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something borrowed

prompt: ‘steal’ (ii) @drarrymicrofic | wc: 290 | ty @the-invisibility-bloke for giving this a looksie 🫶🏼

He catches Harry as he’s slipping away.

“I believe you’re still holding onto something of mine.” For someone who nearly fell into fire, Malfoy’s cool as ever, grey eyes narrowed.

“I was just borrowing it. Here.”

“Winners, keepers, you said. So, I need to win it back.”

“No.” It comes out small, serrated. “I don’t want to fight. Just take it, Draco.”

“Who said anything about fighting?” The rasp in his throat obscures his tone—or maybe Harry’s just tired of solving other people’s riddles.

“I just want—”

“There’s damage to the parapets around the quad, if you were trying to sneak up to Gryffindor Tower,” Draco says quietly. “I can show you another place.”

Harry finds he’s no strength left for suspicion. He lets himself be led, a lost soul drawn towards the dying light.

The room is warm, lived-in. A little pocket stolen from time.

Draco’s mouth twists into a wry, bruised smile. “Head Boy privileges.”

Harry has no more questions in him. Not now. He wants to crawl under gratitude, wrap himself in borrowed comfort.

“Where are you going?”

Malfoy pauses mid-turn. “Back to my family, obviously.”

His hair’s still singed, starlight strands sown with ash. Survival suits him.

Harry swallows. “What about your wand?”

For a moment, his old smirk steals across his lips. “Are you really that easy to win over?”

“Yes,” Harry croaks, because he can’t say stay.

“You’re dead on your feet, Potter. I’ll come back for it another time.”

Harry doesn’t try to stop him again.

He sinks into bed, buries his face in Draco’s pillow. Breathes it in, as if he could inhale the essence of family, keep a piece of it for himself.

He lets it cradle him to sleep.

(i totally got inspired by @lovelyloveliesss’s micro for ‘brief’) | on ao3

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"Sorry, I don't, er, believe in soulmates."

"Potter, I never said a thing about—"

"Yes you did! You literally just—"

"I never said we were soulmates, you mouth-breathing halfwit! I said you were my…"

"…Yes?"

"Fuck off."

"No, tell me. What am I?"

"You're a prick, that's what you are."

"Come on, Malfoy."

"You're—ugh! You're my mate."

"Right. And that's different to a soulmate how, exactly?"

"Oh! Well, actually, soulmates are a muggle concept, with origins in folklore and mythology; Plato and Aristophanes—"

"Hermione, I think we should just, uh… leave them to this. Bye, mate. Catch ya, Ferret."

"Get fucked, Weasel."

"…You're so nice to my friends."

"Well, what do you expect? If you want me to be nice, get better friends."

"I know you secretly like them now."

"Unverifiable."

"And you like me."

"Patently untrue. You're the greatest pain in my arse."

"No, I'm your mate."

"There's no need to sound so fucking smug. Gods above, I should have known you'd be completely insufferable about this—"

"Anyway. If we're talking about a literal pain in a literal arse, I think you'll find you're the one who—"

"Yes, well, that's what got us into this whole fucking mess, isn't it? I made the colossal mistake of sticking my dick in the Chosen hole, and look what it got me: a fucking Veela inheritance. Cheers, Potter."

"You're welcome. Now, can we get back to fucking about it?"

"Fine. But only if you let me mark you."

"Let you—what?!"

Expect @drarrymicrofic {250 words + dialogue only, soulmates, veela and humour}

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@drarrymicrofic prompt: expect

ao3

Malfoy is smirking when Harry bounds into his lab, sweaty and armed and frantic.

“Potter,” Malfoy drawls, leaning back against his workstation with none of the urgency of a man at risk of being charged with brewing and distributing highly illegal experimental potions. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Yeah, well, here I am,” Harry hisses. “You’ve got about a minute and a half to get lost before the rest of the DMLE comes and busts your door down.”

“You came to warn me? How romantic,” Malfoy teases, his smirk growing sharklike. Harry feels his cheeks heat. It’s embarrassing that Malfoy can still make him do that so easily.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Harry tells him, certainly not for the first time. Probably not for the last. “Go before Robards gets here and delivers you to Azkaban personally. Please. I can only ‘accidentally’ hex him so many times before he sacks me.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Robards couldn’t catch me if I was bound and gagged with my wand snapped in half. I swear he’s part troll.”

It’s true that Robards isn’t the auror he used to be. Perhaps it has something to do with Harry hurling confunduses and tripping jinxes at him whenever he’s onto Malfoy.

Regardless of his apparent nonchalance, Malfoy straightens and saunters over to the floo. Unregistered, unregulated. Un-allowed. “See you tonight?”

“Of course,” Harry huffs, softening a bit. Malfoy pecks him on the cheek, pats him dutifully on the arse.

“Right. I’ll be off, then. Don’t let Weasel break any of my good glassware,” Malfoy says.

“Fine, just go away!” Harry insists, shoving Malfoy into the hearth. Malfoy laughs as he throws a fistful of floo powder into the grate, green flames whisking him away to his safe house.

Harry vanishes the soot and snatches a photo of himself in a ridiculous heart-shaped frame from the desk. A gag gift from Parkinson- Harry had seen her desk littered with pictures of Neville and whined that Draco doesn’t have any photos of him displayed anywhere. Harry pockets the thing just before Robards and Ron rush in.

“Gone before I showed up,” Harry says, putting on his best dejected face. The others slump, defeated.

As they get to work cataloguing everything in the lab, Harry’s stomach growls. He absently wonders if Draco will have dinner ready for him when he gets home later.

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In which Narcissa knows; Narcissa always knows

It was so bloody obvious. They shuffled into the breakfast room barely a foot apart—Draco with that deliciously ruined look of someone who’d had half a night’s sleep and none of it innocent, Harry with a grin he couldn’t wipe off if he tried. And—Merlin save them—Harry had nicked Draco’s absurd garden gnome T-shirt.

Narcissa’s eyebrow climbed into the stratosphere the instant she clocked it; she knew perfectly well whose wardrobe housed that particular atrocity.

For a second, there was only silence.

Then, Narcissa, with all the effortless grace in the world, merely took a delicate sip of her tea and smiled. “Good morning, boys.”

Harry choked.

Draco made a strangled noise, somewhere between a cough and an attempt at dignity. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin in what Harry assumed was an attempt to reclaim his usual indifference. It did not work.

“Mother,” he began. “We—”

“You do not need to explain, dear,” Narcissa interrupted smoothly, setting her cup down. Her eyes twinkled. She was enjoying this.

Harry had never wanted to live in a moment forever as much as he did right then.

ao3 link

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wound iii (50 words)

It arrives Tuesday. Malfoy – Someday I'll find you, return it personally. This is just a backup-plan. PS: I've long forgiven you. Draco places the letter and the old Hawthorne wand beside the Prophet. Potter's face is on every page today, printed on black paper; heroes aren't buried among ordinary obituaries.

prompt from @drarrymicrofic | my Drarry microfic collection on Ao3

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for @drarrymicrofic | prompt: wound | wc: 54

Kiss it Better

“You’re bleeding.” 

“Observation worthy of Ravenclaw, Potter.” 

“Let me see.” 

“You already do.” 

“Stop deflecting.” 

“Stop caring.” 

“Impossible.”

Silence settles like dust.

“It’s just a scratch.” 

“On your soul, maybe.” 

“Then kiss it better.”

Heartbeat. 

“Say please.” 

“Please.”

Their mouths meet—iron-salt, rain on old stone—until the world forgets where wounds end and want begins.

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Microfic: Inhale

for @drarrymicrofic. unbetaed, and i'm sure there's mistakes, and apparently four years hasn't made me any better at the micro part! cw: suicide

Happy birthday @wolfpants! i'm sorry it's a bit of a sad one :D

***

Harry inhales.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself back at Hogwarts, standing in the middle of the Quidditch pitch. He’s surrounded by a mist so pervasive he can see barely twenty feet in any direction, though it’s nothing like the dense gloomy Highlands fog he knows. This mist is brighter, otherworldly in its brilliance, and it's with a lurch of his stomach that Harry understands: he might have stood on this patch of grass dozens of times, but he’s only been here once before, and the last time round it looked like a railway platform.

He's not alone this time, either: there’s a man in the centre of the pitch, kneeling over two brooms. White hair on white mist; even so, it takes a while to make the connection. It’s been years, after all.

Harry clears his throat. I didn’t think I’d see you here, he means to say, but it comes out wrong. “I didn’t think I’d be here.”

Malfoy looks up, startled. “Well, hello to you too,” he says, in that snobbish, snotty, teenage voice Harry now hears only in his dreams. “I’d say I didn’t think I’d see you here either, but then shoving your partner out of the way so you can take a Reducto to the chest actually seems rather on-brand for Harry bloody Potter.”

It’s almost funny, except for all the ways in which it isn’t. Malfoy’s so young still, barefoot, his toes digging into the mist-damp grass. His robes are Azkaban-issue, comically large; he has to bunch them up in one hand as he gets to his feet.

“This place is an in-between,” Malfoy begins, spreading his arms to indicate their surroundings. Harry’s eyes catch on his left cuff, which is brown on the inside, a faded bloodstain blooming almost up to the elbow. Malfoy catches Harry looking, and drops his hands quickly to his sides.

“I know what this place is,” says Harry quickly. “I’ve done it before, remember?”

“Of course you have,” Malfoy says, tired. “Well, I suppose that makes my job easier. If you know where you are, you know what happens next.”

Harry’s chest feels odd, suddenly, empty of air. He presses a hand against it, finds his clothes damp with the mist. “What happens next,” he says, considering. “You going to give me a load of platitudes, say some vague stuff about death, and then let me choose whether to stay here or go back?”

Malfoy snorts. “Hardly. Fuck Dumbledore, honestly. And I’m not daft, Potter, I know you’ll go back. You’ve got people who… I mean, you’ve got people, haven’t you.” He glares at Harry, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I just thought we might play some Quidditch before you leave. If you want.”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Yeah, alright then.”

Harry captains his Sunday league team, and Malfoy’s been dead for five years, so it shouldn’t be close, not really, but this is the in-between place, and this is Malfoy, infuriating relentless Malfoy, with teenage reflexes and stamina to boot. Malfoy plays like he has no fear, which is probably true, and like he has nothing to lose, which is definitely true, and it is close. The Snitch is barely visible through the endless mist, and the two of them end up flying neck and neck over hills and valleys, arms outstretched towards every celestial glimmer. It’s Malfoy who makes the catch in the end, breathless and beautiful, laughing and laughing and so full of life as he heads back to the stadium. The scar on his wrist is clear to see, red raw as he lifts his fist up to the sky, and Harry flies over beside him, catching his outstretched arm. The wound’s a little jagged in the middle, like maybe he changed his mind halfway through.

“I was there, for the Wizengamot,” Harry tells him, quietly, as they land together on the pitch. “I was going to speak for you.”

Malfoy makes a pained noise, turning his face aside. He opens his fist, lets the Snitch disappear off into endless white, and Harry slips his own hand in its place. There’s a rushing, roaring sound in his ears that’s growing harder to ignore.

“Decided what you’re doing yet, Potter?” Malfoy asks, voice tight. “It’s almost time, you know.” He moves to pull his hand back, but Harry tightens his grip.

“What about you?”

Malfoy snorts. “Me? What do you think?”

The roaring sound’s louder now. Harry can make out voices. Ron’s, maybe, and Robards’. There’s the whoosh of rapid casting, the pop of Apparition, and somewhere far off, a child is screaming.

Back in the silent in-between, Malfoy waits, eyes bright.

“Well?” he asks, squeezing Harry’s hand.

Harry inhales.

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Drarry Microfic I 103 words

“You… love me?”

“Yeah…”

“You… love me?!” It came out angrier this time. 

“W-well, I–”

“You can’t just say things like that!”

“Draco, I’m sorry, I–”

“Do you know how long it took me? How many sessions with that stupid therapist? Just to accept that you would never love me back? That I just had to move the fuck on! And you love me?!”

Harry gaped up at him, unsure of how to respond.

“Yes?” He finally piped up sheepishly. 

Draco’s eyes flared. Harry moved to step back, but Draco held him in place by the collar. Then he smashed their lips together. 

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Propaganda I am NOT falling for:

Tall Harry Potter

Short Draco Malfoy

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HELLO !! I would like to ask but do you have any other social media :0?

Hiiii, I unfortunately don't post my art outside of tumblr. I've started posting here only because I got tired of my art dusting over on my pc. Maybe someday I will start posting elsewhere ;)

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im oficialy back in my pony era, if somebody sees this, which character from harry potter should i ponyfy?

i am ready

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my greatest fault.