tackytigerfic

[tackytigerfic]

Fic: Dangerous

Written for @drarrymicrofic's song prompt, Dangerous.

WC: 1121, rating: T.

***

He’s in Apulia when they catch up with him, renting a dusty trullo from an ancient Italian woman a half mile down the track. The timing couldn’t be worse, with the neighbours’ sideways looks finally giving way to tentative nods; even the occasional chuckle at the posh accent cutting through his rough, colloquial Italian. His delicate skin is no longer blistered scarlet, beginning to darken at last under the dry sun, and his hair curls around his nape, long enough these days to tie out of his eyes when he has to bend forward to feed the chickens. And then there’s this place, surrounded by olive trees – nowhere near the furthest he’s run, although it feels as though it might be – his little hut on the edge of the world.

He hasn’t used magic in ten months now. He should be untraceable.

And yet.

He wakes, and he’s sweating, and nightmarish shapes are dancing across the stones; old foes brought back to life. He’s never lit that fire, not even in the depths of winter when the cold seemed to seep straight through the walls and into his tired bones, and he’d crawled into bed straight after sundown every night just to escape the chill.

The man stooped before the flames is cast in shadow, although Draco doesn’t miss the glint of a bronze badge in his pocket. A Hit Wizard, then: alone, by the looks of things. Unfamiliar words run through Draco’s mind as he inches his hand under the edge of his mattress, feeling for the wand he keeps taped to the frame. His fingertips have barely brushed the wood when it rips itself out of his reach and flies through the air, Sellotape and all, straight into an outstretched palm. Draco almost laughs with relief. He’d know that cast anywhere.

“Christ, Draco, it’s freezing in here. I don’t know how you cope.” Harry’s eyes are twinkling in the firelight as he turns towards him. Draco tries to hide his joy; the way his heart has taken up residence in his throat, the way his body starts to shift, automatically, to accommodate Harry in his bed.

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” says Draco carelessly, his first language suddenly a stranger to his own ears. “Besides, I can usually find some nubile young shepherd boy to share body heat with.”

“Really?”

“No, you absolute pillock. Are you getting in or not?” He lifts the pile of blankets so Harry can slide in, fit their bodies together perfectly. Icy hands slip under the back of Draco’s jumper even before their lips meet.

Afterwards, they throw the covers off and lay pressed tightly together. Harry’s thumb absently rubs over Draco’s where their hands lay on his chest. It’s what Harry does – what they’ve always done – this silly game; play-acting intimacy, as though they didn’t belong to two entirely different worlds. It’s always like this: awful and wonderful both together, and sometimes it’s too much for Draco to bear, but he gets so little human contact these days he can’t bring himself to stop.

It takes a while, but eventually he gathers the courage to ask. “So, how long have I got this time?”

Harry squeezes his hand. “Oh, no. You’re fine. Trail’s completely cold; they’ve all but given up.”

“But you managed, somehow.”

A quiet huff of laughter. Harry brings their joined hands to his mouth, kissing the tips of Draco’s fingers one by one. “To be fair, it took me three months. And the Ministry don’t quite share my level of… motivation. It was a trace – barely even that – of your magic at the Portkey station in Naples. That was all I could find.”

“Ah.” It made sense. He’d had a Glamour on for travel; hadn’t known whether removing it as the Portkey activated would work. It had been his only option at the time.

A foot hooks carefully around his ankle. “Hey, don’t worry, I erased it. The guy there too; he didn’t seem to recognise your picture, but I Obliviated him anyway: safe side, y’know? And I’ve thrown up a few wards outside; nothing too crazy, but you should be able to cast Warming Charms to your heart’s content.”

Touched beyond words, Draco rolls away. His eyes are stinging now – probably the smoke from the fire – and he takes a few steadying breaths. Harry seems to understand, snaking an arm around Draco’s chest, burying his face in the tense muscles of his back.

“So what d’you get up to around here, anyway?”

Stubble scratches at Draco’s skin as he speaks, making Draco squirm away, suddenly ticklish. “Bit of this, bit of that. Farming, mostly. Back in the autumn I helped out with the olive harvest. The beach is about ten minutes away – I cycle, can you imagine? – and one of my neighbours brings me English novels when they come in to the local library. It’s not much, but –”

“No, sounds perfect.”

“Well, it’s a damn sight better than that fishing hut in Greenland, anyway.” He turns back, traces the curve of Harry’s smile with a gentle finger.

“God, Draco, I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years. D’you ever get tired of all the running?”

“I don’t know,” counters Draco, eyebrow raised. “You’ve had fifteen years of chasing me – what about you?”

Harry’s face turns serious, and his muscles tense, and Draco realises his mistake even before his mouth opens. “Oh, believe me, I’m tired, Draco. I’m really tired. In fact….” He pauses, taking a deep breath. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, pressing a single finger against those treacherous lips.

“Don’t.”

“Draco.” Harry’s voice is steady and sure. “There’s no-one else. I’ve tried, believe me, but it’s true. And I think maybe it’s time to stop trying.”

“We’ve been here before, Harry. A life on the run – we both know you couldn’t do it.”

“Running? Perhaps not. But farming? The beach? I could do that, Draco.”

Something ignites in Draco then, something rash and dangerous, sat just behind his breastbone. Unaware, Harry grins. “Maybe we’d need a bigger house, but –”

Draco rolls over, pressing his lips to that infuriating mouth, hating him just a little: the way he thinks nothing of barging straight into Draco’s careful, uncomplicated life, kindling hope in his chest where it doesn’t deserve to be. He does it every time.

In the morning, Harry tucks the blankets around him carefully, pushing Draco’s curls aside to drop a gentle kiss on his forehead before he leaves. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.” Helpless, he watches him duck on his way out, the flimsy wooden door swinging shut behind him.

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t.

The flame flickers, licking away at Draco’s insides.

***

You can find it on AO3 here!

[tackytigerfic]

Fic: National Trust

This started off as a microfic for @drarrymicrofic's song prompt Luna. It has the word moon in it, that's about as close as it got!

For the ornamental rotunda that Harry and Draco are sitting on, think this kind of thing.

Thanks to the lovely Mari (@onbeinganangel) for the beta and cheerleeding!

WC: 1041, rating: T.

***

“A gift shop?” Draco’s outraged voice echoed through the cavernous entrance hall. A group of schoolchildren paused, halfway up the ornate staircase, looking around curiously for the source of the outburst.

“You’re making a scene.”

“A gift shop, though?” he howled, even louder this time. Harry winced. Across the room, a baby started wailing, his mother looking over at Draco with a face like thunder. He appeared not to notice. “Selling jam and scarves and – and –” he turned, snatching a paper bag straight out of the hands of a man in a parka jacket and waving its contents in Harry’s face “– and novelty mugs, Harry!”

Harry placed a soothing hand on his arm, gently extracting the offending mug from his grip and handing it back to its bewildered owner.

“I told you it was a bad idea to come here,” he hissed. “You promised you’d behave yourself. No, Harry, I’ll be fine, I swear, you said.”

“I am fine!” Draco protested, voice still several notes higher than usual. “I didn’t realise that our breakfast room would now be a bloody gift shop, is all!”

Harry ushered him over towards the wall, leaning in close, his voice low and gentle. “Look, Draco, it’s okay. No one’s forcing you to do this. Let’s just get out of here, alright?”

Before Draco could respond, a crowd of tourists shoved roughly past them, headed by a chirpy guide holding a yellow umbrella high above her head, rattling off names and dates as she went.

“They gave up their ancestral seat in Parliament in the 18th century. In fact, the Malfoys were a very private family, preferring to spend their time hunting and fishing on their extensive lands rather than court the glitz and glamour of politics…”

Harry spluttered loudly, and the umbrella-waving lady turned, glowering at him. “Excuse me?” He waved an apologetic hand up at her as he bent forwards, hugging his ribs, wheezing with incredulous laughter.

“Now who’s making a scene?” grumbled Draco, tugging him over to the stairs.

***

“Really though. Are you alright?”

They sat on the top step of the rotunda overlooking the lake. The light was fading fast, the wind carrying the distant strains of excited screams as parents attempted to cajole, bribe or force their offspring away from the enormous adventure playground.

Harry unwrapped a Magnum he’d bought from the café (“the stable block, Harry, for pity’s sake!”) and held it out for Draco, who hummed his thanks, taking a messy bite. He’d complained bitterly and extensively for the first hour they’d spent wandering around the Manor. Harry had squeezed his hand indulgently and nodded pleasantly at nosy Muggles, only half-listening to Draco’s angry mutterings: curse-scars, you idiot, does that look remotely like fire damage to you? and: thank Merlin mother can’t see him walking over the Aubusson – she’d turn in her grave! and: honestly, Harry, you’d think they’d never seen an eighteenth century lit à la duchesse before!

Later on, though, somewhere around the time they’d wound up in front of the deep red rope cordoning off his own childhood bedroom, noisy tourists jostling them from behind and cameras clicking over their shoulders, Draco had lapsed into a thoughtful silence. It had lasted ever since, as Harry had led them out and around the gardens, a peaceful breeze across their faces and the sun setting slowly in the distance.

“I don’t know,” Draco said after a while, voice small and worn. “It’s just – it’s not how I remember it, I suppose. Or,” he looked up at Harry, eyes shining in the dark, “maybe it is, and that’s worse?” Harry wound a comforting arm around him. The cold was seeping into his thighs from where they touched the stone steps and he shivered, pulling Draco close against his side and handing over the ice cream stick for him to finish off.

Eventually, the last of the employees emerged from the Manor, setting a barking alarm and pulling the enormous front doors closed with a grunt. He shone a torch around the grounds for a while to check for any stragglers, before heading home. The moon hung bright in the sky now, reflecting off the surface of the lake. Draco’s face seemed paler than usual, otherworldly in its stillness. Harry nudged his head against his shoulder.

“Look, at least you know it’s being looked after, yeah?”

“I know. It’s not – I’m not sad exactly,” he said carefully. “It hasn’t really been my home for a very long time. And don’t think I can’t appreciate the irony of all this.” He huffed a tired laugh, gesturing over to the play area. “Besides all that, I really don’t think I’d have made a good Lord of the Manor.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, slowly, trying to lighten the mood, “you’re always swanning around like a bloody Lord at my manor.” It worked, and he grinned, ducking to avoid Draco’s mock-offended shove.

“Thank you though,” Draco said seriously, after a minute, “for coming with me. I know I wasn’t… easy.”

“You’re never easy,” Harry replied, expression fond.

“Mmm. Shall we go?”

“Not just yet, I don’t think,” said Harry, quirking a playful eyebrow. He pulled a glossy brochure out of his pocket, flicking quickly through it. “There’s something else I – ah yes, here we go. The Temple of Diana. Built in 1760 by Xanthus Malfoy II and tucked away at the far end of the grounds, this classical rotunda boasts fifteen columns… blah blah… it was primarily used as a place to entertain his many lovers.” He rolled it up and shoved it back in his pocket, winking at Draco as he rose to his feet, gesturing to the door behind them. “So, I wondered if you fancied it. You know, you can be the wealthy nobleman, I’ll be the poor stable boy...”

Draco groaned, covering his face. “You’re awful.”

“I know. And yet…” he held out a hand to Draco, pulling him up, gathering him in close. He pressed a kiss to his nose, holding the door open with a teasing bow. “After you, my Lord.”

A reluctant smile spread across Draco’s face, even as he rolled his eyes.

“Maybe we don’t tell my father about the gift shop, though.”

***

You can find it on AO3 here!

[tackytigerfic]

Fic Claim

Drarry ~ 3.4k ~ M ~ CW for smoking, drinking, abusive parent (Lucius).

Draco

Potter’s on the roof again, face serene and uptilted to the sky under the gathering chaos of the clouds. It’s dark up here, despite the lights of London stretching out ahead of us, but I’d know Potter anywhere, even as little more than a denser shadow against the unfolding night.

I suppose I can’t be pissed off at him for being here, really, even though it’s always felt like my rooftop. He did save the world, after all, and with everything he has to put up with at work , and with the press, and just people in general, he deserves this little slice of quiet.

Before Potter started coming out here, I was the only one who ever used it. But this is the fourth time now that he’s followed me out, and I’m starting to think it’s intentional, even though usually he doesn’t speak to me, just smokes and smiles at the sky in silence. It’s not easy to get out here, because it means climbing through the small window of the bathroom in Ginny and Luna’s flat. That’s tricky because when both Potter and I are here at the same time it’s usually for a party, so we’re almost always at least a bit drunk. He’s limber though, Potter is, and sometimes I don’t even hear him dropping from the windowsill; I’d hardly know he’s here except for the whisper of Incendio and the jumping shadow of the flame across his skin as he lights up.

I love it out here, though, and for some reason him being here doesn’t make it any less lovely. It should do, I suppose, because we’re not friends, not by a long shot. I don’t really know how we could ever be, when the bridge of his nose still leans slightly off-centre after that bad break, and I still have a ruined left forearm and a lifetime of shame ahead of me.

And sometimes, when he’s really drunk, I see his eyes follow the arc of the scars on my throat. He tracks them to where they disappear below the collar of my t-shirt, and there’s a vicious sort of hunger in the way he looks at them, like he doesn’t regret putting them there in the least. And why should he, I suppose. I deserved it—he knows it, I know it, everyone knows it.

But I’ve learned my lesson since then, and he knows that too, I think. He’s always friendly—kind, even—and when the Prophet outed me, and Rohit (my favourite Hufflepuff, not that I’d ever tell him that) had to heal up the cracked rib my father gave me before I managed to Apparate out of the Manor, Luna told me that Potter stormed round to the Prophet offices and threatened to burn them down. I can imagine him doing it, too. He’s all fire these days, like coming back to life has lit a touchpaper in him.

I feel the rain start just as I light up, just a gentle dappling of mist at first, though it quickly turns into a proper downpour—solid sheets of that particularly wet December rain that reminds me so much of Wiltshire, and makes me cold right down to my bones.

Potter runs through it towards me—well, towards the overhang of the roof—and I want to roll my eyes at how cheesy the whole thing is; him, soaked through already, dodging puddles, laughing up at the stars. I don’t, though, because there’s something too vulnerable there—that foolish, simple delight in his freedom—that makes me quiet, and a bit kinder than I usually am. Instead, I just watch him, stupidly bright-eyed, the shifting sheen of him in the bounceback of city lights. He’s having fun, I realise; after all these years, he’s finally having fun. He reaches me with a squelch, and without thinking I pass him the half-smoked cigarette, which he takes without any sign of surprise.

“Aren’t you cold, Malfoy?” he asks, hauling his inadequate jacket tighter around himself, and when I shrug at him he puts one finger to my chest and plucks at the thinning patch in the yarn of my old jumper.

And for lack of anything else to talk about, I tell him that where I grew up, it was often colder inside than out, and how in the winter sometimes the walls of the little-used rooms used to weep with condensation, and how all my old clothes are laced with Warming Weave. I don’t miss the Manor, I tell him—I don’t—but sometimes the heat and light of these inner-city boxy flats make me feel like I’m going to shake out of my skin.

He nods. “I need fresh air too, sometimes,” he says, then sucks deep on the stub of the cigarette, which makes me laugh. When he laughs back, smoke shivers out of him into the night around us. At some point, the rain has stopped.

Keep reading

[tackytigerfic]

2025.06.14

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. The Azkaban Letters by @romaine2424 [E, 357k]

Harry and Draco’s lives are headed in two different directions. One is destined for death or glory, while the other is going to Azkaban. Harry needs answers, and he goes to visit his Slytherin nemesis while being held for trial. The meetings in a barren, white cell changes Harry’s life. He learns the beginnings of his rich family history that had been denied him. And that there's much more to fight for than just ridding the world of Voldemort.

2. Needless Introduction, Promising Outcome by Devious_Muffin [T, 2k]

The British and Irish Quidditch League has decided to take a cue from the Muggle sports playbook, introducing a Kiss Cam to their matches. [...]

3. The Shape of What's Missing by @fergordie [M, 223k]

The summer after losing Sirius, Harry is lonelier than ever. In a moment of impulsivity, he learns things about himself that he isn’t sure how to handle. Back at Hogwarts, Harry has to deal with a new school year–a new potions professor, Occlumency lessons, trying to keep up with friends who seem to forget about him, and, as always, Draco Malfoy. But beneath it all, there’s something else. The feeling that there's something deeply wrong with him. As war looms closer, Harry has to learn what to hold onto and what to let go.

4. Zoom by @tackytigerfic [M, 3k]

There was a time when Harry and Malfoy were close — fighting for the same championship on different sides of the garage, but wearing the same colours. They were teammates. And then Malfoy left.

---

Fest/Exchange

1. Fun Guy by Anonymous [E, 4k]

Harry Potter's astronomical bad temper leaves Draco Malfoy with no other option besides to help him and restore peace to Hogwarts. After all, who better to beat grumpiness than a fun guy? ★ We Heart Draco Fest 2025 | @weheartdracofest

[tackytigerfic]

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.

[tackytigerfic]

scars

[tackytigerfic]

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.

[tackytigerfic]

First Watch of Night by @tackytigerfic

Inter-dimensional travel, alternate universe Drarry, and war time slow burn - what’s not to love?

I had an image in my head and could not find good references for this pose, so it is just the best I could manage! Anatomy is hard! Also lighting. Honestly, what am I even doing to myself.

[tackytigerfic]

Inhale

my not-so-50-word contribution to the @drarrymicrofic prompt 'inhale'.

As Sunday's go, this is the worst.

Gone are the days of a crackling wireless serenading french toast kisses. Tilting back in the chair, arms draped around necks from above and lips pressed into pillow hair.

Instead, Harry sits. He waits. Inhales. Fingers clasped around a cup of cold tea. A charm won't hold the heat. Why would it?

Nothing works here anyway.

Draco appears at the kitchen threshold, puffy eyes and tear tracks and a rosy red nose against his fractured beauty. Sullen, hollow, another ghost to greet this house. A life crafted from years of love, stuffed into boxes in a matter of hours.

Harry won't look up. Can't. Wipes his nose on the frayed sleeve of the jumper they once shared. He traces the patterened fine lines on the cup. The house stills, no ticking pipes today, no creak of hardwood.

Nothing's alive here anyway.

Draco sets his key down in the mosaic bowl, whispers something Harry doesn't catch, and then he's just footsteps up the gravel path, a memory, leaving Harry in the ashes.

[tackytigerfic]

Commission for @tackytigerfic and their fic "First Night of Watch"

[tackytigerfic]

extreme home makeover

“Your father deserves a second Dementor’s Kiss just for buying that piece-of-shit vase,” Harry says in hour six of an intense argument with Draco, when he’s exchanged his legitimate gripes for pettier weapons.

Draco huffs. “Confrigo.” The vase explodes.

Right on schedule: Hour six is usually when they stop fighting with words at all.

“Bombarda!” “Protego!” “Incendio! INCENDIO!”

The curtains catch on fire.

When Harry first started sleeping with Draco, Draco had matching houndstooth-patterned furniture. His ottoman had gone first, after Draco met Harry’s conventionally attractive (male) Auror partner. Then the love seat, because Harry learned Draco’s mother didn’t know they were dating. Then the couch and the coffee table and the chandelier, when Draco told Harry he loved him and Harry hadn’t immediately said it back.

“Fuck you! Those drapes were handmade and imported and—uh!” Harry pulls Draco against him, both of them breathing hard, their bodies ready for hour seven of the argument, when they always find more pleasurable uses for anger and adrenaline. But first:

“Your living room looks like a battlefield, and you don’t have much furniture left.” Harry says. “Move in with me?”

--

for @drarrymicrofic prompt: inhale | on ao3

[tackytigerfic]

inhale (50 words)

One night of finally colliding, threading fingers into hair, breathlessly pulling, taking, giving. One morning of untangling their limbs, their lives, hearing 'See you around, Malfoy'. The sheets smell like Potter. Draco strips the bed. He starts hating laundry detergent. Their next encounter is clean, sterile. Draco feels dirty, ruined.

Part 2

written for @drarrymicrofic's Drarry Microfic Madness | my Drarry microfic collection on Ao3

[tackytigerfic]

"breathless"

@drarrymicrofic I 264 words I Prompt: Inhale I also on ao3

Potter must have cursed him – that first day on the train, or before that, in Madam Malkin’s. Left him breathless. 

Or was it before that – on the day he was born? The late July heat wave rippled across the English skies, through Draco’s window and into his infant lungs.

Or maybe even before – when they were nothing but ideas in their parents’ heads. When they were stardust together, formless matter. Perhaps then, before he knew what it meant to have lungs, the breathlessness was all Draco knew. So what he feels now is just remembering what they were before. What he’d die to be again. 

Or maybe the curse never started at all, just something that’s always been. An inevitable reaction, a fact of chemicals. 

The chair is hard against his back. The faces of the Wizengamot, the hard masks of judgment, stare at him. Shackles jangle on his wrists and ankles, the ugly skull on his forearm glaring up at him in contempt. An inhale, the door swings open–

Harry Potter, scowling at his outstretched hand. Harry Potter, catching the snitch, face locked in fierce determination. Harry Potter, outsmarting a dragon and throwing an Imperius and marching through gossiping halls with his chin raised. Harry Potter, pointing a wand at his face, slicing his chest open then calling for help. Harry Potter, his face swollen and scared. Harry Potter, rising from the dead and defeating a Dark Lord with Draco’s wand firmly gripped in hand. Harry Potter, walking into the courtroom, green eyes sweeping then anchoring on grey–

And Draco, as always – breathless.

[tackytigerfic]

inhale - @drarrymicrofic

Harry storms into the Internal Medicine ward at 10 in the morning. Draco knows it’s him immediately, it’s in the sound of his footsteps, the deep voice demanding to see him. He takes a breath, finishes his patient’s checkup, careful not to be too quick, then makes his way out into the hallway and looks up right into furious green eyes.

“Can I help you?” He asks, injects as much derision as he can into the phrase, summoning years of practice in annoying this particular man. Potter’s eyes narrow.

“Your patient that I scheduled for surgery at 9. I have my whole team ready, we’ve been waiting for an hour and now I’m told the medic in charge of Internal Medicine this morning won’t send her down to the OR. That’s you, I assume.”

“Mmm. Her blood pressure is a little low, we’re making adjustments before I clear her for sedation. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” he tries to move past him, but Harry blocks his path, crosses big brown arms that fill the sleeves of his black scrub. Draco’s blood threatens to travel southward.

“We’ve done that,” Harry says, eyebrows drawn. “Anesthesia said it should be fine.”

Draco huffs, can’t help it.

“Oh yes? It’s not their decision to make.”

Harry steps closer, his cologne fills Draco’s nostrils and he does his best not to follow the scent through his memory, not to go back to the previous weekend, the horrible, terrible decisions made, the impression of expert hands on his hips in the dark.

“And what’s more,” he continues, conscious of keeping his breath even, very deliberately maintaining eye contact. “If you don’t like it, I’ll talk to the Head of the surgery department, not any random surgeon who comes into my ward in a tantrum demanding to see me to question my decisions.”

Harry leans closer. “Dr. Malfoy, you’re bringing personal issues into work.”

“Dr. Potter. I wouldn’t dare. Get out of my ward.”

Somehow there’s a hand on his side, beneath the coat, somehow it’s pinching the fabric of his shirt; thumb to the space beneath his navel. Draco tries not to react, not to bring attention to himself.

“You’ll pay for this later,” Harry whispers, low into the space between them, charged, as though it’s only been a minute since the ill-advised tryst that never should’ve happened. That never will happen again, if Draco has any say about it.

He opens his mouth to say some variation of never again, of in your dreams, of you must be insane.

He says, “Can’t wait.”

[tackytigerfic]

For the @drarrymicrofic | prompt word: inhale 264 words

Intimidation Techniques

“You’re stalking me now, Weasel?”

“Not at all, Ferret.”

“Oh, please! I could see you waiting for me to come out, inhaling that—what was that... thing you were eating?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“No, I most definitely wouldn’t like to know.”

“Are you aware that when you’re disgusted, your face becomes wrinkly?”

“Are you aware that you’re annoying?”

“Consider it my gift to you.”

“Stop grinning; there’s something stuck in your teeth. Don’t do that!”

“Too late!”

“Does this concern my relationship with Potter?”

“Looks and brains? Harry’s hit the bloody jackpot!”

“I’m not breaking up with him.”

“Good. He’s happy.”

“You’re not here to demand I remove myself from his life?”

“Merlin, no.”

“Why are you here?”

“To warn you.”

“Ah, yes. The mandatory best friend threat act.”

“The very one.”

“Shouldn’t you have done it months ago?”

“Well, I’m doing it now.”

“Aren’t we too old for that?”

“Never too old to protect your family. And Harry is family.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Oh, I will. Often. You’re getting a jumper for Christmas too, by the way.”

“I feel faint.”

“Wait till you hear what colour Mum chose!”

“Will the torture never end?”

“Depends on how long you live.”

“This is harassment!”

“It’s reality.”

“It’s a nightmare.”

“That would be George.”

“If I walk faster, will you leave me alone?”

“Make an educated guess.”

“Alright, threaten me and rid me of your presence. If I hurt Harry, you’ll what? Hex me? Curse me? Murder me?”

“Worse, I’ll date you! Tell Harry Hermione found the map he wanted; see you at lunch tomorrow!”

[tackytigerfic]

Hi! I really love your writing and wanted to ask if you’d be okay with me binding a personal copy of First Watch of Night into a book for myself? Also, if you're interested, I’d be more than happy to bind an extra copy and send it your way as a thank-you for creating such beautiful stories and sharing them with the world. Wishing you all the best!

Hello there! I'm so sorry for the late reply to this ask — I've been off Tumblr recently and am so behind on catching up with everything.

And truly, what a treat to read this today (have been ill for the last three days and feeling v sorry for myself about it, so this has been such a nice cheerer-upper), thank you so much.

I would be very honoured if you were to do a bind, I think ficbinding in general is a beautiful artform and there's something very (dare i say) magical about thinking of the intersection between readers and writers and artists and the way we straddle these different roles and engage with each other through transformative works... the beautiful back-and-forth of the fandom. Anyway, I'll save you my ramblings but I would be thrilled! Thank you so much, and sending you all my very best wishes back.

[tackytigerfic]

the most important part of sports enjoyment is to learn how to eroticize failure and loss