No Sentence Fills Me With Utter Loathing So Much As "i Asked Chatgpt"

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

XVIII. Oval

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

“Glasses?” Harry asked from beside him.

With his eyes closed Draco reached for the floor, searching until his hands touched an oval shaped object. Then he silently handed it to Harry and went back to dreams of golden light and green eyes.

all entries next ->

It started slowly. The accidental brush of scarlet robes as they hurriedly passed one another in the dreary ministry corridor. Sweaty elbows bumping together, simultaneously drawing wands in combat. A gentle sweep of long cool fingers against Harry’s as he handed over crumpled departmental memos. The barely there press of a lithe body as Harry reached around to retrieve teabags in the auror’s kitchen. A warm breath on Harry’s cheek, huffed out laughter at Weasley’s latest one-liners at pub night after work. A pointy shoulder, strength and sinew crushed against Harry’s at the bar, and those soft grey eyes never leaving his face. Searching, then dropping low to Harry’s parted lips. An insistent knee pressing between his thighs, heated hands clutching at hips. It started slowly, but it would finish fast.

brash testing

Kreacher has been staring at Harry for weeks.

He opens the door to his bedroom each morning—Kreacher’s right there. Staring. The first two days, Harry shouts in surprise. By day three, he’s resigned to this strange new habit.

When he gets home from practice, Harry sheds his muddy trainers at the door and wanders down to the stone kitchen for lunch. Kreacher creeps after him down the hall, and every time Harry turns, the elf stops, staring.

“WHAT?” Harry bellows. Kreacher just stares harder.

Then he starts leaving weird shit around the house.

The first thing Harry finds is a little wooden box. The lid is etched with intricate carvings. Harry fires off five seperate cursebreaking spells that Bill had taught him after one too many fanatic mail incidents. The box is harmless.

Harry remains suspicious.

Next, it’s a finely crafted brooch. Harry has never seen it before in his life, and now it’s in the middle of the kitchen table: clearly intended to be some sort of message, although he’s got no fucking hope of decoding it.

The third item is a delicate golden ribbon, colour shifting as he picks it up. The fourth is a tiny dragon figurine of polished bronze.

“Kreacher,” he yells. “What does this mean?!”

Kreacher appears with a pop. Stares at him some more.

Harry gives up. He stuffs the dragon, ribbon, brooch and box into his coat pockets and apparates directly to Hermione’s poky little office, pushing the door open impatiently.

“Hermione, can house elves go senile?”

She looks up, bent over a large, complex looking tome. Malfoy, writing notes with an elegant grey quill beside her, does not. Harry still finds it weird that they work together. Every time he stops by, Malfoy ignores him, and today is evidently no different. Fine by Harry.

“Harry,” Hermione says exasperatedly. “Kreacher isn’t senile, he’s just—“

“Watching me like a weird creepy shadow? Leaving random shit around the house and refusing to tell me what it means? Look!” He pulls the items out of his pockets, chucking them on the desk one by one. “What the fuck is any of this shit?”

The little dragon lands in front of Malfoy, whose hand suddenly stills. He looks up, smirking, and meets Harry’s gaze. “Potter.”

Something clenches in Harry’s stomach.

“Your house elf is telling you it’s time for the Heir to the House of Black to start courting.”

Black ♣️ Day two of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s unofficial microfic may challenge

Drarry as Onion Articles (pt. 1?)

feel free to add on!

(X)

sick post i just found online. sorry i couldnt find the source

Draco has never been good at waiting.

The day the Prophet breaks the story of the year, the decade, nay, the century—cover splashed with a blurry photograph featuring a nonetheless unmistakable bird's nest of hair and another man, topped off with the unimaginative yet direct headline, POTTER: GAY?—is the very same day Draco sits down across from Pansy in their favourite booth at Theo's Bar (also unimaginatively titled) and announces, with verve: "I have a plan."

Pansy sighs, sharp and judgemental. "Let me guess—"

"No," he interrupts. "Let me tell you."

"I already know this is about Harry fucking—"

"This is about Potter," he continues, talking loudly over her, "and my absolutely foolproof plan to get my hands on some Chosen Cock."

"Only your hands? Dream big, Draco," she says sarcastically, brow flat with irritation.

"Oh I am. Naturally this is only stage one. Stage five is marriage. Stage six? Impregnating him with the Malfoy heir."

"Not a visual I actually needed, thanks ever so!"

"You're not listening, Pans." He emphasises his point with a sharp slap to the tabletop. "You're not appreciating this for the life-changing moment it is. I am going to seduce Potter, and fuck him so hard he—"

"What?" comes an amused voice. "So hard I what, Malfoy?"

Draco's life flashes before his eyes, confirming that he's experiencing some sort of near-death phenomenon. He manages, somehow, to start breathing again, and affects a casual, unaffected lean against the booth seat, turning to face Harry Potter, giant wanker and wank-inspirer.

"Potter."

"Hi."

He's grinning, dark hair even more disastrous than that wretched photo. So annoying. Draco's never found him attractive in his entire life, actually.

"We were having a private conversation, very much not concerning you."

"Oh?" Those stupid green eyes are fixed on Draco's face. His grin is so. fucking. obnoxious. "Is there another Harry Potter you were hoping to impregnate?"

"Yes," Draco scowls, feeling his face grow blotchy. "You don't even make the top hundred. Sorry for the terrible blow, but you could stand to be taken down a peg or two."

"Oh, you know me." Potter spreads his arms. "I'm not averse to a good peg."

Pansy gags into her martini, as Draco tries to regain the feeling in his legs.

"Well," Potter shrugs, tucking his thumbs into his jeans. Merlin. Draco wants to climb him. "I guess I'll leave you be, then. Good luck impregnating that other fellow."

And then he's turning—leaving!—

"Wait!" Draco's hand shoots out, and the warmth of Potter's arm sends a shock right up through his fingers, tingling. "Perhaps you could be of some use, Scarhead."

There's a dimple threatening Draco's sanity, in the corner of Potter's cheek. "Yes, Draco?"

"Yes." He's such a prick. "Harry." Draco rubs a thumb against the inside of Potter's wrist, watching with great satisfaction as a shiver runs through him. "After all, I'll need someone to practice those impregnation skills on."

Waiting 🍸 Day 17 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3.

microfic prompt | day 2: black

They sit in the centre of the orchestra—expensive seats for opening night. The boy is rapt by the overture, but grows inevitably restless, like all six-year-olds would, by the third aria. Harry watches from up in the mezzanine as Draco pulls Scorpius into his lap, rocking him softly to the opera singer’s bellowing vibrato. He’s asleep in Draco’s arms by the finale of the first act.

He’s still asleep when Harry approaches them outside, under the marquee, with a sea of gowns and tuxedos passing around them.

“Potter,” Draco says, breathless and familiar, like it hasn’t been seven years. Like he hasn’t been caught in a world-ending lie. Like he isn’t holding the end of the world in his arms. “So, you’re back.”

“I’m back.” Harry keeps his shaky hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring and staring at the black curls tucked against Draco’s pale neck. Sorrow sings through him with all the power of a chorus.

“I thought he’d have your hair,” Harry says.