lupine-trees

[lupine-trees]

it's just a supercut of us.

[ boys tending wards & having visions & criss-crossing paths. ♡ inspired (loosely) by the song supercut by lorde. ]

drarry | word count: ~4,768 (!) | rating: e | cw: drinking, description of injuries, sexual content

read it on ao3 here or in full below the cut ⋆˙⟡

_ _ _

all the magic we gave off ⋆˙⟡

“This is where the wards are weakening?” Harry asks, following the treeline to a low stone wall, a meadow rolling over beyond it.

“Are supposed to weaken,” Terry says, corrective, scratching a note into his moleskine.

“You keep saying that,” Harry answers, diagnostic charms still unfurling. “What does that even mean?”

“The department received intel that these wards were going to collapse within the next week. I believe the words they used were ‘unexpected’ and ‘catastrophic’.” He gives a pointed glance over the frames of his glasses. “This was all in the brief.”

“I’m known for reading those,” Harry says, feeling along the stones, expanding the arc of his spell radius. The earth beneath his feet is marshy, the air chill.

“Where does this intel come from anyway?”

“Oh, most tips are from local folks. Ones who notice things acting funny, going awry. Obviously,” he goes on, gesturing broadly to the empty horizon, “not the case here. No, this one must have been a seer.”

“A seer?” Harry says, shuffling in his boots, snapping a soft warming charm between the two of them.

Terry nods appreciatively, then: “Yep. Seer.” He pulls the file, unshrunken from his pocket, and flips it open, scanning. Hums. “Draco Malfoy,” he says, nonplussed.

Harry’s magic hiccups.

“Malfoy?”

all the love we had and lost ⋆˙⟡

“Heard there was a bit of a bungled ward job there in Welwick. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

His drawl is so sharp, so unexpected, that Harry startles against the bartop, his ale sloshing over the side of his pint glass. He turns, and surely enough.

“Malfoy,” he says, working to regain composure. He feels for an appropriate reply. “Couldn’t say,” he lands on. “That job was classified, last I heard.”

“Pity,” Draco answers, leaning over the pinewood counter, nearly pressed to his side. “If only you’d had some sort of advance notice. Might’ve saved you some trouble.”

Harry grinds his teeth, mulling Malfoy’s angle. “Yeah,” he says. “Too bad.”

Draco casts a scrutinizing glance his way, nose wrinkling in, well, not derision, really. Focus, perhaps. Calculation. “No fun, Potter. If I can’t wheedle information out of you, what good are you to me?” He nurses his own pint.

Harry weighs it a moment.

“They didn’t send you the write-up?” he murmurs eventually, their shoulders brushing.

Draco hums. “No. Informants don’t get write-ups.” He drums his fingers across the counter. “I had hoped it would help.” His mouth ticks downward. “The—” and he waves his hand in front of himself, implying intel or vision or something, whichever, wordless.

Harry thinks of the ward crumbling, their third day on the job, slow then all at once, of the marsh splitting beyond, a rift that he could feel pull at his center, magic whipping out of him.

Terry was still on leave, requiring ample rest and rehab for the magical core depletion he’d sustained.

The wizarding presence in Welwick was small (nearly negligible, and yet— a home-brew apothecary, three magical families). Which was fortunate, the minimalism, but the town of Grimsby, just across the Hawke Channel, or Kingston-Upon-Hull, along the same ward-line to the northwest…

Well, they were lucky to get it contained quickly.

“Maybe it did,” he says, edging along confidentiality clauses. “Help, that is. Imagine if there’d been no warning at all.”

“I have,” Draco answers, neatly polishing off his drink. He glances to the door.

“Let me get you another,” Harry says, surprising himself.

Malfoy catches him in that gaze again, tongue tracing subtle over an incisor as he considers him. “Alright, then.”

“Same as before?” Harry asks, flagging the bartender.

“No,” Draco says. “I’ll have a whiskey.”

. . .

The loo is small, cramped, and under different circumstances, Harry might take a moment to expand it, but his priorities are rather elsewhere. For example:

Priority #1. Hand in Malfoy’s hair.

Priority #2. Hand down Malfoy’s pants.

Or maybe flip those. Fuck.

“Potter, would you—” breathless, and then Draco’s pulling them flush by the loops of his jeans, his hands roving frantic under Harry’s shirt, skittering over his belt.

Harry presses him back against the door then, the need to hold him still, steady, resolute.

Draco twists in his grasp, tugging harshly at Harry’s waistband, breath hot at his throat.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers, and that heat ghosts over his neck, a laugh, Draco biting at the tendons there, then kissing open-mouthed over them, before dropping his forehead to Harry’s shoulder.

“I want to see you,” he murmurs, pulling at Harry’s zipper, palming him through his jeans.

“Just let me look a moment,” he breathes, as Harry sharply twines his fingers through the soft ends of his hair, “and then I’ll suck you off.”

Draco’s fingers wrap around him then, and Harry hisses at the cold of them. “Shh,” Draco shushes him, sucking at the soft spot under his jaw, pulling his hand away. “Someone‘ll hear you,” he hums, slotting his leg between, then pressing, sudden, turning Harry around, his back going flat against the wall.

Harry’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering forward on Draco’s thigh.

“Mm, been a minute, has it?” Draco says, his own heavy breaths a small betrayal of himself, his thumb tracing a quick circle over Harry’s nipple, rising to grip him by the chin.

“Don’t give out on me yet.”

Harry ought’ve known, may have, if he’d had even a single second to consider it, that Draco would be like this— talking, and knowing, and good.

Draco drops to his knees.

. . .

Harry swallows, syrupy, the feel of Draco’s cock still hot and heavy in his hand, even as he tucks himself away.

“Well done,” Draco murmurs, eyes cutting up through his lashes, smirk playing over his lips as he pulls his zipper upright, and Harry feels it thrill to the very heart of him.

“Are you— Could we, uh—”

His thought process in full is an inarticulate reel of again again again.

God, he’d like again.

His mind tracks backwards, too, the evening glistening in retrospect.

To the drinks— the sharpness of Draco’s wit, the teasing lilt of his ire. The barbs most others spare him of anymore, too afraid or otherwise too polite to cast them his direction. His humor, odd, in an almost-endearing sort of way, and of the laughter Harry was able to string out of him in spite of it, (or perhaps because). Of the myriad questions he has, long-held, pent up and waiting, unaccountably eager.

So, sure, that, too: again.

But Draco flashes him a smile, drawn tight. “Let’s not a sour a good thing, hm?”

Behind his own scarred sternum, the stirring fear of daylight goes pulsing through him, of the regret it might drag along with it. The thought of Potter’s face (loose, lovely) turning, going cold and embarrassed, resentful.

No— he’ll keep this. Fluorescent, sure, but languid and softened. Wanting.

“Oh,” Harry says, inexplicably injured. “Sure.”

Draco makes for the door then, a fluid motion, departure-ready. “See you around,” he says, airy, and then he’s gone.

The tap drips unfeelingly.

Harry catches his reflection in the murky mirror, hair wrecked, mouth raw.

Wonders, sudden, how Draco knew to find him here. Wonders, even before ever entering the bar, just how much he knew.

the visions never stop ⋆˙⟡

It’s five months later, when they receive another preemptive tip-off.

For this one, the scope and the scale, they’ve had to assemble a team.

In the field, things had started, for the most part, routine. Now, though:

The spell sirens are sudden and piercing, three alighting all at once, sounding their distinct forms of blare, one on top of the other.

Terry sprints for the other end of the churchyard, the old stone building dilapidated at the center of it, spells flung with professional precision.

It’s no wonder the anchor’s gone unstable— it never should’ve been let to sit damaged this long.

Mazie of ward team two starts to weave a net of modified stasis spells, casting the other end to her partner, Clarisse, who hastily draws the corners to each edge of the property.

The crack of apparition is hardly discernible over the din, and Harry has no time to follow its source, Protegos and patchwork spells spilling from the end of his wand in rapid succession.

Robards shouts to the Auror escorts, but before they can hardly move, there’s a harsh hand at Harry’s elbow.

“Give me that,” Draco hisses, insistent, snatching at his wand.

His first spell is an over-wide Protego, quick and sloppily-cast but strong, surrounding the team.

Harry can feel the tug at his own magic, the way it pools and tangles with Draco’s, siphoned through the holly wand. The feeling zips straight to his toes, leaves his face warm, a wanting in his middle. He tamps it, frustration building.

“Oh, grand— yes, go on and fix it now. I’m sure you know how.”

“You’re joking, surely,” Draco answers, incredulous, brows drawn down, eyes elsewhere.

“Oh, yeah, surely. Everything I say must be a joke, right?”

Harry tosses a few wandless stasis spells, then spins a quick diagnostic, still searching for the source of the chaos.

“Potter, what the fuck.”

“Forget it,” Harry says, going embarrassed, his focus clawing back to the task at hand. “Just surprised to see you, I suppose. Would hate to sour your memory of our last encounter with something so trivial as this.”

Draco grits his teeth, the sound of it evident in the gravel-cut of his voice.

“Are we really doing this now?”

“Harry!” Terry shouts from the other end of the lot, his voice harsh. “We need a tether! Now!”

Harry reaches for his wand, but Draco pulls it from his grasp.

“Do it wandless,” he snaps. “I’m not finished.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Merlin,” Harry mutters, flexing his fingers over the ward, the pulse of it shuddering beneath his palms. “What exactly is it you plan to do?”

“Mind your tether,” Draco answers shortly, his eyes falling shut. “Let me focus.”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut, his jaw clenched. He pulls his attention back to Terry at the other end of the yard, tracing the line weaving between them, then pouring every stable thought into it.

“Nervoprotego murusum,” he hisses, and feels the bolt of magic split between the net he’s woven with Terry, the casting in Draco’s hand.

When he chances a glance, Draco’s face has fallen eerily still, his brows softened in a forced serenity. He raises Harry’s wand and with a resolute slash, he calls above the clamor:

“Reparo murudamnus!”

The sirens fall silent, and beneath Harry’s flexed fingers, the line reaches stasis, drawing taut as a bowstring, unwavering and sure.

Terry whoops, letting out a startled laugh, relieved. “Proper well done!”

Harry stretches his fingers, the ache of them arthritic, his eyes flickering back to Draco.

Sweat gathers at his brow, his breath coming heavily, no trace of tranquility remaining.

“Alright?” Harry calls, as Robards and the Auror team move back in, Mazie and Clarisse encircling the stones of the chapel in added charms.

“Fine,” Draco rasps, then clears his throat. “I’m fine.”

Harry grabs his wand, then, adrenaline slamming up against its limits, overextended.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Draco tucks his exhaustion swiftly away, and the sneer that falls in its place pulls something visceral from Harry’s gut, all muscle memory.

“I think,” Draco seethes, “you mean, ‘Thank you’.”

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Harry says, then circles back. “That night—” he snaps. “Was there— Did you have a vision about me?” At Draco’s bewildered glance, he continues, unrepentant, “Did you know…?”

Draco’s blank look morphs, and he snarls under his breath, “You’re serious? Did I know you’d give me a handy in the loo and ruin my favorite fucking trousers?”

At Harry’s wince, his surveilling swivel, Draco softens, minute.

“Potter— I don’t think you fully grasp how visions work. They’re not prophecies. Not fixed. That’s why I can offer intel,” he says, gesturing to the scene before them. “Because it can change.”

Harry shifts, something in him settling, absently sliding his wand into its holster.

“So, you didn’t know I’d be there?”

Draco purses his lips.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it wasn’t a vision,” Harry offers.

Draco’s respondent silence is damning.

Harry’s brow furrows.

“Why would it have shown you I was there that night?”

“I don’t know,” Draco drones, just this side of controlled.

Harry feels fit to burst, his hands itchy with it, hot. “Malfoy—”

“I don’t know!”

And then the ward combusts.

these ribbons wrap me up ⋆˙⟡

In the papers, they call it the most catastrophic ward collapse of the last twenty years.

The damage is righted— professional Obliviation teams dispatched from the Department of Mysteries, alongside the newly minted Muggle Relations Coordination Committee; contract ward-wix hired to help repair damages along the line; Ministry grants dispersed to cover costs of property damage, Muggle and wixen alike, and of treatment for the region-wide mild magical core depletion.

None of them know how much worse it could have been.

. . .

The Protego Draco’d cast upon arrival had been a force— had kept the better part of the team in relative safety.

Somehow, though, in the ensuing calamity, he had fallen outside of its bounds.

At St. Mungo’s, Harry waits at his bedside, the Quibbler’s three-dimensional crossword a poor distraction for the worry that settles in his stomach like a stone, scraping harshly up against the dry, sterile air, and the resounding sound of Draco’s shallow breath.

He wakes thirty-three hours after falling unconscious, and Harry’s there to greet him.

“Hey,” he says, rising from his chair unbidden, clattering, before settling back into it as Draco winces away, blinking into the harsh light of morning, the fluorescent hum above him. Harry dims the overheads, wordless.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Draco rasps, then, gaze settling on Harry’s haggard face, shadowed eyes, he amends, “Fine. Sore. Fine.”

He twists against the blankets, freeing his arms from the careful fold, sinking back again. “What happened?”

“The ward collapsed,” Harry says. Then: “Collapsed is maybe too gentle a term. It— exploded, I guess.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot upward, then crash down, his face crumpling.

“I thought— I thought I could stop it.”

Harry hums. “It looked like it. At first. We all thought you did.”

Draco sighs, an uneasy hand drawing shakily up into his hair.

“The spell was yours. I saw you use it. Well, saw it,” he says, emphasis shifting, fingers aflutter. He swallows, perturbed, and wets his lips, chapped. “I— I must not have done it right. Or strong enough.”

His hands curl around the bed rails, then fall back to his sides. “I thought if I could get there sooner, cast it sooner— Well.” He grins, wry and tired. “It did. Make a difference, I suppose.”

Harry keeps his own hands knit in the hospital blanket, wooly and thin, Draco’s shin a warm press just below. “How’s that? The difference, I mean.”

“You’re there,” he says, gesturing to the chair. “And I’m here.” He lies back in the bed, melting into the cotton-filled pillows.

“Dra—”

“The others?” Draco asks.

“Fine. Everyone’s fine. Auror Delaney was treated for some hearing damage. Temporary. Clarisse needed a Renervate on-site. Terry twisted an ankle. But he’s good as new.”

“And you?”

Harry hesitates, then rolls up his shirtsleeve, the jumper Ron had brought for him after his surgery. “Just these,” he says, dittany salve still working over the scars criss-crossing the back of his forearm, rounding his elbow and over his bicep.

“Do you know how I got them?”

Draco flushes, the high points of his cheeks going peach-pink. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Harry snaps, going on.

“These are from where I wrapped my arm around you. Which means you took the brunt of it.” He pauses, awaiting acknowledgement, but Draco’s silence won’t break, his gaze drawn down.

Harry snap summons his chart, reads off:

“Patient experienced severe laceration and moderate burns (first- and second-degree) as a result of ward combustion. Blast was classed as level three on Bumbard’s SFS (Spell Force Scale). Injuries predominantly concentrated to the torso, with extant impact across arms and thighs. Minimal abrasions across face, shoulders, and lower legs. Possible concussion. Ongoing monitoring of vital organ function. Course of treatment has included blood replenishment, magi-surgical suturing, burn redressing, and elevated suite of diagnostic testing. Prognosis: indeterminate, positive indicators. Awaiting consciousness to determine neurological impact, if any.”

Harry’s voice, which he’d meant to keep quiet, neutral, has risen by the time he stops, is quivering faintly.

Draco won’t meet his eyes.

Harry sighs, resting the clipboard at the edge of the bed.

“I can’t understand why you’d do this,” he whispers.

Draco’s eyes snap to him then, fury flickering indignant over his features. “Of course you can,” he says, sure of it. “You’d have done the very same.”

Harry stares, jaw working, wanting to retort, to deny it. He suspects he’d be lying. He suspects, rueful, that Draco’s right. So instead, he says:

“I know it’s not fair to ask— I mean, I know they’re yours, but…” He falters, presses forward. “How do they work? Would you tell me how they work? The visions?”

Draco flexes his fingers, then silently counts them off, ducking them one after the other, one through ten. His mouth pulls tight, before he releases a breath, slow.

“I can’t call them, usually. Sometimes, if I focus, I can get a glimpse. An image, or a flash of movement. If I close my eyes and clear my head, make everything quiet. But not usually.”

Throat drying, he reaches for the cup of water at his bedside, and Harry levitates it to him, careful. He steadies it in his hands, takes a shallow sip before going on.

“The strongest ones are always unexpected. I’ll be having a cup of tea or a shower, or be walking into a shop or tying my shoelaces, and then suddenly… I’m not anymore. Except I am, of course, but it doesn’t feel it. And I can be gone minutes at a time, but I come back and time hasn’t moved at all.”

He takes another drink, and another, finishing it off, holding the small plastic cup in his palms once he’s done.

“I know it’s happening, when it does. Everything goes dark, then bright, and I feel like I’ve been turned sideways, a shoddy apparition.”

He takes a shuddery breath, placing the cup on the side table. His eyes, distracted— averted, ‘til now— find Harry.

“And then I see you.”

Harry shifts in the chair, the blanket rough under the swirl of his thumb, grounding.

“You mean, you saw me then. That night.”

“Potter,” Draco says, gaze pleading.

He presses his eyes closed, hands folded over his middle, bracing.

His voice is barely a breath above the monitoring charms, the soft beep. beep. beep. of his heartbeat.

“They’re always you.”

come home to my heart ⋆˙⟡

They make Draco a contract consultant, after.

The memo from Percy highlights the boon they expect the Wizarding Architectural Warding Agency will gain from his counsel, the responsibilities they anticipate he will take on, the duration of his contract. (Two years, pending renewal upon review. Harry’s stomach flips.)

The memo from Robards is a bit more concise: “As a clause of his contract, Mr. Malfoy has received 2B security clearance. This is to say, there will be no more crashing (illegally) through anti-apparition wards. He is, as of now, on the DMLE permitted passage list. If further clarification of these terms is required, please contact Ms. Carlile.”

So: colleagues.

The thing is, they work well together.

Draco spends a great deal of time in the office, poring over warding manuals and architectural texts, geographic data, magi-geologic maps, historical logs.

He enlists Terry in his efforts, and seeing the two of them discuss theory, animated, reminds Harry of what a swot Draco is, has always been. (He pretends not to be charmed.)

They take him on routine field runs, and Harry coaches him through practicum, diagnostic spells and basic warding stabilizers to start. “Start small,” he says. “It helps calibrate. Then,” he presses his fingers to the underside of Draco’s arm, lifts, exaggerating the spell’s gesture, “you can expand it.”

Draco offers them tips, guidance, warnings, as they become relevant. “Stay behind this line,” he’ll say, tracing a trail through the dirt, or “Concentrate your patches here” illuminating a specific stretch of ward.

Once, they’re trying to triangulate an anchor (neglected, and not in any of their logs, meaning: ancient), when Draco pulls the map to himself and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he places a pin to it, two centimeters (or some twenty kilometers) to the west of their estimate.

Terry whistles, low. “Merlin, that’s impressive,” he says, a fond shake of his head.

Draco shrugs. “It’s nothing. Not a skill, really. Just a feature.”

“Still,” Harry says, pulling the map back across the desk, the brush of Draco’s fingers like a light-socket jinx, zinging through him. “Thank you.”

Draco tucks his flush back behind his copy of Warding Digest.

The insights increase efficiency exponentially— their callout numbers nearly double, then suddenly begin to taper downward. It’s remarkable. Nationally, ward stability reaches a hundred-year high.

Why, they get an honorary plaque from the Minister and everything.

. . .

“Gentlemen, as the lead of Wizarding Britain’s most highly decorated warding team, I have a proposal.”

“Aren’t we one of three teams?” Draco asks beneath his breath.

“Just the two,” Harry answers. “Budget cuts.”

“A celebration!” Terry goes on, valiantly opting to ignore them, arms flung around their shoulders. “What do you say?”

. . .

Terry Boot looks like a lightweight. For public safety, it ought to be known: He is not.

As he orders the fourth round of shots, Harry clasps tight to his Heineken, the bottle a reassuringly familiar shape in his hand, the alcohol content a gentler-by-the-moment five percent.

The club is electric— literally, a new mixed-magic venue called Voltage, with one enchanted entrance on Diagon, another somewhere in Muggle Soho. The lights are ninety percent neon, the music seventy-five percent synthesizer.

As an esteemed guest, Clarisse is pressed to Terry’s side, her bobbed golden hair falling into her face as she laughs against the crook where his shoulder meets his neck, red lips streaking over the juncture. Terry has his hand curled careful around her side, the dip of her waist beneath his fingertips, his other hand raised above him, glass miraculously upright. Across the dance floor, Harry catches sight of Mazie’s spill of pink hair, her fingers twined in the close-cropped curls of a leggy wix with a lupine grin.

The bass feels funny in his chest, the crowd suddenly closer, and he can sense, distant, the baseless tension crawling up his throat.

Then, there are fingers at his wrist, and Draco’s pulling him forward until they’re nearly chest to chest. Harry’s hands have risen, absent, to hold Draco in turn, feeling the steady clasp of fingers over his forearms.

“What’s your favorite color?” Draco shouts, and Harry’s shocked sudden back into his own body.

“What?” he calls.

“Co-lor,” Draco enunciates, cheeky. “Hue. Bloody gradient, if you like.”

Harry smirks at him. “Red,” he says, just to see Draco’s nose crinkle, which it does.

“Boo,” he jeers, and Harry laughs.

“Joking,” Harry assures him. “But it is burgundy.”

“A fickle man’s red,” Draco shouts, and Harry shakes his head, smile cemented.

“No appeasing you,” he hums, to which Draco answers, impenitent, “Never!”

“What’s yours?”

“My what?” Draco says, suddenly shifty, deflecting.

“Favorite co-lor,” Harry says, unflappable, hands still holding on, a careful curl at Draco’s elbows.

“Phthalo,” he says, as though he’s being clever.

Harry pinches at the underside of his forearm. “Slytherin!” he accuses. “That’s just green!”

Draco grins at him, the lilt of it so open and amused, his lips a private sort of quirk. Harry feels himself falling forward more than decides it.

Their mouths slot together, easy and insistent. Draco hums hungrily against the press of him, and Harry’s hand descends to his hip, the other rising to flip off Terry, who’s hooting in the periphery.

Draco’s fists are balled at Harry’s chest, black t-shirt sacrificial in his fingers, heartbeat a hammering throughline beneath his ribs. Harry steps closer, their legs interlocking, before Draco pulls back with a hiss, mouth ripe and reddened, irises storm-dark.

“Wait,” he pants, hands a sudden stop at Harry’s torso, “Potter, wait.”

Harry halts, a shuffling half-step back, hands hovering, helpless.

Draco gulps a breath. “We—”

Another breath, and Harry wants to swallow his words, to stifle them, to press back in until it smooths the stubborn furrow from his brow. He holds back.

Draco shakes his head, clearing. “I should go.”

He relinquishes the cotton of Harry’s shirt, pulls himself from his embrace.

“Draco,” Harry says, voice gone unsteady, already sorry.

“It’s fine!” Draco says, pressing a guarded smile over his face. “I’m fine. Stay, have fun.” He shakes his glass, gin & tonic, still half-full. “I’m being gauche. I’ve had too much.”

Harry grasps, whirring, but can find no words, can only watch stricken as he recedes. Draco deposits his drink at the bar then picks his way careful through the crowd, the strobing lights, to the neon of the Wizarding exit, and disappears, a shadow, into the dark beyond the door.

“Harry!” Terry says, shoving at his shoulder.

Harry spins.

“What?” he answers, still dazed.

Terry smiles soppily, rolls his eyes. “Go,” he says, waving him off, dismissive, directive.

Harry blinks. Nods, then turns, shifting through the sea of bodies, suddenly surer. At the threshold, he glances back, one last sidelong look. Terry’s still supervising, waving him out and away, mouthing Shoo, before sending him an assuring thumbs-up.

Harry grins once more and goes.

. . .

In his townhouse, he fumbles the door just-shut behind him, stumbling out of his shoes and into the sitting room, lighting the Floo without ceremony.

“Draco Malfoy,” he calls into the flames before he can make himself think better of it, before he can make himself think worse.

Last second, he summons a sobering potion from his medicine cabinet, swallows it unsurreptitiously, casts a mouthwash charm to rinse the medicinal taste of it from his mouth.

Kneeling in front of the grate, a heavy moment passes, a minute eternity, before Draco appears, blinking sleepily through the firelight.

“Yes?” he says, blearily.

Harry has to bite back an apology, stifle the urge to cut the call and crawl into bed.

“I needed to talk to you,” he says.

Draco’s gaze focuses, his palm rubbing his eyes properly awake as something like concern crosses his countenance.

“What is it?”

Harry inhales, sharp. Exhales, shaky. Says:

“You didn’t let me finish. That night at the bar.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Harry goes on, amending, abrupt, “I wanted to ask you something. You didn’t let me.”

Draco is still, on the other end, green light casting his features unsteady.

“I would’ve asked you to drinks. Or dinner. I don’t know, something. I wanted that, even then.” He sees the small intake of breath, Draco’s brows drawing in. “I’d like it more now.”

Draco’s face in the Floo light wavers.

“I’m… sorry,” Draco says, “for the way things went before. That night, I mean. I’m glad, now. That we’re friendly. Friends.”

He leans back from the flames, his voice falling fainter. “Potter, I’d prefer not to mess this up. I don’t want to be the one to fuck things up again.”

Harry huffs.

“Could you— just— let me,” and then he’s tumbling through, in, and out again, Draco scrabbling backwards across the floorboards to make room, the hearth spilling him into the flat inelegantly.

“Hi,” Harry says, folding carefully onto the floor beside him.

Draco pulls at the tassels of the rug there, colorful woven cord, his stocking-feet feeling suddenly and absurdly intimate, his sleep-tousled hair, bed-creased shirt. “Hello.”

“We could do this right,” Harry says. “I know we could.” He bites his lip, hesitant and careful, searching, then plainly: “So, you don’t want to fuck it up. Fine. Fair enough. Why don’t you ask what I want?”

Draco runs a wayward hand up through his hair, mussing it further. “Potter,” he says, exasperation sewn through, fonder than fair.

Harry prods at Draco’s knee. Then leaves his hand there, resting.

“Go on. Ask.”

Draco’s eyes go soft, uncertain, and he exhales, acquiescing.

“What do you want, Harry?”

His answered smile is butterbeer, is treacle tart, crème brûlée— warm & full & sweet.

“You, you prat. I want you.”

[lupine-trees]

heart, broken.

[ one boy dealing with heartache rather badly. ⁀➴ ♡ for the @drarrymicrofic june prompt: wound ]

drarry | word count: 80

_ _ _

There’s a spell Draco learned when he was very small, from a book he was never meant to read, (in a volume that never ought to have existed).

“Corde excisarum.”

His heart stays in his chest. But— Well—

… Well. Everything stops hurting. A wound (all that wanting), cauterized, numb.

. . .

But if you were to visit: There is a funny lantern that sits in Draco Malfoy’s study. It glows red, soft and incandescent.

It flickers like it’s beating.

[lupine-trees]

heart, broken.

[ one boy dealing with heartache rather badly. ⁀➴ ♡ for the @drarrymicrofic june prompt: wound ]

drarry | word count: 80

_ _ _

There’s a spell Draco learned when he was very small, from a book he was never meant to read, (in a volume that never ought to have existed).

“Corde excisarum.”

His heart stays in his chest. But— Well—

… Well. Everything stops hurting. A wound (all that wanting), cauterized, numb.

. . .

But if you were to visit: There is a funny lantern that sits in Draco Malfoy’s study. It glows red, soft and incandescent.

It flickers like it’s beating.

[lupine-trees]

Draco Says:

[ boys saying things. ⋆˙⟡ for the @drarrymicrofic june prompt: slander ]

drarry | word count: 126 | rating: t | warnings: n/a

_ _ _

He says: “Slanderous. Duplicitous,” when Harry accuses him of trading out the tea brand in the office kitchenette, boxes of PG Tips packed in alongside the Twinings.

He says: “Traitorous, treasonous,” as Harry steals a sip of his gin fizz, a wink, obnoxious and effervescent, club bass humming through his shoes.

He says: “Devious, treacherous,” in the fine new Greek restaurant, Harry’s hand finding his beneath the table, linen napkin falling wayside, heart gone mutinous.

He says: “Scandalous. Salacious,” Harry’s bedspread a spill beneath them, silk rumpling in curled fingers, moonlight reaching through the curtains, calamitous.

. . .

Laying languorous in the morning light, dawn blanketing bare bodies, Harry rolls towards him, sleep-soft, and says: “Gorgeous.”

(& Draco— momentous— runs out of things to say.)

[lupine-trees]

Draco Says:

[ boys saying things. ⋆˙⟡ for the @drarrymicrofic june prompt: slander ]

drarry | word count: 126 | rating: t | warnings: n/a

_ _ _

He says: “Slanderous. Duplicitous,” when Harry accuses him of trading out the tea brand in the office kitchenette, boxes of PG Tips packed in alongside the Twinings.

He says: “Traitorous, treasonous,” as Harry steals a sip of his gin fizz, a wink, obnoxious and effervescent, club bass humming through his shoes.

He says: “Devious, treacherous,” in the fine new Greek restaurant, Harry’s hand finding his beneath the table, linen napkin falling wayside, heart gone mutinous.

He says: “Scandalous. Salacious,” Harry’s bedspread a spill beneath them, silk rumpling in curled fingers, moonlight reaching through the curtains, calamitous.

. . .

Laying languorous in the morning light, dawn blanketing bare bodies, Harry rolls towards him, sleep-soft, and says: “Gorgeous.”

(& Draco— momentous— runs out of things to say.)

[lupine-trees]

good things come in threes

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day seven: yawn | rating: m | word count: 835 (decidedly not a microfic ha) | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡

_ _ _

Time yawns.

It’s the only way he can think to describe it— the almost instinctive stretch, open then closed, then rippling, repeating.

The time turner (the facsimile of one— homemade and paltry; unstable, evidently) has him stranded in a 3-hour loop. At his best estimate: 3 years, 3 months, 3 weeks, and 3 days ago. (The faux turner’s clock hands, of course, jammed at 3:33.)

It could be worse— he could’ve been trapped in a shorter window, or it could be the middle of the night somewhere stranded, or he could be back in the war.

But as it is, the 3–3-3 ago is beginning to feel rather torturous.

The club is loud (always so loud, Merlin’s sake, how’s a man meant to think), and Pansy’s already drunk beyond use, and the Gryffindor crowd is here, and they all still mostly hate him then. But that’s hardly the worst of it.

The thing is, he thinks that if he has to watch Potter stick his tongue in Oliver Wood’s mouth one more time he might combust.

He buys a drink (whiskey sour) and a shot (lemon drop). Downs the shot & slips onto the dance floor, rocks glass in hand. In the close proximity, it’s easy to make it look like an accident.

“Shit,” Harry curses, spinning, the whole back of his stupid white shirt soaked through.

“Oh. Potter,” Draco says, pantomiming surprise, a cool and callous sort, which is harder half-shouting over the bass. “Didn’t see you there.”

Harry’s expression shutters, his brow going dark in a way that Draco had gotten so unused to seeing, back when the present was the future. “Have you got a problem?” Harry answers, his hand curling meaningfully around Oliver’s waist.

Draco slips into a sneer, rusty but easy enough to find (like riding a broomstick). “A problem? With you? Now, Potter, what ever might give you that idea?” It’s syrupy and facetious and he knows exactly the line that comes next.

“Get fucked,” Harry snaps, eyes glinting behind the frames of his glasses, still those ridiculous circular things.

And there’s Draco’s cue. He leans in, closer than strictly necessary, certainly more than is appropriate. He can feel the heat of Harry, the hard lines of him a breath away.

The sneer shifts, giving way to something subtler, more suggestive. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

And: exeunt stage left. Before there’s time for anything else (time, ha-ha), he makes for the exit, the one at the back, slipping into the alley. And then he’s alone, the night enveloping him, suddenly a world away from everything on the other side of the door.

Truth be told: He’s tried this a few times before, to varying degrees of success. C’est la vie.

He glances up, catching the sliver of moon, the slant of streetlight. Even when Harry doesn’t follow, it’s nice. The quiet, the chill of the witching hour, the better part of the city asleep.

The door bangs open. (Then again.)

“Malfoy, you’re unbelievable, you know that?” Harry looks fit to throw a punch, to grab him by the collar and—

Draco laughs, the meanest little thing he can muster. “You followed me. You tell me who’s got the problem.”

“You spilled your drink on me, on purpose,” Harry says, crowding towards him. Draco steps back, feels the press of the bricks against his shoulder blades. Harry’s leaning towards him, and Draco can smell the bite of whiskey on his breath, wants to have it on his tongue. God, his mouth. His mouth, still talking: “You wanted me to follow you.”

“Alright,” Draco says, agreeable, angling his chin up, neck exposed (future-present Harry loves his neck— told him so, the one time). “What do you want?”

Harry falters a mere moment, but then sure enough his lips are on him, hot and wanting, open-mouthed and greedy, and Draco wants to curse time all over again, wants to apparate Harry home and have him there in his own bed and wake up to him and his ridiculous hair and even more ridiculous smile in the morning and have an atrocious fry-up where they burn the toast and the coffee goes cold and they spend the day fucking and bickering and talking about their boring little lives (because they do that now, or then, later, whatever) and showering together and ordering takeaway and falling asleep and doing the whole bloody thing over again.

But they have 47 minutes, if Draco’s calculated correctly (and he’s gotten very good at calculating).

He makes himself mean (this Harry needs him mean), his hand snapping harsh to his jaw, grip forceful on his chin. “Tell me,” he whispers, leering, “that you want me.”

Harry’s eyes are blown, his breath coming heavy. Draco can feel the length of him pressed to his thigh, but more pertinent is the thumb rubbing circles over his wrist, more delicate than the scene deserves. Draco counts to three.

“I want you,” Harry says.

Draco drops to his knees.

[lupine-trees]

pick-me-up

[ boys falling over themselves & making fancy coffees. for the @drarrymicrofic june prompt: ground. ]

drarry | word count: 370 | warnings: n/a

_ _ _

He��s just pulled the shot, tamping the grounds into the portafilter, when the bell over the door gives a jingle. (Never mind the jingle is a nicer one than it used to be— after all, what’s a little charm to Muggle ears?)

“With you presently,” Draco calls over his shoulder, dunking the steam wand into a pitcher of oatmilk. The loud hiss almost covers the sudden clatter of furniture. Almost.

He’d turn, polite, but as before: steam wand.

Milk frothed (in record time), he taps the pitcher on the counter, rounds to the sound.

Harry Potter is in his café.

Harry Potter is on the floor.

A couple at one of the tables is staring, glances darting between them. Waiting for Draco to exercise some sort of hospitality, some sort of care, apparently.

“Get up,” he snaps, and Harry fumbles for the edge of the table, untangling from the chair he’d upended.

The woman’s eyes narrow, and Draco quips, quick, “Are you alright?”

Harry’s tugging at his t-shirt, righting himself. “Yep,” he says, eyes averted. “Fine!”

Draco pours the latte, foam flower blooming, slides the cup over the counter to the older man who’d ordered it.

He has about eight seconds to compose himself.

Then (as Potter hovers): “Can I get you anything?”

Then (as he approaches the counter): “Those chairs are prone to violence.”

Harry’s eyes go scrutinizing before an honest-to-Godric dimple flashes in his cheek.

“I’ve heard of the sort,” he says. “Not surprised you have them here.”

Draco gapes a mere moment. “I don’t cultivate attack chairs, Potter,” he says. “They’re drawn to coffee.” He grins. “And charm.”

Harry shakes his head, dimple insisting upon itself. “Could I get a chai latte, please?”

“Milk?”

“Whole.”

“Size?”

“Large.”

Draco hums, punching the order into the till, a suggestive quirk to his brows, and Harry laughs, a puff of a sound, kettle-like.

“You should join me,” he says, then, faltering: “Would you like to join me?”

Draco gives him a once over.

“Will you knock over my furniture if not?”

“Not on purpose,” Harry answers.

Draco bites down on a smile. “My break’s at half ten.”

Harry glances at his watch, the hands ticking just past 10am.

“I’ll wait.”

[lupine-trees]

pick-me-up

[ boys falling over themselves & making fancy coffees. for the @drarrymicrofic june prompt: ground. ]

drarry | word count: 370 | warnings: n/a

_ _ _

He’s just pulled the shot, tamping the grounds into the portafilter, when the bell over the door gives a jingle. (Never mind the jingle is a nicer one than it used to be— after all, what’s a little charm to Muggle ears?)

“With you presently,” Draco calls over his shoulder, dunking the steam wand into a pitcher of oatmilk. The loud hiss almost covers the sudden clatter of furniture. Almost.

He’d turn, polite, but as before: steam wand.

Milk frothed (in record time), he taps the pitcher on the counter, rounds to the sound.

Harry Potter is in his café.

Harry Potter is on the floor.

A couple at one of the tables is staring, glances darting between them. Waiting for Draco to exercise some sort of hospitality, some sort of care, apparently.

“Get up,” he snaps, and Harry fumbles for the edge of the table, untangling from the chair he’d upended.

The woman’s eyes narrow, and Draco quips, quick, “Are you alright?”

Harry’s tugging at his t-shirt, righting himself. “Yep,” he says, eyes averted. “Fine!”

Draco pours the latte, foam flower blooming, slides the cup over the counter to the older man who’d ordered it.

He has about eight seconds to compose himself.

Then (as Potter hovers): “Can I get you anything?”

Then (as he approaches the counter): “Those chairs are prone to violence.”

Harry’s eyes go scrutinizing before an honest-to-Godric dimple flashes in his cheek.

“I’ve heard of the sort,” he says. “Not surprised you have them here.”

Draco gapes a mere moment. “I don’t cultivate attack chairs, Potter,” he says. “They’re drawn to coffee.” He grins. “And charm.”

Harry shakes his head, dimple insisting upon itself. “Could I get a chai latte, please?”

“Milk?”

“Whole.”

“Size?”

“Large.”

Draco hums, punching the order into the till, a suggestive quirk to his brows, and Harry laughs, a puff of a sound, kettle-like.

“You should join me,” he says, then, faltering: “Would you like to join me?”

Draco gives him a once over.

“Will you knock over my furniture if not?”

“Not on purpose,” Harry answers.

Draco bites down on a smile. “My break’s at half ten.”

Harry glances at his watch, the hands ticking just past 10am.

“I’ll wait.”

[lupine-trees]

lup’s may dailies collection (2025)

a collection of the fics (micro & not-so-micro) i wrote for prompt-a-day may. of course, many thanks to @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean for sharing such inspirational prompts! writing these little worlds was such a delight. ♡

all drarry | ratings marked for any over t | cumulative word count: 9,980 (wow!) | mini-series indicated as applicable | works linked below | all available under the tag #lup’s unofficial microfic may ⋆˙⟡

a few of my favorites: 🤍 | longest: 🧵 | shortest: 🐁

_ _ _

1. key | falling forward | word count: 155 |

The iron begins to burn, the molten-sharp edge of it searing into his palm.

2. black | up in smoke | word count: 104 |

The smoke billows in the bright country sky, a wide wash of darkness against the blue of it.

3. coffee | get your fix | word count: 212 | 🤍

The coffee pot from the workroom machine has gone missing.

4. pathetic | something to talk about | word count: 123 |

Five years out from the war, the papers keep using it.

5. hang | we’ll take our leave & go | word count: 72 | 🐁

“Potter, there’s a temporal element to a Leviosa, and its limit is directly proportionate to an object’s mass.”

6. floral | forget-me-nots | word count: 79 |

Harry has a hard time with flowers, in spite of all their good intentions.

7. yawn | good things come in threes | word count: 835 | rating: m | 🤍

Time yawns. It’s the only way he can think to describe it— the almost instinctive stretch, open then closed, then rippling, repeating.

8. crystal | crystal unclear | word count: 84 |

“Pass the chicory root,” Draco says, eyes fixed on the pewter cauldron.

9. puzzle(d) | piecemeal | word count: 138 |

Harry brushes his fingertips over the markings, red against the cobbles, and against his better judgment.

10. scene | two for the show | word count: 400 |

“All this time, and you imagine things haven’t changed?” Draco asks, fiddling absently with the empty beer bottle on the high-top.

11. forgotten | familiarity’s a passing thing | word count: 315 |

“I had a mother and a father. We lived in a very large home with a very large garden. I went to a school for witches and wizards.”

12. bear | look how they shine for you | word count: 286 | 🤍

“There, Gemini,” he says, pointing haphazard, fingers curled around the bottleneck of a Heineken.

13. beware | can’t keep my hands to myself | word count: 270 |

“Potter, don’t move,” Draco snaps, and at his tone, Harry freezes in place.

14. burning | flames & facsimile | word count: 240 | feat. dronarry (if you squint)

The curse starts at his fingertips.

15. future | take me out (& take me home) | word count: 786 | feat. background linny | 🤍

“Is there anything you’d like me to look for, Harry?” Luna asks, turning his palm carefully upward in her own.

“Surprise me,” he says.

16. match | checkmate; i couldn’t lose [ part i ] | word count: 362 |

“Potter,” Draco says, stepping from a practice room, casual as anything. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

17. waiting | checkmate; i couldn’t lose [ part ii ] | word count: 212 |

The hotel lobby is near-deserted by the time he makes it back, the hour creeping past eleven, the tug of jet lag tipping him into mild madness.

18. oval | checkmate; i couldn’t lose [ part iii ] | word count: 986 | rating: m | 🤍

One drink easily becomes two, becomes three, but he’s still feeling steady (though heady, maybe, a bit, alright) when the bar closes and the tender sends them along, shuffling sleepily into the elevator, otherwise empty at this hour.

19. heavy | atomic weight | word count: 90 |

Heavy metals are those which are high in density or atomic weight.

20. reverie | undertow | word count: 292 |

The sea swells like a symphony, and Harry finds himself tangled, untethered, in the reverie.

21. flicker | sparking up my heart | word count: 328 | 🤍

There were shops on Asymmetric Alley.

22. harsh | just wanna keep calling your name | word count: 187 | rating: m | only technically drarry

The stubble is harsh against his jaw, his throat, in spite of the kisses pressed softer than he’d have expected.

23. + 24. + 25. transparent, heated, & brume | such cases as these | word count: 384 (or 95, 123, & 166) | 🤍

“Were you always this transparent?” Harry says, wily, nicking Draco’s inkwell from beneath his quill. “I feel like I should’ve known longer if you’ve fancied me for ages.”

26. droplet | it would be so nice | word count: 446 | a continuation of such cases as these

It’s raining when they touch down in Mallorca, droplets racing down the windscreen of the motorbike, the face shields of their helmets.

27. grow | the enormity of desire | word count: 913 | warning: hanahaki-inspired/mild body horror

“Malfoy— alright?”

Draco glares up at him from the locker room bench. “What?”

28. verdant | magic & eight-ball | word count: 97 |

The pool table is a deep, velvet green beneath the low, yellowed light of the bar.

29. rough | in the age of the chat room | word count: 104 |

*x.dragonboi1980.x*: Potter, help me with this Muggle Studies project.

30. starry | don’t you see the starlight? | word count: 196 |

The ceiling is the darkest of blue.

31. patient | & i’ll kneel down, wait for now | word count: 1,140 | 🧵+🤍

The apprenticeship was finalized four hours ago, a boreal owl arriving with a blue-enveloped letter wrapped tidily around its leg.

He’d told Harry first. So far, he’s the only one Draco’s told, since he’s still here, in his flat, on his sofa.

bonus: 31.2 patient (micro version) | wait for now | word count: 144 | “When I come back, will you be waiting?”

[lupine-trees]

lup’s may dailies collection (2025)

a collection of the fics (micro & not-so-micro) i wrote for prompt-a-day may. of course, many thanks to @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean for sharing such inspirational prompts! writing these little worlds was such a delight. ♡

all drarry | ratings marked for any over t | cumulative word count: 9,980 (wow!) | mini-series indicated as applicable | works linked below | all available under the tag #lup’s unofficial microfic may ⋆˙⟡

a few of my favorites: 🤍 | longest: 🧵 | shortest: 🐁

_ _ _

1. key | falling forward | word count: 155 |

The iron begins to burn, the molten-sharp edge of it searing into his palm.

2. black | up in smoke | word count: 104 |

The smoke billows in the bright country sky, a wide wash of darkness against the blue of it.

3. coffee | get your fix | word count: 212 | 🤍

The coffee pot from the workroom machine has gone missing.

4. pathetic | something to talk about | word count: 123 |

Five years out from the war, the papers keep using it.

5. hang | we’ll take our leave & go | word count: 72 | 🐁

“Potter, there’s a temporal element to a Leviosa, and its limit is directly proportionate to an object’s mass.”

6. floral | forget-me-nots | word count: 79 |

Harry has a hard time with flowers, in spite of all their good intentions.

7. yawn | good things come in threes | word count: 835 | rating: m | 🤍

Time yawns. It’s the only way he can think to describe it— the almost instinctive stretch, open then closed, then rippling, repeating.

8. crystal | crystal unclear | word count: 84 |

“Pass the chicory root,” Draco says, eyes fixed on the pewter cauldron.

9. puzzle(d) | piecemeal | word count: 138 |

Harry brushes his fingertips over the markings, red against the cobbles, and against his better judgment.

10. scene | two for the show | word count: 400 |

“All this time, and you imagine things haven’t changed?” Draco asks, fiddling absently with the empty beer bottle on the high-top.

11. forgotten | familiarity’s a passing thing | word count: 315 |

“I had a mother and a father. We lived in a very large home with a very large garden. I went to a school for witches and wizards.”

12. bear | look how they shine for you | word count: 286 | 🤍

“There, Gemini,” he says, pointing haphazard, fingers curled around the bottleneck of a Heineken.

13. beware | can’t keep my hands to myself | word count: 270 |

“Potter, don’t move,” Draco snaps, and at his tone, Harry freezes in place.

14. burning | flames & facsimile | word count: 240 | feat. dronarry (if you squint)

The curse starts at his fingertips.

15. future | take me out (& take me home) | word count: 786 | feat. background linny | 🤍

“Is there anything you’d like me to look for, Harry?” Luna asks, turning his palm carefully upward in her own.

“Surprise me,” he says.

16. match | checkmate; i couldn’t lose [ part i ] | word count: 362 |

“Potter,” Draco says, stepping from a practice room, casual as anything. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

17. waiting | checkmate; i couldn’t lose [ part ii ] | word count: 212 |

The hotel lobby is near-deserted by the time he makes it back, the hour creeping past eleven, the tug of jet lag tipping him into mild madness.

18. oval | checkmate; i couldn’t lose [ part iii ] | word count: 986 | rating: m | 🤍

One drink easily becomes two, becomes three, but he’s still feeling steady (though heady, maybe, a bit, alright) when the bar closes and the tender sends them along, shuffling sleepily into the elevator, otherwise empty at this hour.

19. heavy | atomic weight | word count: 90 |

Heavy metals are those which are high in density or atomic weight.

20. reverie | undertow | word count: 292 |

The sea swells like a symphony, and Harry finds himself tangled, untethered, in the reverie.

21. flicker | sparking up my heart | word count: 328 | 🤍

There were shops on Asymmetric Alley.

22. harsh | just wanna keep calling your name | word count: 187 | rating: m | only technically drarry

The stubble is harsh against his jaw, his throat, in spite of the kisses pressed softer than he’d have expected.

23. + 24. + 25. transparent, heated, & brume | such cases as these | word count: 384 (or 95, 123, & 166) | 🤍

“Were you always this transparent?” Harry says, wily, nicking Draco’s inkwell from beneath his quill. “I feel like I should’ve known longer if you’ve fancied me for ages.”

26. droplet | it would be so nice | word count: 446 | a continuation of such cases as these

It’s raining when they touch down in Mallorca, droplets racing down the windscreen of the motorbike, the face shields of their helmets.

27. grow | the enormity of desire | word count: 913 | warning: hanahaki-inspired/mild body horror

“Malfoy— alright?”

Draco glares up at him from the locker room bench. “What?”

28. verdant | magic & eight-ball | word count: 97 |

The pool table is a deep, velvet green beneath the low, yellowed light of the bar.

29. rough | in the age of the chat room | word count: 104 |

*x.dragonboi1980.x*: Potter, help me with this Muggle Studies project.

30. starry | don’t you see the starlight? | word count: 196 |

The ceiling is the darkest of blue.

31. patient | & i’ll kneel down, wait for now | word count: 1,140 | 🧵+🤍

The apprenticeship was finalized four hours ago, a boreal owl arriving with a blue-enveloped letter wrapped tidily around its leg.

He’d told Harry first. So far, he’s the only one Draco’s told, since he’s still here, in his flat, on his sofa.

bonus: 31.2 patient (micro version) | wait for now | word count: 144 | “When I come back, will you be waiting?”

[lupine-trees]

around the sun

[ boys celebrating & making wishes. ⋆˙⟡ for the @drarrymicrofic june prompt: inhale (& for one draco malfoy’s birthday) ♊︎ ]

drarry | word count: 125 | rating: g | warnings: n/a

_ _ _

The cake is frosted pink, the center a raspberry jam. Harry should know— he made it. The fact that it’s also a minor disaster— top layer sliding sideways, crumb coat split around the middle— is neither here nor there.

Draco insists he doesn’t care, can’t be bothered. (Wouldn’t be, if he could.)

Pansy casts the candles atop it, gathering everyone in. “Quickly!” she directs them, and they careen through the song, the final Happy birthday to youuu! swelling, cacophonous.

“The candles,” Neville calls, the small flames sputtering a bit as they shift, sink.

Draco takes a breath (in), and Ginny shouts, reminder, last-minute: “Make a wish!”

This year, he has only the one.

He locks eyes with Harry on the exhale.

Every candle blinks (out).

[lupine-trees]

& i’ll kneel down, wait for now

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day thirty-one: patient | word count: 1,140 (oop) | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡ | title from “i will wait” by mumford & sons

& for fun (tldr hehe): micro version here~

_ _ _

The apprenticeship was finalized four hours ago, a boreal owl arriving with a blue-enveloped letter wrapped tidily around its leg.

He’d told Harry first. So far, he’s the only one Draco’s told, since he’s still here, in his flat, on his sofa.

Harry’d been happy for him, so happy, and they’d made dinner, the Wireless a lively soundtrack as they stirred the sauce pan, kissed against the kitchen counters. Draco made the salad himself. They’d eaten, prattling, Harry firing off enthused questions one after the other, and they’d played a few giddy rounds of Accio Ace, the deck of cards abandoned now on the coffee table.

The question comes slow, curling quiet up and out of his throat. “I’ll come back. Will you— could you be here? When I do?”

Harry’s chest is solid beneath him, the two of them pressed together, tangled. It’s easier, a bit, to ask, not having to look into his eyes.

Harry’s reply takes a breath, a beat, a moment Draco can hear tapping, uptempo, behind his sternum.

“You’d want that?” (You’d want me?)

“Yes.” (Yes.)

“Alright,” he says. Like it’s simple.

Harry tips his chin up with his fingertips, grins at him, and it’s a vice on his heart— a pressure that keeps him steady, that holds him in place.

Draco presses him into the couch cushions, hoping to do the same.

. . .

In America, it’s almost like time moves differently.

Patchy International Floo calls become delayed owls become half-answered instant messages become one odd payphone call on a random Thursday in February, too inebriated to even remember all of the words the next morning.

(Just I miss you and Oh, you’re drunk and Go home, please— and the desperate thought, hopefully unspoken: You were my home.)

Less & less.

Two years in, all that’s between them is an ocean and static.

He stays for four.

. . .

His reception is warm. Pansy & Percy host, and it feels like nearly half of their Hogwarts class is there. (It isn’t, Pansy insists, perturbed by the suggestion— Darling, I know how you get.)

Everyone is full of kind words and congratulations. Harry hasn’t approached him, had slipped into the party unobtrusively, late and unnoticed, in spite of Draco’s casually close attention to every entry.

He looks good. It shouldn’t be a surprise— it isn’t— but it sends a swoop through his stomach anyway. Collared shirt peeking from beneath a cotton sweatshirt, a maroon that warms him, brings out his eyes; jeans that may as well have been tailored to him, thighs… evident; his curls softer, more defined, but longer, and still as wild, really, as they ever were. He looks edible and untouchable, simultaneous (the duality of Potter).

Draco drags his eyes away, distracts himself, but it’s only a matter of time.

_

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Harry says, rounding the corner into the kitchen, “to the Ministry’s newest,”— he pretends to check a note card here— “Assistant Fiscal Officer for the Department of Elf Services.”

Draco swivels, hand swiftly covering the evidence that he’d just speared a miniature gherkin and popped it into his mouth.

Harry’s smiling at him, graciously (albeit effortfully) ignoring the pickle situation. “Well done,” he continues, looking for all the world like he means it.

“Thank you,” Draco answers. He flounders a moment, then pulls at an old thread, hoping it holds. “I suppose I’ll allow that you were fashionably late. And that you’ve only just acknowledged my no doubt momentous accomplishment.”

Harry chuckles, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other thumbing absently at the label on his beer. “Work, I’m afraid. And you were making your rounds. I was being polite. Patient, even.”

Draco can’t help it, the teasing, easy to tumble back into, not like they’ve spent plural years in unsettled silence. “I don’t remember patience as one of your virtues,” he wheedles.

“You could stand to relearn my virtues,” Harry assures him, glinting. “I have plenty to remind you of.”

It’s enough to fan the unsteady hope at the middle of him.

“You told me once that you’d wait for me,” Draco says, the suggestion of it nostalgic, but a suggestion proffered all the same. It’s bold, braver than he is really, or maybe just more desperate, more stupid. Seeking solace, or otherwise, closure, he supposes, tells himself.

“You told me you’d be back.” Ah— there. There is no malice in it, but there it is.

“Yes,” Draco answers, flush, diverting. He slips back into a grin, lets it land like a flight of fancy, naïveté, instead of what it (is) was (is). “It was brazen of me, wasn’t it? To expect that from you. Romantic.”

He tips his drink towards Harry, feels that same old silly heartache scaling his throat. “Thank you. For coming.” He turns away, guarding himself, his shoulders a harp-string.

Fingers wrap his wrist, warm enough to melt, and Harry’s eyes are smiling in spite of the nervous tic of his mouth.

“Draco— you’re back. You asked me to wait. What do you think I’ve been doing?”

The world narrows to a pinpoint, buzzing like a Snitch. His face, he’s sure, has lost all sense of subtlety, any hope of composure. His fist is at the front of the sweatshirt then, grasping, seeking purchase.

Harry leans in, keeps leaning in.

“Would you come home with me? If I asked you to?”

The sounds of the party have slowed, but they’re still simmering, fading back into Draco’s awareness. Chatter and the clink of forks on china, music warbling through a soft Sonorous.

He slides his fingers into Harry’s curls, one-handed, twining gently through the locks behind his ear. “How about this,” he says, barely a breath, all restraint, “why don’t we practice a bit of that patience you’ve apparently gotten so good at.”

Harry’s hands are at his waist, helpless, bottle abandoned on the countertop, thumb running a lazy loop on his side.

“Draco,” he murmurs, and Draco would follow him through the Floo this second if he asked again.

“Patience,” he says, playing at controlled, heart a telltale thing. “And I promise.”

Harry’s forehead drops to his shoulder. He breathes in, steps back half a pace, hands falling carefully away. He raises one, traces a line over Draco’s lip.

“I’m leaving in twenty minutes,” Harry says, smiling. “I think,” he begins, then again, a quirk of his brow, lightning striking, “I think you’ll follow me. I think you ought to follow me.”

Draco’s breath catches, and he’s never felt more stubborn a fool. He casts a timed Tempus, decisive, and Harry laughs.

He’s ruined— I’m ruined— and time and distance and all of those ridiculous things can’t have made a difference— not one strong enough, not enough to stop this, to stop them.

Harry’s waited. Draco’s home.

[lupine-trees]

don’t you see the starlight?

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day thirty: starry | word count: 196 | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡

_ _ _

The ceiling is the darkest of blue.

“Will you stay?” Harry had asked.

I want to make sure it’s right. And I— well, I won’t know what to look for.

Draco had to bite back any offense, an “Of course it’s right. I did the charmwork,” ready on his tongue.

Instead, he’d said: “Sure.”

There’s hardly furniture in Harry’s study: a dusty desk shoved off to one corner, a bookcase falling in on itself. A Turkish rug unrolled across the wooden floor.

The two of them lie (unrolled) across it.

“Do you think the clouds will clear soon?” Harry whispers.

Draco hums. “Only one way to find out.”

Harry splays his arms wide, fingertips brushing Draco’s sleeve.

In the dark room, the moonlight sieves through the cirrus clouds. The clock on the mantle ticks, and somewhere down the hall, a faucet drips, a muffled tok, tok, tok.

Draco lets his arms settle to the floor, Harry’s hand an intent weight at his bicep. The sound of his breath is like a current, lulling, and Draco feels himself drifting.

“Oh,” Harry says, soft, sudden, and Draco startles, eyes shifting back upwards.

The ceiling is dappled with starlight.

[lupine-trees]

wait for now

(the micro version of & i’ll kneel down, wait for now)

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day thirty-one: patient (part ii: electric boogaloo) | word count: 144 | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡ | title from “i will wait” by mumford & sons

_ _ _

“When I come back, will you be waiting?”

Harry’s hand rubs a series of small circles on his back, the two of them tangled on the sofa.

“If I wait, will you come back?”

“Yes,” Draco says, burying his face in the warmth of him, the thrumming certainty of his heart tapping an assurance behind his sternum.

. . .

In America, he loses track of time, of distance. Four silent days become four silent months become four silent years.

It passes until it’s all that’s left between them.

. . .

Welcome home! the banner in Pansy and Percy’s flat proclaims. Potter, of course, stands beneath it, the picture of practiced patience.

“You’re here,” Draco says, helpless against the raw edge of happiness in his voice.

Harry smiles, like he’s been waiting all this time to smile at him again.

“So are you.”

[lupine-trees]

& i’ll kneel down, wait for now

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day thirty-one: patient | word count: 1,140 (oop) | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡ | title from “i will wait” by mumford & sons

& for fun (tldr hehe): micro version here~

_ _ _

The apprenticeship was finalized four hours ago, a boreal owl arriving with a blue-enveloped letter wrapped tidily around its leg.

He’d told Harry first. So far, he’s the only one Draco’s told, since he’s still here, in his flat, on his sofa.

Harry’d been happy for him, so happy, and they’d made dinner, the Wireless a lively soundtrack as they stirred the sauce pan, kissed against the kitchen counters. Draco made the salad himself. They’d eaten, prattling, Harry firing off enthused questions one after the other, and they’d played a few giddy rounds of Accio Ace, the deck of cards abandoned now on the coffee table.

The question comes slow, curling quiet up and out of his throat. “I’ll come back. Will you— could you be here? When I do?”

Harry’s chest is solid beneath him, the two of them pressed together, tangled. It’s easier, a bit, to ask, not having to look into his eyes.

Harry’s reply takes a breath, a beat, a moment Draco can hear tapping, uptempo, behind his sternum.

“You’d want that?” (You’d want me?)

“Yes.” (Yes.)

“Alright,” he says. Like it’s simple.

Harry tips his chin up with his fingertips, grins at him, and it’s a vice on his heart— a pressure that keeps him steady, that holds him in place.

Draco presses him into the couch cushions, hoping to do the same.

. . .

In America, it’s almost like time moves differently.

Patchy International Floo calls become delayed owls become half-answered instant messages become one odd payphone call on a random Thursday in February, too inebriated to even remember all of the words the next morning.

(Just I miss you and Oh, you’re drunk and Go home, please— and the desperate thought, hopefully unspoken: You were my home.)

Less & less.

Two years in, all that’s between them is an ocean and static.

He stays for four.

. . .

His reception is warm. Pansy & Percy host, and it feels like nearly half of their Hogwarts class is there. (It isn’t, Pansy insists, perturbed by the suggestion— Darling, I know how you get.)

Everyone is full of kind words and congratulations. Harry hasn’t approached him, had slipped into the party unobtrusively, late and unnoticed, in spite of Draco’s casually close attention to every entry.

He looks good. It shouldn’t be a surprise— it isn’t— but it sends a swoop through his stomach anyway. Collared shirt peeking from beneath a cotton sweatshirt, a maroon that warms him, brings out his eyes; jeans that may as well have been tailored to him, thighs… evident; his curls softer, more defined, but longer, and still as wild, really, as they ever were. He looks edible and untouchable, simultaneous (the duality of Potter).

Draco drags his eyes away, distracts himself, but it’s only a matter of time.

_

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Harry says, rounding the corner into the kitchen, “to the Ministry’s newest,”— he pretends to check a note card here— “Assistant Fiscal Officer for the Department of Elf Services.”

Draco swivels, hand swiftly covering the evidence that he’d just speared a miniature gherkin and popped it into his mouth.

Harry’s smiling at him, graciously (albeit effortfully) ignoring the pickle situation. “Well done,” he continues, looking for all the world like he means it.

“Thank you,” Draco answers. He flounders a moment, then pulls at an old thread, hoping it holds. “I suppose I’ll allow that you were fashionably late. And that you’ve only just acknowledged my no doubt momentous accomplishment.”

Harry chuckles, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other thumbing absently at the label on his beer. “Work, I’m afraid. And you were making your rounds. I was being polite. Patient, even.”

Draco can’t help it, the teasing, easy to tumble back into, not like they’ve spent plural years in unsettled silence. “I don’t remember patience as one of your virtues,” he wheedles.

“You could stand to relearn my virtues,” Harry assures him, glinting. “I have plenty to remind you of.”

It’s enough to fan the unsteady hope at the middle of him.

“You told me once that you’d wait for me,” Draco says, the suggestion of it nostalgic, but a suggestion proffered all the same. It’s bold, braver than he is really, or maybe just more desperate, more stupid. Seeking solace, or otherwise, closure, he supposes, tells himself.

“You told me you’d be back.” Ah— there. There is no malice in it, but there it is.

“Yes,” Draco answers, flush, diverting. He slips back into a grin, lets it land like a flight of fancy, naïveté, instead of what it (is) was (is). “It was brazen of me, wasn’t it? To expect that from you. Romantic.”

He tips his drink towards Harry, feels that same old silly heartache scaling his throat. “Thank you. For coming.” He turns away, guarding himself, his shoulders a harp-string.

Fingers wrap his wrist, warm enough to melt, and Harry’s eyes are smiling in spite of the nervous tic of his mouth.

“Draco— you’re back. You asked me to wait. What do you think I’ve been doing?”

The world narrows to a pinpoint, buzzing like a Snitch. His face, he’s sure, has lost all sense of subtlety, any hope of composure. His fist is at the front of the sweatshirt then, grasping, seeking purchase.

Harry leans in, keeps leaning in.

“Would you come home with me? If I asked you to?”

The sounds of the party have slowed, but they’re still simmering, fading back into Draco’s awareness. Chatter and the clink of forks on china, music warbling through a soft Sonorous.

He slides his fingers into Harry’s curls, one-handed, twining gently through the locks behind his ear. “How about this,” he says, barely a breath, all restraint, “why don’t we practice a bit of that patience you’ve apparently gotten so good at.”

Harry’s hands are at his waist, helpless, bottle abandoned on the countertop, thumb running a lazy loop on his side.

“Draco,” he murmurs, and Draco would follow him through the Floo this second if he asked again.

“Patience,” he says, playing at controlled, heart a telltale thing. “And I promise.”

Harry’s forehead drops to his shoulder. He breathes in, steps back half a pace, hands falling carefully away. He raises one, traces a line over Draco’s lip.

“I’m leaving in twenty minutes,” Harry says, smiling. “I think,” he begins, then again, a quirk of his brow, lightning striking, “I think you’ll follow me. I think you ought to follow me.”

Draco’s breath catches, and he’s never felt more stubborn a fool. He casts a timed Tempus, decisive, and Harry laughs.

He’s ruined— I’m ruined— and time and distance and all of those ridiculous things can’t have made a difference— not one strong enough, not enough to stop this, to stop them.

Harry’s waited. Draco’s home.

[lupine-trees]

don’t you see the starlight?

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day thirty: starry | word count: 196 | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡

_ _ _

The ceiling is the darkest of blue.

“Will you stay?” Harry had asked.

I want to make sure it’s right. And I— well, I won’t know what to look for.

Draco had to bite back any offense, an “Of course it’s right. I did the charmwork,” ready on his tongue.

Instead, he’d said: “Sure.”

There’s hardly furniture in Harry’s study: a dusty desk shoved off to one corner, a bookcase falling in on itself. A Turkish rug unrolled across the wooden floor.

The two of them lie (unrolled) across it.

“Do you think the clouds will clear soon?” Harry whispers.

Draco hums. “Only one way to find out.”

Harry splays his arms wide, fingertips brushing Draco’s sleeve.

In the dark room, the moonlight sieves through the cirrus clouds. The clock on the mantle ticks, and somewhere down the hall, a faucet drips, a muffled tok, tok, tok.

Draco lets his arms settle to the floor, Harry’s hand an intent weight at his bicep. The sound of his breath is like a current, lulling, and Draco feels himself drifting.

“Oh,” Harry says, soft, sudden, and Draco startles, eyes shifting back upwards.

The ceiling is dappled with starlight.

[lupine-trees]

Carefree

After the war Harry is clumsy in a way that seems light and easy and not at all embarrassing or irritating. He bumps shoulders and knocks wrists and trips ankles and then he picks himself up and says sorry, but then he smiles so soft and loose that Draco can tell that he’s not sorry at all. So when Harry stumbles and lands a kiss straight on Draco’s mouth and apologizes, Draco says, “No, you’re not”, and then kisses him back, thinking how nice it is to not have to think so hard before making decisions anymore.

Today’s prompt from @drarrymicrofic. Thank you for another great prompt!