maesterchill

[maesterchill]

now is the chance

(Jeddy, 6.6k, E)

Summary:

It takes a flying motorbike, a cheeky teammate, and a very thin t-shirt for James Potter to realise he's in love with his godbrother.

And, just in time, he learns that some things—the things that matter—aren’t worth putting off.

Read on AO3

Written for Queer Pride/Wrath Fest. Thanks to the mods and also to @citrusses for the beta read 💖

[maesterchill]

now is the chance

(Jeddy, 6.6k, E)

Summary:

It takes a flying motorbike, a cheeky teammate, and a very thin t-shirt for James Potter to realise he's in love with his godbrother.

And, just in time, he learns that some things—the things that matter—aren’t worth putting off.

Read on AO3

Written for Queer Pride/Wrath Fest. Thanks to the mods and also to @citrusses for the beta read 💖

[maesterchill]

Malfoy

[maesterchill]

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

***

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

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

It came back at Christmas.

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

Ginny did, as it turned out.

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

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

But who? And where?

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

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

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

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

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

He was still bitter about Ginny, Harry reckoned.

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

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

“Sorry, I–”

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

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

Harry knew, of course, before he looked down.

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

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

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

“Hi,” he said.

[maesterchill]

50 words for @drarrymicrofic prompt welcome

The food is plentiful and warm, but the Welcome Feast is eerily quiet.

Hogwarts is still in disrepair; fledgling spells struggle to mend its ancient enchantments.

From Slytherin’s table, Draco watches.

Potter, amongst friends. A world away from summer—from orchards, letters, kisses, curses.

Remember, Draco pleads.

Potter looks up.

Beckons.

[maesterchill]

Wound | @drarrymicrofic | 17 words

[maesterchill]

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic 🎶

📻 Hope was new 

🎵 Teen and Up, 9,424  ❗ Warnings/Tags: Fake/pretend relationship, in which harry does fascism by mistake, enemies to lovers  🎵 Song Prompt: My Favourite Game by the Cardigans 

🎵 Summary: 

His first date with Malfoy was a picnic in the North Downs. “I just don’t get why I have to actually go on a date with him,” Harry had argued to Hermione, unsuccessfully. “If we tell people we’re doing it isn’t that enough?” “Oh, sorry Harry, are we interrupting your busy sitting-around-in-your-pants-feeling-sorry-for-yourself post-employment schedule?” Hermione had asked. “Besides, if you want to be remotely convincing I think it will help if you’ve had a single pleasant conversation with him.”  And so off Harry was packed, hamper in hand.

Read on AO3

[maesterchill]

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic 🎶

📻 The Night Shift 

🎵 Explicit, 16,100  ❗ Warnings/Tags: Auror Harry Potter, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Partners, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Pining Harry Potter, Vampire Draco Malfoy, Banter, Sexual Content, a few references to blood, but not gory or anything, this is basically a rom com, Crack Treated Seriously, Any excuse to mention Buffy  🎵 Song Prompt: Night Shift by Lucy Dacus

🎵 Summary: 

It turns out Harry’s new Auror partner is a vampire.  Might’ve been polite for someone to let him know.

Read on AO3

[maesterchill]

I see it's your birthday, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! hope it is/has been the greatest day 🥳🥳🥳

Everyone is being so lovely 😭thank you so much for the birthday wishes!! Please share in the cake!

[maesterchill]

Happy birthday!!! :)

Aaawwwhhh thanks so much!!! You sweetheart 😘

Hope you like strawberries!

[maesterchill]

happy birthday!!! 🥳 🎂

Thank you lovely lea!!!!

Cake for you too!!! 🌈

[maesterchill]

Happy birthday!!! 💕

Ah amelia thank you so much!!! So sweet of you!!!

Come and share the cake, baby!! 🍰

[maesterchill]

Fight or flight fuck

[maesterchill]

wound

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merlin, he's so hard already.

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

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

[maesterchill]

There was glass in his face and glass in his palms. His mother's wand was steady, somehow, but Draco couldn't stop shaking. It was slow work. One by one they came out, red twinkling pieces.

But the burning in his hands wouldn't go away. He'd landed palms first amidst the chandelier wreckage; Potter had ripped the wands from his grasp soon after. He was left with nothing but his hands. Trembling, open hands, red with excess blood and heat. Hands that burned.

Even at war's end, they burned.

The culprit was clear. If he tilted his palm to the light he could spot them—tiny pinpricks. Malfoy opulence ground into fine dust, living in his skin. Potter knew about it too, Draco was sure. It was why he always held Draco's hand the way he did, firm fingers pressed in against places Draco had picked raw. It was why it always hurt more than Draco expected.

Draco let him press anyway, in case he could grow inured to it. Inside Potters grip, he could dream. This was a different kind of burning.

for @drarrymicrofic prompt "ground", 181 words

[maesterchill]

ZOOM

For @drarrymicrofic prompt: inhale

Drarry, Formula 1 AU, this is sort of Maxiel-coded ok.

Dear @wolfpants I'm sorry it's F1 but wanted to wish you a very happy and very belated birthday, pal.

There's a moment, after his front wheels lock but before he hits the wall, when Harry experiences a weird and total purity of vision. Everything leaps into high colour: the numbers flashing demurely on his screen, the flickering jaunty stripes of the wall he's about to crash into, the gloss of his gloves where his hands are flexing as the steering wheel spins through his hands, as though turning it will do the slightest bit of good.

In his moment of clarity, Harry just has the time to think “Malfoy,” and then the nose of the car is buried in the barrier, the air fuel-hot, the throb of the engine suddenly, horribly still.

It’s objectively a weird last thought to have had; Harry’s done with Malfoy, has been done with Malfoy for ages. It might just be hysteria manifesting in a weird way, the thought of imminent death combining with the awful, frightening, sudden pain of the impact making Harry loopy. He doesn’t have time to worry about it anymore, though, because that’s when he smells burning.

***

The interview with Malfoy is all over the news by the time Harry gets home from the hospital, and it plays on a constant silent loop on the big telly while he drinks a Red Bull straight from the can, standing in the cold blast from the open fridge door. There’s an interview with Albus too, outside the Firebolt hospitality. Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying, hasn’t watched it, but he can make a fairly good guess.

He has watched the Malfoy interview. Couldn’t help himself, if he’s honest, plus it’s also all over the socials, even the Firebolt ones. No escape. It's obviously recorded just after the race, because Malfoy is still trackside, lines scored over his cheeks from the balaclava, his hair sticking with sweat behind his ears. His dad is beside him, scrolling furiously through his phone, wearing a Strike hoodie, the silver snake of the S gleaming in a thousand camera flashes.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy tells the cameras — the word is bleeped out, but his mouth moves unmistakably through the consonants. He sucks aggressively on his straw as the microphone is shoved in his face again, a bodiless voice saying, “Can you tell us how you’re feeling about what happened to Harry, Draco?”

Malfoy throws his helmet. Whoever’s behind the camera does a good job of capturing the sudden movement, the slight sheen of sweat in the armpit of Malfoy’s green fireproofs, the viciousness of the overarm throw, the clumsy harmless landing as the helmet rolls uselessly along the ground — if Malfoy was aiming for the reporters, he was way off. Embarrassing, for a professional athlete.

There’s silence.

Malfoy shoves through the crowd of reporters, the dangling arms of his race suit flapping behind him. The camera moves with him. He turns.

“I don’t give a damn about Potter.” And then he really is gone, the green globe of his helmet still rocking on the concrete.

The camera pans back to Lucius Malfoy, who looks bored.

“Of course, my son wishes Potter a speedy recovery,” he says. There’s an excruciating pause while he taps at his phone screen efficiently, then the whoosh sound of a message sending. He looks up. “They were, after all, teammates once.”

They’ve even shared the clip on the Strike socials, though they left out the swearing and the straw-sucking and the helmet-throwing, just kept the moment when Malfoy stalks out of the paddock, Lucius Malfoy’s glib statement.

A slow-mo of Malfoy throwing his helmet already has over a million likes on the official F1 account on Insta. Harry’s checked, from his fake account. He watches it four times while he eats one of the revolting meals that are all Ginny allows him to eat in-season. She’s got a new training schedule set up for him too; she’s left it stuck to the front of the fridge with one of the Potter 7 magnets he has about 20 of.

His phone is going, Ron out of some sponsorship meeting, a pic of the contract with a thumbs up emoji. Harry gives it a thumbs up back and then Ron messages again — Malfoy asking about you and the puking emoji. Text him mate or he’ll just keep texting me.

Harry’s message thread with Malfoy is over a year old. It’s buried so deep he almost hopes he won’t find it, but of course it’s there as he scrolls down, just an anonymous M for Malfoy in the place of the photo Harry used to have saved. He clicks in, thumbing quickly into the text box so he doesn’t have to look at the line of blue messages one after the other. Malfoy had never replied, not since the day he told Harry that he was moving to Strike. Harry shouldn’t even fucking bother messaging now, he should just let Ron handle Malfoy. That’s literally his job.

I’m fine, is what he settles on. It strikes the right note, he thinks. Dignified, but factual. He hits send, then undoes it all by going back in straight away and following it up with Ron told me you asked. He almost mentions the onboard. Malfoy would have mentioned it, if it was the other way round. But he’s glad he managed not to, when his messages turn to read but Malfoy doesn’t reply.

***

The buzzer goes just after Harry takes his first round of painkillers. He's still swishing water around his mouth when he looks at the door camera feed and sees Malfoy is there, unmistakable.

“What are you doing here?” he says into the intercom, and watches the jerky delay of the image as Malfoy rolls his eyes and hammers a fist on the door.

“Open up, Potter,” he says, without bothering to press the intercom button, loud enough that Harry can hear him through the door. Harry does open up.

Malfoy comes in. He’s wearing white from head to toe, some sort of tracksuit with baggy trouser legs and an oversized hoodie. His trainers are definitely not meant for actually training in — they’re pristine, totally unmarked as though he’d taken them out of the box before he came over here. He bends to unlace them, tugs them off and sets them on the mat. Under his baseball cap, his hair is pushed back behind his ears, almost the same colour as the fabric. He looks ridiculous. He looks expensive. In fact, he looks like two million dollars, which is exactly what Ron reckoned he’d made off the Nike deal.

“What the hell, Malfoy?” Harry says, and Malfoy looks him up and down, taking him in slowly, the stretched-out old Firebolt tee from Harry’s first ever round of proper merch, his shorts, his bare feet. The cast on his left hand.

“You fucked it, Potter,” Malfoy says. “I’d be embarrassed for you, if I cared.”

“And yet,” Harry says, moving around Malfoy to kick the door shut behind him, “here you are. Presumably to let me know in person just how little you care?”

“Are you out for the rest of the season?” Malfoy grins at the idea, winningly. He doesn’t wait for Harry to answer, just makes for the kitchen. Harry can hear the whirring of the ice-maker on the fridge, the crisp sound of a bottle of sparkling water being opened.

“Dunno.” Harry leans against the kitchen door. Malfoy unerringly reaches into the glasses cupboard, fills two tumblers with ice. His sleeve flaps as he pours the water. “They think I have a mild concussion. Even Albus wasn’t going to drag me into a team meeting when I’m just out of hospital.”

Malfoy looks at him thoughtfully, readjusts his baseball cap. A tuft of hair is sticking out the opening at the back, like a little tail.

“They’ll have to keep you out for a few races, at least. You’ll be lucky to be back by Singapore, my father thinks.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he has an opinion on it, alright.” Harry kicks at the door frame with the back of his heel. He watches Malfoy drink, the moving line of his throat, the small subtle sparkle of the number 13 at his breast as he swallows.

“Right,” Malfoy says, setting down his glass next to Harry’s untouched one, which is sweating despite the aircon. “You’re not dead, anyway. I’ll be off, then.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” It must be the concussion that makes him keep talking. “You could stay for dinner. If you want.”

It’s an awful idea — Harry knows it even as he says it, even as Malfoy’s mouth curls into distaste. The last time they had dinner here had been the night Malfoy had told Harry about Strike. About leaving.

“You can’t just hit your head,” Malfoy says, his back to Harry as he puts the water bottle back, slamming the fridge door shut behind him, “and then start acting like everything’s normal again.”

“I’ve been acting normal this whole time.” Harry’s done; he needs more headache tablets, some air, a glass of water that hasn’t been poured for him by Malfoy. “You’re the one who made things not normal. I mean, Strike? If you had to go, at least go somewhere good.”

It’s so very much an echo of the last time they spoke that Harry wonders if maybe he’s actually having an extended hallucination. But no, even a concussed brain couldn’t have conjured up the intimidating crispness of Malfoy’s white tracksuit, the baseball cap with its rearing snake logo, the crooked seam of Malfoy’s left sock. He’s unimaginable, here in Harry’s kitchen.

“Yes, I bet you’d have loved me to stick around playing second driver to you,” Malfoy says, pushing past Harry to look for his shoes in the dim hallway.

“You’ll always be second to me,” Harry replies, and kicks one of Malfoy’s trainers at him. It couldn’t hurt, all that light foamy stuff, but Malfoy makes an injured noise and shoves at him again, shoulder to chest, nudging Harry back into the wall. He wriggles a foot into the trainer, not bothering with the laces. Harry wants to shove him back, but settles instead for saying, "Doesn’t matter what car you’re in, you’re still going to end up exactly where you belong. Behind me.”

“Oh promises, promises, Potter. Behind you, indeed. I’m sure you'd like that. We've all seen the photos.”

Malfoy’s breath shivers over Harry’s cheek, minty, like he’s been chewing gum and then drinking Harry’s iced water. He’s so physically present, the smell of his weird perfume that he orders from Paris, his lopsided stance where he has only one shoe on, his hard shoulder still pressed forcefully against Harry’s chest, saying things with his blandest voice just like he does in pressers, as though Harry doesn’t know exactly what he’s insinuating.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry says, and elbows him. His stomach is rock hard under the folds of the white jumper; he always did have more discipline than Harry.

“Looks like everyone knows about you now. Oh, sorry — touched a nerve, have I?”

He has, though not for the reasons he means. Harry doesn't really care about the photos, that so many people have seen him like that, or even that the guy had probably made a packet out of tipping off the paps, and he hadn’t even been that good a shag. Nothing much has changed for Harry since it all came out, really — even in the aftermath, the team had come up with the statement, he just had to read it. He wears a rainbow lanyard for his paddock pass now, but that’s really the only thing that’s different.

Harry only cares about the fact that he’s clearly not very happy in the photos. When they pop up online like they still do from time to time, even now, all he can see are the shadows under his eyes, the patchy stubble, his eyes red-rimmed. He hadn’t been sleeping well back then.

“Everyone who mattered already knew.” Harry shrugs. “No point in living a lie, anyway.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. Glib statements drive him crazy, and apparently Harry isn’t over wanting to do that.

“I’m not—” Malfoy begins, but he knows that Harry knows. Harry was there for it all. Malfoy was there too — in Vegas, where it started, in their shared hotel room, his eyes feverishly bright in the reflected glow of the strip outside the window as he watched Harry from across the room, the rustle of his bedsheets, Harry’s frantic hand, the sounds they made from their entirely separate beds that make Harry hot to think about even now. All the hotel rooms, always separate beds, the line they very carefully never crossed. The time Malfoy texted a photo of his palm, come pooling, from the toilet of the gala they were both at. The time on the jet when Ron had nearly walked in on Harry with his cock out and Malfoy had pretended to be asleep in his seat, a malicious flush creeping up his neck, smothering his laughter in his blanket.

Harry gets his phone out. Malfoy’s still close enough to see the screen, watches Harry thumb in the passcode that Malfoy had known off by heart, that Harry has never bothered to update. Malfoy’s face doesn’t change as Harry brings up the clip, first the slow-mo slide of Harry’s car into the candystriped barrier, the hail of debris over the track. And then the screen switches to Malfoy’s onboard, his green gloves steady on the wheel as he whips around Turn 2.

There are so many fan edits of this bit, all of them set to swoopy music and intercut with flickering old photos of Harry and Malfoy in their matching race suits, from before, but Harry doesn’t need to go that far. This one is enough to get the point across.

Here it comes, the demanding crackle of Malfoy’s radio.

“Who?” he asks, and Goyle —fucking Goyle, the traitor, who hadn’t even thought about not following where Malfoy led — replies, “Safety car, Draco, safety car.”

“I know, I just saw,” Malfoy replies. “Who? Is it Potter?”

“It’s Potter,” Goyle confirms, and Malfoy breathes in so hard you can hear it over the engine, even through the fuzz of the onboard.

“Harry?” Malfoy asks then. Harry’s listened to this about a hundred times now, in news reports and on the official socials and all those edits, which have all added soaring music to this bit, violins or something, and then Goyle says, “Harry’s okay, Draco, he’s out of the car.”

Harry shuts the screen down. He can hear Malfoy breathing in the sudden silence.

“Looks like everyone knows about you now, too,” Harry says. “It’s all over the socials. We have a ship name and everything.”

“Fuck you,” Malfoy says, and then kisses Harry, nonsensically, almost missing his mouth, the brim of his hat knocking into Harry’s forehead, his lips rasping over Harry’s unshaven chin. Malfoy tries again, but he’s at the wrong angle, so Harry turns him, both of them tripping over Malfoy's other shoe. Harry pushes him up against the wall, knocks the stupid hat off his head so he can kiss him properly, his tongue in Malfoy’s hot mouth, Malfoy’s hand sliding unerring up the back of his t-shirt.

“It’s fine,” Malfoy says into Harry’s mouth, and then forgets himself to kiss Harry again for a bit. “It’s fine for me to— It’s fine that I care—”

He’s trying to reassure himself, and annoyed about it. Harry suspects it’s probably not all that fine, at least not from the point of view of the Strike management team, which is to say Lucius Malfoy. But Harry doesn’t care as long as Malfoy is allowing him to lick into his mouth, bite at his lip a bit, his body solid and moving under Harry’s hands.

“Yeah,” Harry tells him. “It’s fine, it’s good. I care too, I care—” Malfoy kneads his chest, thumb flicking over one nipple. “I thought about you before I died.”

Harry manages to wriggle his good hand between them, and Malfoy’s dick is there and Harry’s touching him where he’s hot and straining and kind of big where the fabric is all rucked up over his hard-on. Everything is clear again, like the moment before he died, Malfoy in sharp focus even in the dim hallway, his spiky pale eyelashes and his faint freckles and the wet patch on his trackie bottoms under the heel of Harry’s hand.

“You didn’t die,” Malfoy says — his crooked incisor, the scar on his lip from the time they went karting for Crabbe’s stag do, his skin that tastes weird and looks all dewy from whatever moisturiser he’s using these days — and shoves his knee between Harry’s legs for Harry to clench around, rub against. Harry’s going to come like this, maybe; it feels as good as driving, as good as a podium — or nearly, at least.

“I did break a metacarpal, though,” Harry tells him, breathless. “It’s actually very painful. I might need surgery.”

“You’re pathetic,” Malfoy says, sounding deeply satisfied about it. Harry’s bad hand is in his hair. Harry’s glad his fingers are free, at least, so he can ruffle up the strands that have been moulded flat by the hat.

“But I did think I was going to die, to be fair,” he says, stroking, stroking, one hand on Malfoy’s dick and one in his hair so Malfoy makes a sound and arches his back, meeting both touches. Harry’s own dick is jammed up against Malfoy’s hip. “And I thought about you when I did.”

“Alright,” Malfoy says, unpeeling himself from Harry, kicking off his one untied shoe. “Bedroom.”

Malfoy leads the way, shedding his hoodie as he goes so Harry can admire the working of his shoulders. On the console table, next to a big horrible arrangement of flowers and a bowl with all of Harry’s car keys, is the helmet he’d been wearing the day of the accident. It was supposed to be auctioned off for charity after the race — they might still be planning to, in fact. It'll probably make even more since the crash; people are weird like that. It's quite pretty, actually, designed specially for Zandvoort: a riot of brightly painted tulips around all the sponsor logos, Harry’s lightning bolt picked out in gold on top, the rest of it Firebolt red.

Malfoy pauses. He’s halfway through removing his tracksuit bottoms, one thumb hooked low in the back of the waistband, most of his tight white underwear on show. He looks at the helmet consideringly. Harry catches up with him, bites at the line of his shoulder. Malfoy reaches out, one finger tracing the lightning bolt, and then, as delicately as a cat, pushes the helmet off the edge of the table. It bounces when it hits the marble floor tiles, the sound of impact louder than Harry was expecting. Together, they watch the helmet roll then wobble then still, a gleaming red orb half under the table alongside Harry’s running trainers and the Crocs he wears for taking the bins out.

“It’s a shit design anyway,” Malfoy says, tilting his head to allow Harry better access. Harry’s nose is in his hair — shampoo, warm scalp, and underneath it all, the faint hot smell of fuel.

[maesterchill]

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.”