#drarrymicrofic

for @drarrymicrofic prompt

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"I think Charlie is my favourite Weasley," Draco muses after the echoing crack of Apparition fades from their entryway. "How is he related to Ron? Charlie's so... cool."

Harry scoffs, removing his jacket and then Draco's as he counters, "Sure, but - I'm a dragon tamer too."

The jealousy sits noticeably in his voice. It had been building the longer Draco had spoken to Charlie at the Weasley's dinner, grey eyes all sparkling with interest. Ugh.

Draco arches an eyebrow. Walks further into their cottage, eyes on Harry.

"Potter, the last time you encountered a dragon," he drawls, "was fourth year and it nearly killed you. You're a dragon survivor. And barely."

"Mm-mm," Harry disagrees breezily. Walks past an incredulous Draco. "I've gotten quite good at it. I'm a dragon rider too." He glances over his shoulder and winks.

"Why are you ly -" Draco pauses, eyes going comically wide. His mouth falls open. "Potter. What do you mean by that?"

Harry waggles his eyebrows, walking backwards towards their bedroom. "Care for a riding session, my dragon?"

"You - where is my wand?"

Harry cackles and ducks into their room.

Draco wakes as he often does: to warmth.

A solid body beside him. Limbs tangled with his own. Fingers clasped together beneath the duvet as if they had found each other in sleep and refused to let go.

For a moment, he does not move.

He lets himself surface slowly, blinking against the early morning light pouring through the sheer curtains, soft and gold across the room.

“Morning,” Draco murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

He turns, and there is Harry.

Messy-haired. Bare-shouldered. Warm-eyed.

“Morning, love,” Harry says. “Sleep well?”

Draco hums, shifting closer until his face is tucked against Harry’s chest. He breathes him in: musk and skin and the faint, familiar trace of laundry soap. He kisses the bare skin beneath his mouth and smiles when Harry presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“You?” Draco asks.

“Like a baby,” Harry replies. “Had this weird dream, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, bizarre. You and Scorpius were making pancakes, and every time you flipped one, your outfit changed.”

Draco chuckles. “What outfits?”

“All sorts. Really odd ones. At one point you were wearing Hagrid’s coat, and then you were wearing nothing but those tight swimming shorts from our honeymoon.”

Draco pulls back, amused and offended in equal measure. “Tight swimming shorts in front of our son?”

“Don’t blame me. I don’t control what my dreams do,” Harry says defensively, though he is smiling, gaze dipping down Draco’s body as if he’s imagining them now.

“You’re a heathen,” Draco says flatly. “A perverted heathen. Now you’ve made me crave pancakes.”

He sits up on the edge of the bed, stretching until his spine clicks.

“Make me some?” Harry asks, moving behind him, thighs bracketing Draco’s hips, arms wrapping around his waist. “The fluffy ones.”

“You’re on coffee duty, then,” Draco says, leaning back into him.

Harry kisses his shoulder.

Draco tilts his head, giving him more room. “This isn’t making coffee, Potter.”

Harry hums against his skin. “No, it’s much better.”

Knock-knock-knock.

Draco sighs. “That’ll be Scorp. I bet you anything he sensed pancakes.”

Knock-knock-knock.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming,” Draco chuckles.

He stands, and Harry’s hands slip from his body.

Draco turns back to him with a smile still on his face.

Then—

He wakes as he often does: to cold.

The cold press of a stone wall against his back. A thin blanket twisted around his waist. Morning light spills weakly through the open barred window of his cell, grey and misty, smelling of sea-salt.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Inmate 3946,” an Azkaban guard calls through the door. “Wake up. If you do not respond, we will enter.”

Draco lunges forward, heart battering against his ribs, breath tearing through him.

“I’m awake,” he calls, too loudly. “I’m awake.”

He’d rather not be, because his dreams are a sweeter place. Even if they provide him nothing but the ache of a life he’ll never have.

Draco presses his shaking hands to his mouth and closes his eyes.

for @drarrymicrofic summer bingo box patronuses

The seventh-years won’t leave Potter be. Days. Nights. Please, Professor Potter. Please!

Draco’s seated at the Hallowe’en feast when Potter storms in trailing seventh-years, a sunset-red flush glowing on bronze-brown skin.

“Fine!” Potter shouts. “Expecto Patronum!”

His Patronus erupts, enormous and winged and breathing fire.

1000 words | prompt: weak | @drarrymicrofic

“Here’s the thing,” says Hermione.

“Uh oh,” says Harry.

They are sitting on the ground in Grimmauld’s second floor drawing room eating pad thai out of fancy take-out containers. The telly is on set to a cartoon about very strong men with spiky hair and the powerful balls they are vying to collect. The balls purportedly have to do with dragons, though there’s been no evidence of this so far. Harry has an unpopular favorite: the short, mean one he suspects is up for redemption any day now.

“Here’s the thing,” Hermione says again, pointing chopsticks right at Harry’s heart. Ron lifts his eyebrows as the silence stretches on. Hermione closes her mouth, then opens it again, then closes.

Harry puts down his noodles. “Merlin, what?”

“The thing is…” Hermione taps the ends of her chopsticks together. “And I wasn’t going to tell you this, I really wasn’t, but it’s become…”

“Oooh,” says Ron. “This is the thing.”

Hermione nods a bit grim.

“What the fuck!” Harry squeaks. “Tell me what the thing is!”

“You’re in love with Malfoy.” Hermione says this very quickly, and so unapologetically it suggests rehearsal.

Harry makes a series of abortive sounds, then clasps his hand over his mouth. Hermione takes a circumspect sip of cold tea from hours ago. Ron has put on his everything is fine face, which he puts on exclusively when nothing is fine. There is no clock in the room but it feels as though there is, the seconds ticking by. Eventually Ron begins a galvanizing impression of cricket noises.

“That is not the thing,” Harry stage-whispers.

“It’s the thing of things, mate,” Ron informs.

Hermione is nodding with her eyes closed.

Harry feels hit by a lorry. The lights have little halos on them and his ears are ringing with unearthly frequency. The veil feels thin, or the air does.

“…Really?” He asks weakly.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione says, wringing her hands.

“No!” Harry shakes his head. “No that’s mad, I—“

“You let him borrow your broom,” Ron says, so gentle it stings. “Just because he asked, Harry. Just because he said, ‘I don’t believe I care for my broom today. It’s a touch filmy. Potter, give me yours.’” Harry makes a wounded sound because Ron’s impression is so accurate it’s as if Draco is in the room with them and whenever Draco is in the room with them Harry’s whole body starts to ache, especially his head, which throbs, like a wound. “And you polished it! Harry you polished it for him first!”

Harry swallows. “No I didn’t,” he says, though he absolutely did. Harry looks back and forth between their faces, suddenly very unified and adult, like they’re breaking the news about Santa. “I’m not in love with him! I’m not! Ron!” Harry turns to face him, desperately clutching his knee. “Ron, I’m not!”

“Alright,” says Ron, putting his hand over Harry’s. “Maybe we’re reading into it.”

Harry knows it's a lie but it makes him feel a bit better anyway.

“But let’s...” Ron looks upward, then back at Harry, somehow fortified by the ceiling. “When you’re around Malfoy—“

Harry shakes his head.

“When you’re thinking of him,” Ron amends in an even voice. “Where do you feel it?”  Harry shakes his head again, unblinking. “In your body, Harry. Where do you feel it when you’re thinking of him.”

“Everywhere,” Harry doesn’t mean to say. “No that’s…I just meant…everywhere.”

“And what do you feel everywhere?”

This isn’t something Harry thinks about. This is something that he does not think about on a daily basis. Harry has rituals to purge the topic from his mind when it dares stray. Like cigarettes and chewing the ends off quills and rearranging his room into new and ever more exciting states of disarray. But the thing is that Harry is daring. And Ron, though quietly, is daring him.

So he thinks about him. Malfoy. The whole-body feeling. There aren’t real words but maybe there’s something. Harry lets his eyes close to locate the lightness in his limbs, the lightness in his chest—like his anchor has vanished—and thinks it’s possibly similar to how he feels after sprints on the rowing machine when he focuses on his form. In the aftermath, Harry has to sit on the machine for a bit before he can manage to stand, he has to let the cable pull the seat close to the top, too tired to even let go, his knees hinging soft and faultless and empty as clouds, so it just feels like floating, so it just like it’s happening to somebody else.

“Weak,” Harry says. “I feel weak.”

Hermione hums, but not in the knowing way. Ron goes a bit glassy-eyed.

“It’s nice to let yourself have that, isn’t it?” He says. “When have you ever let yourself have that?”

“But I’m not letting myself have anything!” Harry cries, panicked again. It is suddenly very important that they know and understand, because suddenly it is very important that Harry knows and understands. “That’s the thing! I can’t help it!”

Malfoy had laughed at Harry’s gutter ball last Friday. And Harry hadn’t been trying to make him laugh—Harry had been trying his best to bowl a strike—but, though Malfoy had refused bowling shoes because of the indignity, when Harry bowled a gutter ball he’d laughed so long and loud he snorted a little pig snort and then Malfoy had covered his mouth and looked everywhere to see if anyone and noticed, which no one had except Harry, who suddenly felt like he had been trying to make Malfoy laugh after all—actually, Harry felt like he had been trying to hear that little snort for his whole life and, now that he finally had, he understood it was worse than any wound, because Harry could recover from them all, he could recover from anything—Harry could recover from death—but he could not recover from Draco’s accidental snort under the fluorescence of the bowling alley.

Harry pulls his hand back from Ron’s knee and cradling his forearm to his stomach. “Ah,” he says.

Hermione places her hand between Harry’s shoulder blades. “It’s not a bad thing,” she says.

Harry thinks about this. He thinks about how Draco could never be a bad thing either, even when he’d tried very hard.

Harry looks back to Hermione with start. “He doesn’t know,” Harry demands. “Malfoy doesn’t know.”

"Scorpius, darling, go set the table, please. Your father and I will be there in just a moment," Draco said softly, gaze focused downward at the three dinner plates he was preparing.

"Okay!" The brightly smiling, blonde six-year-old grabbed napkins and silverware and bounded toward the dining room. Once he was out of earshot, Harry came up from behind to wrap his arms tightly around his husband's waist.

Draco's head fell back, resting gently on Harry's shoulder for a second. "You're sure we should tell him tonight?"

"I'm sure we're running out of time. She'll be here in - what - two months?"

"Just about, yeah." Draco sighed and turned around in Harry's arms. "The pancakes will help, surely?"

Harry smiled fondly. "You could tell our child anything, and as long as there's a plate of pancakes in front of him, he'll take it well. Plus, there's chocolate chips this time."

With a single nod and a quick kiss, Draco felt ready. As ready as possible, at least.

A moment later, the pair sat down in their usual seats at the four-person dining table. Scorpius dug in as soon as his plate was put in front of him, not concerned with much else.

They stalled for several minutes, asking how his piano lessons with Aunt 'Mione were going and what he'd been coloring lately.

When there wasn't much else to talk about, Harry shifted the conversaation. "So, Scorp…"

"Yeah, dad?" His head popped up.

"You know, how all of your cousins are brothers and sisters to each other?" Harry continued.

Scorpius nodded like this was old news.

There was nothing about sex that truly appealed to Harry. Nothing that couldn't be achieved with his hand and far less awkward small talk, anyway. Then, of course, the aftermath. The 'that was great' when it really wasn't, or the 'I'll owl you' when neither of them would. There was also the ever annoying voice in the back of his head that kept calling him The Boy Who Lived To Disappoint In Bed that kept him from truly giving his all on the hunt for lovers.

It was all so tedious, uninspiring. He often worried he'd felt so much so early in his life, he was destined for a lackluster future. That having ridden the entire spectrum of emotion many times over, he was simply existing now. Conscious but less and less sentient by the day.

But... Draco Malfoy.

A heated argument over the politically correct term for half giant beings on an MLE report.

A bright blue smoothie that smelled like liquid sugar poured over dress robes.

A locked office door and not at all suffiently cast sound dampening spell.

Kissing Draco Malfoy felt like opening a large window inside a stagnant house on a breezy, sunny day. Warm and wonderful and necessary. A very stark contrast to the suffocating nothingness from seconds before. There would be no closing that window. No way to breathe again without him now that he knew what fresh air felt like.

It was all at once exhilarating and terrifying. Because it was Draco. And, well, it was Draco. He would need more. He would need everything.

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: tremble | wc: 50

Draco wasn’t sure how this had happened.

Eleven: the handshake, rejected.

Fourteen: the realisation.

Sixteen: the bathroom.

Seventeen: the manor. The battle. The trial.

Nineteen, somehow: Harry Potter in his arms, sobbing, limbs quivering, lost.

But not alone. Never again.

For @drarrymicrofic | Prompt: eavesdrop | Word count: 388

“So who else was there?”

Harry leaned forward in his spot on the luggage rack, where he crouched under his invisibility cloak, listening to the sixth year Slytherins interrogate Blaise Zabini about his lunch on the train with Slughorn, the new professor.

“Potter was there, of course,” Zabini said carelessly.

“And what happened with him?” Malfoy asked. “What did he say?”

“Not much,” Zabini replied. “Slughorn did most of the talking. Potter just sat there and glared at everyone. I don’t think he wanted to be there.”

“He didn’t say anything at all?” Malfoy sounded disappointed.

“Not really,” Blaise shrugged.

“Fine then, what was he wearing?” Malfoy pressed.

What was he wearing? Harry frowned. He supposed Malfoy wanted a chance to make fun of his clothes.

“He was wearing those horrible baggy Muggle clothes that he always wears when he’s not in uniform.” Blaise rolled his eyes.

“I think it’s a fashion statement with Muggles,” Pansy said. “I was in Muggle London this summer, and I saw several Muggle boys wearing baggy clothes just like that.”

“It’s part of his whole bad boy persona,” Draco nodded knowingly. “Mr. ‘The-Rules-Don’t-Apply-To-Me’ Potter.”

What…? Harry was indignant. He did not have a bad boy persona! Malfoy was the one who wanted to be a bad boy!

“So guess what happened in Diagon Alley the other day?” Draco leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin.

Harry’s ears perked up. This sounded promising.

“I was getting fitted for new robes — I got some in the new Parisian fashion, Pansy, I’ll show you when we get to the common room. They’re really flattering. But anyway, I was standing there in Madame Malkin’s getting fitted, and I look over, and guess who’s watching me?”

“Who?” Pansy asked, obligingly.

“Potter!” A self-satisfied smirk spread across Draco’s face. “He was just standing there, staring at me! He was totally checking me out.”

“Oooh, Draco!” Pansy squealed.

Harry’s mouth fell open. He wasn’t…! He hadn’t been…!

“He’s gotten taller over the summer,” Draco continued, oblivious to Harry’s distress. “And he was looking at me with that intense gaze he always has, you know, and his hair was all wild, and like, untamed and stuff. Merlin, he’s so fit, I could die.”