rockingrobin69
RockingRobin
Robin, writer, she/her, adult || FUCK jkr FUCK terfs || AO3 || darry || capri || recs ||
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-------The Sour Patch-------
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reading a line you like so much you have to take a little break. do a little dance or something. let the words twirl.
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My first Wei RuoLai fanart 💔
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my dude. no amount of 'duh's would convey my opinion any clearer. at this point, we might as well cease the discussion.
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Wonder Full (act 2)
One Monday Teddy asked, “Uncle Harry, why are your flowers always sad?” pointing to the newspaper under his nose. The pen was still in Harry’s hand, half-chewed.
“I,” he said, stopped. Squinted at the sketching, didn’t really see it. “Are they? Sad?”
“Yeah! Look at this one,” sticky-peanut-butter-finger wiggled very close to his face. “It’s all frowning and all.”
Did look at the lily in question, couldn’t really see where a face would be for it to frown. An eyebrow, maybe, in that line over there, or—“Oh,” when it hit him. The sagginess to the corners. “Yeah, I guess it is a bit sad.”
“They always are,” with a truly Hermione level of self-assuredness. “Is it because of, you know, the Terrible and Devastating Loss You’ve’ad Suffered and… everything Mrs. Crouch always goes on about?”
Choked on a startled laugh, buried his face in his palm. “Sorry! No, it’s not—sorry. Jesus, Ted, you surprised me there, is all.”
Thankfully, mercifully, Teddy laughed too. A bit like Malfoy’s laugh, loud and unselfconscious, a little wild. “Sorry, Uncle Harry! I didn’t mean to,” words lost in another burst of laughter. Harry’s chest went tight and over-warm, something fizzy and bright bubbling inside.
“Look at us,” he said in this thick voice he barely even recognised, “all sorry and silly like that.”
“So silly!” Ted shouted, delighted. “Gran would say we’re being so silly!”
“And what would Uncle Draco say?” with only a touch of self-loathing. Teddy’s smile went big, and he came closer, conspiratorial.
“He would say we’re being absolute gooses about it.”
“Geese. He’d say we’re being silly geese?”
“Absolute geeses!” shouting, “that we’re—we’re—honking!”
They both roared with it, arm flailing, belly-aching laughter, shouting things like “honk!” and “goose!” and “stop, Ted, oh, god, stop,” flat on the table and laughing. Harry was constantly wiping his eyes, shaking his head, overwhelmed with how tight his chest was, with how much he loved this silly little goose of a kid, who used to be quiet, who still sometimes was. Who was scratched in the same ways Harry had been, and then in different ways altogether. For whom Harry was an adult, was a fixture in a life that wasn’t entirely stable, that was, still, full of warmth and bursts of laughter.
“Hey,” he tapped Teddy’s shoulder, “when he comes in here, what do you think your Uncle Draco’s going to say?”
Ted tried for a serious face, quivering around the edges. “He’ll say, ‘what on earth is happening here!’ and then,” giggling too hard to continue.
“Then?” Harry attempted valiantly, covering his own uncontrollable chuckle under his hand, “then he’ll—laugh?”
“Honk!” Teddy screamed, and they both lost it, both utterly and helplessly entranced, both, probably, a little bit in love with the image they each conjured of a bemused, sparkly-eyed Malfoy coming in with his arms crossed, with his slanted smile, with his frizzy hair and the piercings all shining in the kitchen’s florescent light. With the questions already on his face and his willingness to partake in any kind of idiocy, of silliness, with how he’d probably only make it worse.
“Honk,” Harry agreed, used his sleeve to wipe some snot, “oh god, Teddy, you’re—” no words to describe it. On the floor, Teddy had begun what he named his ‘loose goose dance’, which involved mainly elbows and the occasional shriek, and Harry lost it, entirely, perpetually, lost it.
“Teddy!” screaming and joining, flinging his elbows in every direction, belly simmering with it, with how—how silly and light and terrific it all was, everything was, in existence: that he had his godson and his kitchen and his Malfoy and his, this, this terrible, sticky, peanut-butter-moment, this lunacy.
A noise from the doorway—and there he was, their Malfoy, arms crossed and his face torn between amusement and surprise. “Hello there, Teddington, Harry. What—what on earth is—”
They both cracked with it, sobbing, melting down to the floor: “What,” Teddy, and “on earth,” Harry, lost, both of them lost to it, lost. In the distance, Malfoy was shouting (“what? What? You have to tell me, what?”) and they were all losing their minds, all already have lost.
“Honk!” Teddy yelled, and Harry did too, “Honk, honk,” and Malfoy’s pretty mouth tilted, and his eyes crinkled, and he said, “Honk?”
They couldn’t stop laughing for hours. Could have been days. Obviously, miraculously, it didn’t take long before Malfoy was laughing with them. When it came to being a goose, it was hard to determine who wore it more naturally, but they all fit, they did, together, together.
This is technically the first part of Wonder Full act 2, and is mostly presented as a gift (to you all and to myself).
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Wonder Full (act 2)
One Monday Teddy asked, “Uncle Harry, why are your flowers always sad?” pointing to the newspaper under his nose. The pen was still in Harry’s hand, half-chewed.
“I,” he said, stopped. Squinted at the sketching, didn’t really see it. “Are they? Sad?”
“Yeah! Look at this one,” sticky-peanut-butter-finger wiggled very close to his face. “It’s all frowning and all.”
Did look at the lily in question, couldn’t really see where a face would be for it to frown. An eyebrow, maybe, in that line over there, or—“Oh,” when it hit him. The sagginess to the corners. “Yeah, I guess it is a bit sad.”
“They always are,” with a truly Hermione level of self-assuredness. “Is it because of, you know, the Terrible and Devastating Loss You’ve’ad Suffered and… everything Mrs. Crouch always goes on about?”
Choked on a startled laugh, buried his face in his palm. “Sorry! No, it’s not—sorry. Jesus, Ted, you surprised me there, is all.”
Thankfully, mercifully, Teddy laughed too. A bit like Malfoy’s laugh, loud and unselfconscious, a little wild. “Sorry, Uncle Harry! I didn’t mean to,” words lost in another burst of laughter. Harry’s chest went tight and over-warm, something fizzy and bright bubbling inside.
“Look at us,” he said in this thick voice he barely even recognised, “all sorry and silly like that.”
“So silly!” Ted shouted, delighted. “Gran would say we’re being so silly!”
“And what would Uncle Draco say?” with only a touch of self-loathing. Teddy’s smile went big, and he came closer, conspiratorial.
“He would say we’re being absolute gooses about it.”
“Geese. He’d say we’re being silly geese?”
“Absolute geeses!” shouting, “that we’re—we’re—honking!”
They both roared with it, arm flailing, belly-aching laughter, shouting things like “honk!” and “goose!” and “stop, Ted, oh, god, stop,” flat on the table and laughing. Harry was constantly wiping his eyes, shaking his head, overwhelmed with how tight his chest was, with how much he loved this silly little goose of a kid, who used to be quiet, who still sometimes was. Who was scratched in the same ways Harry had been, and then in different ways altogether. For whom Harry was an adult, was a fixture in a life that wasn’t entirely stable, that was, still, full of warmth and bursts of laughter.
“Hey,” he tapped Teddy’s shoulder, “when he comes in here, what do you think your Uncle Draco’s going to say?”
Ted tried for a serious face, quivering around the edges. “He’ll say, ‘what on earth is happening here!’ and then,” giggling too hard to continue.
“Then?” Harry attempted valiantly, covering his own uncontrollable chuckle under his hand, “then he’ll—laugh?”
“Honk!” Teddy screamed, and they both lost it, both utterly and helplessly entranced, both, probably, a little bit in love with the image they each conjured of a bemused, sparkly-eyed Malfoy coming in with his arms crossed, with his slanted smile, with his frizzy hair and the piercings all shining in the kitchen’s florescent light. With the questions already on his face and his willingness to partake in any kind of idiocy, of silliness, with how he’d probably only make it worse.
“Honk,” Harry agreed, used his sleeve to wipe some snot, “oh god, Teddy, you’re—” no words to describe it. On the floor, Teddy had begun what he named his ‘loose goose dance’, which involved mainly elbows and the occasional shriek, and Harry lost it, entirely, perpetually, lost it.
“Teddy!” screaming and joining, flinging his elbows in every direction, belly simmering with it, with how—how silly and light and terrific it all was, everything was, in existence: that he had his godson and his kitchen and his Malfoy and his, this, this terrible, sticky, peanut-butter-moment, this lunacy.
A noise from the doorway—and there he was, their Malfoy, arms crossed and his face torn between amusement and surprise. “Hello there, Teddington, Harry. What—what on earth is—”
They both cracked with it, sobbing, melting down to the floor: “What,” Teddy, and “on earth,” Harry, lost, both of them lost to it, lost. In the distance, Malfoy was shouting (“what? What? You have to tell me, what?”) and they were all losing their minds, all already have lost.
“Honk!” Teddy yelled, and Harry did too, “Honk, honk,” and Malfoy’s pretty mouth tilted, and his eyes crinkled, and he said, “Honk?”
They couldn’t stop laughing for hours. Could have been days. Obviously, miraculously, it didn’t take long before Malfoy was laughing with them. When it came to being a goose, it was hard to determine who wore it more naturally, but they all fit, they did, together, together.
This is technically the first part of Wonder Full act 2, and is mostly presented as a gift (to you all and to myself).
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Midnight magic
The grass is wet and it squelches under his feet and is possibly not even grass, just, mud, just, moor, and the moonlight dancing on his skin makes him tremble like an actual touch. It’s all so—out there. Damp and glittery. Nighttime and shivery-cold and oddly, oddly gentle. A hand in his, clammy; laughter crinkling the corner of an eye.
‘Just a little further,’ murmured, ‘come on, come on.’ Fingers warm and so solid around his wrist, pulling with excitement that’s as fresh as dew and as rumbling as laughter: pulling and they’re here. Out, of the city, of their minds. Out and the world is as true and as big as he’s always suspected it was.
‘Darling,’ a whisper, a kiss delivered right below his jawline, ‘I’m so glad. I’m so glad to be—’
‘Yes,’ Harry breathes, ‘yes, yes,’ and in his heart it hums too, it sings. The night and the trees and the water, it all glistens. It all listens, and soon enough it replies, in buzzing of tiny wings and rustling of leaves. In distant hooting and the wind blowing soothing waves onto the pebbly shore.
It’s—mad. Harry takes Draco’s face in his hands, kisses and kisses him until he can breathe. Until it makes sense (they’re mad, it’s all brilliant). Until he remembers, it’s the beginning of September and the middle of the night and his heart is three times its usual size under his jumper.
‘Shall we go in?’
He could be serious. Harry grins to the darkness, takes him in closer.
‘You’re mad. The water will be freezing.’
‘Yes. Shall we go in?’ with that little smile. It stretches, then dims. His fine eyebrow arches: ‘We don’t have to. We can just—’
Harry kisses him, helpless, delightfully distracted with the delicate shell of an ear. ‘Yes,’ meaning, anything he wants, meaning Harry is here and is his, all his.
Draco’s eyes on him sizzle. ‘We can just sit and watch the stars for a while. There’s a bit up ahead where I—’
‘Yes,’ he says instead of take me, instead of please, ‘yes, sweetheart, yes.’ A kiss and then another.
They slip a little on the rocks. Harry’s shoes are drenched. It’s cold and he’s so happy he could cry, with Draco’s hand in his and this rush, the magnitude of it. The moon comes back out from behind its blanket of cloud, and Draco is—the words get stuck under Harry’s breastbone. He’s so himself that it aches, it’s brilliant.
Must be visible on Harry’s face. ‘I told you,’ Draco beams. ‘I told you it’s magic.’
Harry’s eyes fill with something terrible and warm. ‘You did,’ he manages through a suddenly-dry throat. ‘You—sweetheart.’
‘Come on,’ with urgency that wasn’t there before. Harry will follow, anywhere; his heart feels crushed open and oddly light. The whole night is, alight. Under the cloudy sky and far too cold on the lakeshore, Harry is here and entirely, completely Draco’s.
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Spring
Is it an old wound yet? I keep checking, gentle fingers around the edges. Prodding, a little scared to find out what texture I’d meet—wet skin burst open or the warmth of a bruise or, finally, a scab. I think I’ve been taking this test for years: didn’t get a single answer yet.
Spring always catches me off-guard. Startles something out of me that can only be catalogued as true misery. It brushes past and softly, sweetly, fills the world until the wound is—well, irrelevant. I get to forget (to devour the only thing that matters), I get to relax (and to forge a new self out of the ruins). New is new, and never new enough. There’s some consolation in that. Spring and wounds are tied so tight together that I can’t always tell the difference. In the beginning. It gets better after (it always does).
Is it an old wound yet? I wait for an answer that’ll never come. It’s all around me, sprung free, torn loose. It’s burst skin and warm bruise and dry scab all at once. Itchy fingers aching to prod. It is, somehow, me: new, new. Not. There’s some consolation in that.
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pt. 2
“You always call me that,” Harry Potter said softly. “Full name, like I’m in trouble.”
“It’s your name,” Draco said. “What would you have me call you? Sugar plum? Honeybunch?”
A worrying choking sound filled the room. Harry Potter was… doing something, not smiling but not not-smiling either, something warm and addictive and very pleased.
“No! Nothing like that!”
“Ah. I see. You're more into the whole animal theme. Lambkin? Duckie? Little lion. Or we can go multilingual. Mon petit chou?”
“Malfoy!”
With the beaming, the unfair, unbearable beaming. Wiping his smirk physically, with a hand, “You're right, you're right, cabbage is not an animal, but I'm running out of ideas here, and you’re no help. Snoozypants? Squiddle-dee? Floopsypops?”
Harry Potter laughed so hard he was tearing up. “Is that—is that how you think normal people call each other?”
“Oh,” helplessly, “I’m sorry, High Lord of the Most Esteemed Committee of Naming and Such, is that too far out of the realm of possibility in a world in which Albus Percival Wulfric—”
“Snoozypants?”
“Liked that one, sweetheart?”
There was that blush. The top-to-bottom, hair-roots-to-feet. It made something in Draco’s belly clench, or unclench, or, just, react. It drew him closer somehow.
Harry Potter was still chuckling, tiny little hiccoughs of it making him jump. With another step forward, Draco murmured: “Unless, of course, you have a better idea?”
His eyes were so big. So—startled. Draco, feeling all of a sudden rather predatory, hastily removed himself from Harry Potter’s personal space and launched his overheated body on the sofa. “Well! That’s the matter sorted, then. Snoozlepants it is. I shall make it official upon my next visit to the Ministry. There might be an outcry, at first, but—”
Stopped when Harry Potter was suddenly very close. “Snoozypants,” he said, nonsensically.
“Bless you?”
“No. You said it wrong. You said—something else. I’m Snoozypants, from now on.” Grumpily, almost. Draco, enchanted, was also severely and terribly charmed.
“Well met,” he sputtered, and even put out a hand, like this was a totally sensible thing to do and not, say, a life-or-death situation that required a lot more courage than he ever had. “I’m—” ran out of words.
“Frimpton,” said Harry Potter. “Frimpton Mousipuff Hendersworth. The Third.”
Draco’s eyebrow hiked all the way up. “Mousipuff? That sounds suspiciously close to a certain House in which we both know I was not.”
Harry Potter shrugged. His face was so alight and so impossibly sweet that Draco nearly gagged. “Sorry, nothing for it now. The name’s been decided by the High Lord of Names and So On or whatever it was you said.”
“Hmm,” Draco huffed, oddly happy. “And here I thought I could outrun those stuffy ancestral monikers.”
“You still go by Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy?”
Pretending a hex to the chest, staggering backwards, “Point taken. Mousipuff it is.”
“Frimpton Mousipuff. Henderson. The third.”
“Begging your pardon, Snoozles, it was Hendersworth, not—”
“Ah-ha! So you were paying attention! I knew it.”
Somehow, in all this ridiculousness, Harry Potter was now seated next to him, thigh to thigh although the sofa wasn’t that cramped. He was pure ridiculousness in its purest form. Draco’s brain was barely even coming up with syllables anymore.
“Good,” someone said. Harry Potter. He was speaking. “I like it when you pay attention.”
Draco blinked.
“I like it when you—with me,” Harry Potter waved a hand in the very-little space between them. “Like this.”
Ohs kept exploding inside his chest. Highly inconvenient and likely dangerous. “Oh,” Draco said, out loud.
Harry Potter—he—he—lay his head, gently, on Draco’s shoulder. Melted with the biggest, most contended sigh. He was ridiculous and so warm and very real on Draco’s very real body part and none of this made the slightest bit of sense.
Helplessly, obviously, Draco melted too.
(This is not exactly a sequel to this little thing)
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pt. 2
“You always call me that,” Harry Potter said softly. “Full name, like I’m in trouble.”
“It’s your name,” Draco said. “What would you have me call you? Sugar plum? Honeybunch?”
A worrying choking sound filled the room. Harry Potter was… doing something, not smiling but not not-smiling either, something warm and addictive and very pleased.
“No! Nothing like that!”
“Ah. I see. You're more into the whole animal theme. Lambkin? Duckie? Little lion. Or we can go multilingual. Mon petit chou?”
“Malfoy!”
With the beaming, the unfair, unbearable beaming. Wiping his smirk physically, with a hand, “You're right, you're right, cabbage is not an animal, but I'm running out of ideas here, and you’re no help. Snoozypants? Squiddle-dee? Floopsypops?”
Harry Potter laughed so hard he was tearing up. “Is that—is that how you think normal people call each other?”
“Oh,” helplessly, “I’m sorry, High Lord of the Most Esteemed Committee of Naming and Such, is that too far out of the realm of possibility in a world in which Albus Percival Wulfric—”
“Snoozypants?”
“Liked that one, sweetheart?”
There was that blush. The top-to-bottom, hair-roots-to-feet. It made something in Draco’s belly clench, or unclench, or, just, react. It drew him closer somehow.
Harry Potter was still chuckling, tiny little hiccoughs of it making him jump. With another step forward, Draco murmured: “Unless, of course, you have a better idea?”
His eyes were so big. So—startled. Draco, feeling all of a sudden rather predatory, hastily removed himself from Harry Potter’s personal space and launched his overheated body on the sofa. “Well! That’s the matter sorted, then. Snoozlepants it is. I shall make it official upon my next visit to the Ministry. There might be an outcry, at first, but—”
Stopped when Harry Potter was suddenly very close. “Snoozypants,” he said, nonsensically.
“Bless you?”
“No. You said it wrong. You said—something else. I’m Snoozypants, from now on.” Grumpily, almost. Draco, enchanted, was also severely and terribly charmed.
“Well met,” he sputtered, and even put out a hand, like this was a totally sensible thing to do and not, say, a life-or-death situation that required a lot more courage than he ever had. “I’m—” ran out of words.
“Frimpton,” said Harry Potter. “Frimpton Mousipuff Hendersworth. The Third.”
Draco’s eyebrow hiked all the way up. “Mousipuff? That sounds suspiciously close to a certain House in which we both know I was not.”
Harry Potter shrugged. His face was so alight and so impossibly sweet that Draco nearly gagged. “Sorry, nothing for it now. The name’s been decided by the High Lord of Names and So On or whatever it was you said.”
“Hmm,” Draco huffed, oddly happy. “And here I thought I could outrun those stuffy ancestral monikers.”
“You still go by Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy?”
Pretending a hex to the chest, staggering backwards, “Point taken. Mousipuff it is.”
“Frimpton Mousipuff. Henderson. The third.”
“Begging your pardon, Snoozles, it was Hendersworth, not—”
“Ah-ha! So you were paying attention! I knew it.”
Somehow, in all this ridiculousness, Harry Potter was now seated next to him, thigh to thigh although the sofa wasn’t that cramped. He was pure ridiculousness in its purest form. Draco’s brain was barely even coming up with syllables anymore.
“Good,” someone said. Harry Potter. He was speaking. “I like it when you pay attention.”
Draco blinked.
“I like it when you—with me,” Harry Potter waved a hand in the very-little space between them. “Like this.”
Ohs kept exploding inside his chest. Highly inconvenient and likely dangerous. “Oh,” Draco said, out loud.
Harry Potter—he—he—lay his head, gently, on Draco’s shoulder. Melted with the biggest, most contended sigh. He was ridiculous and so warm and very real on Draco’s very real body part and none of this made the slightest bit of sense.
Helplessly, obviously, Draco melted too.
(This is not exactly a sequel to this little thing)
#drarry fic#mostly just sweetness#this is a hard part of the month and sometimes we gotta keep our minds busy#anyway: i think harry would greatly appreciate the chance to be utterly silly with someone#and i think draco will give in to him every single time
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Werewolf boyfriend
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Numbly
“I've been informed,” Harry Potter burst through the door with his habitual earth-quake of a shout, “that you don’t even like peppers!”
“Good morning,” Draco said dryly. Harry Potter glared.
With a sigh, Draco retreated to the kitchen to fetch the biscuits from the cupboard.
Around his third one, an insistent crumb hanging to his upper lip with all its tiny might: “Peppers, Malfoy!”
“Pardon?”
“Peppers!”
Draco blinked. “If you’ll be so kind as to tell me what on earth you’re on about.”
“Pansy said you hate them!”
He looked absolutely outraged. Draco sipped his long-cold tea.
“Do I?”
“She said you’re allergic!”
“Am I?”
“Stop—fucking with me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” But the corner of his lips was twitching. “I’m not allergic. I was simply a horribly dramatic child and she still naïve back when we were, what, six. Seven. I’m fine with peppers now.”
Harry Potter pouted, terribly chipmunk-ish, and even put the biscuit pack down. Down to business. “I cooked the—bloody hell, Malfoy, just, honestly. Why wouldn’t you say? That you hate peppers. I would’ve made something else. I would have happily—why?”
Utterly bemused, “I am. Honest, I mean. I don’t mind peppers anymore.”
“That’s a fucking lie and we both know it.”
Grasping at straws and failing, at least managing to stop the wobble of his stupid mouth, the automatic turning downwards. Went for his cup instead. The tea was ice-cold and flavourless and Draco poured it down his throat like it could cure him.
“Your hair’s a mess,” he then said, venomous, and turned his eyes back to the wall, where they refused to stay. It was always like this when Harry Potter barged into his flat. Even the water stains on the ceiling lost their usual allure and could not hold his attention. “If it’s raining, cast a bloody Impervious. Or take an umbrella.”
Harry Potter took a deep breath instead, sounding awfully, weirdly small. Some of the tension bled out of him in increments, his shoulders first, then the fists unclenching, then his belly un-hardening. His jaw was last. Draco was helplessly mesmerised by the transformation.
“You’re impossible,” but his voice finally not straining, his fingers not twitching towards the biscuits. No longer needing the obvious distraction. “Next time, if I make something you dislike, you have to tell me.”
“An order,” Draco huffed. “How sweet.”
Harry Potter could blush all the way to the roots of his hair. It was such a stunning, breath-stealing wonder to witness.
“It’s not a… fuck you.”
“Hmm.”
They sat there in strangely amicable silence. The oven still gave that choking, desperate cough every ten seconds, and it set a nice framework for their breathing, for the non-fidgeting. Harry Potter was always fidgety, but not when he sat in Draco’s kitchen like this.
“What’s your schedule? For today. Nev said you’re doing overtime again.” Leaning back, giving Draco that look all his friends liked to wear, the one on the border of a telling-off. It didn’t usually work on him, but Harry Potter had a slight edge to his disappointment that made Draco’s skin crawl.
“Not—exactly. Shouldn’t be so late. I’ll be home for bedtime, Mother, I promise.”
Even his mother didn’t glare like that. “Third time this week? I kind of want to strangle your boss.”
“Ha. I should inform you that violence is usually frowned upon in the workplace.”
He didn’t smile, but he came near it. Draco could tell, because the corners of his eyes were dancing. “Does it count if it's not my workplace?”
“Mm. Fair enough. Strangle away.”
Now he was smiling. “When d’you start? Want a ride?”
And Draco was so grateful he didn’t launch yet another tirade about how Draco should quit that he said, “Why not.” (Only because he was distracted and rather tired, and not because sitting behind Harry Potter on his motorbike was in itself half-punishment, and not because clinging to his waist on tight turns at far-too-quick was—anything at all). On the downside, it made Harry Potter practically beam, and Draco still needed his eyes.
“Great! I mean. That’s good. That you won’t be late. Bad for your, er, record, and stuff, and you might not get a—bonus or something.”
They didn’t do bonuses at McMillan & McMillan, but that was neither here nor there. Draco nodded, pushed himself up on not so flimsy legs, collected his coat from where it was crumpled on the back of a chair.
“What about lunch?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t take. Any lunch.”
Why was he so obsessed with food? It was dangerously endearing. “I have an apple in my bag. Come now, you promised I won’t be late.”
“An—” Harry Potter shook his head, loosening even more curls out of his bun. They were rain-flat and miserable and still entirely too sweet. “I’ll buy you a sandwich at that poor excuse for a cafeteria you got there. And so help me god, Malfoy, you’ll eat it, or—”
“All right,” both hands up, “no need to shout. Your wish is my command, etcetera.”
He pouted so hard it was almost comical. But there was something still wounded there, so Draco added, “As long as there’s peppers, you know,” and then he was fuming again, bouncing on the balls of his feet and ready to deliver yet-another lecture. Draco watched him, amused, and forgot to lock the door behind him, and forgot his scarf.
Did remember his umbrella, which he Leviosa-ed to follow the Death Machine, stuck it against the silly jacket's back when they reached the office. It wasn’t raining anymore, thankfully allowing Draco to arrive not wet-dog for a change, and it made absolutely no difference.
Harry Potter took off his helmet to watch Draco enter the building. Didn’t follow him inside (wise, to prevent a murder), and so Draco completely forgot about the sandwich threat until it was roughly lunchtime. At which point, a drawer in his desk suddenly jumped open, and a far-too-fancy £12 bready tower appeared. On it a note that scrawled pepper-free, git.
Harry Potter had a lot to answer for. Draco, distracted, chipped away at the sandwich all the same, and was only shouted at twice, and didn’t even spill coffee on his keyboard.
‘Not exactly overtime’ at the office meant staying after everyone else to take note of stock and arrange all the impossible paperwork. That Draco was given this task was already hilarious, and always a disaster: that his boss insisted on continuing to give it to him, possibly commendable. Maybe he thought Draco was being stubborn. Maybe he thought, nobody could really be this bad without actively trying. Well, he didn’t know Draco yet! There was always time to learn.
Stock was stocked. The backroom was stuffy and still smelling slightly of smoke (not Draco’s fault, probably), the sweet dusty smell of paperwork going to rot. It made his head spin, not unpleasantly, made him inhale a little brokenly and laugh to himself. The sandwich from all the way back lunch sat heavy in his belly, sweating. Everything was so incredibly laughable.
When he finally finished (after only forgetting three steps in the protocol), the sun had long set and the streetlights were humming. Not worrying, Draco thought, going back to the office (forgot his bag). Not worrying at all (back to the office, to check he locked the door). (Why would anyone give him the keys?) (Some disasters were just asking to happen).
On his way home he stopped by the corner shop for another pack of biscuits. Some disasters, sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare in advance. Harry Potter would surge in soon enough with another grievance. Draco was giddy by nature, and so the shakiness was not necessarily to do with this.
To the crescent moon drowning in cloud he wondered, do I hate peppers?
Couldn’t remember to decide by the time he made it back.
#this is still on my mind#drarry fic#it's - gentle#and a little sad?#but in a sweet way. a funny way even#i think i used to reblog these? i am so - not here#where are you robin. where#it's full on morning and i've been sitting here all night; not responsible for nonsense i'm spouting- sorry
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Numbly
“I've been informed,” Harry Potter burst through the door with his habitual earth-quake of a shout, “that you don’t even like peppers!”
“Good morning,” Draco said dryly. Harry Potter glared.
With a sigh, Draco retreated to the kitchen to fetch the biscuits from the cupboard.
Around his third one, an insistent crumb hanging to his upper lip with all its tiny might: “Peppers, Malfoy!”
“Pardon?”
“Peppers!”
Draco blinked. “If you’ll be so kind as to tell me what on earth you’re on about.”
“Pansy said you hate them!”
He looked absolutely outraged. Draco sipped his long-cold tea.
“Do I?”
“She said you’re allergic!”
“Am I?”
“Stop—fucking with me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” But the corner of his lips was twitching. “I’m not allergic. I was simply a horribly dramatic child and she still naïve back when we were, what, six. Seven. I’m fine with peppers now.”
Harry Potter pouted, terribly chipmunk-ish, and even put the biscuit pack down. Down to business. “I cooked the—bloody hell, Malfoy, just, honestly. Why wouldn’t you say? That you hate peppers. I would’ve made something else. I would have happily—why?”
Utterly bemused, “I am. Honest, I mean. I don’t mind peppers anymore.”
“That’s a fucking lie and we both know it.”
Grasping at straws and failing, at least managing to stop the wobble of his stupid mouth, the automatic turning downwards. Went for his cup instead. The tea was ice-cold and flavourless and Draco poured it down his throat like it could cure him.
“Your hair’s a mess,” he then said, venomous, and turned his eyes back to the wall, where they refused to stay. It was always like this when Harry Potter barged into his flat. Even the water stains on the ceiling lost their usual allure and could not hold his attention. “If it’s raining, cast a bloody Impervious. Or take an umbrella.”
Harry Potter took a deep breath instead, sounding awfully, weirdly small. Some of the tension bled out of him in increments, his shoulders first, then the fists unclenching, then his belly un-hardening. His jaw was last. Draco was helplessly mesmerised by the transformation.
“You’re impossible,” but his voice finally not straining, his fingers not twitching towards the biscuits. No longer needing the obvious distraction. “Next time, if I make something you dislike, you have to tell me.”
“An order,” Draco huffed. “How sweet.”
Harry Potter could blush all the way to the roots of his hair. It was such a stunning, breath-stealing wonder to witness.
“It’s not a… fuck you.”
“Hmm.”
They sat there in strangely amicable silence. The oven still gave that choking, desperate cough every ten seconds, and it set a nice framework for their breathing, for the non-fidgeting. Harry Potter was always fidgety, but not when he sat in Draco’s kitchen like this.
“What’s your schedule? For today. Nev said you’re doing overtime again.” Leaning back, giving Draco that look all his friends liked to wear, the one on the border of a telling-off. It didn’t usually work on him, but Harry Potter had a slight edge to his disappointment that made Draco’s skin crawl.
“Not—exactly. Shouldn’t be so late. I’ll be home for bedtime, Mother, I promise.”
Even his mother didn’t glare like that. “Third time this week? I kind of want to strangle your boss.”
“Ha. I should inform you that violence is usually frowned upon in the workplace.”
He didn’t smile, but he came near it. Draco could tell, because the corners of his eyes were dancing. “Does it count if it's not my workplace?”
“Mm. Fair enough. Strangle away.”
Now he was smiling. “When d’you start? Want a ride?”
And Draco was so grateful he didn’t launch yet another tirade about how Draco should quit that he said, “Why not.” (Only because he was distracted and rather tired, and not because sitting behind Harry Potter on his motorbike was in itself half-punishment, and not because clinging to his waist on tight turns at far-too-quick was—anything at all). On the downside, it made Harry Potter practically beam, and Draco still needed his eyes.
“Great! I mean. That’s good. That you won’t be late. Bad for your, er, record, and stuff, and you might not get a—bonus or something.”
They didn’t do bonuses at McMillan & McMillan, but that was neither here nor there. Draco nodded, pushed himself up on not so flimsy legs, collected his coat from where it was crumpled on the back of a chair.
“What about lunch?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t take. Any lunch.”
Why was he so obsessed with food? It was dangerously endearing. “I have an apple in my bag. Come now, you promised I won’t be late.”
“An—” Harry Potter shook his head, loosening even more curls out of his bun. They were rain-flat and miserable and still entirely too sweet. “I’ll buy you a sandwich at that poor excuse for a cafeteria you got there. And so help me god, Malfoy, you’ll eat it, or—”
“All right,” both hands up, “no need to shout. Your wish is my command, etcetera.”
He pouted so hard it was almost comical. But there was something still wounded there, so Draco added, “As long as there’s peppers, you know,” and then he was fuming again, bouncing on the balls of his feet and ready to deliver yet-another lecture. Draco watched him, amused, and forgot to lock the door behind him, and forgot his scarf.
Did remember his umbrella, which he Leviosa-ed to follow the Death Machine, stuck it against the silly jacket's back when they reached the office. It wasn’t raining anymore, thankfully allowing Draco to arrive not wet-dog for a change, and it made absolutely no difference.
Harry Potter took off his helmet to watch Draco enter the building. Didn’t follow him inside (wise, to prevent a murder), and so Draco completely forgot about the sandwich threat until it was roughly lunchtime. At which point, a drawer in his desk suddenly jumped open, and a far-too-fancy £12 bready tower appeared. On it a note that scrawled pepper-free, git.
Harry Potter had a lot to answer for. Draco, distracted, chipped away at the sandwich all the same, and was only shouted at twice, and didn’t even spill coffee on his keyboard.
‘Not exactly overtime’ at the office meant staying after everyone else to take note of stock and arrange all the impossible paperwork. That Draco was given this task was already hilarious, and always a disaster: that his boss insisted on continuing to give it to him, possibly commendable. Maybe he thought Draco was being stubborn. Maybe he thought, nobody could really be this bad without actively trying. Well, he didn’t know Draco yet! There was always time to learn.
Stock was stocked. The backroom was stuffy and still smelling slightly of smoke (not Draco’s fault, probably), the sweet dusty smell of paperwork going to rot. It made his head spin, not unpleasantly, made him inhale a little brokenly and laugh to himself. The sandwich from all the way back lunch sat heavy in his belly, sweating. Everything was so incredibly laughable.
When he finally finished (after only forgetting three steps in the protocol), the sun had long set and the streetlights were humming. Not worrying, Draco thought, going back to the office (forgot his bag). Not worrying at all (back to the office, to check he locked the door). (Why would anyone give him the keys?) (Some disasters were just asking to happen).
On his way home he stopped by the corner shop for another pack of biscuits. Some disasters, sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare in advance. Harry Potter would surge in soon enough with another grievance. Draco was giddy by nature, and so the shakiness was not necessarily to do with this.
To the crescent moon drowning in cloud he wondered, do I hate peppers?
Couldn’t remember to decide by the time he made it back.
#this came to me in a not-enough-sleep#and i've been making little scenes of it in my head all day long#draco insists on calling harry 'harry potter' every single time#he hits his head on the oven and harry gives him a kiss and they're both mortified? sitting under the kitchen's neon light in silence#everyone barges in his flat and they're all so dramatic and he's so dryly amused by it#also they're all so disappointed with how little care he takes of himself and he chokes on how he's barely keeping it together#no this is fun i promise. i promise#anyway what do i tag even. i forgot how to do this#drarry fic#right?#1300 words ish#rockingrobin69#this is a part of a wip? technically? i GUESS?
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Why be broken when you can be gold?
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restless in the most 'this fic exists and i get to read it' (and wasn't it, ah, night, just a second ago)
#AND IT'S A WIP#MY HEART ACHES WITH THE GIDDINESS#THIS WORLD IS SO FUCKED UP BUT WE GET THESE JOYS?#WE GET OUR FAVOURITE AUTHORS UPDATING--#I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH AND CAPS LOCK IS NOT GETTING MY POINT ACROSS#THIS WIP HAS BEEN UPDATED. THIS WIP. THE PREVIOUS UPDATE WAS NOV 22#AND WE GET A NEW CHAPTER#HOW IS THIS ALSO THE WORLD WE LIVE IN#HOW ARE WE SO LUCKY?
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i just like this man's face too much
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