Regulus enters the party with one goal: to captivate.

He struts through the painting, the Fat Lady complimenting him as he does so. “My, you look wonderful, dear. Trying to impress someone in particular?”

He hums, a smirk growing on his lips. “Maybe.”

The Fat Lady’s eyes twinkle at him. “Good luck to you, dear.”

Barty and Evan are on either side of him, towering over him like barking bodyguards ready to glare and bite anyone who dares to get too close. After all, Regulus isn’t trying to gain everyone’s attention. He’s after one boy and one boy only. Barty and Evan, who have watched him fail time and time again to seduce the oblivious and stupidly loyal Gryffindor, were all for Regulus’ new plan. 

“Ready for this, Reggie?” Barty croons, winding one of Regulus’ curls around his index finger.

“Honestly, if Potter doesn’t get the hint after this I’ll fuck you stupid instead,” Evan smirks, eyeing Regulus up and down appreciatively. 

It’s long past his office hours, but that has never stopped Tom from finding all sorts of excuses to knock on his door. Tom wouldn’t say the professor indulges him, per se; it’s just that their conversation often turns out so stimulating it’s impossible not to crave for more. 

‘Depends on who you are and how you approach the subject,’ Tom ventures carefully. ‘A Spellmaker, I imagine, would focus on the energy composition of a spell; the Dark ones require a high amount of magical output from the caster whilst also draining the subject. A Healer, on the other hand –’

‘That’s quite all right.’ Professor Potter lays down his quill, gives Tom a knowing look over his spectacles. ‘I am familiar enough with what Fawson has to say. I want to know what you think, Mr Riddle, after your – ah, shall I say intensive,’ a half-smile curves his lips, 'research on the subject.’

Tom feigns a look of innocence. His mind whirs. His eyes catalogue every outward sign the professor displays. Nothing. Tom can’t even tell if he’s angry or not.

‘I’m trying to get an internship at St Mungo’s,’ Tom fudges. ‘The research … it’s just for academic purposes.’

‘That’s not true, is it?’ Potter spins on his chair, and makes to stand up. His cane comes flying into his hand. Tom’s eyes widen when he feels magic, wild and forceful, gather around them like storm clouds. ‘Ten points from Slytherin,’ he smiles, ‘for lying. Now, Mr Riddle, can you tell what I’m doing?’

Out of thin air, where the turbulent rush of magic has been, water comes. And with a snap of his fingers, Potter traps them both in the centre of the vortex.

‘A hint,’ he says, ‘it’s not Dark, but definitely illegal.’

‘It’s the Forming,’ Tom says, awestruck by the great churning around them, loud as a waterfall. For it is no mere water; a single drop of it on Tom’s skin would be deadly. It’s Professor Potter’s magic in its purest, most concentrated form. 

‘So that brings us back to our question. What makes a spell Dark?’

Belatedly, Tom realises that he’s not to be punished for reading up on the Unforgivables, on Necromancy, on Horcruxes, or whatever it was Professor Potter saw him doing. This is a proper lesson – an introduction to the Dark Arts.

‘Complications,’ Tom breathes. He feels giddy all of a sudden, like he’s inhaled fairy dust. ‘When the practitioner suffers lasting complications to a spell or ritual, the process should be labelled as Dark.’

‘Very good,’ Potter says softly. ‘And that is why you will study under me from now on – not as a Hogwarts student, but my own apprentice. I do care about your well-being, Mr Riddle, even if you yourself might not.'

“So, that wouldn’t even work, but thanks for the grand heroic rushing in. A certain element of purity is needed to break it." Malfoy licks his lips, "You’d have to be a virgin.”

Harry keeps every muscle on his face particularly still, hoping it looks to Malfoy as absolutely blank as it feels to him. Half a minute passes.

“No,” Malfoy, already doing a poor job of sitting normally on his chair, bends in half, nearly falling out of it. He’s laughing. “No, Potter, no. No - don’t - you’re twenty-five years old!”

“And?” Harry asks, heat staining his face.

This late, the Ministry canteen is empty aside from the two of them. The room fills with Malfoy's breathy, strange laugh.

His shoulders shake - but there’s something off, the noise doesn't feel particularly related to amusement. It sounds like the joy has been scraped out with a butter knife. More of a hollow, mean lament, closer to the sort of groan forced out by a particularly tenacious foot pressed down hard on the ribcage. 

“You’re head Auror.” A moan, then, fully. He sounds genuinely upset. Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You've been plastered at the top of Witch Weekly's Coven's Most Coveted list for more than half a decade - last time they included that bloody photograph of you gallantly throwing yourself down a rope off a fucking cliff with your wand between your suspiciously straight teeth.” Malfoy pulls himself back up. He wheezes, nearly angry, “Look at your shoulders!”

Harry rolls his eyes and draws them into himself, uncomfortable with the paid attention along with every other element of this. Clearing his throat, he runs his tongue along his teeth - which are a normal amount of straight.

"Shut up. You're twenty-five, too, you tosser. What are you doing reading Witch Weekly?"

Drarry, PG

---

In the dimly lit confines of the Auror office, Harry's leg wouldn't stop jiggling. He glanced over at Draco, who was engrossed in a stack of paperwork.

“Malfoy,” Harry called, irritation seeping into his voice. It garnered him some glances from his other colleagues, who were already on the way out. He ignored them. “We need to wrap this up.”

Draco looked up, a strand of soft hair falling into his eyes. “Impatience doesn’t suit you, Potter. You should try relaxing for once.”

Harry huffed, running a hand through his hair. “Easy for you to say. Some of us have lives outside of work.”

Draco’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Oh really? And what’s so pressing?”

They watched the last person, Janet, hurry outside. Their fights were legendary and no one wanted to be within wand range when either snapped.

Once alone, Harry’s reply was soft, barely audible. “Dinner with my boyfriend.”

Draco rose with quiet elegance and sauntered over. "Your boyfriend, hmm?"

Harry swallowed as Draco's index finger traced Harry's palm.

"Yeah," he mumbled, impatience forgotten.

Draco's hot gaze bored into him. “Well then, let's pack it up."

He smirked at Harry's silence, intertwining their fingers.

[ for @microficmay day 11. drarry | rating: t | word count: 114 | part 9 | part 1 here | read the full story here ♡⋆˙ ]

— — —

The night wraps around them, and Harry goes quiet and somber, hands slowing and faltering over Draco’s chest, tracing the deep pink scar tissue that criss-crosses his torso.

“Ah. Nasty bit of work, that,” Draco says lightly.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop being sorry,” Harry murmurs into the small space between them.

Draco hums, running his fingers through Harry’s hair, gently scraping over his scalp. “Nonsense, Potter. Bygones. Besides,” he adds, mischievous, “men love scars.”

Harry huffs a laugh, looking up into his eyes. “And you know this how?”

Draco smiles at him softly. “Personal experience.”

following tradition, all my @microficmay entries are connected into a larger story. this year we're keeping the lads in london. previous entries can be read here. 50 words. rated T for darker themes. drarry

“Here to ruin my fun, Potter?” 

“Is fun what you’re having?” Potter frowns. “Cuppa and I’ll explain?” 

“Invite yourself in, by all means.” Draco opens the door anyway. “I’ll put the kettle on.” 

Tea brewed, Potter skips the niceties. “You die tomorrow. Tuesday, I mean. A wayward curse.”

It wasn’t the Yule ball and Harry wasn’t the fumbling fourteen-year-old who thought he only liked pretty girls.

No, eighteen-year-old Harry was under no such delusions and Draco Malfoy looked resplendent in his shimmering, midnight blue robes.

Harry started toward him, it’s time everyone knows he likes pretty boys too.

“The only thing for it is time,” Ron tells him sagely, a stray bit of lettuce hanging from the side of his mouth.

Harry buries his face in his hands, glasses pressing painfully into the bridge of his nose. “How much time?” he asks, voice muffled by sweaty palms. 

“Hermione and I have a bet going about that. She thinks it’ll take about half as long as you’ve been obsessed with him to forget about him.” 

Harry looks up, hopeful. “So that’s, what? A few more weeks?”

Ron gently sets down his sandwich to pat Harry on the arm. “Oh, mate.”