You’re Telling Me That In A Series With The Main Lesson Being The Power Of Love, Harry Saving The Day

Drarry May Dailies | Day Eight: Crystal

The early dawn light refracts through Draco’s tiny crystal Merlin and falls in broadening rays across his pile of quilts. It’s one of the things he’d liked best about Dorthea House when he toured. The light had been on full display that day: the acid yellow and red and cyan of his precious rose window, the tall windows of his study, flung open, curtains fluttering breezily. 

Walking the house was almost sensual, like the feel of a still-cool day in early summer, or a steaming bath, hot against aching muscles. When Draco looks back now, he can see it for what it was: a seduction. 

It wanted him here, wants something from him still. There’s a bleary-hazy feeling in his head when he thinks this, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold on the thought—if only he could write it down. 

He reaches, flailing, for the notepad on his nightstand and knocks it to the floor. Something clatters to the floor alongside the notepad and Draco’s favorite clicky Muggle pen: atrociously smudged, silver-framed glasses. 

“Harry.” 

“Morning.” A voice from the other side of the bed, and a hand, resting steady between his shoulder blades. 

Day One | Day Two | Day Three | Day Four | Day Five | Day Six | Day Seven

Putting together a mood board for this year's art new years reminders:

microfic may day 8: crystal

microfic may day 9: puzzle

drarry. 220 words.

Rainbow scattered light dappled over Draco's skin. He was asleep, chest moving down and up in the crystal refracted morning sun.

It was early, too early to be awake after the night he'd had yesterday. And Harry was yet to put the puzzle pieces together and figure out exactly why Draco Malfoy was in his bed.

He wasn't complaining. The guy was oddly soft when he wasn't using his mouth-

Oh, fuck.

Harry wiggled his hips. Flexed his thighs. Stretched his back.

Zero soreness.

He bent forward, scrutinising the milky skin along Draco's neck and shoulders and clavicle. Harry knew he was a biter and a bruiser, but Draco was spectacularly unblemished.

He shifted under the blanket and Harry paused, not moving an inch.

A dream heavy, bed warmed arm slung over his waist, pushing Harry back down into the pillows.

Harry blinked at the fuzzy ceiling.

A voice murmured into his ear, "Go back to bed Potter, I'd never ravish you drunk."

He turned to face Draco, forehead to forehead. "Wait, so we didn't-"

"I swear on Merlin Potter, let me sleep for another hour and maybe then I'll do to you exactly what you asked for last night."

And well, Harry might've flushed a bright red but he did in fact curl in closer and let Draco rest.

*thinks up an idea for a silly quick piece* okay haha let's whip something up real quick

*idea gets more complicated*

*idea gets more complicated*

*idea gets more complicated*

*idea gets more complicated*

oh no

the enormity of desire

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day twenty-seven: grow | word count: 913 | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡ | warning: hanahaki-inspired/mild body horror

_ _ _

“Malfoy— alright?”

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

Harry shrugs one shoulder, a noncommittal up-down. “You seem tired?”

“Fuck you,” he growls.

Harry laughs, which makes it worse. “Whatever,” he says, heading for the showers.

Draco walks out, a painstaking attempt at steady, starting for the dungeons, his dorm lavatory feeling kilometers away. The sensation of foliage, unfurling, catches in his abdomen, his esophagus.

They keep growing.

. . .

“Malfoy— alright?”

Draco’s holding himself against the bartop, handkerchief tucked hidden in his palm.

“Hm?” he says, aiming for haughty, disinterested.

“You keep coughing,” Harry answers, eyes narrowing in something like caution, something like concern.

“Doxie flu,” he lies. “The cough lasts for ages.”

“Shit,” Harry says. “You’ve already seen Madame Pomfrey?”

“Plenty,” Draco says, cheeky, (knowing it’s been yes, actually plenty), before breaking into another burst of hacking.

Harry’s hand is at his shoulder then, and Draco doubles forward, uncontrollable, wheezing unevenly.

“Gotta— go,” he manages, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, face warm. He ducks from beneath Harry’s grasp.

“Hey—” Harry calls, but he can’t afford to look back, much less to stay. He slips through the exit of The Three Broomsticks and apparates with a Crack!

In his bed, he empties his cloak pockets, daisy petals and clover tumbling out by the dozens.

They keep growing.

. . .

“Malfoy— alright?”

They’re at the top of one of the myriad stairwells in the castle, Draco braced on the bannister, a bit too desperate to pay much mind to who is or isn’t watching. He swallows at the air, tugs helpless at his shirt-collar.

“You’re out of breath,” Harry says, and at a lack for words, Draco flicks him off.

“You need the infirmary,” Harry says, sounding more cross, more concerned by the second.

Draco flicks him off again. Unfortunately, it’s the most he can do, and just barely, it turns out, his legs suddenly giving way beneath him.

He lands on his knees hard, fingertips scrabbling at the railing, feels it jar up and into his teeth, feels it knock loose pollen in his windpipe. Harry is at his side, instantaneous, and Draco, furiously, can think of at least three other scenarios where he’d rather be on his knees in front of him.

Draco’s vision goes fuzzy, his hand scratching weakly at his neck.

Harry’s arm is at his back. “I’m going to pick you up now,” he says, scooping Draco upwards without waiting for an answer. Which is good, probably, since Draco couldn’t have given one.

He feels the vining expand in his ribcage, Harry’s heart hammering in his ear, his own heart hardly murmuring its response.

If he stops breathing, he isn’t awake to know it.

They keep growing.

. . .

He wakes in the infirmary with Poppy Pomfrey at his side, teary-eyed, and smiling down at him.

“Dearie, you’ve known how to fix this.” She wraps one of his hands in hers. “Please.”

Potter’s there, too, because of course he is. He’s asleep, his head cradled in his arms at the foot of the bed.

Draco pats Poppy’s hand, then gestures to Harry, resigned.

Madame Pomfrey gently shakes Harry by the shoulder, pointing him to Draco before wandering into the hall.

“Hey,” Harry says, pulling a chair to his side. “You’re awake.”

Draco rolls his eyes, jabs a finger into Harry’s arm.

Harry laughs, subdued. “Alright, yeah. I’m awake.” His face twists a bit then, his thumb running over the seam of the quilt on Draco’s lap. “Were you cursed?”

Draco nods, picking up a near-whole daffodil from the bedspread and twirling it between his fingers. He taps his throat, a cough burbling harshly out of him, petals slipping past the handkerchief he draws hastily to his mouth.

“There’s no cure?” Harry asks, brow troubled, green eyes glinting.

Draco leans back into the pillows, his gaze tracking the high ceiling, the cobwebs in the corners. He’s tired, and he can feel leaves tickling at his trachea, obstructive and insistent.

He doesn’t want to die. I’m spite of everything, he doesn’t.

He pulls Harry’s hand to him, palm up on the blanket. C, he traces with the tip of his finger.

“C,” Harry says. Draco nods, continues, Harry spelling softly aloud. “C. U. R. E.”

His eyes flicker to Draco’s, fingers curling lightly where they lay on his lap. “You do know the cure?”

Draco swallows, sharp and thorny, and nods, once. He presses a finger to Harry’s lips, a silent plea.

“Alright,” Harry whispers, falling quiet.

In his hand, Draco writes slow and deliberate, each letter drawn out against his will, each necessary to sustain him, each revealing and damning and precious.

I - L - O - V - E - Y - O - U

He keeps his eyes cast down, wraps his fingers around Harry’s once he’s finished.

“Malfoy,” Harry says, and Draco deigns to meet his gaze. “It’s alright.”

His eyes draw to Draco’s chest, and he untangles their fingers, placing his palm carefully over his heart.

“Take a breath,” he whispers.

Draco does, and he’s overcome by the scent of potions and antiseptics, the laundry detergent on the linens, pumpkin juice on Potter’s breath, spring air on his skin. He breathes in and in and in. He feels it then, the flora wilting, a slow recession, his heart thrumming a steadier song.

Harry grins at him, bright, waylaying.

He loves him.

(It keeps growing.)

Here is how Draco impregnated the living savior of wizardkind.

drew a scene from The Superfluous Man by the amazing peu_a_peu <3

Your goth icon has arrived

My glorious reference ^^^

Also I’m taking doodle requests so request anything hermitcraft/ life series related and I might draw it

Lindas

since we were eighteen

For @drarrymicrofic prompt: "18" by One Direction. I went through like four different ideas/drafts for this prompt but this is what I got lol

"Did—did you know?" Draco asks, eyes downcast like he’s talking to the sidewalk.

Harry's throat is tight. "No," he says. "I didn't."

Draco presses his lips together and nods. He still doesn't look at Harry. "I see."

It’s quiet in the dark alley behind the pub, but Harry’s ears are full of static. He knows he needs to talk more; needs to stop Draco from filling in the blanks of Harry’s silence with his own assumptions. He knows Draco's guard rises with each second he lets pass without saying some version of what he’s thinking, which is, ‘I didn't know. But god, I wish I had.'

"It was Eighth Year, for me, " Harry says instead.

At that, Draco looks up sharply. Their eyes meet, and Harry sees the flare of hope on Draco's face; feels it in his own chest. "What?" Draco whispers.

"That's when I realized. For me, I mean," Harry blushes. "I obviously didn't know about you until, er, now. Like I said."

Draco blinks. "You mean to tell me you've been—"

"Yes."

"So all this time we could've—"

"Yep."

Draco closes his eyes and looses a sigh. When his eyes open again, he looks at Harry like the snitch in a tied Quidditch game. "Can I—?" His voice breaks, and his eyes fall to Harry's lips, and that's all he needs to say.

Harry sucks in a breath, and nods. Draco strides towards him and pulls him into a bruising kiss.

When they finally pull apart, Draco presses their foreheads together. "Will you say it?" He whispers. "I said it. And I know you implied—but I need to hear—"

"I love you, too," Harry murmurs. He presses a kiss to Draco's parted lips. "I'm in love with you."

Once you start thinking about humans as a species in a biome, it affects your entire way of looking at normal things.

The other day I referred to female morning joggers as an 'indicator species' in that if you see women jogging in the dark it means that the environment provides migration pathways (sidewalks, clear signs) and doesn't have any known predators of female morning joggers (guy with knife, bear, BigTruck, male morning joggers).

Though, I think that people consider framing humans as animals reacting to their environment as rude.