#drarry game

Rules: You will be given a word, then you share an excerpt from your WIP(s) that start with each letter of your word.

I got the word STOAT by @angeldog5. You can see her's here.

My WIP is a Drarry story in which Draco (now Damien) has been Obliviated as part of his sentence and exiled to live among Muggles. He spends eleven years living among Muggles, working as an embalmer in a small funeral home, where he prepares bodies for burial (and talks to them). When Harry unexpectedly re-enters his life, a long-buried government conspiracy to keep former Death Eaters permanently severed from magical society begins to unravel..... (cue ominous music!).

S

She seemed to believe that, but he wasn’t sure he agreed.

T

This, he realised as he looked at Harry, was where every comforting illusion he’d built about his life came to die.

O

“Oh, Damien, my gorgeous, wonderful man,” Jerry said with a dramatic sigh. “Nothing of importance really. Just the usual ‘Who are you? Why am I here? Oh dear god, am I really dead?’ routine. Frankly, it was quite tedious. She crossed over rather quickly, and thank fuck for that.”

A

As soon as they walked in, Jerry eyed Harry with grave suspicion. Harry, on the other hand, seemed to fucking light up like he’d just laid eyes on a watering hole in the desert. “Fucking hell, is that Jerry Holden?”

T

They looked at each other in silence before Damien settled on the easiest thing to ask. “Did you want to see Mrs Dursley? I understand you were a relative, but-”

“--I don’t look like her, you mean?” Harry cut in, sounding a bit amused.

Thanks, darling! 💗 have a fluffy Drarry headcanon! It deals with PTSD and therapy, so read with caution 😊 

• Harry never, ever, ever eats roast dinner.

• Every time his friends ask him why he avoids the dish, a different memory comes to mind. Aunt Petunia yelling at him for not helping her cook after he'd been busy doing homework. Uncle Vernon flipping Harry's plate to the floor because Harry had dared ask a question. He can't remember what, though he does remember wiping the potatoes from the tiles while uncle Vernon towered over him.

• Sometimes they aren't even memories. It's just a feeling of... unease. No, not of unease. Of danger. The smell of the dish at the Burrow is enough to set him on edge, and sometimes he doesn't realise there's something wrong with him until he's snapping at something someone says and he has to retreat to his room for a few hours.

• it's not until a few years after the war that he actually brings it up with his therapist. It crosses his mind during a session purely by coincidence—he's never really paid much mind to it. He kind of expects his therapist to laugh at him.

• Instead, the therapist asks, "Do you miss it?"

• "Roast dinner? I mean... Yeah. It tasted nice."

• "We don't always have to face the things that bring us bad memories," is what she tells him then. He's heard it before. "If you had no interest in the dish, it would be pointless to try to overcome the memories you've attached it to. But if those memories are the only thing preventing you from enjoying a dish you like, it may be worth a shot, don't you think?"

• By the end of the session, they've decided Harry's going to try.

• He explains the plan to Draco that evening, the both of them curled on the sofa, Harry sipping at the hot chocolate mug Draco always prepares for him after his therapy sessions.

• "I'm supposed to eat it with you," he says, "because you make me feel safe. And I'm supposed to eat it when I'm having a nice day, not when I'm upset about work or anything, because the goal is to associate the dish to new memories, and that those memories are good."

• Draco hums. He lifts the mug from Harry's hands and takes a sip. "We can do that," he tells Harry, a line of chocolate traced out on his upper lip.

• The following Saturday, Draco and Harry organise a date.

• A date consisting of lighting a few candles through the house, of sitting by the hearth and laughing at old movies on the telly. Of randomly turning on the wireless and breaking into a silly waltz, of tickling the other after a hot bath together until they're both rolling on their towels and soaking the bed.

• That evening, Draco makes roast dinner.

• Harry is nervous. He can already feel himself shaking, his heartbeat starting to quicken. His thoughts skittering.

• Draco notices. He asks Harry if he can deal with music, and when Harry says yes, he turns on the wireless on the classical music channel. When Harry says he's okay with touch, too, Draco holds his waist and starts to rock them until they're tumbling into a silly dance and chuckling into each other's neck.

• In the kitchen, dinner is cooking itself under Draco's spells. But when the smell gets to Harry, it mixes with that of Draco's shampoo. With that of Draco's skin, with the sound of Draco's laughter.

• And when dinner's ready, the sight of the dishes on the table mixes with Draco's smile. With Draco's proud expression, the one he always sports after cooking something he knows will taste delicious.

• When they sit down beside each other, Draco drapes his leg over Harry's under the table and kindly informs him that—"You look like a hedgehog, love. I think I could hang my keys from a strand of your hair and they wouldn't fall."

• It's a light-hearted attempt to keep Harry's thoughts in the present, but it makes Harry nervous. He doesn't talk much about it, but his aunt and uncle used to mock his hair at every possible chance.

• "Sorry," Draco whispers, brushing his fingers to the back of Harry's hand. "I said the wrong thing, didn't I?"

• Harry intertwines their fingers. "It's okay," he says. "I'm okay." He takes a moment to breathe, a moment to close his eyes. Then he takes a bite of the meat.

• The flavour, the consistency, seem to bloom in his mouth, to melt over his tongue.

• And perhaps it's because he's missed it; perhaps because Draco is truly an outstanding cook. Whatever the reason, he swallows the mouthful with a hum and a tingle of warmth at the bottom of his chest.

• He almost takes another bite, but instead sets the fork on the plate and buries his face on Draco's warm neck, shamelessly sniffing his hair.

Thanks! Sorry I left this sitting in my inbox for a while, my inspiration suddenly yeeted itself out the window. Anyway, have a cute Drarry headcanon! ❤

• Draco walks into the great hall one evening with a flower tucked behind his ear.

• Harry’s heart does The Thing. You know the thing. That thing it usually does when Draco so much as walks into a room and Harry notices him.

• But it’s when Draco plays with the flower, when he rolls it between two fingers in a distracted manner as he checks his class notes over his dinner, that Harry positively loses it.

• Because “WHY THE FUCK would Malfoy EVER wear a flower in his hair??? There must be a reason, Ron, he would NEVER.”

• The reason, dear reader, is as simple as two words: Luna Lovegood. Draco is a goner for her; platonically so, at least. It happened over the war, in a cramped, damp cell in Malfoy Manor, but you know that story already.

• This, however, matters very little to our beloved Harry Potter, who is gaping at the Slytherin table with his spoon in the air because the notion that Malfoy knows there’s a flower in his hair has apparently broken him.

• And Draco notices, of course he does. Come on — when does he NOT notice Harry??

• For a moment he’s surprised, but then— then. Then his lips curve into a little smirk that quickly widens when Harry splutters his food all over Ron, and “He just looks so satisfied, doesn’t he??? Ugh, does the stupid ferret think he’s being funny? I swear, Ron, if he doesn’t stop smiling like he’s won the day I will SNAP.”

• Ron, unsurprisingly, just smacks another spoonful of apple crumble on Harry’s plate and tells him to eat and stop obsessing over Malfoy. (Don’t tell him, but he reminds Harry of Molly every time he worries over Harry’s questionable eating habits!)

• That’s how Harry misses the way Draco’s smile softens a moment later — the way Draco glances down, then up again, and bites his lip, fidgeting with the flower still, bur this time in a nervous manner. How Harry misses the soft blush that spreads over Draco’s cheeks.

• What Harry doesn’t miss, however, is the little note that flies into his bedroom that night, making a complex little loop in the air and then landing by Harry’s pillow. It’s an origami crane.

• Tucked inside it, dear reader, is the flower and nothing else.

• It goes without saying that Ron hears all about it immediately, Harry sat at the foot of his bed ranting about Malfoy’s iffy behaviour while Ron tries — and fails — not to roll his eyes too much. But he listens, even if Harry’s obvious crush on Malfoy seems a bit pathetic to him. He knows Harry will figure it out with time. Hopefully soon.

• The next morning, with what little sanity he has left, Harry strolls to where Draco is sitting in the Hogwarts gardens to demand an explanation.

• Draco’s words, “I knew you’d find me,” only set Harry further on edge. 

• But not as much as Draco’s fingers brushing the line of his jaw, then pushing softly into his hair as Draco, calm as ever, tucks a little wild flower — a daisy — in Harry’s hair. Behind Harry’s ear.

• Is what follows a kiss that has them both sprawled on the grass within seconds? Is it Draco performing CPR on Harry because he’s stopped breathing? Who knows. Maybe both.

• What I can tell you for sure, dear reader, is that Ron is watching it all from the Eighth Year common room window, and he’s already deciding what he’ll buy with the two galleons Hermione owes him for this. Probably chocolate frogs!

No birds in my wips, but here’s another Drarry headcanon!

• So we all know about the little bird that lost its life during their 6th year, when Draco had to fix the Vanishing Cabinet.

• What if… what if he doesn’t forget about this?

• What if, after the war, when he’s trying to better himself, he just can’t stop thinking about the life he took?

• And it’s silly, really. It was just a little bird. Surely everyone’s accidentally killed an animal once in their lives. But… but he put the bird in the cabinet. He heard it chirp. He said the words that made its heart stop beating. 

• So it’s a Tuesday afternoon a few years later and he’s walking down a Muggle London street when he sees a woman crouched on the floor, leaning into a building wall. 

• He approaches her, worried, and asks if she’s okay — if she needs help.

•“Please,” she says. “It’s a little bird. I think its wing is broken, but it won’t let me pick it up. Could you try while I call the animal emergency services?”

• Draco’s heart is racing. “Yes, of course,” he says quickly, crouching over the distressed animal as the woman stands up. Its wing is, indeed, hanging limp from its body, but still it cowers and tries to escape Draco’s hands.

• It takes him a moment, but he manages to gently hold the bird in the cup of his hands. Just then, the woman says, “Oh, no. I’ve run out of battery. I’m sorry I have to ask, but could you call them? I’m late for a meeting, and—”

• “I—” He doesn’t have a phone. “I don’t have my phone with me.” At the look of distress on the woman’s face, he adds, “Don’t worry, I can take care of it, I don’t have anywhere to be.”

•“Are you sure?” He nods. “Th-thank you, sir! I’m sorry, good luck with the bird!”

• Fuck. He has no idea what to do with the bird. It’s still chirping between his hands in distress, trying to run away, but he can’t just let it go. There’s no way it can survive like this. 

• In a panic, he does the first and only thing that comes to his mind: he holds the bird close to his chest with a secure hand, walks into an alleyway, and Disapparates. 

• He practically runs into the Ministry, and, ignoring the weird looks he’s getting, he rushes down the halls and into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the bird chirping sharply in distress.

• When he asks a man behind a counter for help and shows him the bird, the man laughs.

• “Of all the weird things I’ve had to witness in this job!” he says, more to the woman sitting beside him than to Draco. Draco clears his throat, and the man waves a dismissive hand at him and tells him to “Take it to the Auror department — surely this is a crime they can actually solve. They’re gonna need a translator to interrogate the victim, though!”

• Draco is about to insult the man, to insist that he tell him where he can find a Creature Healer, when he hears a familiar voice talking behind him.

•“Victim? Wilson, what’s going on?”

• Draco turns around to none other than Harry fucking Potter, because that’s just his luck. And if that weren’t enough, Potter is dressed in his Auror robes, which have no business fitting him so well, and there’s a shade of a stubble making his face look just fierce enough to contrast the warmth of his eyes. 

• Potter looks down at the bird in Draco’s hands, and for the first time in the afternoon Draco feels embarrassed. When Potter frowns, Draco raises his chin. “It’s hurt,” he snaps, feeling his cheeks burn. “Are you going to stand there and laugh like these morons or are you going to help me?”

• “Oh fuck off!” snaps Wilson, but Potter is smirking.

• “Sure,” he says. “Follow me, Malfoy.”

• Potter takes him to the main hall, then to one of the fireplaces. “Where are we going?” Draco asks, skeptical.

• “Luna’s.”

• Potter announces an address and disappears with a whoosh. Draco follows him close, and soon he and the distressed bird held against his chest are stumbling into a living room.

• “Shouldn’t we have—” Draco starts, but Potter signals at him to stay quiet, then points up at the ceiling. A long, snake-like magical creature Draco can’t identify is hanging from a metal bar, fast asleep.

• They find Luna in the garage. She seems to be bulding a wooden bed, but she stops as soon as she sees them. She gives Potter a hug and a kiss, then takes the bird from Draco’s hands without a word and deposits it on a table.

• “Its wing is broken,” she says after a moment. “I can help, but it’s going to take a while. Go grab something from the kitchen while I work if you want to!”

• And that’s how Draco ends up spending a good fourty minutes alone with Potter, sat on a small kitchen table and sipping a glass of water.

• “Bringing birds into the Ministry your hobby now?” Potter asks casually at some point. 

• “Oh, shut up,” Draco mutters, flushing again. 

• “And here I was thinking you were a terrible person,” Potter goes on. “No soul, no feelings. You know the kind. Turns out you were adorable all along!”

• “I am not—”

• “Don’t even try,” Potter cuts him, “I saw the distress on your face when that Wilson arsehole refused to help you. Besides, you’re blushing like a madman. So, it’s decided. You’re adorable. And I’m a stubborn man, so there’s no changing my mind about it.”

• Draco huffs. “That is not how being stubborn works, you git.”

• “No?” Potter cocks his head, amused. “Allow me to try again.” He clears his throat dramatically, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, all through a smile. “Draco Malfoy, Prince of Slytherin, Saviour of Birds, King of the Adorable…”

• “Oh my god—”

• “Will you go out on a date with me?”

• Draco’s heart skips a beat. His cheeks on fire, he splutters, “What?”

• “I’m free Friday at five. Or Saturday, if it suits you better.”

• That’s when Luna walks into the room and gravely announces the bird will live, but will not be able to fly again.

• “It won’t be able to live in the wild again. I can keep it here, I’ve got plenty of space, but if you…” She’s looking at Draco.

• “Yes,” Draco blurts out. “Yes, I’ll keep it. Just— I have to figure out where to—”

• Oh, I can give you a cage that’s appropriate for its size! I’ll show you what I have around, come with me!”

• He stands up, walks past Potter. The git stands up too and murmurs into his ear, “Owl me.”

• When Draco emerges from Luna’s garage while later, Potter is gone. There is, however, a charmed paper bird floating in the middle of the kitchen. It has Draco’s name written on it.

• Draco can’t help but scowl as he reads it, his heart hammering in his chest. Honestly, could Potter’s handwriting be any messier?

• Dinner at mine Friday? We can choose bird names together.

• And under the message, a signature:

• Headcanon that Draco and Harry become neighbours in Muggle London after the war because That's Just Their Luck.

• And that as the months go by, their relationship starts to shift into some kind of... friendship, against all odds. They talk sometimes, and they even joke. The wary looks turn into smirks, and Draco reaches a point where he has to chastise himself every time he finds himself thinking about Potter.

• Because he's only trying to be friendly, for Merlin's sake. That's totally why he winked at you this morning, stop making things up, Draco.

• And so one day Draco is at the supermarket and he suddenly hears, from behind him,

• "If you were a vegetable, I think you'd be a cute-cumber."

• Draco's reaction? Well, first of all, AKSJSJSHSHDHK because did Potter just flirt with him?? Did he JUST—

• And second of all, THE POTATO WAS ALREADY IN HIS HAND. And no, he did not throw it on purpose. He panicked, okay?? Anyone would have reacted that way. He's sure of it.

• "Ouch! What was that for?" says Potter as he rubs his temple.

• "I should ask the same!" Draco exclaims. "What kind of pick up line is that!?"

• Anyway, so Draco ends up in Harry's house, because, "No, Malfoy, I'm not seeing a Healer for a concussion I'm sure I don't have!" "Well I'm not risking having the death of the saviour in my own hands!"

• Harry lies on his couch, and Draco gets a bag of ice from the freezer and presses it against his forehead.

• And Potter, the fucking git, smirks that stupid smirk that has been driving Draco insane for weeks and says, "Hey, the pick up line worked after all. You're in my house now."

• "I swear, Potter, if you don't keep your mouth shut I will snap."

• "Oh, so like you did just a moment ago when you threw a fucking potato at—"

• Draco covers Potter's mouth with a hand, and Potter, the absolute little shit, licks him.

• "That's it! I'm out of here!" Draco proclaims, though he doesn't stand up. Potter just laughs at him, and Draco whines, which only makes Potter laugh harder. And really, having such a contagious laugh should be illegal.

• In the end, Draco stays for dinner. Only because he doesn't trust Potter not to faint if he's left alone, of course. He totally hates being there, in Potter's kitchen, with Potter standing close to him as they work together, bickering all the while.

• Oh, by the way, can you guess what they cook?

Hey there! ❤ no soup in my wips, but here’s another Drarry headcanon for the soft-hearted:

• One spring evening, Draco comes home from work to Harry curled on the bed with a really high temperature

• To say that Draco p a n i c s is an understatement

• He's never been responsible of anyone before! Not even a pet. And now Harry, mister I-am-independant-and-can-take-care-of-myself, is shivering under a thin blanket and a layer of sweat

• And Draco can barely fry an egg, for crying out loud! And he's been trying, really trying to get past his upbringing and learning to take care of himself

• But cooking soup? That's an impossible task. Unrealistic. He just doesn't know where to start

• But. He has to do it.

• And so he Firecalls Molly

• Molly, who immediately panics because her child is sick and starts fussing around looking for her shoes so she can Floo to Grimmauld Place and take care of Harry herself

• Because she doesn't trust Draco, you see. It's only been a few months since they told her they were dating, and she is, as Arthur keeps murmuring in Harry's direction with an apologetic expression, "still coming to terms with it all"

• But Draco... Oh, Draco wants to be able to take care of Harry himself. He's Harry's partner, after all. And Harry has taken care of him so many times before, it just isn't fair he can't do the same.

• "No," he tells Molly. "No, please. I want to learn. Just— could you— maybe tell me where to start? I just— I've never cooked soup before."

• And Molly, for what it's worth, actually stops in her tracks. She'd just assumed Draco was going to her because he didn't want to deal with Harry himself. But the kid is actually worried sick, she notices then. And he's asking her for help.

• That's when Molly's mama instincts really kick in. Not for Harry now, but for Draco

• "Make sure he's not too hot under the blankets," she commands. Because as much as her heart is melting, she still needs to make sure Harry's not dying under this boy's questionable supervision. "If he can sit up, give him some water."

• When Draco comes back to the kitchen, she starts passing him the ingredients through the Floo. She gives orders, bossy-like but patient, and Draco, against all odds, manages to cook a good pot of soup

• When he's done, he drops on a chair for a moment as he lets the bowl he's prepared for Harry cool down a bit

• "Thank you, Mrs Weasley," he says, looking flushed and exhausted, but relieved. "Sorry I had to call."

• And Molly, as much as she's been telling herself she still doesn't like the Malfoy kid, can't help but chastise him at this. "Don't you dare apologise for asking for help, young man," she tells him. "That's what mothers are for."

• When he looks up at her, she's fighting back a smile

• "Now go, go," she says before it can get awkward. "Make sure he eats all of it, you hear me?"

• The following morning, Draco sends Molly an owl telling her Harry's already feeling better

• She doesn't reply, and Draco doesn't talk to her again during the remainder of the week

• But then, when he and Harry go have dinner at the Burrow the following Saturday, Harry is incredibly suspicious

• "Why aren't you complaining?" he asks Draco before they leave the house. "You hate having dinner at the Burrow."

• And when they're there, he keeps on sending Draco squinting looks

• "Since when do you and Molly get along?" he asks Draco when he catches him outside the bathroom

• Draco just shrugs and gives him a kiss and a pat on the cheek

I wrote a drabble and not a headcanon. Fite me 😈

Drarry | 280 words | Teen and Up | Angst, Bonding fic, Battle of Hogwarts | AO3

698… 

699… 

700. 

Draco waits. He's heaving, his back against the cold wall of the castle. His skin is burned and sensitive, and he knows they could find him at any moment. Knows he needs to hide. To look for his parents.

But he waits. Waits for a step that doesn't come. For the next pull, for the next stretch of the string that ties them together. But it doesn't come. 

Harry has stopped walking. 

They're 700 steps away from each other.

He almost wants to run. He wants to run in the direction the string is pulling at, wants to turn the counter back to 0 and take Harry with him, away from where he's standing in the forest. He wants to take them somewhere safe. Somewhere he can keep Harry within reach. He wants to rake his fingers over Harry's cheekbones, to kiss his stupid, beautiful scar, to trace the shape of his back, of his chest, of his thighs, until all he can hear is Harry's breath, until all he can feel is Harry’s warmth. Until the battle is so far away it stops feeling real.

But there's nowhere left to run. 

Harry still hasn't moved. 

Draco still hasn't caught his breath. 

And then it happens. Like a whip straight to his core, pain shoots through his body, and Draco is on his knees. He's panting. He's crying. He thinks he's saying Harry's name. 

He's desperately looking for that feeling inside of him. For the string, for a direction, for a distance to run until he can have Harry in his arms.

All he finds is his own confused heartbeat and a weeping gash in his soul. 

YESSSSS! This is one of my favourite bits of one of my favourite wips 😂❤ For context, Draco and Harry are 10 and it’s Halloween night in Privet Drive. Draco sneaked out to Muggle London via Dobby because he wants to be cooler than his friends.

***

“What are you supposed to be?”

Harry jumped around. It was the pointy boy! The adjective really did suit him, Harry realised—his chin was extremely sharp, and his eyebrow was risen in an almost perfect triangle as he stared at Harry with a skeptical sneer.

“Er… I'm a pirate. See? This is my sword.” He rose the stick in the air.

“Really?” The boy had a really posh accent, too. “Because you look like you just escaped Azkaban prison, honestly.”

“Azka-what?”

“Of course, you wouldn't know what that is.” His sneer deepened. “I don't know why I thought talking to a muggle would be a good idea.”

“What did you just call me?” Gosh, the kid was weird. And a bit mean. But Harry kind of liked him already—it wasn't hard to see that he was trying to hide the fact that he was lost, and that made his anger feel endearing, rather than annoying.

“Nothing.”

Harry didn't really know what to say to that. A moment passed, and the kid shuffled a bit.

“What are you dressed up as?” Harry asked.

The kid huffed. “You should check your glasses if you have to ask! I'm a wizard, of course!”

“That's not how wizards look,” he pointed out.

“Excuse me?!”

The boy's offended expression was so harmless and exaggerated that it actually made Harry snicker. “It's not my fault you look like Death!”

“I most certainly do not look like Death!”

Man, the kid was proud. Harry sighed. He really should change subjects if he wanted to have any chance at becoming friends with him. 

He pulled a sweet from his pocket and handed it to him. “Here. What's your name?”

The kid eyed him suspiciously. “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Yours?”

“That's such an uncommon name.” Draco still hadn't accepted the sweet, but Harry kept his arm stretched out. “I'm Harry.”