#drarrymicrofics

94 words

Prompt: Criminal (song by Britney Spears)

“Are you a criminal like the Prophet says, then?”

Draco startled outside the potion shop he’d just locked for the very last time.

“What would you have me do, Potter?”

He hated the way his voice broke on the man’s name.

“I’d have you live your goddamn life,” Potter gasped, suddenly very close. “I’d have you open up tomorrow and sell me your sleeping draught because nothing else has ever worked for me.”

Draco scoffed, blushing. “I can still make the draught for y—“

You make me love the foolish things.

Saturday mornings curled up in bed, laughing at your untameable hair. How you snort when you’re laughing too hard to breathe right. Your holey jumpers. Your Christmas socks. Your undying love of treacle tart.

Prompt : Blanket forts

"Daddy!" A bundle of fiery red hair jumped up at him. 

"What do you want Lily? It is 3 in the morning" Harry was pissed. His whole day had been a disaster.

"Papa?" A timid voice said. Harry loved his and Draco's children. He really really did! It was just hard to remember why sometimes. "What happened Scorpius?" Draco asked.

"Dad!". Of course. Of course, a tornado of children will spoil his sweet precious sleep. "What are you both here for?" Harry asked with a sigh.

"When we were at mom's she kinda taught us how to make a blanket fort? And told us to pester you too make it for us as rev-" James started to say.

"That's enough!" Draco said with a side-along look at Harry who gave a suspicious stare back.

James smirked. Bloody smirked. That was when one could figure out he was living with a Malfoy.

"Daddy? Can we build a blanket fort?" Lily asked looking just like her namesake with big green eyes and fiery red hair.

"Sure lils" How could Harry refuse those eyes.

After half an hour Albus, James, Lily, Draco and Harry were cuddled up in a blanket fort.

“What is our decision?” Berenice meows, tail flicking imperiously when she doesn’t get an immediate answer.

Boötes lazily commends, “He gives good scratches.”

“He kicks us out of the room at night,” Venatici hisses, ears swishing restlessly.

Only ghosts still live in the Manor.

Harry knows it as soon as he opens the door. The huge entrance hall, once a place of agonising terror, is still and quiet as a muggle cathedral. Dust swirls beneath his feet, coats the back of his throat, haloes his lumos in an eerie cloud.

He’s not here, he’s gone, he’s really gone and I can’t find him, I can’t-

He breathes out, tells himself to act like an Auror, not a scared civilian.

Draco’s not here. The place has clearly lain like this since the war, a hulking tomb of itself. It was stupid to let himself hope, he tells himself fiercely. He’d known how much Draco despised the place, yet he let himself believe Draco would leave some sign, some trace behind. That he wouldn’t leave Harry without a word or whisper, a clue, a trail of breadcrumbs for him to trace. His chest aches furiously. He tells himself it’s the dusty air, that his stinging eyes are the same.

ahhhh anon we also LOVE this trope! sadly we only accept prompts of one or two words; can you get it into this format?! <3 :D