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seven lines - wip edition

thank you sm for the tag @yellowfork i'm soo excited for this one, you literally never miss!!! sadly, i haven't had much time for writing lately, but here's something from the beginning of my wip

“Don’t you feel it?” Malfoy’s lips press into a thin line—like he might be sad if Harry doesn’t. “Tell me.”

Harry’s hands clutch the duvet tighter as he looks up at him. He doesn’t know how the potion works, not exactly. Only what Slughorn told them at Pomfrey’s—how he'd tweaked the effects of Amortentia.

“Er, I feel—” Harry can barely think over how hard his heart is racing, and feels only a little bad for lying— “like I just want your eyes on me?"

tagging @lemonlimelea @mourningliliesmorningglories @sweet-s0rr0w @chocolando @upon-poppyhills if you'd like to share <3

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wound: @drarrymicrofic (50 words)

Harry almost lost him. Hit by a curse on a routine call, Draco’s pale face in the dirt was Harry’s undoing.

The hospital’s quiet when Draco wakes. He blinks down at Harry, sleeping. Their hands are linked.

“Yes,” Ron says drily from the other chair. “He’s in love with you. Surprise.”

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Seven lines - WIP edition

Thanks @its-the-allure for tagging me! Funny that you did the one where Ron finds out <3 since, as you know, this is what I've been working on 😇

He had to force himself to do it. “So, you know that guy I’ve been sleeping with?” Harry said as he slid into the booth across from Ron. “Mister sex and quidditch?  Yeah, go on.  Do we finally get to meet him?” “Well,” Harry said, rotating his pint glass on the table, “the thing is."

tagging @jtimu @wolfpants @xalandrix @astralrainn @chiquita-3 if you feel inclined <3

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“He’s just a boy.”

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for @drarrymicrofic prompt wound - red string of fate silliness, 700 words.

***

The first time Harry felt his string was in the dusty aftermath of the Battle. Most of him hurt, and the rest felt numb, and so it was a few days before he registered the tugging, or discovered the length of scarlet thread wound around his little finger. A soulmate, he thought, with no small degree of bitterness. Something new to worry about.

There was no time for worrying that summer, though. That summer was already spoken for: first Scotland for the rebuild, then back home for the trials, and by the time the wind turned autumn-sharp, Harry’s string had disappeared.

It came back at Christmas.

“It’s nothing,” Harry insisted, as Ginny scrambled off the bed, pale-faced. “Whoever she is, she’s probably in Australia or something. Who cares?”

Ginny did, as it turned out.

She wasn’t the only one, either. Most people pretended it didn’t matter at first, but amid the dying gasps of each failed relationship, there it was again: something sour, something rotten. “I’m not your soulmate, anyway,” they’d mutter, as though they’d been tricked. As though Harry had tricked them.

He began to hide it: wearing gloves over the holidays, tucking his hand beneath long sleeves for those same two weeks every June. He’d feel the pull starting and make his excuses, Apparating home or disappearing upstairs. Alone, though, strangely, he found he didn’t mind it. He rarely saw the red of the string, which disappeared off into nothing; usually the only sign was a bloodless indent, just below the nail bed. He’d run his finger over and over the notch and picture a formless someone doing the same at the other end.

But who? And where?

“I mean, it’s got to be worth checking out, right?” he said to Ron, tugging on his rucksack outside the Portkey station. “Maybe it’s why I have such shit luck in love.”

But she – or he, as Harry increasingly suspected – wasn’t in Australia, after all. No matter; surely, with this, there was no rush. His instincts took him to the great gardens of Japan, the white sands of Bali, the bazaars of Jaipur. Then, frustrated, he continued west: northern Africa, southern Europe, where he paused in Rome for a brief, unsatisfying affair, then up through Germany; still, there was no sign of the thread.

“You’ve got to come back,” Hermione told him, voice staticky over the international Floo. Harry was in Dinard by then, heart-sick, belly heavy with beer and Breton crêpes. France had been the closest yet, he was sure of it. That first night, in Bordeaux, he’d been pulled abruptly from a dream, could have sworn he’d felt –

“It’s his tenth birthday,” Hermione reminded him. “He’ll be so disappointed if you miss it.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron chimed in, from somewhere in the background. “It’s been months. Face it, you have shit luck in love because you only date arrogant pricks.”

He was still bitter about Ginny, Harry reckoned.

Reluctantly, Harry Apparated in to the party, though it had been so long that he mistimed his jump, and ended up in Andy’s kitchen. He staggered forward, dropping both his suitcase and Teddy’s badly-wrapped present on the tiles.

“Excuse me,” came an affronted voice from somewhere near the fridge.

“Sorry, I–”

Then the man straightened, adjusted his collar and – oh god, it was Malfoy. And oh god, Harry was staring. It was just – he hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected Malfoy at all, and certainly hadn’t expected him to look like this. Malfoy was broader now, tanned, freckled, and he was wearing a linen shirt, open halfway down his chest. He looked like every one of the arrogant pricks Harry had dated. Harry’s mouth watered, and his heart pounded, and his little finger throbbed. Distracted, he flexed it, then when that didn't work he shook his whole hand in annoyance.

Malfoy inhaled sharply as the motion caught his eye. He stilled, almost dazed, then extended his own hand towards Harry.

Harry knew, of course, before he looked down.

“It doesn’t mean–” Malfoy began, cautious, at the same time as Harry said “we don’t have to–”

They both paused, laughing. Looped between the two of them, their red string shook.

Time slowed down. Around them, everything grew bright. Harry stepped forward, wound the thread loosely around his hand, and reeled Malfoy in.

“Hi,” he said.

[astralrainn]

Hands-on Experience | drarry | M | 690 words

Summary: Welcome to another perfectly normal day at the Ministry. Tags: Humour, Crack Treated Seriously, Draco Malfoy is a Professional, Harry Potter is a Little Shit, Unresolved Sexual Tension

Happy Birthday, @sweet-s0rr0w ! I'm so lucky to be friends with you; you are a true gift to this fandom and the most lovely human. I hope you enjoy this mini fic!

Thank you my dear @wolfpants for your excellent help!

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‘You drew stars around my scars’

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For the @drarrymicrofic | prompt: wound words: 50

How to Save a Life 🚑

According to Scorpius, Draco was dying. The scratch on his arm was a gaping wound. The few drops of blood, a haemorrhage.

“He doesn’t have much time left,” Scorpius said, voice grave.

“What can I do to save him?” Harry asked.

“Marry him!” Scorpius chirped, producing a small velvet box.

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wound

Written for @drarrymicrofic prompt 'wound'. A gift for @sweet-s0rr0w on her birthday. Happy birthday to my talented, kind and generous friend, hope you have the loveliest of days!! 🥳💝 (380 words CW: voyeurism) Thanks to @citrusses for giving this a look-over, and suggesting I add a line at the end to cap it off!

It's funny, really, how much of his job involves watching Potter get naked. 

He'd thought working the graveyard shift in the Ministry security room would be boring as all fuck. Little did he know how frequently Britain’s top Auror unwound in the company gym during off-peak hours. And although surveillance of staff in the showers is strictly forbidden, the use of Extendable Eyes in the changing area is technically permissible—to deter locker theft, of course.

Cataloguing Potter’s scars and battle wounds had become Draco’s number one way to pass the long, dull hours of his shift. At first, his favourite was the shooting star on Potter’s right buttock: a raised keloidal scar that caught the light—and Draco’s breath—whenever Potter bent at the waist.

But the shooting star has some tough competition. Like that brutal-looking scar low on his abdomen, slicing right into his pubic hair, not dissimilar to the ones that decorate Draco’s own chest. There’s also the light peppering of bruises and scrapes on Potter's knees. Draco has indulged in some speculations about the reasons for those.

Lately though, Draco's favourite is the one that starts at the base of Potter’s throat. The one that peeks out of his uniform collar, hinting at a life lived dangerously. The one that winds itself sinuously around his torso, hugging him like a glossy purple boa constrictor. What Draco likes best about it is the way it flexes and puckers as Potter pulls his shirt on, and how it's often the last glimpse of forbidden skin he sees before Potter heads home.

Draco leans back in his chair and undoes the buttons on his work trousers, appraising Potter like a fine artwork.

Merlin, he's so hard already.

As Potter undresses, Draco rakes his eyes over that winding scar, thinking about what it would taste like—salty and musky from the sweat of a mission—and whether it would be smooth or rough as he ran his tongue along it. With a shiver, he unspools over his fist imagining the sounds Potter would make, the sounds Draco would pull from him, if he ever dared to do just that.

He’ll never get to touch Potter. But the beauty of Potter’s vulnerable body is the only thing that’s touched him in months.

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healer

@drarrymicrofic, 416 words. prompt: wound. cw: infidelity (not between drarry), mild nsfw, injury, implied possible self-harm and wound kink

There are wounds beneath his shirt, under the legs of his trousers. A nasty curse trapped right beside his heart too, just for good measure. Draco barely feels any of them over the hammering in his chest.

"Potter," he says, knowing he looks as smug as he sounds, as he watches Potter march into the room in his Healer robes.

He never looks happy to see him, at first. Something in Draco revels in it. It's easier, this way.

"You know, there are other ways too—if you wanted to see me."

"Ah, but don't insult me, Potter." Draco leans his body to the side, shirt revealing a bloodied collarbone, and watches green eyes follow the new lines on him. "Merely another accident—you do remember what it was like being an Auror with me, don't you? Though, while I am here—"

Hands reaching to clutch green fabric, Draco pulls warmth that has become both his salve and episkey—the reason for all his wounds—close against him.

"Every week," Potter says. Breathless, already. "You—I see you here every week."

It's not Draco's fault that Robards keeps giving him risky missions. Not that Draco would ask, or settle for anything less, either. Just like Potter, who makes sure he is the one to take Draco in whenever he shows up at Mungo's.

But this week, it isn't quite the same. Draco was made to wait. He swallows his dread, and pulls Potter down over him on the hospital bed he's become quite familiar with.

"There's a rumor going around, you know."

He breathes it into Potter's mouth so he doesn't have to look into his eyes.

"There is."

Potter's magic brushes over Draco as his hands move across him—the intimate touch assessing, possessive of the cuts he is to heal, jealous of ones that aren't his.

"Are you going to?" Draco's voice is quiet. Desperation has made him gentle—he hates it. Just like he hates Potter for making him ask this. "Marry her, I mean?"

Potter slips hands under Draco’s shirt, fingers splayed wide and firm across his wounds. This time, Draco feels them—where Potter’s attention goes has never been easy to ignore.

Potter means it to hurt. Still, he buries his head into the crook of Draco's neck, as if insatiable for the one place where he is yet to be marked.

"I don't know, Malfoy. Am I? I'm not the one who already wears a ring on his finger."

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between the lines

“Oh no, we’ve broken up again,” Draco said, picking a Prophet off the top of a stack of papers outside King’s Cross station. On the cover: POTTER AND MALFOY HEADED FOR SPLIT? next to a picture of Draco giving Harry the two-fingered salute at the Quidditch World Cup. “It seems we were overheard getting into a, quote, ‘heated discussion,’ unquote, that has some people speculating that our relationship is, quote, ‘unlikely to make it to the cup finals,’ unquote.”

“You would think at this point they would realize all of our discussions are heated,” Harry said. “When we stop arguing, that’s when they need to be worried.”

Draco’s mouth pulled into a tight line, his I Disagree With You face, one of Harry’s most favorite Draco faces. “A break-up fight would put all of our other fights to shame. I’m starting with setting the ugly curtains in your study on fire.”

“I would let you. I would just apparate away and leave you to deal with the mess.”

“Apparate to where? Ron and Hermione’s?”

“No,” Harry said, even though yes, that’s where he had been thinking of apparating to in this scenario.

“You would apparate to Ron and Hermione’s and I would make enough of a racket outside of their house that Ron would send you outside to, quote, ‘deal with me,’ unquote, and then we would have a huge fight, in public, and The Prophet would run stories about it every day for at least a year.”

“I would stun you from the window the second you started to cause a scene. Then you would wake up in our house—or I guess it would be your house? Or my house? Who would get the house if we broke up?” Draco started to answer, but Harry waved him away. “It doesn’t matter. You would wake up in a house charmed to not let you leave for at least 48 hours. I’ll have taken your wand but made you a cup of tea. There’ll be a note on the table explaining that this is for your own good, since I know you would rather fight then process your emotions and I want you to have the chance to—”

“I’m immediately owling Rita Skeeter to do a tell-all,” Draco said. “The first insight into me and Harry Potter’s relationship? He likes to run away whenever there’s a hint of interpersonal conflict. If you want to keep him from doing something he regrets, you have to make him mad enough to actually confront the problem. That’s why I’m starting with setting the curtains on fire!”

Harry glared at him. “I hate how sweet that is.”

“You said you would make me a cup of tea!” Draco yelled.

The next day’s Prophet cover: CONFIRMED: POTTER AND MALFOY HEADED FOR SPLITSVILLE.

--

for @drarrymicrofic prompt: slander | on ao3

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slander (50 words)

"I don't," Potter says with conviction. Merlin. Happening upon each other here was awkward enough without the graffitied mirror: Harry Potter has a tiny prick & comes after 20 seconds. "I don't," Potter insists nonsensically. "I swear, Malfoy." Draco looks up from washing his hands. Potter's staring back. "Just… saying."

prompt from @drarrymicrofic | my Drarry microfic collection on Ao3

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Slander

“I heard Malfoy’s giving decent head in the prefects’ bathroom for a sickle a go,” said Seamus, not troubling to lower his voice. “No more Manor house airs for some, hey?”

Finch-Fletchley guffawed, and Ron snorted before he caught Hermione’s glare.

Harry bowed his head to his essay, a convenient place to fix his eyes so he didn’t have to look up and see how Malfoy was reacting on the far side of the eighth year common room.

But before Harry could put quill back to parchment, a voice cut through the laughter and chatter: “It’s a galleon.”

“What?” said Seamus.

It was Malfoy, rising and making some fine adjustments to his school jumper, as if it were not visibly shabby and outgrown. “It costs a galleon,” he said, all vinegar and ice. “And it’s not decent, it’s fantastic.”

*

It was fantastic, though this was the first time they’d tried the prefects’ bathroom.

Draco swallowed neatly, rocked back onto his heels, and looked up at Harry.

“Make sure you tell Finnigan,” Draco said, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, and left.

184 words for @drarrymicrofic prompt “slander”. Thanks to @citrusses and lately for the impromptu beta work when I sent a Google draft from my cruise ship.

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our little contentments (Drarry | G | 1k)

🏷️ tags: Pre-Relationship, Artist Draco Malfoy, Magical Innkeeper Harry Potter, Food, art inspiring art!, mutual muses, Soft

Every morning the request comes with the sunrise.

[astralrainn]

Signed, Yours

for @drarrymicrofic | prompt: slander

During a DA meeting, someone muttered arrogant little prick about Malfoy.

Harry hissed in pain. He rolled up his sleeve and the words were there. Clear as ink. Etched across his arm.

He said nothing.

Later that week, fake hero burned across Draco’s back.

He thought it was a joke, maybe a hex. Some prank.

He should’ve known back in first year, when scarhead bloomed across his thigh after Crabbe said it aloud.

But Luna was the one who finally said it: “It’s soulmate magic—or curse. You get each other’s slander.”

Harry and Draco locked eyes.

Harry smiled softly, pressing his fingers to the letters etched across his collar bone. Liar, the latest one read.

So that’s what this had been, all along.

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wild! oats! ch! 3! 👀

Sorry for the delay!

I'm so excited to get back to Wild Oats and finish up the last chapter. The boys continue to spin out into chaos. Here's a snippet!

“Are you currently in possession of the wand registered in your name?” Harry kept his tone flat even as his heart tried to drag it upward with every thudding spike.  “Yes,” Draco muttered between two slow sips.  “Have you obtained, borrowed, or used any additional wands since your last check-in?” “ No.” “How long have you wanted to fuck me?” “Since I was fifteen years old.”  Reactions kaleidoscoped across Draco’s face so quickly that Harry couldn’t keep up, before freezing, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Draco stared in horror at Harry, then slowly looked down at his cup, still clutched in his hand. “You—did you—” Harry didn’t bother answering Draco’s question. He didn’t have to, after all, and there was a limited window to get his own in.  “Why did you act like such a prat after we fucked?” It was like watching a fire in reverse, the way Draco’s ashen face burst into hot fury. Draco stood up, advancing on Harry. “Because I was angry,” he snarled. Harry scrambled to his feet, but didn’t retreat, “What are you—” Before he could finish, Draco raised the cup to his mouth and drained the last of his tea, flinging the cup to shatter on the ground as he grabbed Harry and forced their mouths together.  Harry struggled, then sputtered at the rush of liquid filling his mouth. On the verge of choking, his body reflexively swallowed before he could think to do anything else.  

wip ask game here