#@drarrymicrofic

Harry clenched his fists, doing his absolute best to keep it bloody together.

But the emotions kept coming, wave after wave: fear, joy, anger, and gratitude, all of it crashing through him until his magic shivered under his skin. He loved the little boy napping in Draco’s arms so much it terrified him. And oh, how he loved Draco, too.

“Darling,” Draco whispered, not looking up as he stroked one careful finger over their baby son’s chubby cheek, “the china is trembling.”

“Sorry.” Harry winced, dragging in a slow breath as the teacups rattled softly on the table. He forced his hands to unclench. “I’m trying.”

Draco’s gaze lifted to him, soft but far too knowing. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“Ah,” Draco said, with the faintest curve of a smile. “Then you can tell me.”

Harry huffed a miserable laugh. Draco looked down again as Scorpius made a small, gurgly sound in his sleep, then settled deeper against him, warm and trusting and impossibly tiny.

“It’s just…” Harry started, then stopped when the china gave another delicate tremble. He swallowed hard and steadied himself. “If anyone ever dares write a prophecy about him, I don’t know what I’ll do to them.”

Draco’s expression sharpened.

Harry shook his head, helplessly. “He’s just—look at him. All he worries about is being held and warm and fed. No baby who can’t even walk yet should ever have to carry the burden of a prophecy.”

For a moment, Draco said nothing. Then he shifted slightly and nodded towards the free space on the small sofa. “Come sit with us.”

Harry tucked himself into the space beside him and let his head drop against his husband’s shoulder. The china finally went still.

“We’ll keep him safe, you and I,” Draco whispered, his lips brushing Harry’s hair in a kiss.

Scorpius, oblivious, smacked his lips once and slept on.

Length: 98 words

There have been moments in Draco's life when his hand has faltered. Scenes in which he could not hold his conviction. Hand trembling in the tower with Dumbledore. Jaw twitching when the Dark Lord questioned him. Whole body shaking at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Harry, in contrast, is an immovable object, steady as stone. Though there is nothing still about him, he never hesitates, never wobbles, simply acts.

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt 'proof' | Just something random that floated across my mind and got itself written and it matches the prompt!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

People wonder what Harry Potter – Saviour of the Wizarding World and Gryffindor Golden Boy - could possibly see in Draco Malfoy - Death Eater scum and a good-for-nothing Slytherin snake.

People find it ludicrous to believe when Harry insists that Draco has changed. Why should they believe? How could they?

Because they don’t know how hard Draco tried to learn the recipe of treacle tart from Mrs. Weasley just to surprise Harry on his birthday.

They aren’t aware how Draco is always that one person to believe Harry in a heartbeat – whatever it is – even when no one does just because Harry hates when people imply he’s lying for he must not tell lies so how could he?

They don’t know how tight Draco holds Harry’s hands even long after they’re asleep because he's afraid of falling into the Fiendfyre in his dreams.

They didn’t hear him giving Ron ‘the talk’ when the poor guy was on the verge of a mini mental breakdown mere minutes before his wedding with Hermione.

They didn’t see the tears in his eyes when Harry kissed him hard and said, ‘Yes I will! Of course I will, you idiot!’ while slipping the plain platinum band on his fingers with his pale, trembling hands.

People don’t see any of this and frankly Harry doesn’t coax them to anymore. It isn’t the first time when they have refused to believe him. It isn’t the first time when they have demanded Harry a proof for his claims.

This time, however, he’s more than content to be selfish enough to keep the pure and simple truth all to himself.

Harry's hands around Draco's waist; the way their whole body, their souls, are just focused on one another as if this is not a room full of hundreds of Hogwarts graduates, but just the two of them. Everyone with eyes can see that what they have is heartstopping.

“I think we should go on a road trip.”

Draco laughs, a sharp huff of air close to Harry’s ear, still smelling faintly of the curry that he had for lunch. “You don’t have a car.”

“I’ll borrow one. We’ll drive through the Peak District, maybe all the way to Scotland. Find a cosy little place to stay by the sea.”

“Sure. That sounds nice, Potter.”

The room is as dark as the bottom of the Black Lake, but Harry can tell Draco’s only humouring him. He tilts to the left to press their shoulders together, seeking the reassurance of his partner’s touch.

They both startle when a blast hits the door with a crunch of splintering wood.

“The Colloportus won’t hold much longer,” Draco murmurs.

“We’re going on that trip,” Harry promises, raising his wand and scrambling to his feet.

“First things first. There’s the little matter of a Dark wizard or six in our way. Where the hell’s our backup? I sent my Patronus twenty minutes ago.”

“Draco.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll drive to bloody Scotland or wherever you want to go.”

Another spell strikes the door, shaking the floor beneath their feet.

“And when we get there?”

Draco’s hand finds Harry’s shoulder, then the curve of his jaw. A shaking thumb slides over Harry’s lips, catching on the dry skin.

“Then we’ll talk about it—no more putting it off. We’ll decide what to do about this. About us.”

Harry grins in the darkness, satisfied. His magic is already building in his wand hand, hot and buzzing, waiting to be unleashed.

“Good. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Harry was walking alone.

The war was over, and festivities on the grounds of Hogwarts blazed behind him. He walked until the bright lights and howls of frivolity became muted in the distance.

A branch snapped and Harry spun reflexively, drawing his wand.

Another snap.

Harry followed the sound, muffling his steps as he went. They led him to the edge of the Forbidden Forest where Draco Malfoy sat alone upon a massive log.

Harry came up slowly beside Malfoy, and Malfoy must’ve sensed Harry because he stiffened - his fingers that were poised to snap yet another stick froze mid-bend. Malfoy slowly lowered his hands to his lap and looked up, his expression cold.

“Oh,” he said dismissively. “It’s you.”

Harry scowled out of habit more than malice.

Malfoy looked away.

“Is there anything in particular that you want, Potter?”

Harry studied the hard line of Malfoy's jaw.

“I'm sorry about your dad," Harry said finally.

Malfoy flinched.

The court of public opinion was not as forgiving as the opinions of those intimately involved in the war. Despite the Malfoys turning a corner and defecting to the side of the light, the wizarding world decreed a purge of any death eater still standing.

Lucius Malfoy had been wanted for war crimes, and had been on the run after the war ended. Narcissa and Draco Malfoy had been indicted as well, and Malfoy and his mother were apprehended at Malfoy Manor. Because of Harry's advocacy, they were pardoned. Harry didn’t think that Draco Malfoy was a bad person or a killer, and the memory of casting sectumsempra on Malfoy was reason enough to throw himself into Malfoy’s defense.

However, Harry could only insure their release on the condition that Lucius turned himself in. Lucius did, and the Ministry allowed Lucius to spend two days with his wife and son with the caveat that he would not disclose the nature of the exchange with them.

If Harry was honest with himself, he would think: Good riddance.

He tried to stow that feeling away to sympathize with Malfoy, who had written to Harry and thanked Harry profusely for his help. Although, that was before Lucius had been taken into Ministry custody.

"I can imagine it’s been hard for you recently,” Harry said slowly, “but thanks for coming -”

"Look," Malfoy said, and it sounded as though he was talking through his teeth, "I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you. I don't want to be near you. Leave me alone."

"Can you let me finish?" Harry snapped. "I just wanted to -"

"No!"

Malfoy jumped up, his robes whirling around him, eyes wild. He levelled his wand at Harry.

"Go away," Malfoy seethed. "If you come any closer to me, I will set you on fire."

Harry stood his ground.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked. "Why did you even bother showing up to a party in my honor?"

"I am not here for you," Malfoy sneered. "You have enough adoring fans. I’m here for my father’s sake. There are other important people here, people who can help me-"

Harry took a step forward.

“Malfoy, I did everything I could.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, and with a flick of his wand, Harry's robes burst into flame.

The fire rapidly blazed up from the hem of his robes up to Harry's knees.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry cried, and Malfoy's wand went flying.

Harry extinguished himself as Malfoy launched himself in the direction of his wand, dropping low to the ground and rolling.

Harry, with all the mental fortitude he could muster, wordlessly summoned Malfoy’s wand into the palm of his hand, leaving Malfoy crumpled on the ground - his pale hands gripping the grass. Harry pocketed the wand into his ashen, destroyed dress robes.

Harry couldn't see Malfoy's face, as his fine white hair curtained whatever malicious expression he might have had underneath.

"Now will you listen to me?" Harry said exasperatedly.

Malfoy suddenly flopped over onto his back.

His eyes were closed, and he stretched his arms and legs wide against the lush grass. Moonlight illuminated the sinuous shape of his throat.

"You ‘did everything you could’," Malfoy said in a mangled voice. "You can't help him."

Harry sank down to a crouch next to Malfoy.

"It’s not the end. You can still visit him," Harry said bracingly.

Malfoy opened his eyes and made contact with Harry's. They were inscrutable.

Harry watched Malfoy climb onto his forearms, the sleeve of his robes falling off one shoulder. His legs splayed elegantly.

"I can visit him," Malfoy repeated carefully.

"Yes," Harry said dubiously.

Malfoy began to laugh suddenly - horribly.

"I should kick you. Give me my wand, Potter."

"I want to like you, Malfoy,” Harry snarled, “but you make it so hard sometimes!"

Malfoy let out another sharp laugh.

"Have you ever considered that I don't want to like you?"

"That letter meant something to me," Harry said earnestly. "Maybe you're ashamed of it now -"

"Give - me - my - wand."

"It's not my fault!” Harry roared, losing his patience. “Your father did it to himself!"

Suddenly Harry was knocked breathless.

Malfoy had lunged and tackled Harry off balance. He wrestled Harry wildly, and Harry wrestled back - first defensively, then when Malfoy got an elbow to Harry's nose, Harry tasted blood and began to fight in earnest, losing himself inside of their scuffle.

Harry used his weight advantage to roll both of them over. Harry caught Malfoy’s flailing hands and wrested them down to the ground behind Malfoy’s head. Harry viciously pressed his knee into Malfoys thigh and Malfoy let out a yelp of pain.

Harry startled, coming back to himself - torn between wanting to help and wanting to hurt.

His grip slackened enough to let Malfoy’s wrists free and then Malfoy was kissing Harry hard.

Harry didn't allow himself to think, he just moved - kissing back feverishly, intoxicated with the soft slide of Malfoys mouth parting under his own. It felt natural, as easy as breathing. Malfoy was arching his body into Harry’s and Harry rolled his hips unconsciously in answer.

Harry opened his eyes, scarcely even noticing that he had closed them. They had made their way onto their sides.

Harry breathed in the sticky sweet scent of Malfoy's breath. Harry's hands were slack, and Malfoy's grey eyes glittered beautifully. One of Malfoy’s hands was on Harry’s hips, and Harry just concentrated on how good that felt. He felt sensitized, realizing that he had been missing touch, he wanted to be touched like this forever -

Malfoy abruptly rolled away from Harry, kicking up dirt and grass. Harry watched for a moment, stupefied, as Malfoy took off at a bolt back towards the party. Harry dragged a hand down his side, searching for Malfoy’s wand with dawning horror. Of course it was gone.

Harry scrambled up to his feet, peeling off after him. With each step, he grew angrier and angrier.

Malfoy was fast, even without a broomstick.

Harry zeroed on Malfoy's blonde hair like the sheen of a snitch. Voices grew louder, and the colorful tents came into cheerful view. Harry's world had narrowed the rhythm of his breathing.

Malfoy slipped in between two partygoers Harry didn't recognize, and Harry had to slow down to avoid hitting them. He went to dart around them when a hand reached out to grab Harry's shoulder.

Harry jerked away from the grip.

"What?" he snarled.

It was Ron grinning broadly, smelling strongly of firewhiskey, and Ron was saying something Harry couldn't understand over the roar of blood pumping in his ears.

Ron's grin faltered, then he looked concerned.

"I said, we’ve been looking all over for you!” He bellowed.

"I...okay?" Harry babbled, his eyes darting over the crowd of people toasting and laughing. Music swelled over a group of dancing witches.

Malfoy had disappeared.

“Did you hear?” Ron went on, undeterred.

“Hear about what?” Harry responded, feeling defeated.

“Word just came in - Lucius Malfoy is getting the kiss!” Ron crowed. “Serves him right, the bastard! C’mon, let’s get you another drink...”

“You are dawdling, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice came from behind Harry’s left shoulder.

“Merlin’s tits!” Harry yelped, nearly launching a box of descaling agent into the air.

“What is our Saviour doing here,” Malfoy drawled, “generously blocking the detergent aisle with his trolley?”

“What are you doing at Tesco?” Harry shot back, still trying to calm his hammering heart.

“Apparently, patiently waiting my turn to procure a bottle of fabric softener.” Malfoy gestured with a lazy flick of his wrist towards the shelf Harry had been obliviously parked in front of.

Harry stared. He couldn’t help it. Malfoy was wearing a David Bowie T-shirt and grey jeans. Tight jeans. Ripped at the knees. Harry’s eyes wandered lower of their own accord, then blinked several times as he spotted bare feet in flip-flops, toenails painted a glossy black.

An embarrassing sound escaped Harry’s lips—something between a strangled squeak and a moan—and he quickly darted his eyes back up.

Another mistake.

Malfoy was carding a hand through his white-blond hair, which was much longer than Harry remembered, falling past his collar in soft waves. The black nail polish on his fingers was a stark contrast against his pale… everything.

“Potter?” Malfoy asked, one eyebrow arching as the corner of his mouth twitched with quite obvious amusement.

“Er?” Harry bumbled back, his brain not joining the conversation.

“Don’t hesitate to have a wank about me,” Malfoy said smoothly, then reached out and pushed Harry’s trolley out of his path. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got places to be.”

He sauntered past, flip-flops slapping against the floor, and grabbed a bottle of something lavender-scented from the shelf with theatrical flourish.

“Can I come?” Harry called out, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “To, er, one of those places you’ll be?”

Malfoy paused, then turned, very slowly. His eyes swept over Harry from head to toe in a deliberate appraisal that made Harry’s ears burn and his pulse race.

“Weasley,” Malfoy said as he strode into the office without so much as a knock, his robes billowing slightly behind him. “You know his writing better than anyone, being his partner and all. Is that a ‘D’ or an ‘F’?”

He held out a small, crumpled piece of paper. It looked as though it had been ripped from one of Harry's Muggle notebooks—the kind with all the little squares on it and a torn spiral binding at the top.Ron looked up from the mountain of paperwork threatening to consume his desk.

“Mate?” he asked, directing the question to the DMLE’s Potions Advisor with a frown.

Malfoy’s jaw tightened. “I can’t decipher this chicken scratch!” He slapped the paper in question onto Ron’s desk, right on top of a report Ron had been trying to finish for three bloody days.

Ron picked it up, squinting. It was a brief note—very brief—containing only three words:

Either Fine or Dine with me. — HJP

Ron glanced from the note to Malfoy’s strained expression, then back to the note. A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Why not ask Harry?” he suggested, with an exaggerated shrug.

“Out of the question!” Malfoy’s voice pitched slightly higher, and a faint flush crept up his neck.

“Right.” Ron folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. It creaked in protest. “Then you’re definitely out of a dinner date.”

Malfoy snatched the note back, holding it as if it might bite him. “Would it even be a date?” he muttered, more to himself than to Ron, his grey eyes scanning the offending scrawl as though it might yield its secrets through sheer willpower.

Ron snorted, finally setting down his quill. He’d seen that look before—usually on Harry’s face when he was trying to work up the nerve to talk to Malfoy about something other than illegal potions.

“Mate, just ask him.” He rolled his eyes for good measure. “Honestly, you two.”

Malfoy opened his mouth—probably to deliver a scathing retort about the absolute last thing he needed being relationship advice from Ron Weasley—but the office door opened again.

“Oh, good, you got my note,” Harry said, slightly out of breath, his hair even more dishevelled than usual. He stopped short, looking between them. His gaze landed on the paper in Malfoy’s hand, then on Malfoy’s reddening face, then on Ron’s poorly concealed smirk. “Why are you holding it like that?”

Malfoy immediately crumpled the note and shoved it into his pocket. “Like what? I’m not holding it like anything. It’s a perfectly adequate way to hold a— Never mind. ‘F’ it is, then.” He sneered one more time at Ron, then made for the door, pushing past a bewildered Harry.

“Wait, no, fuck, Draco—it’s a D! A big D!” Harry called out, then broke into a dash.