#geets microfics

[ohdrarry]

It stands to reason that Harry’s holding groceries when he runs into Draco Malfoy for the first time in twenty years.

Well— doesn’t run into, exactly. No, more like peers through a shop window like a right barmy bastard, bits of overspilling lettuce brushing his arm and passers-by on Diagon shooting him strange looks.

Of course Malfoy has to look up from the till— because, yes, Draco Malfoy is a shopkeeper on Diagon Alley apparently— and see him goggling. So, of course, Harry has to step inside, as though he meant to make a stop at— right, yeah, Narcissus Needlework Studio— all along, holding brown paper packages of vegetables.

Malfoy’s frowning when Harry makes his way over to the till.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he says. “I’ve registered the shop, everything’s perfectly within regulation—“

“Trouble?” Harry blinks. “Oh, no. I’m not an Auror. Anymore.”

“I know that,” Malfoy says unhappily. “The whole Wizarding World all over Europe knows that. Only you’ve never left well enough alone, have you, Potter?”

Harry’s forty next month. He’s lived twenty years seeing hide nor hair of Draco Malfoy, and he’s never gone looking. Well, except for that one time when he was twenty one and went to the Manor as a trainee Auror for a— well, it was a routine check, really. And that other time when he was twenty five and thought he saw a man at a club who looked just like Malfoy from the back and was convinced for four months Malfoy was back in London and must be up to something if no one knew about it. And that time when he was thirty two— and, oh, alright, Harry hasn’t ever left well enough alone, not when it comes to Malfoy, at least.

This time, though, Harry really didn’t go looking. And it’s definitely Malfoy.

“I just wanted some— thread,” Harry says. A needlework studio should have some of that, shouldn’t it?

“Thread,” says Malfoy. He looks down, deliberately, at Harry’s lettuce.

“For Molly,” Harry says. “As a, um, birthday present. New shop on Diagon, thought I’d pop by. Seemed the place, you know. Didn’t know it was yours.”

Molly’s birthday, Malfoy doesn’t need to know, is in December. It’s June.

Malfoy continues to stare at him, until Harry’s unsure whether to get indignant about it all or turn tail and flee.

“Well,” says Malfoy before he can make a choice. “Embroidery yarn for you, then, Potter. Come along.”

-

“I’ll see you again, I assume,” Malfoy says at the end of what transpires to be a surprisingly smooth purchase.

Harry nods.

He only realises after he leaves that there’s no reason for him to come back. He’s seen it for himself— what Draco Malfoy’s up to these days. Nothing nefarious or suspicious, just yarn and needles and tapestries on Diagon.

Except, well, he’s committed now, hasn’t he? And Harry Potter’s a man of his word. He said yes, when Malfoy asked— Malfoy asked!— so he’ll be back.

And really, if he has to invent Hermione’s sudden new and passionate interest in needlework— well. That’s between Harry and his lettuce.

written for @drarrymicrofic’s prompt “sewing”. i just personally think harry james potter could be seventy five and still rapidly become obsessed with draco malfoy at any given moment.

#drarry #hpdm #drarry microfic #drarrymicrofic #draco malfoy #harry potter #drarry fic #drarry fic rec #geets microfics #i just personally find this bit of their completely canon dynamic beyond hilarious #obsessed little freaks

[drarrymicrofic]

Hi everyone!

There was a lot going on in the community in July and even more things happening this month! Find out more below:

First and foremost, our wonderful Mari (@onbeinganangel) is on mod hiatus this month. It's incredibly well-deserved so to make sure it's a restful period for her, please come to either Geets, Estrella or me for mod purposes on Discord.

Secondly, we've hit 900 followers! There are 900 of us and I couldn't be happier or more proud to be part of this community. It's been amazing seeing people discover microfic as a way of writing and making friends with fellow writers.

Finally, we have an important announcement about August prompts:

The prompt schedule is changing to one per week, every Friday. We've had a surge of writers recently, which is amazing! However, it also means we have a backlog of microfics to work through. Hopefully, reducing the prompt schedule will allow us to catch up and return to our regular schedule in September.

The prompt box will remain closed. We thought long and hard about this but we decided that because there are only 4 prompt slots, it wouldn't be fair to open it since prompting is so popular. However, it does mean that each prompt will be coming from one of the mods, so that's a silver lining!

That's this month's update, if you have any questions please feel free to ask.

Happy microfic-ing!

the microfic mods 📜✨

#faqs #updates #drarry microfic

[crazybutgood]

drarry microfic inspired playlists

Hello! So I've been working on drarry playlists with Hindi songs inspired by @drarrymicrofic prompts. There's two of them: the first featuring newer songs and the second one, 'drarry microfic — puraane geet (meaning old songs/tunes), is a compilation of older Hindi songs. I've made a list of the prompts and their corresponding song under the cut! I will update the playlists soon with more, but here's what I have so far! 😊 Thank you to the lovely @curlyy-hair-dont-care for your feedback, help and encouragement 💕

Links to playlists:

drarry microfic:

Laugh – Saathiya

Light – Roobaroo

Evergreen – Dil To Bacha Hai Ji

First time – Pehli Baar

Guest – Offo

Aftermath – Sau Tarah Ke

Sunset – Sooraj Dooba Hai

Luminous – Sooraj Ki Baahon Mein

Metamorphosis – Kuch To Hua Hai

Obscure – Hawayein

Invitation – Uff

Road trip – Aao Milon Chalein

Tum se hi – Nostalgia

Return – Tere Bina

Together – Agar Tum Saath Ho

Miracle – Kaise Mujhe Tum Mil Gayi

Mirror – Subhanallah

Delicate – Aye Udi Udi Udi

drarry microfic — puraane geet

Return – Jo Wada Kiya Woh Nibhana Padega

Guest – Yeh Kaun Aaya

Technique – Isharon Isharon Mein Dil Lene Wale

Denial – Tumhein Ho Na Ho Mujhko Toh

Love letters – Phoolon Ke Rang Se

Satisfied – Abhi Na Jao Chhod Kar

Begin – Pehla Nasha

Invitation – Aaiye Meherbaan

#drarry #drarry microfic #playlist #mine #hindi #bollywood #songs #playlist by cbg

[ohdrarry]

For what it’s worth, Draco tries not to be in love with him.

Once the war ends, the world is dim and hazy and wild. For two months, it rains incessantly in Wiltshire. Draco watches his mother’s rose garden flag and flutter, run amok with weeds and ivy from his bedroom window. He spends May and June not doing much of anything but staring— out the window, at his ceiling, at his parents when they try to coax him to dinner. House arrest is not a death sentence, but Draco is empty and vacant and a little dead anyway.

He thinks of Harry sometimes. Harry, limned in fire on a broom, reaching for him, Harry, dead, not dead, clambering to his feet, wand raised, calling the Dark Lord Tom, Harry, who had met his eyes over the Aurors’ shoulders as they handcuffed him to accompany him to the Manor until the Wizengamot had the time to figure out what to do with the Malfoys. Harry, and the world winces into sharper focus, bleak and dull and unbearable. Draco tries, for all he’s worth, not that it’s much, to stop thinking of Harry when that happens.

There’s the trial. Harry Potter is in a suit, his hair damp and brushed and unfamiliar. He speaks for Draco and his mother. Draco recognises the image of Narcissa emerging in Harry’s testimony— haughty and determined and fearful and loving, a mass of contradictions worthy of exoneration after the payment of some hefty fines. His own image he recognises in snapshots and flashes— scared, yes, Merlin, yes, indoctrinated from a young age, that too, in the grip of something bigger than himself, yes, he’s never felt so small. There are other things Harry says, new, like an ill-fitted outfit hanging off him— brave when it mattered, really? and never killed anyone, technically true but the intent was there all through sixth year, doesn’t he deserve to be punished for that? and helped in bringing down the fall of Tom Riddle at great personal risk, a tall order at best, an embellished lie at worst.

Harry believes in a man Draco isn’t sure he ever was. The Wizengamot seems to believe him, and he’s exonerated too, with a magic-monitoring charm on his wand for eighteen months.

No one testifies for Lucius. He goes to Azkaban. Draco watches, dispassionate, as the Aurors handcuff his father again. Lucius watches him back, equally dispassionate. “Take care of your mother,” he says before he’s pulled away, and Draco manages a short, tight nod. That’s that.

Love, or the situation about Harry Potter as Draco takes to calling it, begins two more months after the trials.

“Malfoy,” says Harry, the picture of wide-eyed surprise. They’re in a bar on Knockturn. Pansy, Blaise and Theo finally dragged him here, Draco you need to leave that stuffy old Manor for your own good.

“Harry Potter,” Draco says, because he can’t bring himself to call him Potter anymore, and Harry sounds awkward outside his head.

“It’s good to see you,” says Harry, a sudden grin stretching across his face. Draco has to blink the light of it out of his eyes. “You’re looking better.”

It starts then, in the bar. The stirrings of life in a dead man. It’s annoying and brutal and the kind of thing that keeps Draco waking up and getting himself out of bed every morning and the nightmares occasionally at bay.

They run into each other at the bar, over and over, and each time, Harry begins conversation. Each time, it lasts a few minutes longer, until they’re spending half an hour or more chatting over drinks at the counter. Or, rather— Harry chats, Draco listens and tries not to let his heart spring out of his chest. Each time, Pansy looks considering, Blaise rolls his eyes and Theo peers studiously into his drink when he comes back. Draco wonders if Harry’s friends have their own set of patented reactions and if they’re half as lenient as his friends’.

Draco starts sleeping with Theo about it, eventually. Which is to say Draco starts sleeping with Theo hoping the sex will take his mind off dark hair and green eyes and that rapid, quicksilver smile. It doesn’t help that Theo has dark hair and blue eyes, and smiles at Draco like the sun. It makes him ache with want and loss, and the sex is great, but Draco has to end it within a few weeks.

“It’s Potter, isn’t it,” Theo says when Draco tells him.

There’s no point denying it, so Draco doesn’t. “It’s not you,” he says, and Theo’s lightly amused baleful glare is enough for their friendship to remain stable, if a little stilted.

Blaise takes him shopping and Pansy brings him alcohol and when Greg starts stepping out of his house again, he tells Draco awkwardly, “Well, Potter’s missing out, isn’t he?” Millicent, who starts coming to pub nights gives Draco a once-over and tells him he needs to get a job. Daphne tries to set him up with her sister, and takes it astonishingly terribly when Draco tells her he’s sure Astoria’s lovely, but has an entirely wrong set of bits.

“You should be more open minded,” she tells him, sniffing. “Astoria‘s open minded!”

Draco can only think to blink at her.

Harry’s in the papers almost every day. Sometimes because he gives speeches, but mostly because The Prophet’s society section can’t think to write anything better than “Harry Potter spotted in Diagon’s Sunday Market, with turnips! Turn to page 6 for seven delicious recipes that make fresh and inventive use of the Chosen One’s Chosen Veg!”

It’s all well and good except for the part where the accompanying photos of Harry, scowling or blank or frustrated or very occasionally, smiling at children, sends Draco’s body into overdrive. He finds himself tracing the line of Harry’s mouth, the tops of his cheekbones, his hairline. He thinks his mother notices, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Would you like to get a drink sometime?” Harry asks.

They’re not at the bar. They’re in a cafe and Draco is reading a horrible romance novel at the window.

“We get drinks all the time,” Draco says. He wants to step on his own toes.

“Yeah,” Harry says, laughing. He runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, course, just— I was wondering if you maybe wanted to. You know. Just us.”

“Just us?”

“Forget it,” Harry says, and sighs. He turns away and turns back. “It was good seeing you, Malfoy.” He turns away again.

“Harry,” Draco says. The look on Harry’s face when he turns back again is wide-eyed surprise again, like that first time in the bar. “I— a drink sounds lovely.”

Harry looks uncertainly pleased.

“Just not on Knockturn,” Draco says.

“We could go to Hogsmeade,” Harry says. He’s— the ridiculous man— bouncing on the balls of his feet, fidgety and buoyant and beautiful. “Or London. The Muggle bit. Or Diagon, really, but the reporters—” He grimaces.

I’ll go anywhere with you, Draco wants to say. “Anywhere,” he says instead, hacked short and inadequate.

But Harry smiles at him like he’s the sun. The persistent ache throbbing through Draco abates for a moment.

So this is peace, Draco thinks. Meets Harry’s smile with his own, wonders how Harry thinks it looks. There you are.

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, “cranes in the sky”. this is a little all over the place and i’m not particularly happy with it, but here’s a decidedly-not-microfic about failing at not being in love with harry james potter. oh draco, you’re exactly like me.

#drarry #drarry fic rec #drarry fic #drarry recs #draco x harry #hpdm fanfic #hpdm #draco malfoy #harry james potter #drarry microfic #geets microfics

[ohdrarry]

corpus.

“Do you want to get high?” Draco asks, sharp knees knocking against Harry’s. They’re lying on the worn-down mattress on Draco's floor— a relic of a thing Harry admires for not just giving up and bursting— staring up at the cracks patterned like lightning on the ceiling.

“No.” He reconsiders. “I mean yeah, obviously, but no, can’t. There’s this— thing in two hours. Have to be there and I can’t show up—" he gestures at the air. “Y’know.”

“I know,” Draco clumsily pats Harry’s forehead. “Oh, I know.”

There’s a touch of condescension there, and Harry knows Draco well enough to hear everything he isn’t saying— I know you don’t want to go, I know you want to stay with me in my shitty apartment, I know you don’t talk about me to them at these things. There’s a version of Harry, lying somewhere in a ditch on the highway between who he was and who he is, who’d tear Draco apart for those insinuations. This version sighs a little and pokes him in one pointy shoulder.

“Hannah probably won’t understand the urge to stay holed up in here with my disreputable stoner boyfriend instead of attending her birthday party." He means it as a joke, it falls very flat. "I’m sorry.”

“You keep assuming,” Draco says, drawled and posh, despite the mould growing in the corner of the room, “that you need to justify yourself. You live your own life, Potter, I stake no claims on it.”

They say nothing for a while.

“Muggles have this thing,” Harry says eventually, breaking the silence. “The share market. Stocks.”

“Stocks.”

“Yeah. Hermione explained it to me. It was complicated and most of it went over my head but, but it all boiled down to— ownership, really. You— buy out parts of a company and you own those parts till you sell them. I think? I guess. The more you own, the more decision making power you have. Or something like that.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s— whatever, if I was a company, you’d own— fifty eight percent of my stocks.”

Draco’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. And alright, that’s fair, but he’s trying here. He needs Draco to— understand. Swallows. Realises he cares a little too much about how well Draco understands this.

“You own,” he begins, swallowing again, Merlin, he’s parched, “fifty eight percent of me. Most of me. So much of me, Draco. I’ve never given myself over— like this. To someone else. But there’s a remaining thirty— no, Merlin, should have taken Arithmancy— forty two percent? That they still own. Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Neville and Luna and—” He gestures at the air again. Doesn’t turn to look at the softly breathing body next to his.

“Corporation,” Draco says slowly, words rounded without the razor sharp edge of before. “Corporare. Corpus. Corpus means body, do you know that? That’s the root of these entities, the body.” His hand, fine-boned and blunt-nailed, cards through Harry’s hair. “I own fifty eight percent. They own forty two. How much of your body do you own, Harry?”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t?”

They lie in silence again, the gentle scratch of Draco’s nails against his scalp a monotone soundtrack to their thoughts.

“Pansy bought me a book on anatomy once,” Draco says conversationally after long minutes have passed. “It was kind of awful. And I was thinking about making some grand statement about how you own the percentage of me that my heart weighs, but that’s about—? 0.69%? Which isn’t a declaration at all, it’s actually kind of offensive. So I thought of adding in the percentage of blood, which is about 10%, but even that sounds ridiculous.”

He pauses. His hand stills in Harry’s hair for a beat too long before starting up again. “What you own—” he clears his throat. “You own my thoughts, Harry. And they can’t measure that. Every time you walk out, you own my grief. Every time you stay, you own my joy. I can’t measure it, Harry, but immeasurable and infinite are synonyms.”

“I’m not going,” Harry says, sitting up. “I’m not going to Hannah’s stupid party, Draco, fuck it, I’m not—”

Draco just stares up at him. “42%,” he says after a second too long of silence.

Harry laughs. It’s wild, maybe a little hysterical. “Fuck it,” he says again, looking down at Draco’s flushed cheeks. “Yours. All yours.”

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: my girl has four cats and a sonos speaker system. i have no idea how it went to the weird places it did, but oh well.

#drarry #geets microfics #drarry fic #drarry fic rec #drarry fanfic #drarry rec #drarry microfic #drarry established relationship #drarry flangst #tw reference to recreational drug use #weed mention

[ohdrarry]

table for two.

“Theo said I’m a failed boyfriend because I’ve never taken you out on a date.”

The crunch-snap! of Harry’s knife dicing onions ceases for a moment. Draco can see his poised hand, the leather bracelet at the wrist brushing against the chopping board, the raised bulb of the onion secure between his fingers.

“Taste the sauce,” Harry says, starting back up. “And stop paying attention to Theo after he’s had more than two drinks.”

“How did you know—”

A bare hint of a smile curls around the edge of Harry’s mouth, soft under the yellow lights. “Taste the sauce, darling.”

Draco wants to grumble, just a little. Answer me. You didn’t say he’s wrong. I won’t taste the sauce till you look at me. I need you to look at me because when you do, I forget to worry. But the kitchen swells with the scent of the sauce, bubbling quietly in a lopsided pan and Draco doesn’t have it in himself to protest something he wants right now.

“Kiss me,” he says at Harry’s shoulder.

“The sauce—”

“You’ve been tasting it every two minutes, don’t pretend otherwise. I know you.”

Harry laughs. He’s quiet about it, low and sweet, happiness a simple secret Draco adores too much to let him keep.

“You know me, and yet—”

“And yet?”

Harry tips the chopping board sideways, diced onions sliding gently into a bowl that rattles with the soft thuds of them falling in. He reaches for Draco, thinks better of it, and pulls him in, the back of his hand slung around the nape of Draco’s neck. The leather bracelet, worn soft with use, presses in.

The kiss is quiet, unhurried, welcome home and stop worrying and I love you. Draco tastes the sauce on Harry’s lips, on the brief brush of his tongue. It’s good— of course it is— but it tastes better this way.

Draco pulls away. Presses a kiss to the five o’clock stubble shadowing Harry’s jaw. Presses another one to the crinkle at the corner of his eye. Harry laughs again, so Draco does it again, and Harry draws away, still smiling.

“Good?”

“Always.”

“The sauce, Draco.”

“I said what I said.”

Harry turns back to his onions, shaking his head.

“Am I, though,” Draco says, perching on the counter. “A failed boyfriend. I thought all those late nights in the bullpen, Indian takeout from that place Hermione recommended, those were our dates, but—”

Harry sighs, exasperated and a little amused, knife snipping at chillies. “It was never about— takeout. Or dates. Or whatever it is Theo has decided is the reason he dumped the last one.”

“Oh.”

“It wasn’t about those things, it was about you.”

Draco stays quiet, watching Harry’s deft fingers sweep the chopped chillies into the sauce. “Oh,” he says again, because sometimes watching Harry makes him stupid, makes him fumble with his words and repeat them, because words aren’t— haven’t ever been— the point of this.

“Stop listening to Theo,” Harry says, looking up at him, serious through his eyelashes. “He doesn’t know me. He’s lonely and being a dick about it.”

“Alright.”

Harry gestures between them, smile dimpling his cheek. “Good. Always.”

It’s Draco’s turn to laugh, surprised and punched-out. The kitchen is quiet, sauce turning heavier with every stir. They’re both smiling. 

“Set the table,” Harry says when the stirring spoon comes away thick with red, peppered with cooked, clinging herbs. Draco swings down from the counter and reaching around Harry with one arm gripping his shoulder, pulls out two china plates.

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: laugh. i’ve been writing a lot of angst lately and usually a happier prompt would mean an angstier fill, but this one begged to be taken as it came. so here we are. 

#tw food #drarry #drarrymicrofic #drarry fanfic #drarry fluff #drarry fic rec #geets microfics #the world begins at a kitchen table #this is possibly the softest microfic i've ever written #i just couldn't do angst #not for this

[ohdrarry]

honey, you're familiar.

“This,” Draco says, boot squelching into the soft decay of leaves underfoot, “is not what I expected from you.”

Potter sits on the front stoop of what can be generously described as a log-cabin, though Draco feels log-shack is more appropriate. He doesn’t appear surprised by Draco’s presence, just wearily resigned.

“They sent you?”

Draco bristles at the insinuation. “Sent— Merlin. You self-important arsehole. No one gives a shit about you anymore. No one sent me.”

“Then why are you here?” The question is simple, unassuming. Obvious, even. Draco feels resentful when he comes up short of adequate answers.

“No one sent me,” he says again. The answer in those words is implicit. I came by myself.

Potter lifts a wildfire-tipped cigarette to his lips. His long hair is tied back, but a loose strand tangles in the plume of smoke from his mouth, fluttering delicately.

“Here, though,” Draco says, when Potter remains silent. The surrounding forest thrums with the sounds of life, wind through the treetops, insects burrowed under fallen branches. Birds twitter, curiously loud, and the day darkens infinitesimally with every passing second.

“Here,” Potter acknowledges. “Peaceful.”

“Mother said you died here.”

“No,” Potter says, and looks at Draco for the first time. Surrounded by the uncanny greenery of the deep woods, his eyes aren’t quite as startling as they used to be. “I died far away from here, almost at the edge. Voldemort never touched this part of the Forest.”

And oh, Draco understands that. He can’t walk through Diagon Alley without thinking of his path echoing Dolohov’s. He’d had to walk through the thinner edges of the forest with his eyes closed and hands trembling, trying to keep the memories of Fenrir Greyback to the far limits of his consciousness.

A part of the world Voldemort has never touched.

“Why are you here?” Potter asks again. Quiet. Weighted. “I’m not going back. And if you try to walk away now, I’ll leave you to the wolves, Obliviated.”

Draco sighs. His boots stick to the soft soil as he trudges closer to Potter. “I asked you once,” he says, when he’s close enough and the smell of Potter’s cigarette smoke is overpoweringly familiar. “To let me stay. You said no.”

Harry smells good underneath the smoke, woodsy and clean, a hint of fruit lingering. Clearly there are bathing facilities in the shack. This is not a hideaway, he reminds himself. This is his life.

“This time I’m not giving you a choice,” Draco continues. “Let me stay.”

“The wolves are still an option,” Harry says after a beat and a swallow, and Draco laughs. They both know they're not. Over the years, Draco has missed Harry. Hated him even, in short bursts. Questioned everything they had. Never once has he doubted that Harry loved him— loves him.

Harry stands, and vanishes the cigarette burned down to the filter now. Looks at Draco for long minutes, breathing a tangle of smoke and spice into his space before tucking a lock of Draco's hair behind his ear. His touch is warm despite the chill in the air, thumb slight against the shell of Draco's ear.

“You followed,” he says. It sounds amused. It sounds relieved.

“I followed.”

Harry turns, walks through the open door of the cabin behind. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. Draco knows.

Draco follows.

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: 'from eden' by hozier which is one of my favourite songs by my favourite musician. went for ~vibes~ but no idea what i delivered.

#geets microfics #drarry #drarry fic #drarry microfic #drarry fic rec #drarry rec #drarry angst #harry potter x draco malfoy #draco malfoy x harry potter #drarry fanfic #drarry squad #drarry headcanon

[ohdrarry]

the anatomy of a love letter.

The fact of the matter is: Harry’s pants at writing. 

His homework at Hogwarts had been subpar at best and the letters he wrote to Ron and Hermione and once-upon-a-fantasy to Sirius were too concise for embarrassment. There had been a memorable attempt at writing one to Ginny when that had still been— something, but had the presence of mind to realise comparing someone’s skin to a Sphynx’s belly wasn’t the genius compliment he’d assumed it to be in the shower. 

(Which is more than can be said about Ginny’s judgement at eleven— he still mouths fresh pickled toad at himself in the mirror sometimes— but then again, being eleven is a pretty solid defence for terrible judgement calls.) 

Harry’s just— he’s just bad. The words never say what he wants them to, scratched out lines like wet wounds. He spends hours trying until too many balled up parchments are littered around his desk, and realises he’s forgotten to write what he wanted to in the first place by the time the owl carrying it is a speck in the distance. 

But Draco’s in a remote village in Belgium for research and looks gnarled and green in the thready Floo connection, speaking indecipherable streams of gibberish. So Harry’s here at his desk, staring at the checklist he made last night, trying not to fuck it up too badly. 

1. Dear Draco. 

Darling,

2. Tell him why you’re writing this. Tell him you love him.

I love you. I miss you. The Floo’s shit and you look confused every time I speak. There was that one time after a late dinner when I went to sleep without telling you I love you and you asked me if I wanted to break up in the morning. It’s been a week and you look tired look like you’re waiting for something look like you need to hear it  so here, seven times: I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I re-counted that six times to check if I got the number right. If I didn’t— I meant seven anyway. 

3. Tell him something about home. Tell him you love him. 

The Mimbulus Neville gifted you lives in the shed now. It’s a bit dark, but it’s squirted Stinksap at me twelve times. Your plants hate me. The Venus grew eight heads and tried to eat all my fingers. I put that one in the attic because you said this one needs light. Do you ever want children? Will they hate one of us too? We can’t put them in the attic or the shed. I want to scratch that bit out, but Godric Gryffindor is whispering in my ear. Anyway, I love you. We can talk about children later. Months later, years later. Decades—

4. Tell him about his friends. Tell him they love him. 

Pansy came over two days ago and spent the evening drinking all your wine. She misses you, she told the sofa. She whispered it to the leather, I was watching from the kitchen. Zabini came by to drop off a suit. Hermione left a book for you on the coffee table, something about the intersection of Potions and Chemistry. It’s thick and heavy as three bricks and I think you’ll love it more than you love me. Parvati asked when you were coming back. 

5. Ask about his research. About Belgium.

How’s the birdwatching going? You’ll kill me for calling it that but Orini Onith Onther Ornithomancy takes me four tries. I’m jealous of magical crows. Did you spot the corvids you were looking for? How’s Thomas? Does he still smell like garlic? Is the host treating you right? Are the pillows soft enough? What’s the village like? Are the people kind to you? Are you happy? Do you miss me? I asked too many questions so I scratched some out. Tell me everything, though. Everything you want to. 

6. Tell him you love him. 

I’ll try to write more. I know you’ll laugh at the way I write, this isn’t fancy and I’ve only now realised that this parchment is the one you bought to wrap books, it’s soaked with ink. But— Floo’s shit. And I needed to tell you I love you. And that I miss you. And that I’m very happy for you and your research but that the bed is very cold when I wake up in the middle of the night. I made a checklist and everything. Come back soon When you’re done, I’ll be waiting. 

7. His. 

Yours,  Harry. 

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: love letters. 

#drarry #drarry fic #drarrymicrofic #geets microfics #drarry fic rec #drarry rec

[ohdrarry]

falling in love with a serial arsonist

is a saviour complex at best and a death wish at worst, but Harry hasn’t ever made a secret of either so nobody’s surprised. Hermione teaches him some fire safety charms when she finds out. Ron calls him a head-case in a resigned, affectionate, concerned tone he’s patented, being Harry’s best friend for the better part of two decades.

The only person who takes Harry’s admission of love less than well is Draco because within two hours, Harry is pulling him out of another burning building— a warehouse the Aurors were trying to prove as the headquarters of a notorious child trafficking ring.

“They need to be faster with these sort of cases, I was just trying to send a message,” Draco says as Harry washes the ash out of his hair in the tub. “In the time it takes them to go from circumstantial to undeniable, actual children—”

“Johnson thinks you— the arsonist— is involved.”

“Johnson thinks the arsonist is involved every single time because patterns of justice fly miles over that thick head of his.” He turns his face away, lashes fluttering, lips turned down in an upset moue. “Terrible quality in a Head Auror, that. Aren’t they supposed to be the enforcers of justice? Shouldn’t you understand something to enforce it?”

There’s a discussion in there somewhere about Wizarding police brutality and traditionalism but Harry is very tired, his lungs are burning and Draco’s fragile face is still streaked with soot. He reaches out to cup it, thumb swiping over a smear on his cheekbone.

“We need to have a conversation.”

Draco’s jaw clenches under Harry’s palm. “Look, I know you didn’t— you couldn’t have— meant it. So you don’t need to take it back, it doesn’t— I’m not going to be offended.” He turns to face Harry, cheek curving into his touch. Opens his mouth, shuts it. “You really don’t need to say it, you know. You don’t need to give me the whole spiel, Oh Draco, it slipped out, I’m not ready for that yet. I just— it’s okay, and I understand, but I don’t want to hear it.”

Harry feels his jaw hanging low, the part of his lips incredulous. “You think— did you seriously think— oh Godric. Draco, is this about me telling you I love you?”

The tips of Draco’s ears are turning pink. He blinks too rapidly, defensive and cross, “What else would it be—”

“I said we need to have a conversation and you assumed it’s going to be about me taking back saying I love you instead of the part where I dragged you out of a burning warehouse? Where you almost died?”

Now Draco looks honestly confused. He pushes his hands through the water of the bath, sending little waves rippling over his submerged body. “I don’t—” it comes out small. “I don’t understand. You’ve… you’ve dragged me out of burning warehouses before?”

“Yes,” Harry says, trying to be emphatic. “Yes. We need to have a conversation about how there are other ways to communicate than to throw yourself into a fire to prove something. You can just— talk to me.”

Draco stares at him for a while, uncomprehending. Harry stares back, desperation tingling at his fingertips. He doesn’t know whether to shake Draco or pull him close or kiss him or wash his back or all of those things at once.

“You said you loved me,” Draco says at last, voice cracking over the words. “You said you loved me and it felt like— it felt like I was on fire already.” Which is enough to make Harry’s decision for him, because soaked robes be damned, he needs to feel Draco in his arms, solid and breathing and undeniably alive.

“You stupid man,” he whispers into Draco’s hair. It still smells of smoke. “You stupid, stupid man. You could have died. Each of those times you threw yourself into one of those damned fires, you could have died. And then where would I be?”

“But I didn’t,” Draco says, muffled into Harry’s shoulder. “Because you saved me.”

Patterns of justice. Shouldn’t you understand something to enforce it?

A bank set on fire the first time Harry cooked Draco dinner. A bus station sponsored by a Wizengamot member who voted in favour of a Muggleborn registry up in flames the first time Harry stayed the night. A storefront for a drug den demolished when Harry gifted Draco a DVD player— oh.

Shouldn’t you understand something to enforce it?

“I can’t read your mind,” Harry says gently, rubbing circles into the wet skin of Draco’s back. “The best I can do is try to save you from the things it comes up with.” Something like a sob from the vicinity of his shoulder. He holds Draco a little closer. “But I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me.”

“You like saving people,” Draco says. “And when you— when you say these things, or do things— I need to give you something back. But I don’t know what to give you. You like saving people. So I let you save me. Each time, I just, Harry, it’s— you really like saving people.”

“Alright,” Harry says, glad Draco isn’t facing him. “Alright, that’s— alright. See? You can talk to me. You can tell me these things before you go and do them.”

“It doesn’t make sense!” Draco pulls away. “It doesn’t make sense when I say it out loud.”

“Okay,” Harry says again, trying to think through the fog of too many revelations in his brain. “Let’s try that for a bit then. If you say something out loud and it doesn’t make sense, then you try— you try not to do it.”

“But what if you stop meaning it. If you stop saving me. What if you—”

“Meaning it?”

“The thing you said. Today.”

“I don’t need to save you from burning buildings to love you, Draco.” Draco’s unconvinced expression is heartbreaking. “Come back here,” he says, opening his arms. Draco leans in, hesitant at first, lightning quick when he realises the offer continues to stand.

“I love you,” Harry whispers into his ear, holding him through the shudders that wrack his frame. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…” and he keeps going till his voice is hoarse and Draco is still and calm and staring into the distance without looking haunted.

It’s true— Harry doesn’t need to save Draco to love him. But maybe there’s a different kind of saving to be done here anyway.

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: wicked game; the world was on fire and no one could save me but you because what if draco never recovered from the experience of what happened in the room of requirement?

#tw arson #tw child abuse mention #this feels like it needs more trigger warnings but i don't know what they are #drarry #drarry fic #drarry rec #drarrymicrofic #geets microfics #drarry angst #drarry hurt/comfort

[ohdrarry]

when your blue string of fate loses its way.

The leader of the revolution tacks yellow flashcards with toothpicks to a makeshift thermocol evidence board. He ties blue strings from the pictures of the Wizengamot members to the post-it notes listing their crimes.

“Isn’t the string supposed to be red?” Draco asks. He’s sitting on a fluffed up sleeping bag on the floor and his tailbone is going numb. "These boards always have red string."

“Hmm?” Harry mumbles, distracted. “Oh. The shop I went to had only blue and white, so I bought blue. Easier to see.”

Easier to see. It’s another variation of a phrase Draco is becoming a little too accustomed to hearing from Harry lately, don’t you see the connections? They’re plain as day— look, here’s the pattern, pick it out, easy. Wizengamot member Wiggins’ smiling picture tied to a post-it note that says 14 MUGGLES DEAD and TERRORIST ORGANISATION CLAIMS EYES ON THE INSIDE.

“You’ve been at it for a long time,” Draco says. “Sit down for a minute. Drink some water. Tell me about— whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“Not enough time, not enough time.”

The sigh gusting out of Draco fills the room. Harry doesn’t notice, so Draco forces himself up on wobbly feet. Harry startles when the arms wrap around him from behind, but for all his paranoia, he simply leans into Draco’s touch. It’s sweet, familiar, a ghost of a gesture that reminds Draco of a Harry who would face down crime boards in the Auror Departments with the same single-minded focus.

That was before he resigned, before he started circling quotes in the Daily Prophet, before he moved out of Grimmauld, terrified of his bedroom being bugged with Ministry surveillance charms.

“Darling,” Draco says now, chin hooked over Harry’s bony shoulder. “Water break, please. Just for me?”

Harry turns his head, nose brushing against Draco’s cheek. “What would the world say if they knew you were trying to distract me from uncovering the Minister’s true allegiances for a water break?”

“They would thank me,” Draco says, kissing his cheek. “Someone needs to make sure the revolution doesn’t die of dehydration. It’s unbecoming.”

Harry laughs, low and deep and unchanged. “God, how I love you. Alright then. Water break.”

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: blue. massive thanks to darling bee @softlystarstruck for the quick and brilliant beta <3

#everything i write is about slightly unhinged characters being very deeply loved #drarry #drarry microfic #drarry fic rec #drarry fic #draco malfoy x harry potter #drarry angst #geets microfics

[ohdrarry]

flood.

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: flood. this is decidedly not a microfic, i am an embarrassment to the community. it is also once again, 3.08 am, so i have no idea how much sense this makes and no patience to wait till morning to post. here goes.  

TW: parent death, hospitals, seizures (non-graphic). 

The day Mother dies, things keep happening one after another.

Draco has a vague understanding— distant and loose, sand through his fingers in Santorini— that things happen one after another everyday. But knowing something all your life doesn’t really compare to the brutal moment of understanding it, really understanding it, for the first time.

For one, Mother died. Her heart gave out after one last seizure that Draco wasn’t there to see. He’d gone down to the cafeteria for a breakfast muffin, which in retrospect didn’t taste good enough for the price he paid. But then again, the last seizure couldn’t have looked very much different from the first or the twenty seventh or the one before the last, by which point Draco had lost count and sensitivity to the vision of his mother’s body curling in on itself over and over. Repeat a word enough times and it stops making sense and all that. The Mediwitches arranged her to look peaceful— possible finally— folding her hands and shutting her eyelids, stretching the skirt of the paper thin Mungo’s gown across the width of the bed like massive butterfly wings in an exhibit, polka dots and all.  

Within three hours, the solicitor sends a letter so oily that Draco compulsively washes his hands after reading it, the curling letters of venerated father’s dutiful wife aftereffects he can’t blink enough to rid himself of. The Mediwitches bring him document after document, three separate Healers pop by to offer their effusive condolences and the patient in the room next to Mother’s comes in to tell him that he had been a very good son indeed, to be so patient in his her dying days. She says it with a trembling lower lip and too-bright eyes and Draco gets the distinct feeling there is someone out there who ignores the memories of a sweet old lady with a walker she can’t quite wrangle into submission while going about their business. There’s a part of him that sneers. There’s a part of him that says fair. A third part says, I wish and Draco has to physically grip the armrests of his uncomfortable chair to not smack himself in the temple.

He smiles at the old lady, kisses her hand and signals behind her back for a passing Mediwitch to take her away.

Pansy pops up at noon in a navy suit Draco suspects she borrowed from Blaise. “I have a conference in the evening,” she says, and Draco nods. “I’ll cancel it,” she adds, and Draco shakes his head.

“It’s all under control, I assure you,” he tells her and she snorts, loud and rude and comforting, in his face.

“I assure you,” she repeats, mimicking him. “Draco, I am not your supervisor.” A few seconds of staring ensues before she tacks on, “I just don’t want you to have to do this alone.”

“I’m not—” he blurts out, before realising he is, he very much is, he has been for a week and a half, and cuts himself off. “It’s under control,” he repeats.

“So he hasn’t been around?” she asks, looking about as though expecting someone to spring from the aggressively artificial bushes in the lobby. “The bloody arsehole.”

“It really isn’t—” his chest feels tight with the intercrossing wires of too many aches, “—his place anymore.”

“Is that what you’re telling yourself?” she asks because she’s a cow without manners.

“My mother just died. I haven’t been telling myself much, I didn’t have the time.”

Pansy doesn’t have the grace to look chastened. “How long have you been here?”

“Not for very— oh.”

“Draco?”

He blinks at her. “Four days, I believe. That’s, oh. That’s quite a while, isn’t it? I thought— I hadn’t— realised.”

“Oh, for fuck’s—!”

He looks down at himself, clothes he can’t remember changing into, hands that won’t stop shaking though he can’t feel them, feet that feel swollen and raw.

“Go home,” Pansy says. Her palm against his cheek is warm and smooth and Draco notices, for the first time in a long time, how much he wants it to be large and calloused. “Darling, Draco, go home.”

“It’ll be empty.”

He hates it when her face goes that pinched. “I’m cancelling the conference.”

For a moment, Draco wants to give in. Go home with her, let her fuss and make him soup and peel him an orange and stay up the night with him, pouring out glasses of red. But he can’t.

“It’s under control,” he says again, and hopes she won’t push. She doesn’t, because she’s Pansy.

—

The first thing he notices is that the wireless is on, something about the Glasgow Cathcart by-election turnouts crackling through the speaker. Draco spends a prolonged moment wondering if four days of sleeping around pain potions has done osmotic damage to his brain. Labour holds, Draco hears before the rest is cut of in a sputter of static. The silence in the room is oppressively heavy. Harry’s hair looks messier than ever.

“Who told you?” Draco asks.

Harry’s brow crinkles. “Told me?”

“My mother—” Harry looks concerned. Draco feels wrong-footed. “No one told you? Why are you here?”

“Narcissa—?”

“She’s— No one told you. You’re— she died this morning. Heart failure. I was at Mungo’s.”

Harry’s expression goes from concern to shock to horror to a sort of complicated blankness so pathetically fake that Draco wants to shake it off. He doesn’t, standing by the Floo instead, awkward and uncertain. Harry’s here. Harry didn’t know Mother died but he’s here. Which brings him back to—

“Why are you here?”

“Because I couldn’t stay away,” Harry says, like it’s simple. He shrugs. “I tried and I couldn’t, so I came here, but you weren’t there. And I thought I’d leave, but then it looked like you hadn’t been here in a while, so I—” he breaks off. “I, well. I cleaned up. There was dust everywhere, and the post was piling up and I looked in the kitchen and you didn’t have any food, so I— Oh, God, Draco, God, are you crying?”

Draco blinks, and yes, he is in fact crying, that is what the burning in his eyes was all this while, his face is wet with it. Once the tears start, they don’t stop, soaking the skin of his throat with rivulets of salt water. Harry couldn’t stay away. Harry checked his post. He’s here.

His knees buckle and Harry’s over in a flash, holding him up and close, whispering sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry in his ear.

“I didn’t see her,” Draco says, muffled into the fist clenched in Harry’s shirt. “When she died, I was— I wasn’t there. I didn’t see her, she died alone. Merlin, I spent four days in Mungo’s and she still— she still died alone. Harry, I—”

And there, there’s the hand threading through his hair, curving around the side of his face. He’s missed this, fuck, every lonely moment sitting in uncomfortable chairs while his mother wasted away before him, he’s missed this. He allows himself to remember her now, pale and still and small, remembers the old forgotten lady in the room next to hers, remembers the terrible breakfast muffin that left crumbs all down his front and the Healer’s drawn face when she told him. Harry pulls him closer still.

Mother’s dead. Mother’s dead. The dam breaks.

#look i saw flood and thought tears and just wanted draco to cry a bit #i don't know why it needed to be prefaced by 1k words of that but eh #drarry #drarry microfic #drarry fanfic #drarry fic rec #draco malfoy x harry potter #harry potter x draco malfoy #geets microfics

[ohdrarry]

pretend.

Dinner parties. Our eyes meet, you look away. Diagon Alley. Our shoulders bump. You lie, I wasn’t looking, sorry. You leave a gift on my dresser, kiss on my temple, my heart on your doorstep. We fight, sometimes.

Enough. Enough. I’m tired.

(I would like to hold you now. Please.)

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: pretend. too quick to be any good, but it's 50 for the first time!

#drarry #drarry microfic #drarry fic rec #drarry fic #drarry rec #drarry angst #draco malfoy x harry potter #geets microfics #be the thing that buries me

[ohdrarry]

you don’t belong to me.

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: hope is a heartache by LÉON. i’m still devastated by the song, so here’s some angsty confusion that is most definitely not a microfic. i was ridiculously sleep deprived while writing this, so i doubt it makes much sense, but i have no restraint and no desire to wait till my brain is more functional to post. title is a lyric from the song <3 

There was a time, not too long ago in the scheme of things, when if squeezed onto the same stair side by side, Draco would have rested his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Now, the loose fall of Draco’s hair drapes down the side of the iron baluster, the metal pressing into his temple. His eyes are fixed on the ugly rug with yellow dandelions, an old housewarming gift from some colleague or another that should have been re-gifted but for inexplicable reasons was put to use and now lies crooked and dirty at the foot of the stairs. Harry tries not to dwell on Draco choosing to stare at the unidentifiable stains rather than spare him a single glance. His heart is already a war zone, he’s learned to pick the detonations carefully.

“Are we fighting?” he asks. It sounds like the kind of irrelevant, logical question one is supposed to ask to fill the silence. Does it matter if the answer’s no? Will it hurt less?

Draco shrugs, too fluid a movement for their position. Harry feels it in his hipbone pressed up against Draco’s, feels it in the muscle of his thigh. His shoulder is bare without the weight of Draco’s thoughts and Harry wonders, just for a moment, if it is acceptable to be jealous of a railing.

There are other questions Harry wants to ask which seem better suited to a similar setting in a soap than their home: Do we still have a chance? Were you really working on a Sunday? Do you still love me? He doesn’t.

“We’re falling apart,” Draco tells the rug. Or, well— tells Harry, but it’s difficult to take these declarations seriously when they’re being spoken at deformed dandelions. “I found myself calculating how many trunks I’d need to pack my things this morning.”

Harry tries— he really does try very hard— not to blanch.

“We’re sitting on the stairs,” he reminds Draco. He can almost convince himself that this is a matter of simple forgetfulness, that Draco somehow doesn’t— doesn’t remember. Harry just needs to remind him of evenings spent tasting each other’s soup and sharing blankets on the couch and secrets in the dark. “This is where we fix things.”

They’ve been here before. They’ll be fine. They’ll be fine—

“Is it.”

That’s new. “It’s— not?”

Draco looks away from the rug and stares at the baluster instead. Harry remembers picking them out together at the B&Q in Chiswick where they’d ended up after ruling out three other B&Qs all over London, bickering over the floral ones or the geometric ones— you utter imbecile, Potter, do you want us to cut ourselves on the staircase? They’d compromised on spiralled iron, staring at each other in the middle of the aisle, equal parts devastated and elated that they’d learned the art of meeting in the middle. I was hoping I’d win, Draco had admitted later, levitating packages into the drawing room. Harry had kissed him on the forehead. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to let you.

Draco says now, “I always thought this was where we let things go.”

Harry had a nightmare once. He’d been looking at what he thought was a deer, except every time he blinked, something about it subtly changed over and over again, until he couldn’t believe that he’d ever thought the thing in front of him to be a deer with its fanged teeth and sunken eyes and protruding, rotten bones. This is where we fix things. He blinks and he blinks and he blinks. This is where we let things go.

The number of times he’s sat on these stairs and murmured, soft, hopeful, a little tired, “Draco, just don’t—” and Draco’s closed his eyes and run his fingers through his hair and said, soft, helpless, a little tired, “Alright, it’s alright, come here—” The number of times they’ve ended up here, exhausted after explosive arguments, sitting on the stairs, side by side, staring at the wallpaper before eventually giving in to each other. He wants to say it again: Draco, just don’t. Please don’t.

“We’re falling apart,” Draco says again. This is where we let things go. Every fibre of him begs to let his head thud onto Draco’s sharp shoulder because Draco will soften the knob of it for him, even now, even when he’s looking away. This is where we let things go. Harry slides down one step, then another, the outer part of his thigh burning with separation. The wall is steady, he leans against it. There is nothing to look at except the wood panelling of the stairs and the dirty yellow rug down below.

For the first time all evening, he feels Draco’s gaze on him, burning.

#this is a complete mess #in my meagre defence it does happen to be 5.30 in the morning and i have not slept all night #drarry #drarry microfic #drarry fic #drarry fic rec #draco malfoy x harry potter #harry potter x draco malfoy #drarry fanfic #geets microfics

[ohdrarry]

caught.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

Draco’s facing the crumbling facade of the Manor, half-obscured by the errant rosebushes bleeding petals at his feet.

“You followed me across twenty seven cities because you knew.”

“Yeah.”

He turns his head, dusk’s chisel sharpening his profile with shadows. “Then why—?”

The question hangs in the space between them, unfinished implications suspended on the thorns.

“I didn’t follow you to catch you,” Harry admits. The truth scrapes his throat raw. ���You just— well. You looked— lonely. When you left.”

The wind picks up through the rustling leaves. An owl hoots in the distance. Draco turns, faces Harry— finally.

“You could have—” he begins, stops to clear his throat, “—should have— come closer, then.” The line of his shoulders is tight, but his words are unmistakably clear. “You can if you want to. Right now.”  

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: caught. no idea what’s happening here, but have some... tension? 

#who's harry to say no to this :eyes: #geets microfics #drarry #drarry fanfic #drarry microfic #draco x harry #harry x draco #drarry fic rec

[ohdrarry]

dangerous

TW: mentions of death (not of the main characters), arson, murder (?)

When Draco arrives at the scene, the smoke is so thick and abrupt, he thinks he won’t make it out to the other side. The reedy lights of rescue vehicles pulse around the cacophony of panicked screaming distorted through the thick filter. The burning building is a blur of shrouded grey and orange, listing and crumbling, a mess of shattered cement and glass.

For a little too long, Draco thinks maybe Death hadn’t been kind that one time in the Room of Hidden Things. Maybe Death is an old, angry god, cheated of their due.

But he isn’t here to ruminate.

He wades through the smoke and the bodies within it, trying not to think about the reaching hands that brush against his robes and the limp ones that knock against his boots. People are dead, whispers a voice in his head. He doesn’t have time for it. Someday they all end up that way.

On the other side of the building, the air is burnt and thick, but the smoke isn’t quite as terrible. Draco heaves a sigh of relief. His lungs burn. He swivels, ignoring the sick dread in his heart, because he has to be here, he has to be–– there. Twelve feet away, against the foot of a tree, a Glamour flickers. Draco walks towards it. The Glamour disappears once he’s close enough.

“What happened?”

For a little too long, Harry doesn’t say anything. His eyes look awfully blank.

“They were all in on it. I had to–“ he swallows. “I had to take them all out.”

Draco’s heart skips a beat. “Take them all–“

“All twenty seven of the partygoers, yeah. It got messy, too messy and I couldn’t leave it that way. I set the drapes on fire and opened the windows. The breeze did the rest.”

Draco kneels. Harry’s hands are clean and steady in his lap. Draco takes them in his. Remembers the hands, dead and dying, grasping at his movements through the smoke. Merlin. He presses closer, lifts Harry’s left hand to his mouth and kisses the knuckles.

“I could choke you to death right now,” Harry says. His voice is a dispassionate monotone. His eyes are still blank.

“Except you won’t.”

They stare at each other, kneeling at the foot of the trees as the air thickens with smoke and screams. Draco doesn’t need to look to know the fire is still spreading. Harry’s hands twitch against his. His eyelids flutter and his lips part a little. They’re chapped and raw, and Draco desperately wants to kiss him.

“Except I won’t,” Harry murmurs after a while.

Draco smiles. It’s inappropriate and the voice inside his head repeats, reproachful and guilt-ridden, people are dead.

But he isn’t. Harry’s still here, warm– too warm, he needs a fucking cold shower– and alive. Draco tugs on their joined hands. “Enough of this. Let’s go home.”

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, 'dangerous'.

#drarry #drarry rec #drarry microfic #drarry fic rec #draco x harry #drarry ficlet #geets writes

[ohdrarry]

“Would you like to–” Malfoy begins before tapering off. Harry looks up from his shirt buttons to see him sprawled on the bed, cheeks and chest still flushed with exertion. His lower lip, kiss swollen and bruised with swallowed screams, is caught between his teeth, something uncertain and delicate flickering in his eyes. 

“What?” 

“Get dinner with me sometime.” 

It takes Harry a few seconds to make sense of the words and then a few more to breathe through the white-hot burst of anger that blooms in his throat, tightening under his ribs. Apparently he’s taken too long, because Malfoy is talking again, and making even less sense– 

“–go somewhere Muggle, or just for coffee or–” 

“Have you lost the plot?” Harry demands, cutting him off. “Get dinner with you?”  

Only when it shuts off does Harry notice that up until this moment, Malfoy’s face had been open, sharp edges softened with honesty. Hopeful, supplies a voice in his head. He shuts it down. Today has been absurd enough. 

“We fuck,” Harry manages through the fury. “How dare you–” 

“Assume that you might be interested in something more than being a whore?” Malfoy supplies with a sneer. “How presumptuous of me.” 

There, Harry thinks, assured and incensed in equal measure by the familiarity of Malfoy tugging on the most painful of his heartstrings. There’s the motherfucker. 

“For someone hell-bent on proving to the world he’s changed, you sure do a terrific job of never living up to the image,” Harry tells him, and wonders as he turns towards the door, why Malfoy’s visceral flinch wasn’t more satisfying. 

– written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, ‘metamorphosis’. i’ve been in a slump for weeks, and thought of giving this fantastic one a shot. 

#drarry #drarry ficlet #drarry fic #drarrymicrofic #microfic #angst #geets writes #harry potter being a dramatic bitch #they deserve each other