BECAUSE I AM AN EPIC DORK I DELETED THIS ORIGINAL POST.
so here i am re-blogging. this was an ask from @curlyy-hair-dont-care, a true sweetheart! i apologize, i was too fast on clicking that trash can thinking i was in my drafts.
so HERE AGAIN, is Day 21 of Autumn Drarry Drabbles, y’all! if you tagged and commented before, i haven’t a chance to respond but THANK YOU. again. gah. The prompt was Person A’s car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and Person B comes to their rescue. But Person A has heard rumors that Person B is a murderer. Enjoy, AGAIN! xo peach
The first fall flurries drift across the windshield as the car rolls to a stop.
“Oh, bollocks,” Draco mutters, turning the key in the ignition. The engine sputters and the headlights flicker and dim. He rests his head on the steering wheel. “This cannot be happening.”
Draco reaches for his phone and it vibrates and belts out Work Bitch at the exact moment his fingers touch it.
“Fuck!” he cries, clutching the phone to his chest, heart hammering to Britney’s beat. He pokes the green button.
“Have you arrived?” Pansy asks.
“Yes,” Draco snarks. “My magical powers have whisked me to Godric’s Hollow, tout de suite. No, I haven’t arrived. I left you a half hour ago!” He jiggles the key in the ignition. “And it will take me longer as my bloody car seems to have died.”
“Ah, pity that. Where are you? Can you get help?"
Draco looks out the window into inky blackness and squints at the weatherbeaten sign on the side of the road, the words barely visible in the flurries. “About 48 kilometers from Hogsmeade. Ugh, sounds awful.” He shivers against the cold creeping into the quiet car and displacing the residual heat.
Pansy hums. “Hogsmeade, you say?”
Draco turns the key in the ignition again. The engine clicks, then is silent. “Bloody piece of shit.” His phone beeps announcing a low battery. “Bollocks, everything is dying!”
Draco scoffs. “What are you nattering on about?”
In the rearview mirror, headlights loom and a truck drives past the car, brake lights flaring as it comes to a stop on the road ahead.
“Not to alarm you, love,” Pansy says, “But Hogsmeade is where all those murders are happening.”
“Ah, then it really is awful.”
Draco watches the driver’s-side door open.
“Well, just be careful,” Pansy warns. “The police speculate that the suspect is fairly young, maybe mid-twenties, average build but nicely muscled. Easy on the eyes.”
Draco chews on his lip and watches the gorgeous twentysomething bloke with the muscular average build approach the car. “Sounds dreamy,” he says.
“Oh, and they think he might have a beard.”
Draco sighs. His rescuer is probably the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life.
“Someone’s come to help, Pans— ”
Tiny snow flurries catch in the bloke’s beard as he smiles brilliantly and lifts his hand to Draco in greeting.
“—And I think he’s the murderer.”
Draco’s phone dies, cutting off Pansy’s yell.
The inside of the truck is cozy and smells like the cinnamon spice of the bloke behind the wheel. Of course, cinnamon is Draco’s favorite. He sighs.
“My name is Harry, by the way,” the bloke says, his voice dulcet and intoxicating. Draco sighs again. Harry chuckles. “My property isn’t that far up the road.” Secluded I’m sure, Draco thinks.
“I have a telephone you can use,” Harry offers.
Draco brightens. “A cell phone?”
Harry shakes his head. “A land line. It’s old-fashioned I know, but I moved out here to escape modern day trappings.”
Draco snorts. Dial “M” for murder.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”
Draco clears his throat and gestures to his dead phone. “I do have a modern trapping.” He holds up his charging cord. “May I?”
“Er.” Harry scratches his whiskers while Draco searches for an aux input. “About that…”
Draco stares at the truck’s archaic cassette deck and presses his mouth closed. “Old fashioned. Brilliant. Captain and Tennille, I suppose?”
Harry glances at Draco sidelong, lips twitching. “U2, actually. The Joshua Tree.”
“Perfect, of course,” Draco mutters. He slumps back in the seat and watches snow swirl circular patterns on the window. Cold air steals around his legs, and he suppresses a shiver.
“Are you cold? I’m sorry this old-fashioned truck doesn’t quite seal up like she used to.” He shrugs out of his jacket. “Here, take this.”
Draco accepts the garment — his shroud — and slips it around his shoulders, snuggling into the warmth and the spicy scent. Best smelling murderer ever!
“So,” Harry says, jovially. “What brings you out here?”
“I’m looking at property in the area.”
“Not In Hogsmeade?” Harry frowns. “It’s awful!”
“That’s what I said!” Draco exclaims. They exchange smiles. Harry holds Draco’s gaze for a skipped heartbeat, his green eyes sparkling. It really is unfortunate that he’s a killer, he’s exactly Draco’s type.
The truck slows, and Draco’s heartbeat revs anew. “This is my property,” Harry announces. Draco chews on his lip. The scene of the crime!
Harry turns the truck onto a gravel drive. Tall grassy fields run away into darkness outside the glow of the headlights, and rocks crunch under the tires. After about a half a kilometer, the road becomes paved and a two-story house looms ahead in complete darkness, the windows like black eyes staring into Draco’s soul. Fear prickles his armpits.
“Huh, I guess the power is out,” Harry observes. As if he didn’t already know. Harry sits back and places his arm on the back of the seat. “I have a confession.” He leans over and reaches across Draco.
Draco squeals and cowers against the door.
Harry pauses, blinking. “I was reaching for the torch in the glovebox.”
Draco sits up, releasing his held breath. “Oh.”
Harry pops open the box, and Draco’s eyes go wide. Sitting beside the torch is a hunting knife.
“I lied,” Harry says bluntly.
“You’re the killer.” Draco whispers.
His entire life flashes before his eyes — a good life with doting parents and exasperating friends. A life absent a fit boyfriend, mind… and that goddamn Gucci jumper. In retrospect, and faced with his own death, he should have purchased the damn thing.
Harry inhales… and then collapses into laughter. Harry’s laugh is sweet and thick like a treacle, and his whole face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. Draco frowns.
“Bloody hell!” Harry shakes with mirth. “I lied about the cell phone. I was trying to come off as mysterious. I have one for emergencies.” His chuckles abate. “But, you think I’m a murderer and you got in my car anyway?”
Draco folds his arms over his chest. “Look, if I’m to be offed it may as well be by a fit bloke. I mean, fucking look at you, ticking all my boxes with your honey voice and emerald eyes and cinnamon—“
The house lights blink on, bathing the yard in a warm glow. A hedge privet, neatly trimmed, flanks a stone walkway to an old oak door with a big lion’s head knocker. A fat calico cat sits in the upstairs window, tail swishing. The house itself is old, and quaint, and perfect.
Harry reaches out, slowly, and frees Draco’s bottom lip from his teeth with his thumb. “You do that a lot,” he says. “Chew your lip.”
Draco’s heart stutters against his rib cage, pushing warmth through his veins. “So not a murderer?” he asks breathlessly.
Harry caresses Draco’s mouth and shakes his head. “But you’re killing me wearing my jacket and ticking all my boxes with your snark and your grey eyes and blond—“
Draco lunges forward and Harry meets him halfway, slotting their lips together and sliding his hand to tangle the hair at Draco’s nape. The kiss lasts for minutes, months, millennia, crowding out all coherent thought until all Draco knows is the scratch of a soft beard, the sweetness of warm lips, the wet heat of an eager mouth.
“You’re magical,” Draco gasps. Red and blue lights strobe around him. “I’m seeing stars.”
Harry smiles against Draco’s lips and nuzzles his nose. “It’s police lights.”
A loud rap on the fogged glass jolts a yelp from Draco’s throat. Harry cranks down the driver’s-side window. A ginger in a uniform shines a light into the truck, eyes darting to Draco half draped in Harry’s lap.
“Weasley,” Harry says, beaming. “What’s the problem, Officer? You’re quite the mood killer.”
Weasley rolls his eyes and addresses Draco. “Are you a Mr Draco L. Malfoy?” Draco nods. “First, please let Ms Pansy Parkinson know that you’re safe. She will not stop—” His phone rings, and he silences it aggressively. “Please call her. I beg of you. Second, is the abandoned car on the main road yours?” Draco nods again. “Ok, then. I have several warrants here.”
Harry’s eyebrows rise to disappear under his curly fringe.
“I’m not the best driver,” Draco explains, gnawing his lip.
“There’s a few outstanding tickets for parking and speeding,” Weasley says. His lips twitch. “And one for destruction of property.”
“Ah,” Draco says. “That would be Dolores Umbridge's boxwood I drove over backing out of the drive this morning.” He shrugs. “I killed it.”
Harry laughs, honey sweet and Christmas bright. “Officer Weasley, arrest this man,” he says, hugging Draco tight. “He’s stolen my heart.”
