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How it should have been. The bathroom scene.

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200 words for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: wound

Draco hadn’t seemed particularly impressed with his first visit to the Burrow. But when they settled into their own home, he’d done some measuring and moving and then disappeared for a whole day and came back with a grandfather clock. He was the one who meticulously installed each new hand and fastidiously wound it each week, the one who called in a specialist the second “the ticking sounded off” and then double checked the work anyway. Harry had found him pacing in front of it on the occasions Harry had been kept at work late into the night, and Harry had found him with his eyes glued to Scorpius’s hand the first nights after they moved the cot out of their room and into the nursery.

And Harry kissed him and said, “It was due for maintenance anyway.”

Kissed him and said, “I’m home.”

Kissed him and said, “He’s safe. There’s about a million monitoring charms, and nothing you could do would put him in ‘mortal peril.’”

“It’s just an old clock,” Draco would huff dismissively before walking away. But the wood always stayed polished and it ticked in perfect time, even as the hands multiplied in the following decades.

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tea is served

Written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt 'Slander' (225 words)

‘And then there was that time during potty training when he waddled off to the hydrangea bushes and dropped his tiny trousers. Sadly unaware of the very inquisitive peacock lurking behind him. He ran screeching through the manor and complained of a “sore botty” for weeks.’

“Oh my god,” Harry laughed.

‘Don’t forget the massive crush he had on the Minister for Magic.’

“Fudge?!”

‘Oh yes. Obsessed. He kept so many election flyers and clippings under his pillow that there was a permanent imprint of Cornelius’ face on the satin.’

“Amazing.”

‘That was, of course, until he started at Hogwarts. The house-elves were under strict instructions not to disturb the Witch Weekly shrine. Or his Boy-Who-Lived figurine collection.’

“I'm sorry, his what?”

‘You heard me. Breakfast cereal toys. All. Seven. Limited. Editions.’

"No way. I can't—"

‘Septimus, tell him about when Draco spent an entire weekend begging Mummy dearest to help him sew some costumes to impress a boy at school—’

The parlour door burst open. It was Draco—clearly finished in the little boys' room, though he looked far more panicked than freshened up.

“Lies! Scurrilous lies! Harry, you must know these buffoons are just portraits and don’t have real memories.”

Harry lifted his teacup, and then a single eyebrow. “Mm hmm.” He took a sip. “Just please tell me you kept the Fudge pillowcase.”

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Slander

@drarrymicrofic

“Opinion is not slander.” Mazie Hirono

“Opinion is not slander, Potter. And, anyway, you can’t slander the dead.”

“I know. It’s just, I thought—”

“You thought he cared?”

“Yeah.”

“Dumbledore was a selfish bastard. He used you.”

“Yeah.”

“He let you sacrifice yourself. Planned it.”

“Yeah.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Never again.”

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@drarrymicrofic

Prompt: Slander

Words: 139

Thanks to the incomparable @smugrobotics for betaing!

*

The pub’s walls shake with punk rock. Harry’s head bobs along.

“You just know—” Ron hiccoughs, sheds his Auror robes.

Harry gulps down his shot of Firewhisky, braces himself and readies his ale for a chaser.

“—Malfoy’s got the tiniest dick. I mean, look at how skinny the ferret is.”

“Er,” Harry says, spine stiffening.

“Weasley,” Malfoy says, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders. Harry wishes he had another shot. “You might try to reduce the decibel level of your voice and keep the slander to a minimum.”

Harry finishes his beer, STAT. It’s hot in here and the lights seem floaty. “Drac—“ The pub wobbles. Malfoy’s hair shines.

“Mate, you okay?” Ron—a blur of red and freckles—asks.

“Yeah, BFF,” Harry says, because some Muggle girl told him that. He wanders off to follow Malfoy’s arse to the bar.

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i'm starting to love mondays for these prompts! written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: slander (wc: 300)

Snape didn’t even bother to look up from the poorly written essay he was marking when Draco slammed his hands down on his desk, causing his ink to drip onto the parchment. Severus mentally sighed, but didn’t bother to clean it up - the ink blot could only improve the poor piece of writing. 

“I have a complaint against Ernie Macmillan,” Draco said, each word dripping with venom. “For the slander he is saying about me and Potter.” 

“Oh? And what has Mr Macmillan dared to say about you and Potter?” Snape said, his tone clearly disinterested. 

“He is saying that he saw Potter and I in the Prefects bathroom, doing… well, you know what!” Draco screeched, his cheeks blazing red. “Which is not possible; Potter isn’t even a Prefect! Nor would we ever do that!”

Snape looked up at Draco. “This is a serious lie to make up about you and Potter. But not to worry, Mr Malfoy - I am more than happy to slip Mr Macmillan some Veritaserum and ask him if he is telling the truth.” 

Draco’s red cheeks seemed to pale rather quickly, but still he nodded, though it was rather stiff; “well, good. Thank you, Professor.” 

“Of course, if he were telling the truth… Well, I would have to give the Prefect that let Potter into the bathroom detention. And of course, I would have to write a letter home explaining what had occurred…”

Draco stared at Snape, his grey eyes narrowed into slits. Snape stared back, unmoved. 

“... On second thought, I’ll deal with Macmillan myself.” Draco muttered, spinning around to exit the room. 

“Oh, and Mr Malfoy? Do tell Potter to spend less time in the Prefects bathroom, and more in the library.” Snape said, shaking his head as he finished Potter’s essay. “Shoddy work."

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50 words for the @drarrymicrofic prompt Ground:

One of Sirius’s old records spins, and suddenly the attic is full of more than dust. They pause the clean-up, listening.

Ground control to Major Tom…

Draco’s gone starry-eyed; enraptured. Discovering a new world.

Far above the moon…

In this moment, Harry knows: he would love him in every universe.

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Grounded

Sirius looks as shocked as Harry feels when he says it: you're grounded, mate.

Harry hears himself shouting back, almost like an out-of-body experience: you're not my dad!

And then he's storming up the stairs to his room at Grimmauld with his heart thumping loud in his ears, already sick to his stomach.

He didn't really say that, did he? He didn't really yell at Sirius? What's wrong with him lately?

Harry's got a handful of Floo powder in his hand and a fire going before he even manages to stop moving — benefit of living in this old nightmare of a house, every bedroom has a hearth.

It feels like yesterday, but it's been two years since Harry moved in with Sirius, back when Sirius's name was first cleared, the summer after third year. Harry remembers picking this room out, unpacking his clothes, feeling like everything would be okay now that he had a proper home and a real parent.

Harry sticks his head into the green flames, dropping to his belly. He calls out the name of the place he sneaked out to last night, the place he's been spending a lot of his nights this summer.

"Draco," Harry says, panting for air. "Draco, he found out."

207 words for the @drarrymicrofic prompt "ground"

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just cause

for @drarrymicrofic prompt: ground(s) | 130 words | CW: Auror brutality, sex worker slur, morally grey Harry

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Malfoy’s eyes are wet, silver, furious. 

You are hereby sentenced to five years in Azkaban, on the following grounds:

He’s sprawled on the pavement outside The Leaky, robes hiked up. 

Dereliction of duty

Milk-pale calves, defiled with mud spatters. Jacobson’s sludgy bootprint sullying his cheek.

Aiding a known criminal

Jacobson laughs, "Filthy whore". Raises his boot again.

“P- Potter,” Malfoy begs, breath a smoky cloud in the freezing air. 

A flash—the night after Ginny filed for divorce. Ferocious silver eyes and a hot, hot mouth. Harry’d been the one begging.

Conduct unbecoming an Auror

Intent surges through Harry. Fierce. Vivid. More than he’s ever known. 

And, most egregiously, using an Unforgivable on a fellow Auror.

And he'd do it again.

For those silver eyes.

Guards, please escort Mr Potter out

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dirty (50 words)

“Stop the wedding!” A gasp travels through the crowd. “Okay. Really?” Draco moves closer, resolutely, looking like his telenovela dreams are coming true. “Not my fault that your glasses,” he snatches them off Harry, “are always dirty.” “You’re a bastard.” Behind Harry, Ron mumbles, “Marry him already...” “Yeah, I’m trying.”

for @greattemptation who gave me this prompt | my Drarry microfic collection on Ao3

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🌝

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I love you PBS I love you NPR I love you public libraries I love you wikipedia I love you project gutenberg I love you librivox I love you libby I love you hoopla I love you openlibrary I love you internet archive I love you resources that make information free and accessible to the public

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Drarry microfic: Together

“Lock them in a room until they confess their feelings?” Hermione suggests.

“No, they’d just ignore each other. Let’s bind them together with a Sticking Charm,” Pansy counters gleefully, “by their dicks.”

Behind the tapestry, Draco presses his mouth against Harry’s neck, laughing.

“Sounds like fun to me,” Harry whispers.

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Draco used to like Pansy. A lot.

"He's just so—"

Unfortunately, she's now developed some sort of terrible and permanent brain disease.

"—fucking gorgeous, running around the oval in those short shorts before quidditch practice every morning," she goes on. "I mean, you know I couldn't stand him at school; who could? He was hideous. A complete wanker. A scrawny little spectacled rat with an ego to rival yours, which is truly saying something—"

Draco picks at his croissant, and thinks about drowning himself in the nearby fountain.

"—but sweet Circe's cunt, Draco, when I tell you. I nearly climaxed right there and then when I opened the door to the training rooms—"

"Please, let me die."

"—and he's just standing there in nothing but a tiny fucking towel, and he gets so flustered too, just stands there and gapes like this perfect Adonis-like fish, I mean, clearly he hasn't changed that much from school, still as brainless as a worm, but I would very happily ride his gigantic worm if you catch my—"

"YES, Pansy, I'm pretty sure the entire dining district of Diagon fucking Alley has caught your drift." He wishes, not for the first time, that she'd been hired to do PR for literally any other quidditch team in Britain. "Caught it like the plague."

She smirks. "Too bad he bats for the other team."

"What do you mean?" he asks irritably. "He seeks. For the team you work with. That's why you work together, you stupid cow."

"Draco," she says pleasantly. "I will drown you in the Thames."

He smiles tightly back at her. "I am begging you to."

"You're being thick. Thicker than usual. Did you not hear me? He bats." She pokes her fork at him—"For the other"—and flicks some toast at him—"TEAM."

Draco looks at her, disgruntled, brushing egg off his sleeve. "We literally just covered this. He—"

"I don't mean LITERALLY!" she screeches, hurling her napkin at him. Next it will be her plate. "I mean he's fucking gay."

All sound suddenly disappears, replaced by a high-pitched whistling emanating directly, somehow, from his brain.

"What?" The word falls from his lips, even as he mentally falls back on a very obvious, very robust truth: Pansy is unhinged. Obviously. There is no possible way that a man—this man—who has only ever dated girls—two girls—a man who is, in fact, the walking definition of straight, possibly the straightest man this side of the fucking Channel, is—

"Gay, Draco," she says with glacial, disingenuous patience. "Harry Potter is gay."

Oval 🥐 Day 18 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3. Thank you to @its-the-allure, @yellowfork and my sister for reading over this first. xx

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[day 20 of microfic May: reverie]

Draco startles when someone grabs his shoulders. He flushes, guiltily, and looks away from the back of Potter's head one library table over, explanations and excuses already on the tip of his tongue, when he finally looks up and sees that it's only Pansy.

Her voice is sickly sweet when she speaks. "Apologies for interrupting your daydream—"

"I don't daydream."

"Sorry, your reveries—fuck!" (The Stinging Hex catches her hip.) "Draco, you prick!"

Draco rolls his eyes, reshuffles the parchments and the books in front of him, and then sneaks a glance at Potter again. Only one though. And subtly. "Quit bothering me."

"I have something to tell you," she whispers, eyeing the shelves for Madam Pince.

"I don't care," he replies, stubbornly.

"You do."

"I don't, Pansy—"

"Potter's looking at you."

Draco's eyes jump back to Potter. Their eyes meet for a second—less—and then Potter turns away.

Pansy's smirking at him, leaning against the table next to his. Her vantage point is better than his own, Draco notices enviously, but at least he is less noticeable—though he has been noticed it seems.

"He's blushing," Pansy whispers with a snicker.

Draco's heart skips a beat.

other days: tumblr / ao3

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A quick sketch from last night

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Draco & Bartholomew playing together -- 1985

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