Ma Meilleure Ennemie

They had to go out to eat after that...

Made for the Draw Drarry Badly Challenge by @julcheninred !

For @drarrymicrofic | prompt: rule | word count: 352

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Ron said as he plopped himself down on the common room couch next to Hermione.

“What did Harry do this time?” Hermione looked up from her study notes that she had spread all over the low table in front of her.

“I was upstairs in our room just now, and I was trying to talk to him, but he was looking at his Omnioculars, and it was obvious he wasn’t listening to me,” Ron said. “So I go over there to where he’s sitting on his bed, and I look over his shoulder, and —”

Ron had to pause as the horror of the memory overtook him. He shuddered.

“Why, what was he looking at?” Hermione prodded.

“Malfoy,” Ron said, and shuddered again. “He was watching moving pictures he had saved on the Omnioculars. Of Malfoy playing Quidditch. And there were close-ups and… Oh, ‘Mione, it was awful.”

Ron passed a hand over his eyes as if he could block out the image in his mind. Hermione chuckled, which Ron felt was very unsympathetic of her.

“Ron, do you think… maybe… we should try to help Harry?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“I don’t know what else we can do to get him to stop,” Ron said morosely, “short of bashing him on the head.”

“No, I mean,” Hermione said. “Now that Malfoy and Parkinson broke up, do you think we should help Harry to… you know…” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

Ron’s eyes widened in alarm.

“What? No. No, no, no, ‘Mione…”

“Oh, come on, Ron,” Hermione wheedled. “He clearly has no idea what to do, and we’re his friends!”

“There’s no rule that says you have to help your friend get with a lousy, ferret-faced wanker!” Ron protested.

“Even if he’s desperately in love with said ferret-faced wanker?” Hermione asked.

“Especially if — ugh, Hermione, don’t say that.” Ron dropped his head into his hands. This was going to happen. He could feel it; the inevitability. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Harry has such bad taste,” Ron said mournfully.

———

Prev part here

Or

 (August 2025 prompt)

“I’m back!” Harry shouts, slamming the front door of Grimmauld Place hard enough that—out of habit—he braces for Walburga Black to start screaming.

Then remembers Draco finally got her down after she hurled one homophobic insult too many, and he snapped.

“Really?” Draco drawls, appearing in the kitchen doorway with his sleeves rolled up, a tea towel slung over one shoulder and a plate in hand. Harry almost swoons on the spot. There is nothing—nothing—hotter than Draco Malfoy doing domestic things like a Muggle. “Never would’ve noticed. Slam it louder next time—don’t think the trolls in Wales heard you.”

Harry snorts, kicks off his shoes, and follows him into the kitchen.

“You going to show me, then?” Draco asks casually, setting the plate aside. “Or does this require the privacy of a closed door?” He throws Harry a wink.

“I mean, it doesn’t,” Harry says, sliding up behind him and wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist, “but I’m not opposed if you are.”

Draco leans back into him with a quiet sigh, all warmth and familiarity, still smelling faintly of the spearmint tea he drinks every morning.

“Romance truly isn’t dead,” Draco says. “Go on, then. Show me.”

Harry steps back, crouches, and rolls up his trouser leg.

Draco squats to get a better look. “What is it?”

Harry taps the tattoo. Green ink ripples and reshapes itself, the squiggles stretching and sharpening until a small dragon stands proud on his shin, wings unfurling.

Draco goes very still.

“You got a dragon,” he says, voice suddenly smaller.

For one horrible second, Harry thinks he’s misjudged everything. His mouth opens. Closes. Panic creeps in.

“Draco, I didn’t mean—shit, I just thought—it’s okay if you hate it, I can—”

“You got a fucking tattoo of my name?”

Harry blinks. “Well. Sort of.”

Draco looks up at him, then back at the dragon. “You got a tattoo of my name,” he repeats, softer now.

Harry nods, suddenly meek. “I’m sorry. I can get it covered.”

The dragon flexes its wings and shoots a thin stream of fire up Harry’s shin before settling again.

“Did you feel that?” Draco asks, pressing his thumb gently against the ink. It’s already healed—magic saw to that—but still warm beneath his touch. The dragon dodges him, flapping just out of reach.

“No,” Harry breathes.

Draco studies it, expression unreadable. Then a small, disbelieving smile tugs at his mouth.

“It’s beautiful,” he says quietly. “But I thought it was bad luck to get a tattoo that represents your partner.”

Harry shrugs. “After everything we’ve survived, I doubt a bit of ink is what’s going to do us in.”

Draco scoffs. “You’re insane, Potter.”

“Excuse you?”

Draco smirks. “Sorry. Potter-Malfoy.”

Harry grins. “So… you don’t hate it?”

Draco shakes his head. “I love it.” He looks up, eyes soft. “Like I love you.”

Harry smiles. Draco doesn’t say it often—but when he does, Harry knows it’s real.

“Love you too.”

The dragon suddenly takes flight, circling Harry’s ankle once, twice, before darting up his leg and disappearing beneath the fabric.

“Oi—where’s it gone?” Draco laughs.

Harry shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to check. Behind a closed door?”

Draco’s eyes light up. “Last one upstairs has to get a tattoo that the other chooses.”

Now, at age 42, he had found more than a place to call home that wasn't Malfoy Manor. He lived in a small flat located in Hogsmeade, brewing potions for the ministry while Harry was abroad on auror business.

Draco didn't expect him to arrive for at least another week. The flat was too quiet and clean. He'd made sure to tidy up the place, including Harry's side of the bathroom and bedroom, leaving small notes to remind him, in his own way, he loved him.

Night had fallen, and Draco was drying himself up after a shower when he spotted a silver dragon watching him from the open bathroom door.

He smiled at it and got closer. He really wanted to pet it even though it was incorporeal. It was Harry's patronus. It used to be a stag until they started dating. He'd taught Draco how to produce one, and his had taken the form of a stallion. Whenever they were apart, no matter how far they were from one another, they always made sure to stay in contact through them, if they were too anxious to send a letter and wait for the answer.

'You alright, Potter?' Draco asked uneasily to the patronus as it flapped its wings and blew silver fire around him, looking a little moody, he gathered by its face.

'Draco, I just wanted to let you know I'm alright. I wish I could be home with you. Miss you... Love you,' said Harry's voice through the silver figure.