drarry fic quotes

"Bye Harry!" his friends chorused. "Happy birthday, Harry! See you soon, Harry! Bye!"

"Thanks, everyone!" Potter called, now gently ushering Draco toward the door. His wand was in his other hand, and Potter was levitating a large pile of gifts ahead of himself. He kissed Molly Weasley on the cheek on the way to the door. "Thank you so much," he murmured to her. "Arthur, thank you. Bill, see you tomorrow?"

"After I've taken my hangover potions," Bill granted.

Fleur struck him affectionately on the arm.

"Fleur, good seeing you," Harry said and kissed her on the cheek next.

All without dislodging his hand from Draco's back.

Draco felt anger. He felt embarrassment.

He felt claimed.

It was then Draco's turn at the bag. He reached in and felt some boots and a pair of… He frowned, pulling them free.

"Leather trousers!" Ron bellowed.

"Sod off, Weasley, it gave you a kilt or hadn't you noticed?"

Weasley's perplexed gaze dropped to the pile of tartan in his hands as though he really had not noticed and Draco felt some satisfaction at the recompense. He then stuck his hand back in the bag but felt only a magically surging empty space.

"Granger," he said. "It didn't give me a shirt."

"No," she said, a rather Slytherinly devious smile playing at her lips. "It appears it didn't. Next!"

"But…"

"No trading. Besides, I think Harry quite likes the bag's taste."

Draco turned, and she seemed to speak the truth, as Harry looked like he was getting a second Christmas.

Draco tried to smirk confidently through what felt like a mad blush. "Very well. If Potter likes it."

Harry dreams about dragons and the sounds of gunshots, feeling strange, cold knots curl around his stomach, but all of that dissolves into an afterthought when he wakes up to a warm, soft body wrapped tightly around him. It’s not that he expected Draco to bolt, or to move to his own bed somewhere during the night, but Harry’s foolish heart still flutters helplessly as he cracks one eye open and sees silvery-white tufts of hair spilling onto the pillow.

“Does it hurt?” Draco asks after a moment.

Potter glances at him. “Not really. Aches, mostly.” He pulls a face. “Constantly.”

“Is it your knee?” Draco asks. Knees are delicate things, he knows. He worked with a witch in New York who’d been removed from active duty after a grievous knee injury that’d never healed right.

Potter nods. “Sort of. It goes down to my knee but the worst of it’s higher.” He reaches out and touches Draco’s thigh. “Right here,” he says.

Draco’s breath catches, and Potter looks up at him, and Draco feels like a shit. Potter’s finally opening up to him about his injury, obviously a very painful and difficult topic for him, and all Draco can think of is Potter’s hand on his thigh. Merlin, he’s starting to get hard from it. He tries to look sympathetic but probably just looks pained.

Harry leans in, but Malfoy’s the one to close that last inch between them, brushing his lips chastely over Harry’s. He backs off, just barely, and Harry chases after him, kissing him more firmly this time, parting his lips and feeling Malfoy’s mouth go pliant under his, warm and soft, and Harry’s brain blanks out in a feverish blur of the pure pleasure of finally—finally—getting everything he’s ever wanted.

“He was absorbed in his little object permanence experiments when something incandescent and impossibly large exploded toward him.

At first Harry thought the door had flown open and admitted the moon. But he could see through the gargantuan shape to the still-shut door; it was translucent and shimmering with magic. The bright mass resolved before him as he backed away from it.

It was over a meter across, scaled, spiky, pinning him with eyes as big as quaffles: a dragon’s head, attached to a long neck that went right through the door. A life-sized dragon, he realized, composed of silvery light, so enormous that only the head was in the room with him.

There could be no confusion on whose this was.

“I knew a Patronus would work!” Harry exclaimed. “Jesus, it’s huge!”

“You’ll say that again before the day’s out,” came Malfoy’s voice from the dragon’s enormous maw.”

“You can hear me?” Harry asked, half-expecting Malfoy’s blond head to pop out from between the rows of glossy fangs. “How are you doing that?”

“I’m excellent at charms, nitwit!”

“And yet this one eluded you for the longest time,” Harry said, smiling giddily as the full implication sank in. “You must have an exceptionally powerful, exceptionally happy new memory to fuel it.”

The dragon’s great face betrayed nothing. “I don’t think we’re at all far apart, I’ve still got the tail in here with me. I’ll pull it back and you follow.”

The dragon began to shrink back; Harry dived through it, receiving a dose of minty invigoration, and pulled open the door so he could keep it in view as it slithered backward down the corridor, losing size. He pulled open another door, maddeningly identical, as the now-hubcap-sized dragon’s head phased through it, and caught a last puff of smoke as its snout slipped back into Malfoy’s wand.

Malfoy cocked his head to the side, staring at Harry with something unreadable in his eyes. “…Your luck won’t last forever.”

It wasn’t a threat, only a statement, delivered in a flat, dull monotone, as if it was an inevitability Malfoy had no choice but to accept.

“No,” Harry sighed, punching his pillow a few times to fluff it up before settling down onto his back. “I expect it won’t. But I don’t need it to. I just need it to last as long as it takes to bring him down.”

“And then?”

“And then I can really start living dangerously.”

Malfoy snorted softly. “Because you haven’t already been?”

“Of course not. I’ve been playing it safe all these years, or haven’t you noticed?”

“You’re rather hard not to notice.”

“I wanted to believe your theory,” Potter said, his voice gaining a little more strength. “That Black is innocent. But after everything—the break-ins, your father’s lawsuit against Dumbledore—it’s hard to—”

Draco cut him off with a sharp laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Oh, I see,” he drawled, his voice icy. “So you’re here to talk about how untrustworthy I am because of my family . Brilliant. Really, Potter, if that’s your big revelation, save your breath. I’ve heard it all before, and I’m not interested in listening to you tell me how little you know about me.”

“No,” Potter interrupted, his voice surprisingly firm. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to say.”

Draco blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What?”

Potter met his gaze, his green eyes steady despite the faint flush of his cheeks. “I don’t know you, Malfoy,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less certain. “I thought I did, but this year—everything that’s happened—has made me realize I really don’t.”

Draco eyed him warily, his arms still crossed over his chest. “What are you trying to say, Potter?”

Potter hesitated for a beat, then took a deep breath. He extended his hand toward Draco, his expression earnest. “I’m here to call a truce.”

Draco stared at Potter, his mind temporarily short-circuiting. He was fluent in English and three other languages, yet somehow the words "truce" coming from Potter didn’t make sense. “What?” he asked, his tone unintentionally sharp.

“Once, when Draco had been six or seven, his parents had taken him to summer on an island off the coast of Greece. The water of the Mediterranean had been blue and beautiful and Draco had been entranced by it wholly, and had spent hours in the water at a time. And then one day there had been a storm off the coast somewhere, and the waves had been beautiful and huge to the small boy he had been. He hadn’t known about rip currents, not until his mother had been shouting his name—he remembered that still, that his mother had shouted , and it had been more startling than not being able to get back to shore, suddenly unable to touch the ground.

Malfoy's quiet as he takes a drag of his cigarette. “I didn't shag you,” he says, finally. “Because you were blind drunk.”

Harry huffs. “I wasn't blind drunk.” Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “I mean, I was a bit drunk. But I knew what I was doing.” There's a pull in his groin as he recalls the feel of Malfoy up against him. “It’d still have been alright, I reckon.”

More than alright, Harry's stirring cock corrects.

Malfoy hums and looks away from Harry, taking another pull on his cigarette.

Harry watches him exhale slowly from the corner of his mouth, the smoke drifting softly into the air as he turns back to Harry, his gaze sharp and his voice low. “Maybe. But I don't want alright.”

Harry's heart thumps an irregular beat, but he doesn't look away as Malfoy continues. “If you're ever in my bed, Potter, it's not going to be alright. It's going to be fucking spectacular.”

His words send instant heat sizzling up Harry's spine, blood flowing irretrievably south.

Harry forces himself to hold Malfoy’s gaze as he swallows, mouth suddenly bone dry. He clears his throat and tries to find his voice. “You, uh, seem pretty confident about that.”

Malfoy’s eyes travel over Harry's body and back to his face. Harry's skin prickles at the boldness of it.

Malfoy shrugs, the hint of a smirk on his face.

“I am.”

Draco sort of … looks rather nice.

Bright, sunflower petals are littering his white blonde hair, his coat-clad shoulders, the top of his crossed arms, his thighs. He’s all soft around the edges and Harry wants to shower him with rose petals from the Manor gardens to study the effect.