upon like they were holding something sacred—

“—ank fuck, Potter, are you awake? Please tell me you’re awake. Literally say anything, because this blasted spell won’t quit—”

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Malfoy crouches before him, his bony knees on the floor, and Harry can’t help feeling that it must be terribly uncomfortable, because really his knees are bonier than most, which is surprising if you’re paying any attention, because Malfoy isn’t bony by nature, not in the way of sixth year, no, there’s more muscle to him than that, that lithe and toned-taut Seeker’s build, with attentive hands to match, but still, those knees, so sharp—

“—alled Granger on your mobile telly-phone, and she’s on her way, and I didn’t know whether you’d want me to call an ambulance, but if I’d have known your bloody heart had stopped, I’d have gotten one. Can you sit up? No, sorry, stupid, wait, wait, don’t sit up, just stay there and we’ll— fuck’s sake, that spell—”

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

So Harry doesn’t sit up, even though he’s fairly certain Malfoy had said something about sitting up, but that’s alright, because the tiles are nice and cool, and really the air is rather cool as well, and oh, it’s the refrigerator, door open, spilling yellow light over the two of them, the two of them and the shattered glass, all the pieces collected in a tidy pile on the floor, except maybe the one in his palm, the edge of it biting, and there’s Malfoy, his palm finding his wrist, and his fingers are so nice, but he isn’t reaching for the piece of glass, apparently, his fingers curling—

“—know there’s a Muggle way to do this, I just need to find— Now, don’t move, do you want me convicted of actual murder? And yours, no less. My very luck, to be on site at the Savior’s demise, and just when I’d started to not even want to kill you after all—”

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

And Malfoy’s fingers really do feel as nice as he’d thought they might, and his eyes, all wide and worried, glint grey, like the plovers, like their eggs, like the lino tiles, or the cold January sea caps along the Brighton beaches. Harry closes his eyes a moment, lets Malfoy’s fingers, warm and lightly callused, trace over the soft underside of his arm. Trace along his wrist, the veins just below—

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Harry blinks, his eyes opening upward, catching on the ceiling, the bloody cupboard door that keeps falling open, now hanging crooked on its hinges. He winces, the unmistakable jolt of a solid strike to the head, pounding just above his temple. His eyes flick to Malfoy, who’s inexplicably handling his wrist, in spite of being perfectly capable of casting—

Harry freezes.

Malfoy is looking for his pulse point.

Inspired by the @/cocodrilosad ’s tweet! So here is Severitus overpaint :)

Being, or rather feeling weak is nothing Draco isn't familiar with. Yet when it comes to Harry it's a different type of weakness.

A soft touch of a hand on his neck or shoulder, tender hug from the back, a gentle kiss and any heavy or boiling emotions dissolve, his body melting into the other. He absolutely can't control his own gaze following the silhouette in the dimmed lighting when Harry steps out of the shower and lowers himself on their bed.

He's weak to the way Harry wields his magic and yet is incredibly strong, inspired to enhance and grow his own.

Then there's the best (worst) part. He's unbelievably weak to Harry's scent of the same horrible shower gel he uses for ten to twelve years, tobacco and cedar perfume. Sometimes layered with peppermint chewing gum.

There's something to be said about him adoring the aroma mixing with his own old leather jacket when they hug. Or the slight dizziness he experiences whenever Harry softly guides him in private. Or puts him in his place without mercy if he's in a mood to give him a real challenge.

Harry's sacrificed too much, himself included, to be lonely in this world he's saved. Hasn't he earned a bit of enjoyment? Isn't he owed that? "Slower." Harry tilts his wand. Malfoy obliges, eyes glazed over in unknowing bliss. "That's it." He's just Malfoy. He's always been awful. He's fair game.