the devil went down to hogsmeade

When did Draco get an instrument like that?

The blonde works one hand up and down and up and down and up and down its spine with a washcloth filled with polish until light catches on the shiny wood and bounces gold slivers against the walls of the Three Broomsticks. Draco turns the violin to him and starts tuning the A string, skilled fingers pulling the note tighter and tighter. 

Harry’s never wanted anything so badly. 

“The wood’s from a sacred fir tree. The bow’s unicorn hair. My great-great-great-great grandfather made it by hand, working every day for almost four-and-a-half years,” Draco says when he catches Harry staring. 

“Amazing.” 

When Harry stops mapping the violin’s smooth surface and finally looks up, Draco’s smiling with the unchecked glee of someone who has leverage and knows it. A devil in a three-piece suit. 

“Are you playing tonight, Potter? Do you play?” 

Harry opens a green case covered in stickers and pulls out his hand-me-down Yamaha. “I’m the best, actually.” 

Draco’s supposed to challenge his claim, but he just laughs once, sharp like the first note in an overture, like he’s warning Harry how much the songs to come will dazzle and destroy him. 

“Then let’s say we make this interesting. I’ll play, and then you play, and if the crowd likes your serenade better, then you get my violin.” 

“And if you win? What do you get?”

Draco’s eyes travel up and down Harry’s body, pulling it tighter and tighter until Harry’s attuned to Draco’s desire. 

“Deal,” Harry says, his violin already on his shoulder. He slices back and forth across the strings with practiced ease. 

--

on ao3 | @drarrymicrofic prompt: serenade

The Beat My Heart Skipped

Written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt "Heartstopping" (T, 105 words, 2nd person POV). Thank you @crazybutgood for the help!

He’s unmistakable in the crowd.

That striking white-gold hair, that head held high. Striding through rain-slicked Oxford Street; a Muggle suit, a stylish coat. You haven’t seen him in fifteen years, and—here he is. Implausible, yet real.

You slow down; you still.

He glides past you. His coat is cashmere-soft against your extended fingers. His scent is cold mist, citrus, flint. You forget the reek of London’s exhaust pipes for a second. You forget to breathe.

Heartstopping; a thunderclap.

His gaze brushes yours, dangerous like ice on the road. A flash of recognition; the hint of a smirk that says, Hullo, Potter.

Blink, and he’s gone.

Harry rips the wrapping paper so eagerly it makes my heart ache; raises a questioning eyebrow.

“You said you want to take more photos,” I mumble, suddenly nervous. “Of Teddy. And everyone.”

He pushes the film roll inside and grins, all mischief and adoration.

“Show me what you got, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s so quiet and still, Harry doesn’t notice him at first. He sits alone at the Slytherin table, doesn’t raise his hand in class, and slips through the halls like a ghost. Harry almost wonders if he is, with the way no one pays him any attention.

The thought fills him with a cold dread. Draco Malfoy, a ghost, wandering Hogwarts forever. The Room of Requirement, a tomb, for another who Harry couldn’t save.

It creeps up Harry’s spine whenever someone’s eyes glide off Malfoy’s silhouette, stark and pale against the castle walls. Do they see him too? He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know if he wants the answer.

Draco Malfoy haunts him until Harry approaches him one day, alone in the corridor. He steps over slowly, watching Malfoy warily as though he’ll fade away in front of his eyes.

“Hi,” he whispers into the silence, soft and careful, and extends a hand. “Harry Potter.”

Wide, grey eyes stare back before he reaches out too.

Then, a clear voice cutting through the quiet in answer, “Draco Malfoy.”

Harry smiles. The hand in his is solid and warm.

stitching up the seams

“Mr. Malfoy,” Draco says, devoid of the playful warmth the title– the endearment– used to hold.

Harry swallows. “I’m not– anymore.” Draco knows this. Draco knows. Pen to paper, ink bleeding through a marriage of convenience. Necessity? Requirement.

Draco knows.

And yet–

Wary eyes watch him, more lavender than grey; Harry noticed the first time they kissed. In private, not for the cameras, punctuated by murmured reassurances of it doesn’t mean anything, it’s easy, this is easy.

“You could be.”

Harry inhales. “You don’t want–”

“Stop–”

“–me, you said you didn’t want me–”

“I had to.”

Harry turns, to walk away, to run away, to Disapparate, something, but then Draco is sobbing, just standing there in his fancy robes on the balcony of a meaningless party and heaving air into his lungs as tears stream down his face, so Harry turns again, because the only thing he knows for certain is nothing is allowed to hurt Draco like this.

“H-Harry–”

Harry holds out his arms, breathes for the first time in weeks against Draco’s silky hair. “What if you were Mr. Potter, this time around?”

Draco looks up, staring, shock and hope warring across his features. “Okay.”

“Mr. Potter,” Harry murmurs, pressing his lips to Draco’s forehead. “Mr. Potter,” a kiss to Draco’s cheek, “Mr. Potter, my love,” a kiss to Draco’s nose, and this is easy, so easy; Harry hadn’t been faking it for months. Every darling, every love, every come to bed, it’s late, you’ll strain your eyes. It was true. It was real.

Draco is watching Harry, still crying, and Harry knows this, here, now. This is real, too.

“Mr. Potter,” Harry says again, barely a breath, and Draco kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him, only breaking away to whisper you haven’t even properly proposed, silly, and Harry’s pulling out his own wedding ring from where he’s kept it in the pocket over his heart and is down on one knee before Draco even understands what’s happening, and then it’s yes yes yes all tangled up between both of their voices and when Draco collapses into Harry’s arms again it’s home.

“Stay?”

Draco stops putting on his right sock, shakes off the doubts about what this thing between them is.

Neon lights from the bar across the street make the room glow.

Irresistible, Draco thinks when they’re again tucked close, like two pages of a love letter folded into an envelope.

Previous microfic

Ref

view sinopia (an underpainting) on Ao3

for @slytherco 😏😘

He finds them by accident, when he's taking out the trash. The dolls that Dudley opened in his presents during his birthday party.

Vernon had thrown a fit about boys playing with dolls. Harry had been nervous about his Uncle exploding; he had turned such a deep shade of purple.

Harry isn't certain why he wouldn't be able to play with dolls either.

Picking them out of the waste bins, he stows them away underneath his overly large jumper. He hides them underneath his blankets in the cupboard to play with later. They're the newest toys he's ever had. Still in the box with the shiny bits, and all pieces attached with nothing missing.

He opens them quietly, when everyone has gone to bed. Untwisting the plastic and placing the boxes in the corner.

There's two dolls, and Harry is so excited to have them. The one is a woman. Her longer blonde hair he enjoys combing and eventually, learns how to braid. The other is a man, which Harry realizes maybe they're supposed to be each other's companion.

No matter. He enjoys both, and he's just happy to have someone to cuddle in the dark.

Even if they are plastic.

****

When Harry first meets Malfoy, all he can stare at is the light blonde hair that is sleeked back. The boys face has a constant sneer, and Harry thinks, maybe if he smiled more he would look prettier. This thought is fleeting, and he never deems it necessary to express out loud to his friends.

He thinks about how Malfoy sometimes looks like a doll and is reminded of the two he used to have.

Hermione is the one he ends up chatting with about childhood toys. She pipes up with a "Oh! I also had a Ken and Barbie." And Harry feels a little less odd about his dolls.

She continues about how she loved to play with Barbies hair, but Ken was her favorite.

Harry thinks, he was his too.

****

It happens after a Quidditch game in the lockers. He sees Malfoy without a shirt, and his hair is loose.

That light blonde hair and toned chest is what does him in, and Harry bolts from the showers.

He's not too sure why he's running, but he suspects it's because of embarrassment. With an eventual realization of a strange attraction to Draco Malfoy.

He's jumpy for the rest of the day, and especially with Malfoy around every bloody corner of this castle. He thinks there may be something wrong with him. He can't seem to catch a break from his cheeks over-heating, and an awfully strange feeling in his gut.

He sees Malfoy at dinner, and is reminded of the dolls again.

Harry figures, he's gone round the bend. Best keep quiet about it.

****

After the war, it takes Harry some time to figure himself out.

Well, in all ways, really.

Not being constantly chased by a megalomaniac gave him some free time, after all.

He runs into Malfoy at a coffee shop years later, and expresses out loud how good he looks. Malfoy cocks an eyebrow with a smirk and tells Harry he's glad to know that he likes what he sees.

Harry is sure that his cheeks could melt snow, they're so hot.

Malfoy still has that light blonde hair, and it's tied in a small bun on top of his head, and Harry wonders, if he would ever let him braid it.

A few days go by, and Harry hopes that maybe he'll run into Malfoy again in the coffee shop. To his muddled fear and excitement, he does, and his greeted with a "stalking me again Potter?"

Harry expresses that firstly, he's not stalking, and secondly, how does dinner sound?

He's never seen Draco Malfoy speechless before, and thinks again, how pretty he is.

After dinner, they end up back at Grimmauld Place. Malfoy barely finishes a sip of his drink when he pulls Harry in by the front of his shirt. His grip tight around the collar.

Afterwards, they lay in crumpled sheets. Soft voices and light laughter against the pillows. To Harry's astonishment and contentment, Malfoy let's him play with his hair. It brings out small hums from between his lips and Harry carries on to braid it.

"I used to have these dolls once," Harry says, really without meaning too.

Malfoy blinks slowly and raises a brow, waiting patiently for the rest of the story.

"The one had hair that I constantly played with," he combs his fingers through blonde strands. "The other one, I think I liked a little bit more though."

Malfoy's lips twitch into a smirk.

"Are you comparing me to your childhood toys, Potter?"

Harry grins, and pulls him close, "I'm telling you how much I like you, you stupid git."

This turned into something a little longer than expected!

Previous microfic: Flood

Next microfic: First Time

cotton

With a snap of his wand, Draco presses the white sheets to his bed– fresh linen, crisp at the corners.

Downstairs, the Floo roars as Harry steps out of the fireplace, the way he does every Sunday night at eight sharp.

Six months, the Healer had said. Once a week for six months and then they could reevaluate, if they couldn’t break the curse first.

“Hello,” Harry says softly, and Draco doesn’t turn immediately, giving himself a moment of respite. He already knows what Harry will look like, anyways– standing in the doorway, his cheeks slightly flushed but his expression determined.

“Hi.” Draco’s hands tremble as he undoes the buttons on his shirt slowly. It never stops feeling like this, a fire burning low in his stomach, arousal and shame feeding the flames equally. Somewhere in there is loneliness, too, but Draco tries not to think about it.

“Here, let me,” Harry murmurs, right behind Draco now. Draco drops his hands and lets Harry spin him around, his dark fingers stark against the white of Draco’s shirt as he finishes undoing the buttons. He efficiently strips Draco of his trousers and pants, then does the same for himself. They could do this partially clothed, Draco knows; the bond doesn’t care how they have sex, as long as they do. But Harry has proven to be a gentleman, insisting they take their time, always tender with Draco yet blind to the way he makes Draco’s heart come undone.

For the first few weeks, Draco told himself the feelings were due to the bond, though the Healer said there was no emotional compulsion. Before they were cursed the two of them were barely acquaintances, civil at best. But it’s hard for Draco to lie to himself when the strongest ache for Harry’s presence isn’t the itch under his skin, but the vise around his heart.

“C’mon,” Harry says quietly, guiding Draco onto his back on the bed. At this point Draco lets his eyes fall shut, unable to keep looking at the radiance of Harry’s features: his beautiful mouth, his furrowed brow.

“May I touch you?” Harry asks, the way he does every time, and Draco nods jerkily. Fingertips trace over his ribs, his hip bones, his upper thigh, ghosting over his aching cock before traveling lower. Harry murmurs a spell and slides a slick finger lower, lower. He pauses, like he does every time. “Alright?”

“Yes,” Draco says, whining slightly as Harry slips his finger in. He tries to keep quiet, to make it easier for both of them, but– “Oh.”

“I know, I know.” Harry’s breath is hot across the side of Draco’s cheek. “Let me know when–”

“Go ahead,” Draco interrupts. Let it hurt, let it burn the way his skin does on Sunday afternoons.

Harry’s hands are so gentle on his hips.

“Oh,” Draco gasps softly when Harry bottoms out. “Oh.”

“You’re alright.” Harry holds himself still, waiting for Draco to adjust. This isn’t new either, the gentle murmurs, the soothing tone. Like Harry is apologizing with every word. “You’re alright.”

By the time Draco comes, he’s blinking away tears. This doesn’t happen every time, but often enough that he knows how to hide it. Harry murmurs at him lazily, his cheek tacky against Draco’s shoulder, talking about his plans for the week and the kitten he adopted two weeks ago, like he’s trying to pull Draco into his life during these hazy moments of flimsy intimacy.

After Harry leaves, Draco strips the bed immediately, not letting himself linger in the scent of sex and Harry and his own wistful dreams. He’ll wash the sheets, the way he always does, spreading them back out with a scent so clean he can almost forget what he will never truly have.

Today, Harry thinks as he steps out of the fireplace. Today I’ll tell him.

He convinces himself of this every week, and every week he loses his nerve before he even reaches Draco’s bedroom.

Not All Princes Win

Harry dings his elbow on the doorframe of the Leaky Cauldron as he hauls Draco’s stumbling form out the door. He swears under his breath, but he quickly forgets the pain when Draco wraps both arms around his neck, his hot breath tickling the side of Harry’s face.

“You are the best mate an old bean like me could ever ask for,” Draco says, a little happy puff of breath now warm against Harry’s lips. Harry basks in the strength of Draco’s undivided attention right now as they stand entwined outside the pub. He feels frozen by the shivers running down his spine at Draco’s touch. Draco’s legs wobble from too much red elf wine.

Draco is always the center of attention wherever they go, but when drunk, he’s an even greater beacon of entertainment. He’s more pouty, dramatic, and talkative— everyone’s favourite person. Harry’s a bit ashamed at how much he enjoys Draco’s primadonna attitude. There are times when Draco sheds the theatrics and slows down his tirades to focus his energy strictly on Harry instead of the entire room. Harry’s also a bit ashamed to admit just how strongly he pines for the attention.

Draco burps in Harry’s face. Harry's nose scrunches as both his eyebrows furrow.

Draco groans, cheeks flushing. “Fuck me. Sorry, darling...if Mother could see me right now…” he says. He unwraps his arms from around Harry, but Draco is so unsteady on his feet that Harry has to hold onto his elbow to keep him upright.

Harry snorts, the shivers easing up now that the spell has been broken by the acrid smell of soured wine. “Just a mate?” he asks, trying his best to sound casual, unaffected. He wouldn’t have the bollocks to ask this question without his own belly full of lager and Draco’s guileless gaze and pinkened face.

Even as Harry feigns nonchalance, he wraps a protective arm around Draco’s waist, holding him close to his side as he begins the slow drag-carry down the cobblestone path of Diagon Alley to the nearest Apparition Point.

True Love's Kiss

Harry follows Pansy warily into a lavish bedroom. He takes in the walls, painted eggshell with delicate, impressionist-style paintings hung on them, and gauzy fabric billowing over the opened windows.

Asleep in the middle of a lush, king-size bed is Draco, his arms above the pale blue silk sheets tucked tight against his body. His hair is perfectly coiffed and positioned carefully over a plump pillow, cheeks flushed prettily, and lips glistening with…sparkly lipgloss?

Harry’s eyebrows furrow. Something is off here.

“And only true love’s kiss will wake him from this curse?” he asks.

Pansy nods, staring down at her painted nails with an air of boredom. “Yes— or else he’s damned to an eternal rest. Eons of sleepy days for our poor Draco lay ahead without your disgusting lips on his, Potter.”

Harry sidles up beside the bed. Merlin, Draco looks gorgeous. Harry squints. His hair…is it twinkling in the light?! He turns sharply to face Parkinson, almost certain he saw her pocketing her wand from out of his peripheral vision.

This is getting out of hand.

“Malfoy!” Harry barks, satisfied when the git flinches, ever so slightly. “Get up, you dramatic wanker! If this is your bizarre way of asking me out for a second date, I already said I was looking forward to it last night. Was the kiss on your bloody doorstep not enough?”

Just then, Draco stretches languidly in bed, arms lifting above his head as a soft, breathy yawn escapes his (most definitely) glossy lips. His eyes flutter open alluringly.

Draco gasps, his eyes round. “Harry! Goodness, what are you doing here?”

Harry shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and a wry grin crosses his face as he rolls his eyes. “Saving your ridiculous arse from an eternal sleep, apparently.”

“But there was no kiss,” Pansy mutters bitterly from behind him.

Draco sits up, looking like a prince against his massive pillows. “Mmm, that’s right. There was no kiss, so what did you exactly save me from?”

Harry stifles a laugh before brazenly deciding to join Draco on the bed, a spike of hot want rushing through him as Draco’s eyes darken. “I was going to wait until at least the third date to kiss you like this, but with that stunning theatrical performance, I think you need a proper reward.”

“Oh!” Draco squeaks out, pink-cheeked and breathing heavily.

“See you later, Pansy,” Harry says over his shoulder, by way of a dismissal.

Pansy snorts. “Fucking mad, the both of you,” she drawls before leaving.

Harry cups Draco’s chin. “Draco Malfoy, you are an enigma I can’t wait to figure out.”

“Better start now, Potter. It might take you forever to finally crack me.”

Harry grins. “Sounds like my kind of challenge,” he whispers before claiming Draco’s lips.

✨ ✨ ✨

Let’s imagine that Draco and Harry met and started a relationship somewhere back in sixth year.

Keep reading

Claraboia

"Look what I've found," Draco says in a surprised and tender voice. Harry is still learning all the nuances of his voice and this one is new.

Harry looks up from the box he is trying to sort out in the attic of the old Black house. Dust sparks in the air, as the soft morning light enters through the small skylight in the high ceiling.

Draco looks soft in the bright summer morning. He looks a bit flushed from sleep and hot tea, his hair messy and bright. He is looking down at his own hands, at the book he's holding.

It's leather bound and thick.

"What's that?" Harry asks, too lazy to move from his spot on the floor, too lazy to cross the boxes and old furniture that separate them.

"Pictures... It's a photo album."

Draco looks up. Even through the heavy sparkling dust he looks gorgeous, his eyes sparkle too, like silver beads. He turns the book in his hands and angles the cover to Harry.

In posh golden letters it reads 'Sirius Orion Black'.

Harry's throat constricts tightly, a pang swims in his chest, heavy as lead.

"Baby photos?" He asks in a small voice, and Draco's eyes go soft and sweet, with a small sad smile on his lips.

"Mum always said he was the most precious baby she's ever seen." He frowns, considering. "Well, after me obviously."

Harry snorts and Draco smiles cheeky.

"Are you ready for some Baby Black beauty?"

Harry laughs, pang gone, sadness gone.

"Yes," he nods, stands up, pats the dust from his shorts. "C'mon, let's take it downstairs and make some tea. I think there're still biscuits."

Sirius' baby pictures make him cry, but Draco holds his hand softly.

-

Change.

Their mattress caught on fire.

Harry watched as it went up in flames—all three years of slick surrenders decorated down pale thighs, consoling caresses for haunted screams, sweat-soaked and feverish from nightmares—simply burn away.

Harry tried to hold those years together for too long, bewildered by the strain time had on the best of his intentions. No matter his clinging efforts, he was arrested by the painful stretch of change, which was bountiful to the point that it was irrational and unwanted.

Draco flourished under the shower of it, welcomed it with open arms, ravenous after so much mundanity and pain, ravished by the splendour of an illicit beauty, change.

Harry couldn't understand. He didn’t want to understand why loving Draco suddenly felt like a trap—an exercise in wanting and waiting with no promise of relief—this was change Harry couldn’t stomach. He felt useless, like an afterthought, after three years at the centre of Draco’s desperation, of his needs and wants. Harry hated the way the sunshine now caught in Draco’s lustrous hair, illuminating him like some Godly entity, hated the way pride adorned Draco's sharp consonants, how between the gaps of Draco's mistrust and anger for their world, he filled them with hope and joy, hatched from his despair. Harry no longer knew the man that writhed underneath him, with his chocolate-smeared kisses drenched in honeyed vows for even sweeter days. They tasted bitter in Harry’s mouth. Harry had to bankrupt Draco, disrupt him, remind him that he needs Harry forever. There was no way Draco could survive without him because Harry refused to entertain such a vicious thought. He would remain the brightest star in Draco’s orbit. The first, and most certainly, the only.

Harry missed Draco, missed the man he used to be. So beautifully broken, with so many tiny pieces Harry loved to pick up, turn over in his hands, and carefully slot back into place. He hadn’t meant to put Draco together so quickly, rendering himself irrelevant in the process. He hadn’t meant for Draco to want to fly free, unburdened by his past and gasping for new experiences.

Harry watched the fire eat away at their mattress a few moments longer, wary of the black curls of smoke that thickened overhead. He placed his wand back into his holster and squatted down to lift Draco’s unconscious form into his arms, his lips pressed to Draco’s wet, clammy temple where the gash from an old Beater’s bat seeped into Draco’s white linen pyjama collar. One swing had been enough to knock him unconscious.

Harry will tell the Healers Draco must've fallen asleep with a cigarette in hand, even though Harry knows he quit almost a year ago, at the first signs that the frost began to thaw inside of him. From the heart, Draco liked to say when discussing his change.

No one will question why they have to start over, not after their little home burned down, not with the injury Draco sustained, who, upon waking, was seized by smoke inhalation and passed out. Harry will cry and his hands will shake as he tells the Healers how he found Draco unresponsive on the floor of their bedroom after coming home late from work. How Draco must’ve hit his head on the corner of their nightstand in the midst of his panic and fear, something he struggled with even on his best days. The Healers will blame the memory loss on the fall and maybe even a lingering trauma from the fire, never finding the traces of the Obliviate-like spell Harry found in Grimmauld Place’s abandoned library.

No one will question Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

And neither will Draco. Not anymore.

Not when Draco’s so beautifully broken, full of mistrust and anger for their world. Not when he’s ready to depend on Harry, in desperate need for him to fill his days with caresses after haunted screams, feverish nightmares. Not when he needs Harry to make love to him, slick with the surrender of his desire, willing and ready for Harry to protect him from the looming stress of time, of change.

An Elegy to All the Bad Dreams You Hide

The day after Harry abruptly disappears from Draco’s bed, the morning light creeping into the bedroom like a looming bad omen, Draco decides to toss Harry’s belongings into a rubbish bag. All of it, even his socks.

“I want everything of his out of here,” says Draco, spirals of cigarette smoke escaping his chapped, pale pink lips as he holds his mobile against his ear. He stares out the bay window of his flat that overlooks the front garden, the rubbish bins, and the winding road where three black rubbish bags now sit on the pavement. Draco empties Harry’s precious bottles, a sick satisfaction overcoming him as he watches the clear liquid swirl down the drain of his kitchen sink, an even sicker pleasure when he tosses the bottles into the bag that contains most of Harry’s trainers.

Pansy’s teeny voice is on the other end.

“Good riddance,” responds Pansy with relief, as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Draco bites his lower lip as he blinks back tears, his gaze focused outside the window, on all of Harry’s life with Draco in three sagging bags. For one terrifying moment, he believes he’s made an enormous mistake.

Draco’s voice cracks, “Pansy—”

“Good riddance,” is Pansy’s firm affirmation of the day.

Draco nods, swallowing down his regret as he tries to collect the scattered pieces of himself strewn across the room. These Muggle gadgets are a gift. Draco might be falling apart, but at least Pansy doesn’t have to both hear and see it.

Such small miracles.