#drarry wip

Draco Malfoy slept with everyone, except for Harry.

He'd even slept with Cormac McLaggen and Zacharias Smith. More than once, if the rumours were to be believed.

It all started when Neville barged into Harry’s office early Monday morning to inform him that Malfoy had come on to him at Luna’s party — a party Malfoy had attended on the grounds of being vaguely, distantly related to Luna, Harry suspected — and that Neville had subsequently had his first experience with a man.

Which, Neville made very clear, had been spectacular.

Like Malfoy was some sort of unholy sex god, roaming the post-war wizarding world with the apparent goal of liberating the entire Hogwarts cohort from heterosexual confusion.

In Harry’s opinion, it was all deeply, profoundly unfair.

“Mate, it was so good. How come you never told me how good it can be?” Neville said, beaming with such unfiltered delight that he didn’t even have the decency to blush. “I came so hard I…”

“Alright, that’s… wow,” Harry cut in, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “Good for you. Really. Good for everyone, I suppose. Malfoy being… remarkable in bed.”

“Are you mad?” Neville asked, souding baffled. He looked like he was trying to puzzle out where Harry was going with this, and fair enough, Harry wasn’t entirely sure himself.

“No. No, of course not,” Harry said stiffly. “Good for you, mate.” And then, in a desperate bid to steer the conversation away from further detail, he added, “Didn’t know you were gay?”

“Nah, not sure I am,” Neville said cheerfully. “I just like Draco, I think. And Luna, I still really like her.”

Neville had been hopelessly in love with Luna since their school days, and it was a recurring issue that Luna’s affections were not so much selective as broadly distributed. To everyone. Much to Neville’s frustration. Maybe that's why he'd hooked up with the nearest, pale blonde substitute he could find. Even though it was.... Malfoy. From that point on, things developed rapidly and without supervision. Within a few weeks, Ron turned up at Harry’s office looking shifty, to report that Malfoy had come on to him at a party. A party Harry hadn’t been to. He tended to avoid parties. They were too crowded, involved too much small talk, or required an exhausting amount of careful tiptoeing around the war and his role in it. He hated the way people’s eyes went glassy and reverent, as if he were something holy and untouchable instead of just an ordinary bloke who’d died once. It was deeply uncomfortable. Malfoy, annoyingly, seemed to thrive on being the centre of attention, if his friends’ accounts were anything to go by.

“He was – and this is not a sentence I ever thought I’d say out loud – so charming,” Ron said, sounding faintly disturbed. “It was weird as fuck. And kind of hot.”

Then he giggled. Actually giggled. Like a bloody schoolgirl. Harry almost rolled his eyes.

“I assume this is where you tell me you two…uh….hooked up?” Harry asked, already regretting it.

Ron’s freckles disappeared beneath a violent red. He took a long swallow of coffee. “It wasn’t... I mean. Just a bit of snogging. Really nothing.”

“And let me guess,” Harry said flatly. “It was good.”

“Mate,” Ron said reverently, “It was annoyingly good. That’s the worst part.”

When Hermione admitted later that week that she had also snogged Malfoy, Harry very nearly lost it.

“Have you all gone completely, fucking bonkers?”

“No. Well. Possibly,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “He was just so… disarmingly charming. Harry, you know how he is.”

That was the problem. Harry didn’t know how Malfoy was at all.

Whenever Harry found himself in Malfoy’s vicinity, at the rare parties or functions he endured, Malfoy alone treated him as though he were invisible. Everyone else still gravitated toward Harry as usual, but Malfoy wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t acknowledge him even when they were standing in the same room. To Malfoy, Harry seemed to exist only in theory.

Which, annoyingly, stung. After Hermione, Malfoy appeared to return to dismantling the heterosexuality of Harry’s friend group with alarming efficiency. Dean was first, swiftly followed by Seamus, both of them momentarily dazed by Malfoy’s attention.

Harry began to suspect foul play. Either Malfoy was dosing people with some sort of illicit love potion, or he had been withholding the rather important detail that he was, at least partly, a Veela. 

It was the only explanation for how people around him seemed to lose all integrity the moment Malfoy entered a room, all plush lips and infuriatingly tall. It was as if Malfoy had used the end of the war to grow the last few inches purely so he could continue to look down on people in some capacity. Harry was fairly sure it had been a deliberate choice.

When Dean and Seamus started seeing each other, instead of taking turns shagging Malfoy, Harry breathed his first real sigh of relief. Malfoy’s crusade had surely reached its inevitable conclusion. There was no one left to pluck. Except Harry, of course.

Not that Harry wanted Malfoy to pluck him. He didn’t. Absolutely not.

Except that, irritatingly, he sort of did, if only because being the sole remaining exception felt strangely personal. Like being the one kid left standing at the end of the lineup, waiting to be picked, already certain he’d be last. Or in this case, not at all.

When Charlie declared he would be bringing Malfoy to the next Sunday dinner at the Burrow, Harry finally lost it.

Sequel to The Art of Getting By.

Chapter Title: Now That You Found It, It’s Gone

Behind them, the liaison, Mr No-One, cleared his throat and glanced towards Waterloo station's clock.

Molly ignored him. “You must eat,” she said. Harry almost laughed.

“Mum,” Ginny murmured.

“I mean it. Proper meals. Not only tea and toast because you can’t be bothered.”

Molly tugged the two sides of Harry’s coat together, fastening each button with trembling fingers. She smoothed the wool over his chest, then adjusted his collar, although it had not been crooked to begin with. Her eyes moved everywhere except his face.

“And you must write,” she continued, her voice tightening. “You needn’t say anything important. Just tell us you arrived. Tell us what the weather is like. Tell us what you had for breakfast.” Her hands lingered at his shoulders, brushing away a piece of lint that was not there. “Arthur and I will be in Berlin to spend the holidays with you, so I expect to see some meat on this frame by then, young man.” The last words wavered despite her attempt at sternness.

“Molly,” Oni said gently, reassuringly, “the clinic will supervise his meals.”

“I know that!” Molly snapped, her hands going still against Harry’s coat.

She seemed to forget what she had been doing. Her fingers remained curled around his lapels, but the irritation drained from her face almost as quickly as it had appeared. She lowered her eyes, smoothing the same patch of wool again and again as though there were something there she could put to right.

“I know,” she repeated, barely above a whisper.

Harry recognised the shape of the argument she was refusing to have. She wanted to feed him because feeding him was something she understood. It was an act she could perform with her own hands. She could not medicate away the damage in his mind. She could not undo the therapy room incident. She could not carry him to Berlin and sit beside his bed until he was himself again.

But she could worry about his breakfast.

“I’ll eat,” Harry said with a nod.

Molly searched his face. “Promise me.”

That was a dangerous word. For months, Harry had made promises as though wanting something badly enough could make it true, and look where it got him. He had promised Draco safety. He had promised Oni he would take his medication. He had promised himself he would never become the thing Draco feared.

Harry shuddered. “I’ll try,” he said, a hint of shame creeping into his voice as he glanced away from her watery blue eyes.

Molly’s expression crumpled as she began to silently cry, but she nodded. “That will do,” she said through a sob.

Thank you for the tag @fluffyunderneath. It was a nice reminder that I have not touched this fic in a week and should probably get on it. I also loved yours so much, I'm vibrating with excitement 👀

rules: post the last sentence you wrote and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence. (but also feel free to tag whoever you like 🩷)

“Thrice the mucus, huh?” Draco says casually. “Tested it yourself, I’m assuming.”

mine for the summer - a drarry summer romance

The summer after his Eighth Year, Draco decides to spend the weeks leading up to his Potions Mastery in a quiet Muggle beach town. He's got a list of things he wants to do, like befriend a Muggle and learn to cook and nothing is going to distract him. Harry has spent the last year riding trains and losing himself in Muggle clubs to dull the fact that he can't move on from the war. The Ministry most likely offered him a position as an Auror out of pity, and he has the summer to get himself together before basic training. The seaside town of Hastings has other things in mind.

wip | 4/13 chapters

tags: inspired by one direction, forced proximity, summer love, walks on the beach, explicit language, explicit sexual content, romantic fluff, smoking, drinking, additional tags on ao3

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

These snippets are from two separate WIPs that I do hope will someday see the light of day.

G

Guilt niggled in the back of his mind as he tumbled into the dark sitting room of Grimmauld Place. It grew as he shucked off his robes (leaving them where they landed in the hallway), climbed the stairs, and crawled into his bed. With his eyes closed, the guilt pressed into the front of his mind, drowning him in shame, wave after wave, until it all went dark.

I

“I know I should. Stay, I mean.” He just wanted to be back home in his bed where he could curl up and close his eyes and the rest of the real world would disappear, not here in this clinical space posing as a home. His jeans were tight against his stomach; his muscles were sore; his teeth ached.

F

“Fuck!” Harry swerves, narrowly avoiding the large, gleaming telescope the next Bombarda sends flying into the air. Several more stones crumble and plummet into darkness.

“What the fuck are you doing, you deranged asshole!”

T

The white-blond head gleaming on its path up to the castle cuts through Harry’s newfound peace like a Diffindo.

C

“Can you visit? If I stay here?” Harry asked, looking up into Hermione’s face.

A

A young man in a light blue hooded sweatshirt was sitting up on the far bed, rubbing his eyes- a pair of eyeglasses pushed up into his messy, black hair.

R

“Right,” Harry grins at the gleeful look on Kreacher’s face. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy that, then.” And if he doesn’t, Harry will have a few choice words for the ungrateful git.

D

Dozens of eyes looked back at him– witches and wizards in fancy robes seated at circular tables throughout a large banquet hall. The Gala. He was at the Gala.

The Star Splitter, a Harry/Draco fic by oflights, NOW COMPLETE.

Summary: On a routine time travel assignment to the past, Draco stumbles upon 7-year-old Harry Potter and witnesses his neglect and mistreatment by the Dursleys. In the moment, there is only one solution, even if it goes against all his training as a Time Agent: he has to bring Harry back to the future with him.

In which Draco burns his life down for the sake of his former school rival.

Notes: The Star Splitter is now complete! It has 32 chapters and clocks in at 219k words.

thank you so so so so much to everyone who read along, commented, left kudos, bookmarked, recced, sent asks: you have made this a phenomenal posting experience unlike anything else i've ever done, and i am so incredibly grateful to you! i'm also grateful to the folks who may start reading this today or over the weekend. i hope you all enjoy this fic; it was so lovely and fun to plot out and write, and i'm so excited to share it with you.

also check out both playlists, if you'd like: regular playlist | orchestral playlist

thank you to everyone who was excited about the snippets and voted in the poll!! i hope you like this, and let me know what you think!

Harry Potter is a sick bastard. Always has been, as long as Draco’s been concerned. His gaggling gang of Gryffindors have no idea how sick their little hero is, and Draco isn’t exactly eager to share the news. Potter is his sick bastard, and he has no qualms about keeping it that way.

He does like sitting here amongst them, though, and feigning the pretty little boyfriend. The reformed Death Eater. The proof people can change. Harry Potter’s war prize, or so the more fun of the bunch has called him. Dean Thomas is funny, Draco is not loath to admit, and there are subtle, cutting undertones of sex laced in every word that oozes from his pretty little lips. Draco can always appreciate a friendly seduction. It’s why he set Thomas up with Blaise. He and Blaise have the same sultry presence, and they’re an absolute show when they’re together.

The rest of the lot are lost causes. Draco likes them, they’re always a fun time, but they’re nothing like Harry. Not a single one of them, Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, none of them are capable of appreciating Potter like Draco can. 

Potter’s arm is wrapped casually over Draco’s shoulder. It’s a quiet night at the pub, and the unlikely group has tucked itself into the back corner, the one with the circle table that all of them can squeeze around comfortably. Granger and Weasley, the cliche that they are, are tucked into one end of the wrap around booth. Then there's Longbottom, Luna, Pansy and her Weasley–the most redeemable of the Weasley’s, the Dragon Tamer–next to Potter and Draco, flanked on the other side by Blaise and Thomas, who Draco has come to realize likes only the end seat. An easy way out perhaps?

Potter’s fingers are dancing at the collar of his shirt. His thumb has already slipped under the fabric and he’s rubbing it gently back and forth over the very tip of the scar that dances from there all the way to Draco’s other hip. 

Draco knows he’s smirking. He can practically taste it on his own lips. There’s no reason to be, to anyone else maybe. But Draco knows exactly what Potter is thinking, so he leans forward, claps his hands in front of him on the table, and taps his own wrist with two fingers. Potter catches the movement and his thumb presses harder against the edge of Draco’s scar. He wants to play.

“Has Mother gotten back with you about the Hydrangeas?” Draco asks, not having seen Longbottom in almost a week. 

Draco sits back, leans further into Potter’s side, and drops his hands to his lap. He runs the two fingers over his wrist gently, knowing Potter’s eyes had darted down to watch the directive. We’ll take it slow, he’s saying, we’re entertaining guests.

“We’ve almost gotten them stark white. There’s a bit of that natural beige tint near their centers still, but her spells have worked wonders compared to everything Professor Sprout has tried,” Longbottom said. “Narcissa’s been altering things a bit for the delicacy of the petals, we think that has been part of the problem, but we should have them all white by June.”

“You’re going to be the picture of purity, Granger.”

“Who knew Granger would be such a demanding bride,” Pansy chirps, and Granger’s eyes pop up to her before dropping down to the table in embarrassment.

“Should we talk about your seventeenth birthday, darling?” Draco asks, eyes still on Granger.

The Dragon Tamer snorts, loud and amused, and Granger looks up at Draco with a tiny, appreciative smile. 

“The dramatics with this one, love,” Draco says, nodding towards Pansy, but talking to Granger and Granger alone. “You should have heard her. I need everything to be as black as my soul. The sheer amount of teenage angst was unsettling. Besides, we all know Potter had the blackest soul of them all back then. Pansy tried, though, didn’t she?”

Potter coughs out a loud laugh at the Horcrux reference, Weasley’s jaw drops almost dramatically, as though he’s in some sort of gauche film, and Granger starts giggling. She was generally a quiet drunk. Rum seemed to snap all of the excessive knowledge right out of her, and Draco thought it was quite nice to see her actually sit and enjoy herself every once and awhile, rather than being the picture of control.

“You know she pensieved it for me once,” The Dragon Tamer says, and a dangly silver charm that’s hanging from his right ear glitters dangerously in the low light of the pub. “Her coming of age party. Everything really was black. Even the food. Though I think she may have tampered with the memories a touch. They got a bit fuzzy at parts.”

The table is a giggling, sloppy mess, and Pansy sits up in her seat, smiling despite herself. “You have enough to handle when I’m at my worst now, you don’t need to know my worst back then.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and straightens the line of her back and Charlie bumps her a bit, shoulder to shoulder, and Draco is amused by how taken they are with each other. 

“I bore the brunt of that for you, didn’t I, Charlie?” Draco says. “Sixteen year old Pansy? You’re welcome for that.”

“In that case, next round is on me, yeah?” he waves over to the bar, the charming silver glint dangling at his jaw.

Blaise leans forward to get the Dragon Tamer’s attention and says, “Then I deserve a double don’t I? Had to deal with sixteen year old Pansy and Draco.” He catches Draco’s eyes and flashes him a predatory smile. “Potter,” he sneers in a perfect imitation of Draco, but his teeth gleam prettily. Thomas lifts a hand to wrap around the back of Blaise’s neck and the two look at each other, sharing a quiet smile as the table erupts in a chorus of Potter, Saint Potter and Harry Bloody Potter. It’s become a bit of a challenge, who can sound most like Malfoy, but nobody is anywhere as good as Blaise, nobody but Potter himself who sounds eerily like Draco.

In the distraction, Draco flicks his wrist and Potter goes momentarily rigid mid-laugh. He was caught off guard, and Draco’s smirk is back. It’s just a little sensory charm. One Draco slaved over learning to do wandlessly and nonverbally. It’d taken him half a year to perfect, but it was worth it because Potter’s nerves are now haywire. Just his thumb rubbing over Draco’s scar is enough to send a wild pleasure running down to his gut. He squirms, and Draco runs his two fingers over his wrist again. We’re entertaining, Potter.

Potter listens. He always listens so well. So he makes a joke about his friend’s poor attempts at mimicry and then he belts out his own name in the perfect rendition of Draco. His arm tightens around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him closer into his side. That means his thumb slips further down the scar, and he’s likely close to overwhelmed by Draco’s heat pressed completely down his side. He hides it well enough, but Draco can feel the tremble in the thigh pressed up against his own.

The table erupts in groans. Weasley actually boo’s. Potter smirks, and Draco does too, but only because his influence on Potter is tantalizing and seeing his own expressions mirrored back at him from Potter’s face is a little breathtaking. He moves his hand from his own lap to Potter’s. He just rests it gently there on his knee, and his legs fall open a little. Draco can feel how on edge he is. Potter is so tense, wrapped around him. He rubs his thumb in small, innocent circles, but Potter is so sensitive that he’s practically rigid under Draco’s touch.

“Of course Harry would have it down,” Luna says, and Draco smiles at her indulgently because this is always Luna’s take. “He was probably more obsessed with Draco than Draco was with him. Wrackspurt patterns never lie, you know.”

“We don’t talk about sixth year,” Potter says and Draco laughs because they sure as hell do talk about sixth year. Potter still has a sick sort of obsession over what happened in Myrtle’s bathroom. It’s only in front of everyone that they can’t really go there, and especially not under the sensory charm.

“What about third?” Thomas says lowly, and Harry groans so quietly that Draco barely hears it. It’s mostly a soft rattle in Potter’s chest. Thomas’s teeth are sharp, like Blaise’s, but the telling gleam is in his eyes. They’re such a light green, and gleam dangerously against his dark skin. He knows something the rest of the table doesn’t seem to, judging by Wealey and Granger’s faces.

“Play nicely, love,” Blaise says and Thomas is practically glowing in his amusement. 

Potter turns his face into Draco, a subtle show of his embarrassment, but he goes rigid, and Draco knows it has something to do with the brush of his hair against Potter’s cheek. He likes that enough without the charm.

“Are we going to embarrass the Gryffindors or are you going to tell me about it later?” Draco speaks in a whisper, but knows it’s not enough that the Dragon Tamer and Blaise and Thomas won’t hear. 

Thomas grins something feral and Blaise turns to him. It’s something magnetic and Draco prides himself in this Merlin made match he’s helped develop.

“Harry didn’t learn any decent privacy spells until at least 6th year, did you Harry?”

Ron groans and Potter has resigned himself to the conversation. He seems more than a little amused by it himself, now.

“At least I learned one at all,” Potter says and Thomas and Blaise are both suddenly all teeth.

“Someone had to pick up the role of entertainer where you left it off,” Thomas says, then he turns to look directly at Draco. “You know, Harry has always been a morning person. It just took him years to realize I was, too. Didn’t it Harry?” Thomas had put on an air of casual indifference, leaned forward there, with his chest pressed to the edge of the table as he spoke to Draco, but he was smug. It was probably clear to everyone in the entire pub who bothered to care that he was smug. 

Granger erupted into aggressive giggles, and Draco didn’t have to look up at him to know that Potter was smiling at her. He had the softest fondness for Granger. She was and always had been so brutally behind Potter’s every move, in a way that nobody else ever had been, that some part of Potter practically melted for her. He loved her so aggressively that Draco couldn’t help but feel the same protective indulgence of her. There was no brushing aside any part of Granger, you begrudgingly admire all of her tendencies, no matter how overwhelming they could potentially be.

“The rest of those arseholes would sleep till noon if you’d allow it.”

Draco looked to Weasley who shrugged and Longbottom smiled in good nature, “we weren’t all that bad, mate.”

“All I’m saying is Harry could probably rattle off a pretty good ‘Potter’ by third year, couldn’t you Harry?”

Potter was close to shivering against Draco’s side. He pulled away a little, so he could turn and look Draco in the eye. His eyes dropped down to his lips, then to the collar of his shirt, and finally back up to his eyes. He grinned. It spread slow across his face, something Draco would swear he’d picked up from Lucius. 

Visits to Azkaban had become another strange fascination of Harry’s. 

“Yeah, I bet I could have,” he said after a moment. Weasley groaned loud enough for the whole table and Pansy was positively delighted. 

Charlie returned and she leaned over to whisper something to him. He just shook his head, and a tuft of orange hair fell into his face, blocking the glint of silver dangling from his ear. 

“Why do we always learn too much about Harry on pub night?” Weasley called out to the masses, likely making the rest of the pub occupants jealous. Maybe even intentionally. Granger giggled and turned her face into his shoulder. 

Draco smiled at her fondly. It couldn’t be helped. 

“Because he likes it,” Draco said. 

Potter pressed into his scar. Draco dropped his hand to Potter’s thigh and rubbed gentle circles into the fabric of his jeans. Potter went rigid. 

“I think I’ve found my dress,” Hermione said suddenly. She had to be taking pity on Weasley. “But I can’t show you because Ronald’s here.”

“Boo!” Pansy hollered. She threw a balled up napkin towards the center of the table. “Beat it Weasley. We must see the dress.” 

“Where do you suppose I go?”

“Line to the loo should keep you occupied for a time,” Thomas grinned. 

Weasley jerked around. There was a line. He groaned again. It seemed to be the sound he was most comfortable making. 

“Shoo, Ronald. Give the girls a moment,” Blaise said with a wiggle of his fingers. 

Weasley put on the dramatics. He rolled his eyes and scraped his way up from the table, but he was smiling as he went. As he should be. He was marrying Granger.

Granger pulled out her wand with an intricate little twirl. Then she held her fist out in front of her, fingers up, and when she uncurled them a little replica of her dress appeared. 

Of course Potter and Draco had already seen it. They’d scoured the shops with her, setting up appointment after appointment after she’d been discouraged with finding something she was truly happy with. It’d been on Narcissa’s insistence that they visit a friend of hers in France that they’d found it. 

The dress was a beautiful satin number. It loosely hugged Granger's body, with just enough structure in the bodice that it sat prettily and delicately against her frame. It was like the stark white upgrade of the jaw-dropper she’d worn to the Yule Ball. 

Luna was going on about the benefits of silk on a wedding day, applauding Granger for her brilliant choice. Draco wasn’t going to be the one to tell her it was pure coincidence. 

Pansy was crooning. Talking about hair and veils and diamonds. 

Potter leaned back against Draco. They’d done their job helping to find it in the first place. 

Blaise let out a low whistle and Granger looked up at him shyly. It was normal that Blaise threw people off their game. Normal for people to be shy around him. It was just strange that Granger was, too. When Draco had first started coming around for Potter, she’d walked right up to him, demanded an apology, and reminded him that he’d deserved being punched in the face in third year. 

“I’m jealous, darling,” Blaise said, “you’re going to look nothing short of ravishing. Don’t think I wasn’t absolutely fawning over you when you showed up draped in silk with Krum dangling off you as arm candy. There wasn’t a boy in Hogwarts who didn’t need to catch his breath.” His teeth were gleaming in that predatory way and it didn’t help that Thomas was grinning beside him. A twin pair of sparking grins. 

Draco could feel the burn of Potter's skin getting hotter against his side. Could feel it shining through him. Another shiver as Potter rubbed at the top of his scar, and Draco ran the back of his fingers along the side of Potter's thigh.