A little gift for @fw00shy đź’“ a microfic written entirely in three word sentences. Also for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: blue.
2 August 2006. Department of Mysteries.
“Shouldn’t be here.” Draco sounds wary.
“Fuck off, Malfoy.” Harry laughs, loud. “Azkaban released me.” He smiles wryly. “Didn’t you hear?”
“You escaped, Potter.” Draco’s voice heats. “In broad daylight. Bit dangerous, really.”
“Yeah,” Harry grins. “Slaughtered sixty-two dementors. And Warden Umbridge.” He leans in. So, so close. Mouths Draco’s throat. “You miss me?” Voice muffled, gruff.
Draco’s eyes close. His shoulders slack. Relax, dip low. He breathes deep. “Not at all.” His eyes open. They’re dark, guarded. And he stiffens. “You’re not good. Potter, you’re not.”
Harry pulls back. “Careful,” he says. “I’d kill you. If I wanted.”
“Kill me then.”
Yet Harry falters. His lips part.
Draco’s mouth twists. “You wouldn’t, Potter.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t.” Harry laughs again. Shakes his head. Looks at him. “You look good. Draco, you do.”
“Thanks,” Draco says. He smiles unhappily. Gestures to himself. “I’ve gone official. Bloody Ministry official.”
Harry reaches out. Traces Draco’s collar. “Wearing Ministry blues. Who would’ve thought.” He grins, crooked. “Unspeakable Malfoy, yeah? Shouldn’t trust you.”
“Fuck you, Harry.” Draco eyes him. Voice rough, quiet. “Alright, I did. I missed you. Just a bit.”
“Didn’t visit me.”
“Didn’t want to. That first time… You looked dead.”
And Harry sobers. “Yeah, I know.” Harry watches him. Face cut-up, bloody. “Nicked a Portkey. To the tropics.” He smiles grimly. “I’m going away.”
Draco breathes in. “DMLE’s tracing them. They’ll find you.”
“Unregistered,” Harry says. “Sounds fun, yeah? Us, the ocean.” He laughs, gruff. “Come with me.”
“Merlin,” Draco says. Voice sharp, clipped. “It’s been years.”
“Only been three.” Harry looks down. “Still love you.” Closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them slowly. “Prisoners are plotting. Ministry’s gone bad. We should leave.”
Draco pauses, considering. Bites his lip. “I’ve heard things. Whispers of things. I didn’t know…” Looks at Harry. “… who to believe. But now, I…”
“What is it?” Harry’s voice drops. Sounds low, gentle.
“I trust you.” Draco leans in. Thumbs Harry’s mouth. “Wish I didn’t. But I do.” Traces Harry’s lips.
Doors slam open. Voices yelling—loud, frantic. “Target in building. Agents, get ready.”
“Fuck,” Harry mutters. “Not enough time. I’ve gotta go.” Turns to Draco. “Coming with me?”
“Bloody hell, Potter. Yes,” Draco says. “Get the Portkey.”