Draco had been gone four months, in the end, which meant that Pansy and Vince were convinced he’d been killed and had already spitefully and tearfully destroyed a Horcrux.

“Goblet,” Vince said, face buried against Draco’s shoulder. He sniffed heavily. “Bit fancy if you ask me. Too many curly bits.”

“It was your aunt’s,” Pansy said. She was standing a couple of metres away, her back pressed defensively against a tree. Her face was pale and fixed. “You might have to apologise.”

Draco made a face. His aunt had been a sad, mythic figure for most of his childhood, having betrayed her own family and been locked up for the privilege. Aunt Andromeda had always been very matter of fact: “She’s an all-or-nothing kind of woman,” she’d said. “And she can’t help but love us and hate us with every part of her being.” After his aunt had been broken out of prison he’d seen this for himself; she turned up to Andromeda’s little Muggle flat quite frequently to threaten them and stare hungrily at them, alternately pressing her wand to his chest and stroking his hair. She wasn’t the calmest of relations, as they went. Sometimes Draco liked her despite himself.

“Maybe after the war,” he said, and patted Vince’s back. Vince’s hands flexed where they were digging into Draco’s shoulders, clutching him close. He drew in another great, sniffly breath. “You two been alright, then?”

He met Pansy’s gaze, dark and very angry and very bright. The locket gleamed around her neck.

“Alright,” she said.

They’d had to let go of the peacocks while Draco was gone, which Draco complained about at great length while being privately relieved: it had been exhausting and time-consuming to round them up and Apparate them over separately as they moved around. On the upside, Pansy had found a spell that enlarged the tent’s south tower into a pleasing silken spire, and it picked up radio signal better. Vince had found two new tapestries for the walls and the general effect was very pleasing and bright.

“I’ve always been fond of camping,” Draco said, ensconced comfortably in his high pallet once more.

“We know,” Pansy said, and stoked the marble fireplace.

With their newfound clear radio signal, they made contact with Potter’s merry little gang and met for a brief, fraught rendezvous in the Forbidden Forest.

Pansy was white-faced. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“Here we are,” Draco said. His scar was throbbing.

When Potter appeared, the same serious face as ever, Draco stepped forward and Potter let out a quick little breath of relief.

“Malfoy,” he said, slightly cold. “We thought you were–”

“I’m aware,” Draco said, and studied Potter’s features, a little curious. He’d spent a weekend surrounded by what felt like dozens of Potters all obsessed with their versions of Draco, matched by dozens of Dracos who couldn’t take their eyes off Potter. Draco had half-wondered, almost nervous, if he would suddenly develop a crush on Potter. But Potter came closer, noble chin tilted up, and Draco only felt the same as he always had: bored, a little annoyed.

“We think there might be a diadem,” Draco told him. “Somewhere in Hogwarts. I got - a tip. From someone.”

“Who?” Granger said, lurking beside Potter, suspicious as ever.

“An anonymous friend,” Draco said grandly, which he thought might go down better than a version of you from another universe. “Anyway. We need it. We - what do you need?”

Potter and Granger both looked tired, weary and battle-worn. Draco knew the answer without them saying it aloud: for you to win the war. But Potter only said, “We’re managing. A diadem?”

Pansy whispered, “A hundred different versions of the two of you?”

“Not that many. Maybe thirty,” Draco said, and sighed. “It was very weird. A lot of angst. And - and nobody else was the one in the prophecy. It was always Potter who was the - the Boy Who lived.”

“Potter?” Pansy said, nose wrinkled in disbelief. “How did he defeat the Dark Lord? Throw a strop at him?”

“That was the general impression I got,” Draco said. He hesitated. “In a lot of the worlds he was with me.”

Pansy laughed.

Draco rolled his eyes. “And in a lot of them he was with Ginny Weasley. One of the hims told me, though, that he broke up with her, just before he went off on the run.”

“Why?”

“To keep her safe,” Draco said.

“Seems a bit foolish to me,” Pansy said. “Gryffindor move. We don’t do that in Slytherin. You keep someone safe by keeping them close.”

“Maybe,” Draco said. “Maybe I’m just being selfish–”

“We do that in Slytherin, too,” Pansy said, “all of us,” and they pressed their faces close together, desperate, Pansy’s teeth catching and Draco’s breath coming harsh.

“Did you really think I was dead?” Draco said. His hand tangled in her hair.

“Yes,” Pansy said. “But I thought you might come back all the same.”

In The Hand - Jazz Singer Draco (partial)

The morning after she got married Ginny swung by HQ, signed off on the Gilligan girl to head into the field, stopped by a bakery for some brioche and that dense dark bread that Harry liked, and went to the Loft, where Draco was, as expected, nursing a glass of scotch at the bar that wasn’t even meant to be open. She lingered in the door for a moment, smiling at his bright head, and then swept through, dropping her bread on the bar and swooping in to kiss his cheek before he could startle away.

“Hello, kid,” she said. “Missed you yesterday.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I’m fourteen months older than you.” He reached for the bread; Ginny smacked his hand away and handed him the hot cross bun she’d bought as well. He began to moodily pick at it.

“Harry was disappointed,” Ginny said.

Draco laughed, hollow.

Ginny sighed. “Are you moping about this? I didn’t think you’d mope. I thought you’d be out nastily fucking someone.”

“It’s early yet,” Draco said.

Ginny smiled at him. “I keep telling you everything’s going to be okay.”

“I’m not interested in your and Potter’s ongoing weirdness,” Draco said.

“Okay,” Ginny said peaceably, and looked over at where Annie was straightening bottles. “Can I make some tea, Annie?”

“As long as you don’t want me to do it,” Annie said. “One early customer is enough.”

“I’m not a customer,” Draco mumbled. Ginny flicked her wand at the shelf, sent a teapot soaring gently down towards herself. She transfigured Draco’s scotch into apple juice while she was at it, and absently stole some of his bun. Draco sighed, shoving it her way, and they shared down to the last crumb.

In The Hand - Jazz Singer Draco and Alt Uni Harry

When Harry showed up he was furious, of course, and very suspicious, and sure that the weird new old Malfoy was playing some sort of trick on him, that it was a curse or a bad dream. But the new Malfoy just said, “I think there’s something stranger than anything I can manage is going on here,” and grinned and added, “and the Harry in this world hasn’t been as bad-tempered as you for years.” Harry couldn’t work out what the trick would be, anyway, and Malfoy showed him photos of the Harry in this world and generally convinced him that there was something more bizarre going on; and then he panicked; and then Malfoy made him a cocktail, which was bitter and rough and had a curl of orange peel floating in it, and Harry calmed down a bit after that.

“Weird,” Malfoy said again, staring at him, and Harry said it back because this Malfoy was so different: his curling golden hair, his warm eyes, the frequency with which he smiled. He was so much older, too; thirty-two, he told Harry, with a slightly embarrassed crinkle of his nose, but Harry didn’t mind. He wondered if that was what gave this Malfoy the certainty of his walk, the easy way he held himself. He didn’t look hunted. He looked at Harry with a long, lingering gaze and only smiled when Harry folded his arms, self-conscious.

Malfoy said they’d better not freak everyone out with a second Harry Potter and came back with wigs and ridiculous hats and a fake nose from Zonko’s. Harry laughed despite himself. “I can do disguise spells, you know.”

“They’re not half as fun,” Malfoy said, and absently settled the shoulder-length glittering purple wig on Harry’s head.

Dressed like that, Harry got to sit downstairs in the nightclub and watch Malfoy play. He’d borrowed some of Malfoy’s clothes, too, because he’d shown up in his Hogwarts uniform. He’d had to roll up Malfoy’s soft blue jeans and even the t-shirt was a little big for him at his shoulders. They all smelled warm and faintly adult; eventually Harry realised it was Malfoy’s cologne.

“You’re - nicer than the Malfoy in my world,” he said the next morning, when Malfoy was chatting idly to him about some of the weirder patrons in the club. “Are we friends in this world or something?”

“Well, not exactly,” Malfoy said. “We were for a while.”

“Right,” Harry said, uncertain.

“We broke up, that’s all,” Malfoy said, and after a moment he got up and pulled down a packet of photos from on top of his bookshelf and tossed them down to Harry with a very contrived careless gesture. Harry slid out the first few photos and looked through them, feeling his face growing hot: an older version of himself with his arms around Malfoy, laughing; Malfoy and the other Harry hand in hand and looking back over their shoulders with surprise at the photographer; Malfoy and the other Harry on a hike, Malfoy with his hands on Harry’s shoulders leapfrogging over his head and laughing. Then he got to one that was clearly taken by Malfoy, lifting the camera up above himself, with Harry in bed: the other Harry was smiling, eyes closed, pressed up close to Malfoy and littering kisses along his neck, his jaw, and the photographed Malfoy kept squirming and laughing.

Harry shoved the photos hurriedly back inside their envelope and away from himself.

Malfoy laughed. “I take it we’re not in your world.”

“No, he hates me,” Harry said, without quite meaning to, and Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up. Harry flushed more. “We hate each other, I mean.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said smoothly, and that afternoon he took Harry out in his car - which was an old-fashioned black convertible that hummed along lighter than magic - and they drove into the countryside and went to a vineyard owned by a friend of Malfoy’s. It had been winter in Harry’s world but it was summer here and they wandered through the vines all afternoon, sipping the wines that were brought for them and then drinking a whole bottle, two, with Malfoy’s friend, and plates of bread and cheese and cut meats laid out in front of them. Malfoy was funny, kept making these acerbic little jokes, and Harry laughed breathlessly, sprawling out in his chair, feet kicked up on the empty chair in front of him. He kept staring at Malfoy, and he was worried about what was showing on his face, but not enough to look away.

They had to catch the Floo back. Harry went to sleep on the bed Malfoy had made for him on the couch.

The next morning he woke up and saw through the ajar bathroom door, where Malfoy was leaning shirtless by the sink and shaving. His shoulders were a little broader than the Malfoy’s from Harry’s world. He had his chin tilted up, hands sure. He didn’t have any Sectumsempra scars. Harry swallowed.

This Malfoy was always pleased to see Harry. He asked Harry questions and listened with his eyebrows raised. Harry got the impression, somehow, that he was quite lonely, but he was always pleasant and friendly, and his life was glittering and welcoming. He sang so clear and bright, downstairs in the club.

On his fourth day there Harry interrupted Malfoy in the kitchen, where he was making a pasta sauce, and kissed him quite clumsily. Malfoy put his hand on Harry’s chin, tilting him up instinctively, making the kiss easy and sweet. They both breathed in together, slow. Then Malfoy pushed him away.

“I really shouldn’t,” he said, frowning.

“Why not?” Harry tilted his jaw up. “I thought you said the other me broke up with you.”

“He did.”

“So it’s not cheating then,” Harry said.

“Oh, darling,” Malfoy said, and took another step away, which was confusing. “That’s not all of it. You’re so young–”

“I’m eighteen!”

“God,” Malfoy said. “And you seem quite confused–”

“Just because I don’t want him doesn’t mean I don’t want you,” Harry said.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want him?”

Harry flushed. He didn’t say anything.

“Darling,” Malfoy said again, and Harry pressed forward and kissed him again. Malfoy’s hands settled on his biceps, light, like he hadn’t decided whether to pull him closer or push him away.

“I can’t stay,” Harry said. “I probably won’t be here long. We’ll have to find a way for me to get back. But why not - why not while I’m here - if you want it.” He flushed, realising he’d been presumptuous. “I mean, if I’m not as good as your Harry it’s okay, but–”

Malfoy laughed. After a moment he turned and switched off the stove.

Harry had had sex before; with Ginny, in the long summer after the war, before they’d slowly drifted apart and realised they’d never really known what they were promising each other. It had been of the best things to ever happen to Harry, giggly and overwhelming and tender, both of them as nervous as the other. He’d even messed around with a boy before; he and Seamus had exchanged awkward hand jobs just before he went back to Hogwarts. He’d sort of figured he had a good idea of what it would be like with Malfoy.

But he was wrong. Malfoy was as sure and clever in bed as out, and he touched Harry easily, certainly, like Harry had been made for him and Malfoy knew just what to do with him. He slung his arms around Malfoy’s neck and clung to him and Malfoy laughed and seemed to be everywhere at once, breathless and hot and touching Harry so that Harry thought he might burn up. And Malfoy seemed delighted by him, too; his eyes went all dark when Harry grabbed at him, he threw his head back against the pillows and squirmed when Harry first shyly pressed into him, he stared at Harry with a tender sort of awe when Harry went down onto his knees. Once, when the sky was grey with dawn and Harry was nosing hopefully around Malfoy’s hip, Malfoy croaked, “You’re going to kill me,” and laughed.

Harry looked up, worried. “I’m not hurting you?”

“I’d just forgotten what it was like to be a teenager,” Malfoy said, smiling breathless at him.

Harry forgot about his plan to find a way home; he forgot about how much he hated Malfoy. His days took on a dazed, golden feel. They slept late in the mornings, Malfoy exhausted from his late nights playing at the club, and ate lazy breakfasts in bed, reaching out for each other as naturally as breathing. In the afternoon Malfoy took him places, tall beautiful buildings or museums, parks or out into the countryside. One day they drove to Hastings, and ran in and out of the surf yelling. Before Malfoy had to play again they would go out for dinner in fancy London restaurants or take fish and chips to eat on a bench by the river, throwing spares at seagulls. And half the time they went home early, to press each other eagerly into Malfoy’s luxurious bed. In the evenings Harry would go and sit and drink beer down in the club while Malfoy played or just wait for him up in bed. Once he spent an hour before Malfoy got back jerking himself off slowly, pressing his fingers inside, so that when Malfoy got back Harry was desperate and ready for him, and Malfoy’s pupils went so big he looked drugged.

Then one night he’d dozed off before Malfoy got back and he woke to Malfoy’s hand on his shoulder and Malfoy’s mouth whispering pet names against his, but it wasn’t just Malfoy at all: it was another him, and Ron and Hermione, and in the corner, looking horrified and ashen, the Draco from his own world.

Harry’s heart slammed into his throat. He stared at the Draco Malfoy from his world and thought that he didn’t know how that strained face looked when it was laughing cheerfully, or slack with pleasure, and he knew he’d lied; he knew he’d made a mistake. He wanted this Draco. The one he’d pulled out of the Fiendfyre, the one he’d carved up in a bathroom, the one he’d saved and ruined all his life. His mouth tasted like ash.

The Malfoy from this world looked at him like he knew it, and Harry kissed him goodbye anyway. He pressed up tight against Malfoy and whispered close in his ear, “I want - I want you both–”

“I have every confidence you’ll get us,” Malfoy murmured, and pushed him away.

In The Hand - Abraxas and James

They landed back where he’d left, in his bedroom, which meant getting James out was a fucking nightmare and he’d barely watched James slip round the corner and out of sight before Zabini was there, coming up and frowning and saying, “Malfoy? You’re back?”

Abraxas raised his eyebrows. “Worried?”

Zabini put his hands in his boxes and gave Abraxas that serious, deferential look he’d picked up about four years ago. “We weren’t sure if something had happened.”

“I do my best to manage everything from here,” Abraxas said coolly. “Occasionally business takes me elsewhere. Has His Lordship asked for me?”

“This morning,” Zabini said.

“Excellent,” Abraxas said. So that had to be dealt with first. “If you’ll excuse me.”

After some time the Dark Lord was very interested in the multiverses, and especially the Wood. He thought the ban on magic, the way magic backfired on its users, could be useful. Abraxas sat down at the heavy scarred table to sketch out the elements he’d noticed, the plantlife he’d seen, some of the similar curse-effects to the inter-world travel, anything that could help them track down some of the old magic behind it. That took up most of his afternoon; then he went up before dinner to briefly talk with Greengrass and Parkinson about the latest reports from the field - the bloody Order had somehow pulled off a raid in Cornwall, breaking free a small processing jail of Muggleborn - and then he had to sit noticeably at dinner, because Parkinson said, eyes grave, “We were worried about you, Malfoy.”

The next few days was sorting through the prisoners that had been captured in his absence, some seventeen of them; it had, indeed, been a successful few weeks. He took charge of the interrogation leads, which ate up most of his time. He had to correct several records that had once again been admirably mismanaged by Crabbe. The tunnel issue in the lower dungeons was still troubling them. Then his father wanted to speak to him, to have one of those awkward meals where he once again tried to pry at Abraxas and understand how he worked, that boring combination of fear and jealousy in his gaze. Your mother misses you, he said, and Abraxas looked away, mouth tight and impatient. His father had never known how to dedicate himself entirely to something.

The first week went by almost without him noticing; the second he managed to get a little more on top of things. But it wasn’t for another four days, when the stress tension had been twinging at his temples for hours, that James finally showed up, sitting on Abraxas’s bed when Abraxas got back from dinner.

Abraxas spotted the window left ajar the moment he pushed open the doors; he turned and said, “Parkinson, I’m sorry, I’ve suddenly remembered some strategy reports that just came in. I need to look at them.”

Parkinson frowned a little. Four years ago she would have argued. “Are you sure?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Abraxas said, and then noticed the mug that had been set carefully to the wrong side of his desk. “Maybe later tonight. I shouldn’t be long.”

“All right,” Parkinson said, and Abraxas closed his door behind her and clicked his fingers so the silencing charm rolled down. He toed off his boots. He went quietly up the stairs into his private quarters, and James looked up at him.

James looked exhausted but quite whole. There were dark shadows under his eyes, but no scarring or bruises that Abraxas could see; he was sitting quite straight and comfortably, not as though he was hurt anywhere. His skin was dull, but not pale like he’d lost a lot of blood.

“Hello,” he said, and Abraxas came and leaned against the bedpost, looking down at him.

“Hello,” Abraxas said. “Get back okay?”

“Yes,” James said. He rubbed his face. James was never good at hiding when he was tired. “It’s been a long few weeks. It’s been - fairly heavy.”

“I know,” Abraxas said. Twelve of the seventeen prisoners had been Order members. “I’m having eight of them transferred to the B Block.”

James’s head jerked up, eyes brightening. “They haven’t found the tunnel yet?”

“They can’t track Granger’s wandering spell,” Abraxas said.

“Fuck. She’s so good.” James shook his head. “And the other four?”

“I’ve managed to get myself onto the interrogation panel for three,” Abraxas said.

James’s face collapsed a little. “Thank you,” he said. “The other–”

“Kenneth Towler,” Abraxas said.

“Okay. I’ll try and get everyone that he knew out by Tuesday, if you can delay it.”

Abraxas nodded. That should be manageable. James was looking up at him, quiet, his whole face patient. Abraxas remembered when he’d been in school, when he’d barely been able to sit still, when he took up every classroom with his rumpled impatience, as though every moment he couldn’t be saving the world or winning a Quidditch Game was a waste of his precious time. Now he was very still, like he was used to holding his tongue and waiting.

“You’re not here for long,” Abraxas said.

“An hour or two maybe,” James said. “I haven’t got a lot of time. I wanted to come by, though. Did Voldemort believe you?”

Abraxas nodded.

“Okay,” James said. “Can we go out on your turret? It’s quite warm outside.”

Abraxas nodded again; he’d cleared most of the people out of his quarters when it had been two weeks since he’d seen James. He led the way up with James silent behind him, his breath on Abraxas’s neck the only reminder that he was there. When they got outside Abraxas turned his face up without quite meaning to. Lestrange Abbey was built of old, cold stone and Abraxas hadn’t been outside in a few days; he had almost forgotten it was nearly summer. But today felt like early June, the sun still streaked with gold even after the sun had gone down, the air warm on his face, and Abraxas walked forward to the parapet and looked down over fields waving gently with green and gold.

James came forward too, his shoulder pressed against Abraxas’s. Abraxas touched his knuckle to the corner of his eye and said, “Your people were relieved to see you, I suppose.”

“Hermione nearly took my head off,” James said, half-smiling. “I think they thought I’d run off at last.”

“I think they thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere,” Abraxas said, because it was what he’d assumed, until the tiny Harry had shown up.

“Well,” James said, quiet. “Have you been okay here?”

Abraxas turned to look at him and had that same weird, shocky little heart-thump as always when he realised James was close and staring right back at him, eyes intent, all his attention narrowed in on Abraxas. He swallowed. Then he said, “It’s been a long fortnight.”

“Yeah,” James said. He reached up to stroke his thumb along Abraxas’s jawline. “You look tired.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Abraxas said, and they kissed carefully, quietly as they did everything. James’s hand curled in Abraxas’s hair and Abraxas sighed a little, drooping in closer against the lean, strong line of James’s body. They turned into each other, silent, moving without speaking up to press against the stone wall. Abraxas thought about how much more likely they were to be seen up here, how the Dark Lord had been talking excitedly about how he believed he was beginning to sense how near or far James was at any one time, how it was only a matter of time before someone recognised Granger’s handiwork in the B Block as hers. Running over that was the low hum of pleasure at James’s mouth, James’s hands on him, the river fast over the sharp rocks beneath.

“Come on,” James said, and they slipped down into Abraxas’s bedroom again.

Afterward James stretched out lazy and sweet next to him, eyes closed and half-dozing, and Abraxas began, as was his custom, to track the scars down James’s torso. The thin white one that curled around his shoulder blade; the whiplashes that clawed like jealous fingers over his ribs; the sucking frozen kiss of a stinging tentacle across his stomach, next to his navel. There were the low gouges under his collarbone, too, like arrows pointing toward James’s fragile jugular, which Abraxas had left on him two Christmases ago.

“You think all those kids got back okay?” James said sleepily.

“A lot of them were older than you,” Abraxas said. They hadn’t thought so; he’d heard the idiot who allowed himself to be called Drake explaining to Hazza that actually, he was twenty-five and he thought Potter was a little older, but James was probably the only one in his thirties. James was twenty-two. Abraxas hadn’t said anything.

“You know what I mean,” James said.

“I’m just surprised, once again, by the sheer arrogance that allows you, a hopeless fucking idiot perhaps two or three days away from getting killed at any one time, to condescend to anyone.”

James blinked open his eyes and smiled up at Abraxas. “Come here,” he said, and Abraxas let James tumble him down onto his back, even stretched out and held onto the headboard rails when James asked him, murmuring to him, his smile pressed against Abraxas’s hip.

A while after that he tucked his face against Abraxas’s neck and Abraxas begged, knees pressed to James’s hips, “Harry. Don’t, don’t.”

“I do.”

“Please don’t,” Abraxas said, “I can’t,” and then James got a hand around him and Abraxas was shuddering and gasping up towards him, pressing his hand reflexively against his mouth.

James had to get dressed after that. Abraxas did, too; he would remind himself of the strategy reports that had, thankfully, come in this morning and then go join Parkinson. James went to the wall and ran his fingers down the crease, whispered the password that answered to his voice and his voice alone, and shouldered the heavy stone aside to reveal the broomstick and Invisibility Cloak he’d left behind it. He picked them up, trooped back over to Abraxas, waited dutifully while Abraxas relaced his boots.

“There’s something else,” James said.

Abraxas looked up sharply. “Oh?”

“I talked to Potter for a while, back in the Wood,” he said. “He had a few ideas. Most of them haven’t paid off but we just got lucky.”

Abraxas reached out on instinct and caught James’s sleeve.

“We found the third Horcrux yesterday,” James said. He grinned at Abraxas.

Abraxas let out a long breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. So.”

“So.” James nodded. “It’ll probably be another month.”

“Yes,” Abraxas said. “I can come to you, if you like.”

“That’ll work,” James said. “Four days notice?”

“Fine,” Abraxas said, and James leaned in, his mouth hot and sure, and then turned for the window. He slung his broom over his shoulder and walked over, climbed up on Abraxas’s desk to reach it. He stepped across it neatly now, without disturbing a thing.

He paused at the window and looked back over his shoulder. “I do, you know.”

“I know,” Abraxas said. “Me too.”

“Not very original of us, as it turns out,” James said, and grinned again, and was gone.

Abraxas went downstairs to sit with Pansy; only half an hour after that the Dark Lord sent for him. He sat still in the dim room, nodding, offering up his opinion when it was asked for. Every now and then his gaze wandered to the stone floor, where Nagini lounged, coiled sleeping around her master’s feet with her soft underbelly turned up.

In The Hand - Harriet and Malfoy

go back to Hogwarts for their eighth year snarling and promptly land in detention for a month for missing 3 days of school with no adequate explanation (really Black and Potter should have told a lot of ppl about the whole multiverse thing)
spend a month’s worth of evenings scrubbing out cauldrons and making snide remarks at each other
“still, at least I’ve got all my fingers in all of my universes,” Malfoy said
“at least I’m never french”
finish detention, have two nice weeks of not having to see each other outside of class, spend most of that time sneaking about in order to innocently pop up and be mean to each other again, back in detention again after that
graduate Hogwarts and head off for auror training camps, which Harriet is furious about; Malfoy had never expressed any interest in that and indeed only weeks before The Incident Harriet overheard Malfoy telling Pansy that she was probably going to go into the Ministry. Harriet suspects that Black gave her the idea, which is ridiculous - “you’re not nearly as cool as Black,” she tells Malfoy, smirking, except Malfoy smirks right back at her and says, “oh, do you have a crush on Black? I’m sorry, I never realised,” and spends the next three weeks going on and on about it whenever she has a chance, until finally Harriet loses her temper and says, “I’m gay, all right?” and Malfoy goes bright red
leave the initial six week training camps with all of the others who made it through and head into a gruelling two years of official apprenticeship with the other trainee aurors, all of whom get very used to the facts that: 1) Malfoy and Harriet cannot be partnered, they’ve nearly killed each other three times, 2) even if they are not partnered, they will do their best to find ways to kill each other all the same, 3) they would probably be both much happier if they stayed away from each other but they… do not
get into the auror trainee habit of Friday night drinks, usually with each other, and it doesn’t seem to matter how much they try to stay on opposite sides of the table or the bar, by the end of every evening they’re standing close in a corner hissing at each other, Harriet’s fingers wrapped around Malfoy’s wrist, Malfoy’s face tilted down and sneering
(“I mean, they’ve got to,” Ron says one morning, staring despairing into his coffee cup, “they’ve got to just fuck it out one day, right? I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” and Hermione shrugged)
they both train late, later than anyone, the only ones left in the auror hq grounds, sullenly ignoring each other in their own spotlights until Malfoy finally scowls and says “come on, then, give it your best,” and Harriet prowls over and they spar in the lowlight, twisting and panting against each other, Harriet swearing low in Malfoy’s ear, Malfoy sweating and pink-cheeked, grappling for the upper hand, thighs sliding against each other
both graduating top of their class, furious
“maybe it’s time for you to bury the hatchet, Harry,” Hermione says carefully, “I mean, you’ll probably be working together, it’s not professional,” and Harriet scowls
but that evening goes up to Malfoy at the graduate drinks and says, “well, good work, I suppose,” and holds out her hand to shake and Malfoy stares at her, aghast, and says, “I’ll fucking kill you, Potter,” and Harriet smirks and says, “well, the two extra points I got in sparring means you’re unlikely to manage it,” and Malfoy goes for her again, and they end up driving each other through the doors of the bathroom, snarling and struggling and trying and failing to hit each other, until Parvati Patil comes through and says “oops - so sorry! I’ll lock the door! have fun!” and Harriet says, “what did she think we were - oh, ugh,” and Malfoy stares at her and says, “… yes,” and then they fuck in the toilet cubicle and Apparate to Malfoy’s flat and fuck once against the wall and then in bed and then pass out, exhausted, and the next morning Harriet wakes up and says “oh my god, disgusting, I’m going home,” except by the time she’s Apparating to Grimmauld Place they’re kissing again, and Malfoy’s dragged along with her, and then they fuck in the living room and in Harriet’s bed and on Harriet’s floor
“your tits aren’t ruined, you big baby,” Harriet says idly, stroking the thin white line cutting over Malfoy’s nipple
spend the next two years sleeping with each other obsessively / fight a lot less, “I guess we’re working out the energy in other ways,” Harriet says, shrugging / and then a lot more when Malfoy goes out on a date that Pansy fixes her up on, and Harriet ignores her all the next day, and they end up screaming at each other first at auror HQ and then back at Grimmauld Place
“what do you want me to do, not date anyone?” Malfoy shrieks. “just fuck you for the rest of my life?” and Harriet yells, “yes!” and Malfoy blinks and says, “god, you’re a bitch. fine.”

Gender Swap Golden Trio (partial)

Ron had just sort of assumed she would be good at Quidditch when they all came back for eighth year. She’d spent most of a year on the run; she’d fought in a war; she’d destroyed a Horcrux. Everything else felt easier, lazier, like all of her magic was awake and alert, tense and sure of itself, and Quidditch should have fallen into place with the rest of it. The first time she kicked up on a broom certainly did, the looping sweeps up into the sky, the school grounds falling away behind her, the sky wide open and welcoming.

Only then they switched into Quidditch practice and Ron found it just as hard to block the shots, the quaffle just as unpredictable, her teammates suddenly unreasonable. It had always been the meanest and bitterest she felt about anything. She knew Quidditch deep down into her bones, had been going to games before she could read. But up there in the midst of it she only ever felt confused, frozen, still a spectator rather than a player.

At least this had lost its sting a bit, even if her playing hadn’t improved. When she trooped out of the showers after the first practice and headed over to Hermione and Harry waiting in the stands, she just grimaced at them, held her palms up open-handed.

“God, I don’t know,” she said. “They’ll probably keep me on the team after everything but… Merlin.”

“You were fine, Ron,” Hermione said, looking up from his book. He’d probably only watched about five minutes of play; he rubbed his thumb against the little line between his eyebrows and Ron’s stomach went soft and hot. “You looked the same as always.”

“Ouch,” Ron said ruefully.

Harry tilted her chin up. “You’re, er, much better,” she said, loyal and awful at lying as ever.

“Yeah, well.” Ron shrugged and threw herself into the chair next to Harry. Hermione slanted her another look over the top of his book, then went back to reading. “I’ll think about it, I guess. You know,” she added, “they’re begging me to ask you to come back.”

Harry looked away. Her shoulders jammed up tight, her chin tucked out. Three years ago they would have been in for another Harry Potter Strop; now she just drew in a breath, held onto the rail white-knuckled. “They don’t need me,” she said. Ron let her gaze drift over Harry’s knuckles, her ragged cuticles. She had a wide, crooked thumb; small hands, square-tipped fingers that had calluses burned into them and rough knuckles. Hermione’s hands, on his book, were long-fingered and elegant, his big palms smooth and warm.

Drarry and Cars

Harry dozed off on the sofa sometime around eleven. Luna and Neville sat at the out of tune piano, laboriously picking out a duet, and Ron sat on the other end of the couch with Harry’s feet in his lap, lazily debating the Chudley Cannons’ chances with Dean. Ginny and Hermione were playing poker with stakes that everyone was slightly too concerned to properly delve into. It was Tuesday night, and Grimmauld Place seemed like it was shrinking into warm and safe around them, sealing them in, lit up by the glow of the fireplace and the streetlights outside shrouded in fog.

At half-twelve, brakes screeched outside the window, Harry stirred, and Seamus wandered in with a mug of cocoa. “Harry,” he said, and Harry blinked open his eyes groggily at him. Seamus said, “Your gentleman caller is here.”

“Really?” Harry said, voice thick with sleep. He stumbled for his feet and turned blearily toward the passage, and the front door.

“Shoes,” Hermione called.

Harry stumbled back, shoved his feet into Ron’s hiking boots, and went back for the door, laces trailing behind him.

“Coat?” Ron shouted, but that seemed like too much movement. Harry compromised by grabbing for Ginny’s scarf on his way through the hall, and then he was out and into the cold, damp night. The 70s Dodge Challenger was waiting for him, purring low through the fog. It had once been white but was now a sort of off-cream, smeared with greasy dust and mud flecks thrown up above its wheels.

Harry raised a hand, shoved his hands in under his armpits for warmth, and shuffled in Ron’s too-big boots around to the passenger side. Just before he got there, Draco leaned over and popped open the door. Harry slid into the warmth.

“Hey,” he said, and Draco nodded at him, waited until Harry closed the door, and then took off, wheels squealing. Harry toed off Ron’s boots, locked his own car door, and leaned back against the window, bringing his legs up onto the seat and curling them underneath himself, because Draco got annoyed if Harry accidentally kicked the gearstick.

Draco took the corners fast and the main roads faster. He slid in and out of the spaces on the freeway so narrowly it should have been magic, and wasn’t. His eyes were narrowed, mouth twisted. Harry watched him, the streetlights flashing warm over his cold face.

The car skidded off an exit ramp and Harry bumped his head against the glass, rubbed his knuckles uselessly against the pain. Draco looked over at him. “All right, Potter?”

“Mm,” Harry said. He shifted around in his seat until he could kick his feet up on the dashboard. No one had expected Draco to take to cars like this, but Draco had found something where he was the fastest, and Harry could count days he’d spent breathing the car’s stale air, taking backroads through the south east, skidding along coastal roads in Cornwall, cutting through the fumes of the Midlands as Draco pointed the car inexorably north. He liked it here. Draco traded cars often enough to keep himself interested, but he always made sure the passenger seat was comfortable, and he drove through McDonalds when Harry asked even when speaking to the drive-thru intercom made him nervous.

Draco would drive until it was too dangerous to drive anymore, and then he would pull Harry into the backseat and fuck him all twisted round and cramped, Harry’s thighs burning, hips twisted, Draco between his legs and hand on his hip keeping him steady.

That was hours away yet, but Harry was good at waiting.

Draco reached out with one hand, the other sure and loose on the wheel, and grazed his knuckles along Harry’s jawline. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and yawned. “I’ll probably fall asleep again in a bit.”

“I’ll wake you up when we’re there,” Draco said.

“Are we going somewhere?”

Draco flashed him a grin, and said nothing, and eventually Harry dozed off with his fingers just resting on Draco’s thigh. When he next woke it was morning, and seagulls were wheeling above them, and Draco was still driving.

Drarry and Cars Part 2

draco and ron bonding over cars, both of them with their shirtsleeves rolled up and peering inside the hood, a little confused, a little daring
harry napping on the backseat, leather soft like butter, waking up to draco leaning in the window and watching him, his mouth hesitant, his eyes warm
ginny and draco drag racing outside the burrow
draco uses his car indiscriminately as a rubbish bin but amongst the wrappers and empty bottles and discarded crap is a blanket for harry and a couple of spare sweaters and a packet of hairbands in case they go somewhere windy and harry forgets to bring any
the nights draco is itchy and restless and doesn’t want to go home so they drive all through the night and when he’s finally so bleary that the car starts to swerve dangerously, harry takes him quietly by the elbow and they park in some tucked away corner and sleep in the backseat half draped on top of each other
the nights harry is still and silent and just sits upright and after maybe half an hour draco turns the car around, drives home, and they just have a very loud and annoyed game of exploding snap instead
the day draco turns up in a new car, whooping, they hear it revving down the street, a sunny july day, and draco yelping, “potter! potter!” and when harry tumbles outside grimmauld place draco’s got a powder blue convertible, top down, grinning all over his pointy face
“the things this is going to do to your hair,” draco says gleefully, and harry laughs and vaults over the side

Such Great Heights - Sirius Malfoy-Potter

Sirius got back into London round ten. The oil-slick of the city made her recoil for a moment; rain that slanted in sideways at her and the smell of exhaust. She rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes and walked the last few blocks from the Ministry Apparation Point to her little flat. Every loud noise made her jump, hand on her wand. She felt like a feral thing, let loose in a zoo. Witches and wizards and muggles alike swarmed past, and Sirius looked idly at them and clocked weak spots.

At the flat all the windows were lit up and when she stepped past the secrecy spells there was a terrible noise, which meant the band were rehearsing. Sirius trooped up the steps, let herself in with a shouted “hey!” over the hubbub and went into the bathroom to wash off most of the blood before James came and found her.

He knocked on the door while she was still in there. “We’ve got McDonalds,” he said. “I got you a chicken burger and three sundaes.”

I love you, she thought. “I want the–”

The door opened a nudge. James handed through his enormous Quidditch Captain jumper. Sirius’s had finally fallen apart beyond the point of what even magic could do last year, and she’d suffer wearing Gryffindor colours for the way it was worn. She pulled off the last grimy stripes of her robes, swabbed down her chest and stomach with a washcloth, and pulled it on. “And–”

James handed through a Diet Coke the size of her head.

I love you, he thought back at her, and Sirius put two little tufts of toilet paper up her nose and opened the door.

James surveyed her, the new scar snaking around her knee, the long, nasty cut laid open on her hip, the bruise coming up on her cheekbone, the purpling remains of her black eye, the crooked set of her nose, the slash across her face.

“The Dads are going to kill you if you’ve broken your nose again,” he said.

“Fix it, then,” Sirius said impatiently, and James caught her chin in his hand and murmured, “Episkey,” his wand against her skin making her twitchy. Sirius said, “I think the band’s gotten worse.”

“I know,” James said cheerfully. “We’re thinking about adding a trombone player.”

“Merlin,” Sirius said. “Where’s my burger?”

“In the living room,” James said. “You can come watch us rehearse for a bit if you like. Put some pants on first, though, last time Sunnie walked into a wall.”

After she’d eaten her fill and started feeling a bit more human via making fun of James’s terrible band and flirting with Sunnie Thomas some more, Sirius got up and stretched, cracked out her back. James said, “Going to the Dads?”

Sirius shrugged. “You guys aren’t going to be done until morning.”

James grinned at her and didn’t offer to stop. He did reach out and palm her hair restlessly as she passed. “Sleep well,” he said, because they’d all of them come from the Potter-Malfoy School of Affection. Sirius shrugged on her battered leather jacket and slipped back out into the rain. She could have Floo’d to Grimmauld Place - the network wasn’t open, but it was keyed to her blood. All the same, she liked the walk. She wasn’t as good at the Tube as James, but she was a fast walker, collar popped. People didn’t look at her. Their eyes slid off her like dishsoap. She watched everyone approach, watched them all leave. London was too crowded, but Sirius knew how to handle it.

By the time she got to Grimmauld Place it was past midnight, though Sirius didn’t worry too much; no one in their family kept regular hours. She patted the Jim-gargoyle’s head on her way up the well-worn drive, sent a sparking curse after a gnome who spotted her and dived for cover. She skipped the step that had a habit of disappearing. She loved this house. She’d never thought she would leave it. But, she admitted to herself wryly, five children in a house was quite a lot. And she’d have it back, one day.

The door fell open at her lightest touch and Sirius stepped through into the warm hallway. “Dads?” she called, and tried briefly to remember what time of year it was. “Score?”

The cat showed up first. It wound round her ankles and she stooped and let it nuzzle its grey head against her knuckles. Then Draco appeared, wide-eyed and with a smear of ink down his wrist.

“Sirius!” he said, and Sirius slumped forward into his arms, burrowed her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes tight.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, voice small and tired, and Draco squeezed her close.

A moment after that Harry came thudding down the stairs and put his arms around her too, half a head shorter than her and butting his head against her shoulder in a funny impression of Scorpius. Sirius let out a breath, and then wriggled free.

“When did you get back?” Harry demanded, eyes bright. “How did it go?”

“Sirius,” Draco said, hands going up to her face, “what have you done to yourself?”

“Didn’t do anything, did I, they got a bit lucky towards the end,” Sirius said, and turned to Harry. “About two hours ago. We caught Pewter day before yesterday and then were just waiting for the others–”

“Any casualties?” Harry said.

“Report’ll be on your desk by tomorrow I expect,” Sirius said, yawning. “Patil went in to write it up.”

“Why not you?” Draco said suspiciously.

“Oh, I just - I broke my leg a little bit,” Sirius said, and then when the Dads both took a quick step in she added hastily, “It’s fine! Totally fine, obviously, look, I’m all better, but they sent me home, they–” and for a moment she remembered being under Pewter’s awful girlfriend’s Crucio, the way her body had twisted, spine arching up inhumanly, and shuddered. She looked deliberately away from the Dads, though it wouldn’t help: Harry would read the report in the morning and he was incapable of not telling Draco anything. She suspected she had another couple of months of career brochures being left deliberately close to her every time she sat down for more than five minutes.

“Sirius,” Draco began, voice tight, and Harry caught his hand, and then Sirius’s, giving it a little squeeze.

“You want a brew?” he said, and Sirius nodded gratefully, let Harry guide her into the kitchen. She sat down and waited while Harry got down her favourite mug and the dusty old box of teabags, Draco like a lean, worried shadow in the doorway, his hair the only bright thing about him.

“How’re the kids?” she asked.

“All okay,” Draco said. “Lily wasn’t greatly impressed with your letters. She wanted more details.”

“I know,” Sirius said, yawning. “She doesn’t seem to understand the idea of classified information.”

“She understands it, she just doesn’t respect it,” Harry said cheerfully, fetching the milk.

“You don’t need to sound so proud,” Draco told him, before he turned back to Sirius. “They’re all back from school next week.”

Sirius startled. “Is it December?” she said, and something grey and haunted flitted over Draco’s face.

“That’s right,” Harry said, and set down the tea in front of her, palmed over her head the same way James had. She leaned into his hand with a sigh, Harry’s rough fingers and sure touch. He always held on hard, like he was expecting to get pulled away. “Do you want to stay here for a few days? You could come to the station with us to pick them up. They’d love it.”

“Yes,” Sirius said. She yawned. “I think I’m off work for a week or so anyway.”

“Really?” Draco said, voice acerbic. “Don’t have to go flitting off to the end of the world again any time soon?”

“It was the Hebrides, Dad, not Antarctica,” Sirius said, and sipped her tea, groaned with pleasure. “God. This is great, thank you.”

“Bed afterward, I think,” Harry said. “Can someone dig up Kr–”

“Kreacher has already made the bed,” Kreacher croaked, making Draco jump when he appeared suddenly. He looked terrifying as usual, listing slightly to the side, one long twist of white hair trailing from the middle of his bald scalp, ancient and devoted to the Dads as ever. “Kreacher heard Mistress Sirius arrive – he has taken the liberty of drawing up a hot bath–”

“You’re a wonder, Creeper,” Sirius told him.

Harry frowned. “Sirius–”

“He likes it,” she and Draco said as one, as Kreacher bowed, dribbled a little, and then disappeared with another loud crack.

“Just because he likes it doesn’t mean you should do it,” Harry grumbled.

“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t,” Sirius countered.

“Drink your tea, Sirius,” Draco said quietly. “You need to sleep.”

Draco was right; Sirius only got halfway through before she was yawning too much to continue, and the hot bath went wasted; she got upstairs, staggered out of her jeans, and felt so suddenly, heavily exhausted that all she could do was climb into bed and heap the covers around her.

Then, of course, the dark seemed to descend, heavy and stifling, and she lay awake staring at the ceiling and heard Patil yelling beside her and the horrible pant of Pewter and his crew and a kid, crying. The kids had been okay, she told herself. They’d all been okay, the kids and Sirius’s team, it had been a successful operation, a successful stake out, only it was hard to sleep all of a sudden, thinking of all the ways it could have gone wrong. Sirius lay still, grinding her jaw.

The door cracked open, light spilling from the hallway. Sirius sneaked a peek through one mostly-closed eye and saw Draco’s familiar shape quietly padding into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, and rested his hand, very lightly, on her hair.

They were quiet for a long time. Sirius closed her eyes, the weight of her dad’s hand enough. Every now and then he tucked a bit of hair that was tickling in at her cheek behind her ear.

“She’s okay,” Harry said quietly from the doorway.

“This time.” Draco’s voice was so low Sirius had to strain to hear it, but Harry heard him, as always, as though Draco had said it directly into his ear.

“She’s smart,” he said. “She’s one of the best aurors the Department has seen. She’s got a great team. Are you going to tell her she can’t do what she loves? What she thinks is important?”

“It’s important that she doesn’t get herself killed,” Draco hissed.

“All right,” Harry said, and nothing else. Draco’s hand swept across Sirius’s hair, restless.

“I hate it,” he said. “I wish you could go with her.”

“I know. Me too,” Harry said. “I think she’d kill me, though, even if I could.”

“Yes.” Draco’s voice was bleak. “It’s Friday Score and Lily and Esther are back?”

“Two o’clock,” Harry said.

“Right,” Draco said. “Good.” He stroked his hand over Sirius’s hair again. “Some Slytherin,” he remarked, half-bitter, half-proud.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry said. “I don’t think she’s the first brave Slytherin I’ve known.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your morbid post-mortem crush on Professor Snape perfectly clear,” Draco said, and stood up. “I don’t know why you need to keep going on about it. It’s embarrassing, how long it took you to realise he was cool.”

“I’m not sure that’s exactly the word I’d use,” Harry said. Sirius could hear him smiling.

“Cool old Snape,” Draco said absently, the way he spoke when he wasn’t really paying attention to what he was saying. He crossed the room, sighed. Sirius half-squinted open her eyes again. The Dads’ shadows were like one, close and tall. “She came home in time for Christmas.”

“She always does,” Harry said.

Draco leaned down and kissed Harry’s cheek. “Don’t be too long coming to bed, Potter,” he murmured, and left.

Harry leaned against the doorway for a moment longer. Sirius could feel sleep coming for her now, slow and certain, warm as a hand on her hair. Harry said, “Goodnight, Sirius,” and left the door open behind him as he went, a warm circle of light spilling across her bedroom floor and into her dreams.

fem!Drarry and peaches

Draco left the club at four, to Pansy’s shrieks of fury and Theo’s plaintive sighs. Her ears rang all the way to the bus stop and then she forgot how to work the Muggle bus plastic again, though everyone just thought she was wasted and a Muggle ended up helping her out. She smiled at him, because she was trying to be nicer to Muggles, and then he hit on her, so. It had already been a long night. By the time the bus pulled up around the corner from Grimmauld Place she was listing against the window, the bump she’d taken long faded, her heels aching. She sat on the pavement for a moment, drew her knees up. She took off her boots. She wished the dawn would come, but it had been a miserable, paltry summer, and now at five o’clock on a late August morning it was resolutely dark.

After a moment she stood up and headed down toward Grimmauld Place. Her jaw was tense. It was bizarre that she lived there. She was doing her best not to think about it, only then she touched the front door and the wood was sparking slightly under her fingers.

Draco rolled her eyes and pushed it open, and followed the sound of Joanna Lumley.

Grimmauld Place’s parlour, where the Black family matriarch had once hosted teas for a host of glittering Slytherins trying to one-up each other, had gone slightly to seed. There were plants grouped about everywhere, Luna and Longbottom’s fault, and discarded books and parchments - Granger’s fault. In one corner, setting off sparks if there was too much magic happening, was a Muggle television with an enormous arial that still alarmed Draco. Someone had dragged in a heavy table that did not match the wallpaper and was now covered in newspapers and takeout cartons and mugs being used as ashtrays, at its head, crosslegged and gazing down at the television, Harry Potter.

She was watching the Absolutely Fabulous one that Draco quite liked. There was a mostly demolished dish of peach cobbler next to her. She didn’t look up, and Draco lounged in the doorway for a moment, let her gaze drift around the room. It was better to look at Potter in flashes, anyway, brief glipses: her hair scraped back into a ragged bun, her sloppy sweatshirt with the noodle sauce on the sleeve, her high cheekbones. Her face was blue-dark in the glow of the television, and her eyes were huge. As Draco watched, she raised the pipe to her mouth and took another drag, shoulders rising.

Draco said, “Can’t sleep?” and Potter looked over at her, mouth full of smoke.

She took her time looking, unlike Draco. Draco twitched, aware that she’d been dancing for four hours, that her hair was clinging to her neck, that Pansy had put eyeliner on her that must be scattered across her cheeks by now. She thought there might be glitter in her eyelashes.

Potter said, with the startling low drawl that made something kick hot at the base of Draco’s spine, “What day is it?”

“Thursday,” Draco said. “Friday now.”

“Mm.” Potter stretched out her legs. She was wearing one sock, transparent and thin and with a frilled edge. “You were out clubbing?”

“Yes,” Draco said. She turned her gaze to the TV. “They’ve said these things before. I’ve seen them.”

“It’s a rerun,” Potter said.

“Who’s running?” Draco said, baffled, and Potter let out a breath of laughter, her eyes warm and sure.

Draco looked away again. She supposed it was her fault, really. She’d made a very bad decision. She’d slept with Potter for two weeks and lost her head and when she’d told Potter about Malfoy Manor and how terrible it was, how lonely and frightening and ugly, Potter had shrugged and said, “Move into Grimmauld Place with the rest of us,” and Draco had just - done it. Now she lived here. It was all very strange. She didn’t know how to touch Potter anymore. She’d barely known how to touch Potter when they’d first started fooling around, at parties or Ministry events, sneaking into toilets and backrooms and once a roof. Now Potter was there, all the time. She was always inhumanely beautiful. She was always lazy and brimming with magic. She was often cross. Draco didn’t know what to do when she came downstairs to get a cup of tea and found Potter sitting panting in a kitchen chair with a slash down her cheek from an escaped Snatcher and a light in her eyes like she wanted to run, or be shoved up against a wall.

“Well,” Draco said. “I should go to bed.”

“You tired?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “Well.” Then she stopped again.

Potter took another drag, every movement lazy and stoned. “Come here,” she said. “Come watch Ab Fab with me.”

“I shouldn’t–”

“You can avoid me again later,” Potter said.

Draco took one hesitant step, and then another. Then she settled into the chair in front of the table. She looked at the screen. It made her uncomfortable, Muggles moving around in a flickering box, and the house didn’t like it, but the jokes were good.

After a moment, very light, Potter’s hands settled into her hair. Draco tilted her head back, kept her eyes open, and breathed.

Such Great Heights - Drarry on Holiday

It had been a warm April and a hot May. The twins had spent their seventeenth birthday - according to the pictures Lily had sent home - lounging on the grass and entertaining a range of hangers-on, with occasional dips in the Hogwarts lake. Harry had laughed as he’d passed them over to Draco and said, “It’s going to be a hot summer.”

“Mm,” Draco said; he was peering at a parchment, nose nearly touching the ink, occasionally bursting into a fierce spell of scribbling.

Harry hesitated; but it had been four years, after all, and nobody’s Quidditch team was doing particularly well, and he thought it might just be risked. “We should go somewhere,” he said casually. “Take the kids.”

“Mm,” Draco said.

“Not Italy again,” Harry said, “not until Scorpius and Esther are a little older, I think. And Lily keeps trying to sneak wine as it is.”

Draco made an infuriated noise, but it was just as likely to be about the policy he was going over as it was about a holiday. Harry went on.

“Be nice to go somewhere they can all run around a bit,” Harry said, opening the cupboard to make himself a cup of tea. “You know. Enjoy the summer. We could go to the beach.”

“Who writes this stuff?” Draco demanded. “Have any of them been to school? Have any of them learned to read?”

“Ron and Hermione are taking the kids camping in Dorset this month,” Harry said. “We could go with them. Take that tent. We’ve hardly used it.”

“Yes, all right, Potter, whatever you like,” Draco said, “do stop rambling on - come look at this, will you, and tell me what you think—” and Harry, grinning, went and leaned over Draco’s shoulder to do as he was told.

Of course, there were a lot of tantrums and late night arguments and brochures for cruises of the Greek Islands that just so happened to be left on Harry’s desk after that, but he’d already written to the kids to tell them by then. Lily was delighted and Esther paraded out in mermaid outfit after mermaid outfit, and Draco couldn’t really double back after that. He’d given Harry a wry look and said lightly, “Well, you know you’ll pay for it eventually,” and then peaceably told James and Sirius that yes, they had to go, and no, they couldn’t stay in London and stalk Orla Parkinson-Zabini instead.

“But maybe I’ll write to Pansy,” he added, “and see if she’d like to join us a bit - given that I’m going to be swamped by Gryffindors, it’s the least she could do, really,” and James and Sirius immediately plunged into an argument about whether Pansy potentially bringing Orla would be good or bad.

Harry didn’t feel his first twinge of concern until they were loading up the car the next day - magically expanded several times, modelled after the Ministry set - and he looked up at the sky and watched grey clouds rolling overhead.

“Hmm,” he said, and Draco brushed his fingers against Harry’s neck as he passed and said, “You drive, I’ll take the back.”

Sirius and James inevitably fought so badly over the front passenger seat that Draco and Harry took turns sitting in the back, especially with Esther such sweet company, leaning in against their sides and whispering gravely in their ears. Normally Draco insisted on driving, refused to sit in the back, and gave Harry hell about how he was short enough it shouldn’t bother him, practically flaunting his own long legs. That was Harry’s second twinge, but he put it aside in the mess of hustling everyone and all their baggage into the car and trying to explain to a tearful Scorpius why it just wouldn’t make sense to bring Monster to Dorset. By the time they got on the road he was feeling distinctly triumphant.

It started raining just a little out of London.

“Anyway, then Mimi tried to act like she hadn’t just taken my whole idea,” Lily said scornfully, “but obviously everyone had heard mine, it was stupid. But her dumb friends still tried to act like she was the one who’d come up with it - and I told her, last term she’d actually asked if a Pensieve could tell the future, no one’s going to think she’s come up with this charm pattern — Dad, are you listening?”

“Yes,” Harry said automatically. He grinned in his mirror at her. “Which dad?”

“Draco’s asleep,” Lily said.

Harry glanced in the mirror again, looked at Esther curled in against Draco’s side, half in his lap, Draco’s arms around her and his head listing against the window.

“Ah, yeah,” Harry said. “Your dad needs a break.”

A month of Draco in and out of the house and always working; back at one in the morning, out at 6AM, pressing a harried kiss and half an apology to Harry’s mouth. Even on weekends Ginny and half the team were there, taking over the kitchen table, while Harry scooped up Esther with one arm and Scorpius the other and tried to keep them out of their way. He didn’t resent it, or at least not anymore. He was used to it, and it was what Draco was good at and loved, and it had worked in Harry’s favour more than once before. But all the same, something possessive and glad thrilled in his chest at the sight of Draco tucked away safe and sound and all theirs for a week.

He suspected Ginny would be out in Dorset too, but between the kids and himself he reckoned they could just throw a Quaffle to interrupt any work conversations.

Sirius leaned forward and twisted the radio knob again, trying to find her station, and Scorpius said, “Hey, I was listening!”

“Shut up, squirt,” Sirius said, fondly enough, but Scorpius still got furious about it and started in on an argument about how he was going to Hogwarts this year, was practically an adult, and Harry spent the next three counties trying to shut them both up. James only rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, condescendingly, nose stuck in the truly awful pulp science fiction novel he was reading, and Lily continued on her monologue as though she hadn’t noticed.

Through it all, Draco and Esther slept soundly on.

They pulled up to the campsite and found Hermione already there setting up; the kids piled out to throw themselves over them, even James and Sirius strolling up with their hands in their pockets and smirking all over their crooked Malfoy mouths. Harry got out of the car, then did a double take and started smiling himself; Draco and Esther were still tucked up against the window of the car, sound asleep and angelic looking.

Harry frowned. Actually, they looked very angelic, considering that Draco talked in his sleep and Esther drooled.

“Harry!” Hermione said, hurrying towards him, and Harry turned away from the car and into Hermione’s arms. She squeezed him exuberantly and let him go, and Harry thumbed the grey streak in her hair, smiling at her.

“All right?” he said.

“God, Hugo vomited the whole way, again,” Hermione said. “Next time we’re taking a portkey, I don’t care how much Ron loves that car — come on, where’s your tent? Where’s Draco?”

“Asleep,” Harry said. “It’s fine, I’ll do it. Come talk to me,” and he hauled open the magically enlarged trunk and set Scorpius and Lily trudging back and forth with suitcases while he, James, and Hermione wrestled out the tent.

Sirius eyed them, twirling her wand between her fingers, and said, “Where’s Dad and Esther?”

“Still sleeping,” Harry said. “Leave them be.”

“Sleeping,” Sirius repeated, mouth crooking up. “Merlin, you’re such a sucker.”

“Sirius,” Harry said sternly, and Sirius laughed and came over to push James out the way and shoulder the tent up on one arm; she and Harry managed to stagger it over to the space they had and set it up, then started swooping in bits and pieces of baggage that unpacked themselves in a hurry.

It was only when the last little handheld bits started coming from the car that Draco and Esther appeared, elaborately yawning and rubbing their eyes.

“Hello,” Draco said, as they stepped inside the tent. “Goodness, what progress you’ve made.”

“We were asleep,” Esther added, beaming from ear to ear.

“Were you,” Harry said, raising his eyebrows at Draco.

Draco ignored him. “We’re never going to fit in here,” he sighed, looking around the main tent space, which was three or four times the size of the Dursley’s living room, and with six bedrooms to match. “Ah, well. Maybe we can send the twins off to a hotel or something.”

“Somehow I think we’ll survive,” Harry said dryly. “If you’re really worried about space, we could always get rid of the piano.”

“Don’t be so barbaric, Potter,” Draco said.

James ducked through the flap and said, “Merlin, this place is a hovel.”

“You’re very correct, James,” Draco said. “Every time we go to use it I convince myself it must be better than I remember, and every time I am wrong.”

“It’s astonishing that you’ve both survived this long,” Harry said.

“We’re very proud,” Sirius drawled, and Draco wandered to lean against Harry’s side as if by accident.

“I suppose,” he said grudgingly, “it will do.”

The kids wanted to get to the beach near immediately, never mind the gloomy sky and hot wind, so Harry put Esther on his shoulders and made Scorpius hold his hand to keep from running off while Draco fetched towels and snacks and water and stuffed it all into a backpack modelled after Hermione’s long-ago spell. Ron, Hugo and Rose were already down at the water, Hermione told them, and she followed them down to the sea, after carefully applying an awful lot of sunblock.

On the sand, Scorpius and Lily ran shrieking into the sea, Esther kicking at Harry’s shoulders until he set her down and let her plunge in, too. Hugo and Rose had a joyful reunion with them, and Ron waved enthusiastically from where he was lying in a deck chair with zinc on his nose.

“Looking good, Weasley,” Draco drawled.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Ron said, friendly. “Hey, Ginny’s last speech was really good.”

“We’ve got a new writer,” Draco said, immediately throwing down a towel and settling cross-legged down onto it. “She’s young but good - needs to buff up on her policy, she keeps trying to change the world—”

“No work talk,” Harry said.

“Mm, all right,” Draco said, “but aren’t you going to go keep an eye on our children?”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Come on, Potter,” Draco said, grinning and stretching back onto his elbows. “Give us a show,” and Harry shook his head at him but stripped out of his shirt anyway, headed down to the sea in his shorts.

Harry followed Esther into the waves; she was yelping and shrieking, racing back up the sand with each wave, breathless with laughter and fear. When she saw him, she shouted, “Dad! Dad,” and threw herself into his arms; he lifted her up on his hip and said, “Shall we go in together?”

“Yes,” she said, beaming at him, “or else the waves will splash me.”

“Can’t have that,” Harry said.

“And Scorpius.”

“Well, Scorpius will probably splash you no matter what,” Harry said, “but we can splash him back,” and he waded in, moving with the waves, until they stood waist deep and Esther wanted to be thrown into the sea.

On the sand, Sirius looked at Draco watching, rolled her eyes and snatched a Butterbeer out of Draco’s backpack.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said.

James looked up briefly from his novel. “Want company?”

“Nah,” Sirius said, and squinted towards the horizon.

Marcus and Oliver Part 1

v into the idea of marcus and oliver running into each other again post-hogwarts, oliver a hot shot up n coming quidditch pro, flint a coach who gets assigned to him
“those who can’t fly, huh,” oliver says, mounting up on his broom the first day, and flint eyes him coolly, appraisingly and doesn’t say anything
and flint works oliver harder than anyone else on the team, expects more of him, doesn’t ever give him any praise, pulls him up on the tiniest things, leaves oliver furious and shaking with rage because he’s the best recruit puddlemere have seen in years, and then when he gets angry he makes mistakes and flint makes him work even harder
very late nights circling round the quidditch pitch with flint a dark figure below, pushing oliver on, never shouting, just clear concise orders, oliver’s whole world narrowing to his broom and flint and whatever flint’s going to tell him to do next
out with drinks with his teammates, carefully ignoring them whispering about how flint could have played for whoever he liked and chose to coach instead, youngest professional coach since krum sr in the 60s, but he does ask why flint never comes out with them, and the others just shrug
flint’s big hands, big shoulders
oliver says, “do you want to get a drink sometime?” and flint says, “no”; oliver flushes and says, “i didn’t mean like that. fuck, you’re arrogant,” and flint raises his eyebrows and says “still no”
flying has always been like breathing to oliver; now quidditch is, too. he’s up in the air and blocking shots before he even realises what he was doing. the tactics seem to fall open to him, like a book he can scan while the other team are still scrambling into formation. he shouts instructions to the chasers, never mind he’s not captain here, and they follow his lead and score. he skips past a bludger so that it rebounds on a hoop and heads back at the holyhead beater, blocks a wayward shot on his way past. later that night he’s exhausted, limping round another lap of the pitch. flint says, “again”
oliver says, “you were a good captain, in school” and flint looks at him. after a moment he nods.
once when they’re packing up late at night and oliver is so tired he’s already walked into the door three times in an attempt to leave, flint says, “you’re not talented, like potter is. but you work hard.” for three days oliver replays it in his head over and over, something small and furious and glowing in his chest
“i think he’s thick,” oliver rages over a pint to angelina. “there’s no other reason, he doesn’t talk, he’s not smart enough to play the cool mysterious angle, he’s just an idiot who happens to be - to be - he’s all right at quidditch, i mean, but i think he’s thick,” and angelina says, “mm, maybe,” without much interest. oliver looks down at his lap, his hands shaking there. later he tells marcus his theory and flint just laughs. “all right,” he says.
“how come you don’t fly?” oliver asks, because the other coaches do, get up in the air and work training tactics with them. flint says, “i will when you earn it.”
oliver gets up when it’s still dark and runs before training. he’s the last one on the pitch at night. his boyish muscles have settled, firmed up, he’s stronger and surer than ever, he knows that he’s going to be one of the best quidditch players england has seen in a long, long time.
flint says, “again.” oliver’s exhausted body does as its told. he’s going to earn it.

Marcus and Oliver Part 2 (Partial)

“All right, you’re done,” Flint called. “Come on down,” and before he’d finished speaking Oliver was pointing his broom to the pitch in a dive. A metre above the grass he rolled off his broom like a log, lay groaning on the cool ground. His hands were numb. Every limb ached.

Flint looked down at him and raised his eyebrows. Even his shadow felt heavy. Oliver said, “Get away from me, you absolute maniac.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You’re finishing early.”

“It’s Saturday,” Oliver said, outraged, pushing up on his elbows to glare. The sun was sinking, the light amber and strange over Flint’s face. The shadows cut in at his jawline, his frowning forehead.

“Go on, hit the showers,” Flint said, turning away without any real interest at all. Oliver slumped back against the ground, sighing. Then Flint said, “Wood?”

“I can’t get on my broom again,” Oliver said, eyes closed. “If you want me to do anything else you’ll have to pick me up and put me on yourself.” Then he squinted open his eyes, just a touch, in case perhaps Flint found that idea appealing. But Flint was just looking at him with that flat look that Oliver couldn’t decipher.

“I’m going out with some friends tonight for a drink,” Flint said. “Mostly Slytherins. Would you like to come?”

All of Oliver’s breath left his body in an embarrassing huff. His heart thudded hard against his ribs. Flint stood watching him, and Oliver realised that he was so busy beaming he hadn’t replied. He said, “Yes!”

“Good,” Flint said. “We’re going to the Sword and Stone, round eight. I’ll see you there.”

“Yes!” Oliver said.

Oliver went and showered in the changing rooms. Then he went home and showered again. Then he tried on four different outfits, tried to remember if Flint had ever expressed an aesthetic appreciation in his life, gave up and wore his most comfortable jeans and a Puddlemere jersey, and spent forty-five minutes playing anxiously with his hair.

He scoffed down a sandwich over his sink and went to the pub. When he got there, Flint was outside smoking. He looked Oliver up and down, slow and slightly bored. Oliver’s shoulders prickled.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Flint said. He waved a hand lazily. “The others are inside.”

“You don’t want me to wait with you?” Oliver said, and Flint laughed.

“Run along,” he said, which made Oliver bristle, but maybe it was a test, maybe he wanted to see how well Oliver would get along with his friends – anyway.

It wasn’t hard to spot Flint’s table. They were taking up a big corner of the room, a collection of people Oliver had spent most of his school years fighting: Miles Bletchley, Adrian Pucey, Terence Higgs, Daphne Greengrass. The tall, handsome guy who’d never played Quidditch was there, too, combing his hands through his hair and looking faintly bored, and next to him the sneering, pointy little Malfoy kid. And at the end of the table, staring at Oliver like he was water in the desert, was Harry Potter.

Marcus and Oliver Part 3

Oliver’s hands had been broom-worn since he was seven years old. Over the years the calluses had hardened, spread out. In second year, when he started with the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, he’d had an infuriating six weeks of adjusting his techniques and weathering the new ones, but since then his palms had been sure and rough on the broom. “All Wood,” he’d said, to general jeers and catcalls at pub night a few months ago, and sat smug in his own complacency.

He was paying for it now.

“Mate,” Hannigan said sympathetically, as they dismounted from their brooms after Friday’s practice. There were rusty smears down Oliver’s broom, where blisters had burst had bled against the smooth wood.

“It’s fine,” Oliver said. It was. It was good, that Flint had found new spots. That Flint knew how to push Oliver. And he was getting better, when he’d almost thought that was impossible. He stayed under the showers for a long time, all the same, hands stinging in the hot water and steam. He waited for the shouts of the others to disappear. Then he got out and dressed in the normal post-practice clothes: black sweatpants, a soft grey t-shirt that hung loose on his shoulders. Soft things, that wouldn’t hurt. He went and sat on the benches in the locker room, his arms resting on his knees, palms turned up. He looked at them and kept breathing slow.

“Are you sulking?” Flint said after a while, amused. Oliver looked up. He hadn’t heard Flint come in, but he wasn’t surprised. Flint was standing in front of the door, arms folded.

“No,” Oliver said. He wanted to protest more, but he was exhausted. He tilted his chin up, met Flint’s eyes, and after a moment Flint nodded and strolled over to him. He sat down on the bench next to Oliver, burly shoulder knocking against Oliver’s. Oliver’s heart skipped its usual beat.

“Give ‘em here,” Flint said.

“What?” Oliver said, and Flint took up his hand, a firm grip on Oliver’s wrist that made Oliver suck in a breath. He pulled it into his lap, trapped Oliver’s wrist between his knees. Oliver said, voice small, “You don’t have to - I’m not going anywhere,” and Flint gave him an amused look and produced a soft line of bandage.

“I know,” he said, “you’re a good boy,” and Oliver felt his cheeks flush hot. He stayed quiet as Flint bound up his palms, strong secure bandages that made him hiss his breath in and then release it in a sigh of relief. He stayed still as Flint caught his face between his big hands, turned it this way and that and frowned, touching his thumb against the bruise high up on Oliver’s cheekbone where a bludger had just glanced off him. He stayed just where he was, until Flint grunted and nodded and stood up.

“You’ll survive,” Flint said.

Oliver swallowed. “Thanks.” He didn’t mind so much, waiting. It was harder when Flint did things like this, left Oliver antsy and on edge and anxious. Later he would worry that he’d upset Flint, even though there was no need to worry; that perhaps he hadn’t been good enough.

Then Flint cuffed him round the back of his neck. He rubbed a thumb against Oliver’s skin. They had the same calluses now.

“Come on,” Flint said, grinning when Oliver made a breathy noise without meaning to. “You can come home with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Flint said. “You can sleep on my couch.”

“Okay,” Oliver said, too blissful. “Thanks. Yes. Please.”

Flint laughed, and steered him home.

fem!Drarry in a bookstore

Draco woke at two with the sun seeping through their room, shaded green and limned golden round the plants, and several packages landing heavily on her stomach.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said, without opening her eyes.

“I wish you wouldn’t frighten the mailman,” Harry said, and padded out of the room again. Draco opened her eyes in time to catch a flash of brown ankle and Harry’s hair, usually the first and last thing to leave a room in any case.

She picked up the parcels. They were humming slightly. When she wrenched the first one out of Amazon’s cheap packaging it was nearly squirming and she had to stroke its spine for two full minutes to get it to calm down. Then she stood up, heaved the others under her arm, tripped over the cat, and went into the kitchen. Harry was hidden behind a giant, unfolded, bumper edition of The Daily Prophet, her knobbly knees just poking through, feet tucked under a Holyhead Harpies flag. Draco eyed her, thumped the parcels down onto the table, and went into the bathroom.

Washing her face soothed her a little. She pushed her fine hair back with the tennis sweatband Weasley had given Harry as a joke, eyed herself severely, and used the the low-Ph seadust cleanser Luna had brought her back from Turkey. Luna had said something about mermaids, who were terrifying but didn’t seem to suffer from dry skin at least. She used the same moisturiser her mother always had, the cold cream from Salome, its heady rosemary smell. She bowed her head, running it over her collarbones, and when she raised her face to the mirror again Harry was reflected in it, cat slung over her shoulder, watching Draco with that careful, intent look that Draco couldn’t ever get used to.

“What,” she said.

“Nothing,” Harry said. She came over and slung an arm over Draco’s shoulders. “I like watching you.” She leaned in and pressed a friendly kiss against Draco’s cheekbone, then sputtered. “Ugh, what’s in that stuff?”

“Could have told you that would happen,” Draco said, satisfied, and scratched the cat’s head. Harry, who washed her face with coconut oil in the evenings on the odd occasions she remembered, rubbed her hand over her mouth and then sighed and hid her face against Draco’s t-shirt, pressed up tight to her shoulderblade.

Something big and strange moved up through Draco. She ignored it.

“The post guy was shaking when he handed those parcels over,” Harry said, voice muffled against Draco’s shirt. “What was in them?”

“Nothing! Just some books Pansy and I need,” Draco said. Harry’s hand slipped down over her hip, demanding. Draco said, “With - with just a little bit of dark magic. Just a very little bit.”

“I really regret the day Hermione introduced you to the internet,” Harry said.

“But I’m so good at it,” Draco said, and took Harry’s hand.

Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince series)

laurent still never seems to sleep, even when their kingdoms are secure, a few hours each night and no more; but a few months in, damen notices that he makes up for it with cat naps all around the castle, if he has a spare fifteen minutes and not too much to think about he can doze off with his head tucked discreetly against his arm and a servant posted to watch the door, coming up from the mini-nap blinking and sweet for a half-second before he gets back to ruthlessly managing whatever new disaster he’s enjoying
the two of them duelling down in the private quarters of their palaces, both of them always grim-faced, always moving hard and fast, never managing to calm down about this, the clash of their swords and laurent’s face twisted and furious
but when they practice wrestling it is Extremely Giggly
also in the 12th duel laurent comes out with an entirely new pattern of swordfighting that startles damen into a sudden, upsetting defeat, and then they have really furious sex up against the wall. the 13th time damen beats him again but laurent is still quietly smug
laurent helping damen sort through which of his court is still too loyal to kastor, damen telling laurent, quiet and sure, who of laurent’s court he thinks can be trusted
at the summer festival laurent comes to ios with flowers woven through his hair and his sleeves loose and billowy around his shoulders and his usual crown replaced with a silver circlet and a look that means he is enjoying himself very much
damen raises his eyebrows and says, “you know, this is the night we celebrate the moon goddess being returned to her earthly husband,” and laurent says, “is it really? akielon customs are so difficult to grasp”

Pansy/Ginny

for a while they bicker a lot but then ginny works out the foolproof technique for dealing with pansy saying something shit, which is putting pansy in a headlock and giving her a noogie, and after a couple of weeks of that they both settle down
drinking cheap white wine in the park all summer, even when it’s dark, a lumos spell and slapping at bugs and talking on and on and on
sex chest
(”what a sex chest?” hermione asks one day, and ron says, “hermione, i beg you–” and ginny says cheerfully, “oh, it’s a chest full of sex toys” while ron groans pathetically into the tabletop)
pansy plaiting ginny’s hair, ginny sitting unusually still under pansy’s sure hands
ginny becomes the Hungover Slytherin wrangler, which is v useful when harry and draco start dating
possibly the messiest flat in existence, they basically just sleep on piles of their own junk

Ginny/Draco/Harry

they invent a new, highly inventive, quite violent Quidditch spin off that they call Seekers Three and hermione calls A Foolish Bloodsport. there is one snitch, two bludgers, and all of them have a bat. it is also the only times harry gets beaten, bc draco and ginny can both gang up on him
speaking of: ginny and draco passing harry between them, grinning at each other over his head, until harry is shaking and sweating and begging, turning his head up blindly for a kiss
ginny and harry wearing draco’s clothes all the time, ginny late for a party and just pulling on one of draco’s white shirts that slips to mid-thigh with a pair of tights, harry wandering around grimmauld place in the mornings in a slytherin jersey, both of them innocently pretending like they have no idea what it does to draco
ginny takes them to parties and pretends to be exasperated when she always ends up finding harry and draco alone in a corner, talking intently, eyeing each other up
ginny off on a family holiday and the two of them sullenly pining for her, and when she comes back they’re waiting hopefully out by grimmauld place’s front door. ginny cracks up laughing and then runs and leaps into draco’s arms and they kiss like a movie. then she blows a raspberry in harry’s ear
they don’t have any pets, but the house is full of plants, growing greenery and stretching up high, beautiful and messy in grimmauld place’s old architecture. every morning harry wanders about it with a watering can taking care of them, and in the evenings draco trims back any that need it.
sunday mornings draco’s the only one who wakes up early, harry and ginny passed out and snoring on the pillows, and draco thinks about all the things he should do and how his father used to get up early to manage the estate, and stays where he is with a book, smoothing his hand over ginny’s warm hair, harry’s face pressed tight against his side

Hermione/Draco/Harry

the three of them stalking around each other, uneasy, even harry and hermione suddenly not sure what to do with the other, like three hissy cats staking out their ground
another political power dynamic tbh, political power trio, with hermione and draco testing each other out and coming away reluctantly pleased
harry asleep in bed and hermione and draco having midnight conferences about how to protect him, how to save him from the ministry, how to save him from himself
draco sells malfoy manor the moment he can, can’t look at it anymore, very light scars curling down hermione’s ribs and a sour taste in his mouth
harry and draco conspiring to drag hermione away from work and on holiday
none of them can cook, but draco becomes expert at phoning for muggle takeout
their kids come very close to being insufferable little know it alls. luckily harry enlists ron to take them out and help him throw quaffles at them and chase them all over the green until their heads shrink a little

Hermione/Blaise

political power couple
spend most of their time at work blackmailing the other to get what they want (they both work for the ministry obvs)
long, furious arguments over bottles of wine with the candles dripping down slowly
holidays in the south of france and spain, vine-covered villas with deep, cool pools and blaise in white shirt sleeves carrying his own bag and that one suitcase hermione always packs entirely of books
one time hermione comes home from work early and catches blaise giving a smug, fairly inaccurate tour of what he refers to as The Muggle Shit in their house to his slytherin gang. “and over here we have the refrigerator. it keeps food cool and in hot weather you can fit a baby in it”
waltzing neatly and perfectly at parties, grinning at each other
blaise brings her back trophies a little helplessly: nice jewellery, a book he thinks she’d like, an odd artefact from his mother’s house, flowers, political pamphlets she can tear apart, votes. once she says, “you know, you don’t have to keep wooing me. i’m here, you’ve got me,” and blaise says, “i know,” and carefully lifts her hair to kiss the nape of her neck
hermione and mrs zabini get on extremely well

fem!Drarry

draco goes to wizard uni, piles of her books all over grimmauld place’s kitchen table, up until four AM trying to make her latest arithmancy formulas make sense, glaring at a potions proof until harry comes downstairs for a glass of water and ends up practically slinging draco over her shoulder and dragging her up to bed
harry becomes an auror, comes home with new scars and burns and a broken bone once or twice, and draco goes on and on and on about how some people are such glory hounds that they can’t ever just give it up, honestly, it’s pathetic how much some people need the attention. at night harry curls in towards draco, face smooth and peaceful in sleep, and draco stares down at her and is terrified out of her mind
draco has a pack of strange hounds, all long legs and panting mouths and glowing eyes, they freak everyone out, and when harry comes home they all yelp joyfully and throw themselves at her
they take teddy camping every summer
they spend quite a lot of time at malfoy manor. draco and narcissa lounge around gossiping about everyone they know in very civilised voices, while harry methodically makes her way from room to room, fixing the plumbing
draco wears loads of rings, harry wears just one

Ginny/Luna

i actually think they fight a lot: they’re fundamentally very different people, ginny jumps to conclusions and luna takes the long way round to get to anything, ginny wants to go on long hiking adventure holidays and luna wants to lounge around at a beach with occasional gentle nature strolls, luna’s not sure about kids and ginny wants several. even when they’re fighting ginny wants to yell it all out and luna wants to get away on her own and be quiet and think things through.
but they also just really love each other, they really want to be together, ginny with all her fierceness, luna quietly and certainly
luna sitting around in ginny’s quidditch jerseys with the sleeves sliding over her knuckles, ginny opposite her wearing a giant wide-brimmed hat with butterbeer corks dangling round it, chewing on her quill as they do the crossword
the nights luna doesn’t sleep and instead quietly, methodically strips ginny out of her clothes, twists ginny around in the bed underneath her, pulls ginny apart until ginny’s whole body is shivering and heavy with sex and exhaustion, and luna strokes ginny’s hair back with one hand and lets her sleep, curled into luna and clinging
they have a battered beige plymouth sapporo that’s crowded with crisp wrappers and discarded clothes and old bags and a few odd shoes, and they spend late nights driving around manchester in it, singing along loudly and out of tune with the radio, testing their luck at muggle drive thrus, making out at red lights

Draco/Pansy

they have a really messy, embarrassing, teenage relationship in their fourth year. they break up multiple times and get back together in screaming fights that clear the common room. they have really dreadful sex. all fourth year pansy is the queen of the slytherin girls because she gets to sit down and loftily relate The Truth About Boys to them.
pansy is and always has been a better seeker, but in second year draco first threatened, then cajoled, then finally broke down and begged her not to try out for the team, and tbh pansy couldn’t really be bothered anyway
in their 20s they date loads of other people, who are all very threatened by them. they do not super avoid this issue by spending a lot of time sitting in each other’s laps
pansy is very good at taking shots off draco’s neck. now when she gets a bottle of tequila down he leans in towards her automatically, head dropping to the side, eyes closed, face patient and waiting
draco letting himself into pansy’s bathroom, already complaining to her about his boss while he peels off his robes, steps out of his underwear, gets into the bath with her; pansy sitting on the loo wiggling her toes and watching draco shave at the bathroom sink.
the first time they have sex again is when they’re 23, with both of them eyeing each other with surprise and dawning delight and also dawning horror, and both of them blurt out at once, “oh, you got better”
at various times in their seventh year, they are both quietly sure the other one is going to die. maybe it’s this that changes the way they are together after the war. they still argue as much and flirt as obnoxiously and compete ridiculously and storm out on each other a lot, but they look at each other longer, too.

Love potion Drarry

“Weasley,” Malfoy said, cornering them outside the Great Hall on Tuesday morning. His gaze trailed lazily from Ron’s feet to head, nose wrinkled, eyes scornful. Ron blinked at him. “You’re looking even more ridiculous than usual.”

“I - what?” Ron said. Next to him, Harry was bristling.

“Tattered robes, messy hair,” Malfoy said, counting off on his fingers. “There’s dirt on your nose, it’s eight in the morning, what have you been doing. And then the usual expression of stupefied blandness. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your mouth shut?”

“Move along, Malfoy,” Harry said, jaw tight.

“Shut up, Potty,” Malfoy said, barely sparing him a glance. He gave Ron a last slow sneer and said, “See you round, Weasley,” then turned on his heel and strode away.

Ron blinked. “That was weird,” he said.

Harry was glaring. “What’s he think he’s playing at?”

“Mm,” Hermione said. “That was a little more attention than normal, wasn’t it?”

On Wednesday, Malfoy tripped Ron on his way up to Slughorn’s desk with his potions vial, making him trip and break it and lose three hours of work.

On Thursday, Malfoy spent all of lunch making faces at Ron and then reenacting Ron’s fall to the great hilarity of the Slytherin Table.

On Friday, Malfoy spent Transfiguration enchanting a series of notes to fly in ever more elaborate bird fashionings to Ron. All of them spelled out increasingly more desperate insults, and he seemed to get more and more annoyed when Ron didn’t acknowledge them. Harry ripped them all up viciously and sent back a few notes of his own to Malfoy, but Malfoy ignored him.

“I don’t know, it’s just weird for all of that to matter now, I guess,” Ron said, bewildered. “It feels like kid stuff. I don’t really care if Malfoy calls me names now that I helped beat the Dark Lord, you know? Who would still care about that?”

“I DON’T KNOW,” Harry said, then folded his arms and refused to talk for the rest of dinner.

On Saturday morning, Malfoy wasn’t at breakfast, but when Ron and Harry were leaving the Great Hall, Ron almost ran into him. Malfoy was lurking about in the entranceway looking pink and upset, and he went pinker when Ron eyed him warily and said, “What is it this time, Malfoy?”

“Nothing!” Malfoy snapped, and then he rounded on Harry. “I - I know you had something to do with this!”

“What?” Harry said, straightening a bit. He’d been glum all week, but now he narrowed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “What are you on about now?”

“I was – drugged,” Malfoy said, and snapped at Ron, “as if I would have bothered talking to you otherwise.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “What were you drugged with, an Annoying Potion?”

“I - I - no!” Malfoy said, and swung furiously around, storming away. Then he stopped, turned, and stormed back, pointing a finger in Harry’s face. “If I find out you had anything to do with it, Potter, I’ll string you up the Astronomy Tower by your ankle and spell your guts out!”

“I’d like to see you try, Malfoy,” Harry said, and they stood close and breathless like angry cats.

“Also,” Malfoy said, “also – your hair looks stupid,” and then he sneered and hurried away.

“Weird week,” Ron remarked, as they started walking. “Sorry he’s back to annoying you, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, rumpling his hair again and looking back over his shoulder. “It’s a pain.”

Hermione came round the corner and said, “Oof, Luna cornered me about Wrackspurts again – oh, Harry, what are you smiling about?”

fem!Drarry at Hogwarts

Potter had forgotten to crush her mandrake roots after she chopped them; also, in the half-inch gap between the tangled mess of her hair and her crooked collar there was a red bruise, hot against her dark skin like bruised fruit. Draco glared at it. Potter reached up, absently, the same way she’d been reaching up every five minutes all class, to brush her thumb against the mark. A moment later, her cauldron bubbled over.

“Shit!” Potter said. Weasley and Granger crowded around her cauldron and Weasley was still a gangling ape of a man so Potter was lost to sight and Draco could turn back to where her own cauldron was making increasingly more urgent whistling noises.

“All right, all right,” she mumbled, stirring anti-clockwise until it calmed down, and she kept her face down, resolutely ignoring Greg’s incredulous stare.

“What’s she talking so long to McGonagall for, anyway?” Harry demanded, when she went up on her toes to peer in through the classroom window and Malfoy was still there, her hands clasped behind her back, her white-blonde head bent forward attentively. McGonagall was speaking slowly, frowning a little, and Malfoy nodded every now and then and then said something that made McGonagall’s eyebrows go straight up. Harry scowled. “What are they even talking about?”

“McGonagall’s doing career counselling sessions soon,” Hermione said absently, still looking over her notes from Charms earlier. “I don’t think Professor Slughorn is very good at them, maybe Malfoy’s getting some tips.”

“McGonagall hates Malfoy,” Harry said. “She’s no good at hiding it. She’d just send Malfoy back to Slughorn.”

“Mm,” Hermione said, uninterested. “Ron, what did you make of that variation on the Fidelius? I’m not sure I entirely grasped the wrist movement–”

“Mm? Lemme see,” Ron said, yawning and rumpled slumped against the wall, and Hermione gave him an awkward little demonstration.

Harry ignored them both, going up on her tip toes to glare narrowly in McGonagall’s window again. She could just see a sliver of Malfoy’s high cheekbone, the corner of a swift crooked smile. What was Malfoy smiling about, anyway? Harry scowled and rubbed at the back of her neck.

“I think you’re fine, you just need to relax a bit,” Ron said behind her, “you’re a bit too rigid, but I bet you’ll have it by tonight.”

“You two are gross,” Harry said, and began to turn, except then the door was thrown open and Malfoy stepped out, sneering at her.

“Potter,” she said, lingering disgusted over the syllables. There were silver rings all up and down her fingers, thin elegant little twists of metal over her knuckles.

“Malfoy,” Harry snapped, and they glared at each other for a moment until McGonagall cleared her throat. Then Malfoy tried to sweep away, stumbled over Harry’s foot, banged into the war, and went pink, shooting Harry a venomous look before she stormed off.

“Professor,” Harry said, looking up at McGonagall, “what did Malfoy want?”

McGonagall’s eyebrows went up again. “Ms Potter,” she said, “that is hardly any of your concern,” and Ron said, “sorry, who’s gross?”

Harry ignored him.

In the Room of Requirement, they banged into three chairs, a tapestry, and a suit of armour before they finally landed on the bed.

“You’d think the blasted room would have learned to get rid of unnecessary furniture by now,” Malfoy gasped, and Harry stared down at her, her hands still tangled in Malfoy’s hair, and decided not to tell her that she quite liked pushing Malfoy up against things.

Instead she demanded, “What were you doing with McGonagall this afternoon?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not in charge of me, Potter,” she said, and pushed up on her elbows, her mouth hungry, her shirt already coming undone under Harry’s fumbling fingers. Harry kissed her hard, Malfoy’s breath coming in hot pants, and then Malfoy’s shirt fell open and she wasn’t wearing a bra, Harry’s fingers slipping rough over her nipple. Malfoy gasped sharply and arched up towards her.

“I just wanna know–”

“Well, I just want to know what you think you’re doing, showing off a hickey like you’re fourteen–”

“Maybe you shouldn’t leave them if you don’t want me to touch them!”

“But you make such good noises,” Malfoy said, her eyes dark, and Harry stared at her, astounded, and pushed her skirt up.

“Really,” Harry said, crawling down and glaring while Malfoy fisted two hands in Harry’s hair and looked unbearably hot, “you’re the worst.”

“Where’s Harry, anyway?” Hermione said. She looked beautiful, lit up with the fireplace behind her and her hair escaping the bun she’d shoved it in, annoyed, around three.

“Don’t move your bishop there, you’re leaving your queen open,” Ron said.

“But the queen can take anyone–”

“But you want her on the offensive, not defense,” Ron said, taking a sip of Hermione’s wine. “Anyway. Off with Malfoy, isn’t she?”

“She told me she was going to Quidditch Practice,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

Ron nodded. “She told me she was going to help Neville repot some of the Angry Dandelions.”

“Fuming Dandelions,” Neville corrected from the couch. “She told me she was going for a winter swim with Luna.”

“There you go then,” Ron said, and moved his knight. “Check.”

Pre-established Drarry - Draco thinks Harry is dead in HP7

The giant was crying; Draco could hear him, over even the rumbling approach of the Death Eater army, over the low sobbing in the courtyard, over the scraps of conversation, rough reassurances between the wounded and the healers or the half-hearted attempts at a plan. There were no plans left, and when Draco heard the low, helpless sound of Hagrid’s sobs he knew before the Dark Lord’s voice rang out over the courtyard. He looked over, instinctively, at where Weasley and Granger were huddled together, white-faced, and he thought maybe Granger knew, as well, but they were doing their Gryffindor thing, brave and defiant as ever. Draco swallowed. He was probably wrong. He had been wrong many, many times before.

Then the Dark Lord’s voice, terrifying as it had been the first time, and every time since then. “Harry Potter is dead,” he said, and all of the adrenaline left Draco’s body, and he felt very tired, and wanted nothing more than to lie down for a long time, somewhere quiet and cold and far away.

He could see Harry’s arm, just, where it fell limp out of Hagrid’s hold. He could see the shock of dark hair. He could see Harry’s fingers, grubby with dirt and ash and curled into nothing. He wondered if Harry was still warm.

The crowd was shell shocked, silent, and Draco’s father’s voice rang out loud no matter how hushed he was trying to be. Draco raised his eyes to his father’s. The last time he’d seen him had been Easter: he’d been struggling with Harry and Weasley and Granger out of the Manor, shrugging off his father’s grip on his wrist and Apparating away with them just in time to see Harry on his knees on the beach crying. His father’s face had been twisted with fury and desperation; now he just looked desperate.

“Draco!” he called again, and Draco swallowed, stepped around the Gryffindors, crossed the yard. The Dark Lord held his shoulders, wheezing with delight and pleasure at his victory. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Harry’s hand still, that curl into empty space. Something like nausea was rising in him. He wondered, distantly, if he was going to throw up.

When he got to his parents his mother squeezed his shoulder. “Draco,” she whispered urgently in his ear. “Draco, listen to me–”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m glad you’re both okay.” He was. He hadn’t seen them in two months. It had felt like longer, those fraught strange days at Shell Cottage, the lengthening light in the evenings, shrugging away Granger and Weasley’s suspicious looks and questions. Why did you come, Harry had said, I never asked you to come, and Draco had said, peevish, “Well, exactly. Last time I waited for you to ask and you disappeared, I wasn’t going to make that mistake again,” and Harry had laughed and stared at him like Draco was his entire salvation, every bit of it, which was terrifying and made Draco think that maybe Harry hadn’t been exaggerating with the whole oh, it’s so hard being the Chosen One schtick after all.

His mother’s hand was trembling on his shoulder. “Be very careful,” she murmured in his ear, though the fact that Voldemort had given him the world’s worst embrace probably meant they’d come up with some viable excuse for why he’d disappeared. “This isn’t over yet,” she said, and Draco felt his throat tighten, because it didn’t matter that every single Gryffindor’s face was full of steely determination and rigid grief, it didn’t matter that Longbottom was limping towards them and shouting something defiant, it didn’t matter that the atmosphere was charged and furious and everyone’s hold on their wand was twitchy. It was over, Draco thought, at least for him it was over, and he wondered if he could go back to Shell Cottage, if maybe he would be allowed to go back there, not even to go inside, just to sit on the beach again and take slow careful breaths.

Longbottom was limping closer; didn’t he know he would die, Draco thought distantly, they were all going to die now, all Harry’s foolhardy, brave friends. Draco probably wouldn’t die. His mother would keep him close, keep him safe. Draco couldn’t think what would happen next, couldn’t picture anything but the beach, the tiny grave, the sandy shore they’d trekked silently along trying to work out how to break into Gringotts.

“For all of us!” Longbottom shouted, and he drew his sword with a ring of steel, still shouting, and Hagrid dropped Harry, the oaf, Draco was already half-gagging at the image of Harry landing limp and broken on the ground, and then Harry landed rolling, and was up and running. Everyone was screaming, Death Eaters and Hogwarts students and the Order of the Phoenix, a hoarse crazy tumult, Draco’s ears were roaring, his heart was pounding, and Harry looked back as he ran and pointed a curse at Voldemort.

The crowd parted, shivered, started to break apart. Draco’s mother grabbed his wrist hard and pulled him insistently backward, and Draco let her, too shocked, too frozen. Harry was running. Harry was still running.

Then the crowd closed up again in front of them and Draco couldn’t see him anymore; he stumbled a little as his mother dragged them along, his father sour-smelling and panting raggedly next to them, and it didn’t feel real. “Wait,” Draco said, stumbling, his own voice strange to him, “wait, wait–”

“We need to get out of here, Draco,” his mother said crisply. “It is only going to get worse from here–”

“He’s alive? I, I saw him,” Draco said. “Is he alive?”

Narcissa hesitated, then nodded.

“But the Dark Lord–”

“I told the Dark Lord that Potter was dead,” she said, soft. “He asked me to check if Potter was alive and Potter – Potter told me you were back at the castle, you were still there. I knew it was the only way to get back to you.”

Draco’s mouth was dry. “He said that?”

“I asked. He nodded.”

Draco felt, still, oddly detached, away from everything. He thought of Harry pressing him back against the rough stone of the castle wall, both of them still reeking of smoke from the Room of Requirement and shuddering, Crabbe’s screams ringing in Draco’s ears. “Stay here,” Harry had said, panting, “stay safe,” and he’d evaded Draco’s hands when Draco had reached out for him.

“Draco,” his mother said.

“What? No,” Draco said, realising suddenly that he was still being dragged inexorably closer towards the bridge. “No, I - what am I doing, I have to go back–”

“Listen to your mother,” Lucius rasped. Draco spared him a disdainful look.

“It’s not safe,” Draco’s mother said.

“He’s alive?” Draco said again, dazed and disbelieving. “Mum, he’s - he’s alive? I have to - I have to go back–” and Narcissa stared at him, lips pressed tight together, and let go of his wrist. Draco turned and ran.

Draco wasn’t made for this, was, he knew, intrinsically a coward, lost his nerve in a fight, got frightened too easily, forgot even the simplest curses and defenses. He’d cheated his way through the last few DADA classes, when he’d even cared enough to do that. The only reason he gotten this far through the Battle of Hogwarts was luck and Harry Potter, and the only reason he managed to continue getting through it was that it was all falling apart, Death Eaters falling under curses, Harry whirling through the action like a force of nature. Draco stumbled and gave chase and tried, if he was unable to do his bit, to at least not hurt anyone. He managed a weak, shivering shield in front of an injured Ravenclaw, and it didn’t last past the first curse that hit it but it didn’t have to; a member of the Order of the Phoenix took down the Death Eater in question after that, barely sparing a glance at Draco.

Draco limped through the crowd, unsure when he’d been hurt or how. His ankle felt swollen and tender, there was blood trickling down his cheek, but it was nothing serious; he pushed on impatiently. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted: for it to be real. For Harry to be more than a last burst of ghostly fury. For Harry to not come, miraculously, back to life only to be killed again by the Dark Lord.

It meant that he was on the edges of things when the Dark Lord died; it meant that he was staring, wide-eyed, when Harry lowered his wand, panting, only to be surrounded and leapt on by a crowd of people. Draco didn’t attempt to join them. He staggered back, leant his head against the wall.

He supposed it really was over now. He felt strange and hollow and sick. He still thought he might throw up.

Something light touched his shoulder, and his head jerked up. There was no one there. Then Harry’s voice, light in his ear, said, “It’s me. Will you come with me?”

Draco stood up.

Halfway out of the castle Harry dragged off his invisibility cloak, held it draped weirdly over one arm so his elbow flickered in and out of existence with the wind. Harry looked the worse for wear too, a black eye from somewhere and hair matted dark and foul with sweat and blood. When Draco blinked he could see, in that split second of darkness, Harry’s hand dangling lifeless in the empty air, so he tried not to blink too much.

“Were you really dead?” Draco asked quietly as they picked their way over the rubble. Harry reached back for him, helped him over an uncertain patch of ground, and nodded. He didn’t say anything else. He looked profoundly exhausted. Draco said, “Okay.”

They stopped when they got to the bridge. Harry leant against it, elbows on the warming stone. The sun was well into the sky again now, after the long night and that cold, awful dawn.

“We went up to Dumbledore’s office,” Harry said, slowly, like he’d forgotten how to form words. “Me and Ron and Hermione. I fixed my old wand.”

Draco nodded, licked his cracked lips. “What are you going to do with…?”

“I said I’d put it back in Dumbledore’s grave,” Harry said. “But I don’t…” He stopped, looking distant and sleepy. After a moment he took the Elder Wand out from his pocket and they both stared at it. Then Harry snapped it neatly in two and dropped the pieces over the edge of the bridge. They watched the long, quiet fall.

“Your parents?” Harry asked.

“Safe, I assume,” Draco said. “They ran away when you - when you–” He tried once more, faintly surprised at himself. It was as though his throat had closed up.

Harry was watching him, green eyes bright, scar jagged across his face. He said, “I’m sorry. Were you very frightened?”

“Was I–” Draco laughed, harsh and helpless. “I wasn’t frightened. I wasn’t anything.”

“Draco,” Harry said.

“I was, I was,” Draco said, searching for something to say, humiliated and still terrified, after everything. He looked at Harry. “You look – you should go rest. You should be in bed.”

“In a little while,” Harry said, and when he reached out Draco moved immediately, Harry’s face against his throat and Draco pressing his face against Harry’s hair, eyes screwed tightly shut so that all he saw were the waves of red and black and not Harry’s hand dangling alone and cold. He put his arms around Harry’s shoulders, and they stood still in the growing light. Draco counted each of Harry’s tired breaths.

Things Draco notices about Harry

casually using wandless magic all the time without thinking about it or even really noticing, beckoning his finger and a cup jumps into his hand, idly locking the door to Grimmauld Place behind him with a weird nudged gesture, throwing his hands up in annoyance in his offie and the right case file flies at him (and nearly takes draco’s head off, thanks very much)
doesn’t ever say he doesn’t want to go somewhere, whether it’s a ministry ball or dinner with draco’s mother or a meeting with shacklebolt or whatever, just goes and is quiet and tries to help, and it takes draco a while to realise that he’s miserable, that his shoulders are hunched, that he wants out with the desperate anxiety of a trapped bird, but it would never occur to him to just say he doesn’t want to go
ducks his head every time he walks into his bedroom no matter how tall the doorway is and how short harry potter remains (when draco finds out about the cupboard he rips up several old tapestries, quietly and viciously, with harry humming in the next room)
never, ever, ever notices when someone is hitting on him, though he is often deeply suspicious of what they want (“do you think they were trying to get information out of me” “they mentioned they knew hermione a lot maybe they’re one of the anti-squib education act lot” “kept patting my arm, do you think he was trying to steal my wand???” “no, harry, he wanted to kiss you right on the mouth”)
comes into the grimmauld place kitchen after a run and stretches while chatting with draco, still a bit out of breath, putting his heel up on the table and leaning forward to stretch it out, blinks and says, “what, why have you gone quiet?”
idly catches draco’s arm if he ever even comes close to stumbling, grip firm and steadying and strong, doesn’t pause in conversation
looks up when draco comes home in the evening and looks so sleepy pleased and handsome that draco fumbles hanging up his cloak

fem!Drarry

draco malfoy the queen lesbian of hogwarts: silver rings on her fingers and her hair cut short and blunt at her jawline; pointy-toed black polished boots that people whisper are dragonskin; looks bored and faintly offended every time a boy talks to her; clean bare nails that she files down short and square; a collection of high-waisted dark green trousers of expensive material that she wears with white silk shirts, folding open over her collarbone; everyone whispers about her buying fancy lingerie but when she stoops down one day in potions it’s just the clear dark line of a cotton sports bra; spends history of magic drumming her fingers on the table and slowly setting everyone on edge; comes back to eighth year hard and tired and unsmiling; has a bad tempered black cat and the slytherins say she talks to it, and the first year slytherins say it talks back; drinks mostly red wine, often cheap, often sour, usually to piss her dad off; taller than crabbe and goyle, now only taller than goyle; excellent eyebrows, thin mouth; looks like she could eat you alive and will.
harry potter bisexual hero: same unruly hair as ever except in fifth year when she buzzed it short (only she ended up missing the comparisons to her dad, let it grow out a bit again); oversized t-shirts, oversized jumpers, oversized flannel shirts, no bra; quidditch muscles in her thighs and arms; bitten nails that sometimes have half-flaked off polish that luna’s applied; lugs crates of beer with ron and ginny to drink down by the lake; wears a large oversized denim jacket and breaks sirius’s motorbike out of storage when she’s seventeen; tips back on her chair in class so far that people make bets if she’ll fall out; spends her summers from fifth year onwards going into london and catching the underground nowhere in particular, sitting in fluorescent chippies late at night and eating chips soaked in salt and vinegar; knuckle tattoos; has been known to haul crookshanks up by the scruff of his neck and hold him so his front paws are hanging over her shoulder, and he purrs like an engine; big hands, long fingers, and a hot look in her eyes like she wants to touch you.
together: draco straight-backed and mouth-pursed at hogsmeade, and harry ambling easily next to her; draco turns up to ancient runes late one morning in a faded pink sweatshirt that says WITCH LOVING WITCHES: FLORIDA KEYS CAMP 1986 that absolutely does not suit her and glares at anyone who looks at her; harry and draco’s cat in a silent possessive war; double dates with ginny and pansy to quidditch matches, where draco, harry, and ginny scream themselves hoarse and pansy reads her magazine; racing each other across the hogwarts lawn, tackling each other in the trees; apparating somewhere remote and wild and spending four days hiking mostly in silence, harry shouldering a heavy backpack with their tent in it, draco stopping every hour or so to check her map; when they start dating draco abruptly stops making fun of how dishevelled harry always is, and harry doesn’t get it until she notices how much longer draco looks at her now, the way draco skims her fingers along the strip of harry’s stomach where her sweater is riding up, the way draco watches her now like she wasn’t allowed before; much later, a flat with white walls and many plants; plus a huge golden bathtub they sit in together, draco propping her legs up on the rim to shave them (when she feels like shaving them), harry leaning down to kiss draco’s ankle, both of them eyeing each other, smirking, waiting, letting the room get hot and close and tense and waiting to see who’s going to give in and make the first move; and a large windowsill that they use to sit in and get stoned.

Draco/Ginny/Harry

living in grimmauld place together after school, spending weekends trying to fix it up, draco frowning over wallpaper, ginny and harry lugging the furniture that tries to eat them down into the cellar
harry makes breakfast most mornings, a big fry up before they split off for their various jobs. they put the radio on and sometimes he looks over his shoulder and sees ginny leaning down over draco’s chair, her arms around draco’s shoulders, her cheek resting idly on his hair, both of them still half-asleep and dozing on each other, and harry has to work hard not to burn the eggs
draco is better at buying presents for ginny (pretty things; harry tends to get her quidditch stuff, which she likes, but she had a lot of quidditch stuff growing up even if it was hand-me-down, and she didn’t have a lot of pretty things). ginny is better at buying presents for harry (sport things, and actually useful sport things, not just the Best That Money Can Buy).
most of the time draco and ginny go to ministry galas etc alone, because harry hates them, because draco loves them and ginny quite likes wearing a great dress and whirling around the dance floor with someone who can keep up with her. but sometimes all three of them go together, and draco and ginny will be on the dancefloor and look up and see harry leaning on the balcony above them watching, and draco’s heart is pounding so hard he feels kind of sick
the daily prophet writes a lot of incensed articles about how Disgusting and Immoral it is and What Kind Of Example Is Harry Potter Setting For The Children? they have a pinboard in the grimmauld place living room where they pin up the best ones
they cook big elaborate dinners for each other that end up not being finished until like 11pm and they’ve normally drunk at least 1.5 bottles of wine before then, and they play van morrison records real loud and make out instead of doing the washing up
harry and draco spending summer days dozing in parks, draco half in the shade so he doesn’t get sunburnt, idly holding hands, and they only open their eyes when a shadow falls over them and it’s ginny with a case of beer
ginny and harry arm wrestling over the dinner table at the burrow while draco smarmily sucks up to mrs weasley
draco sleeps in the middle most nights: ginny gets overheated and harry has to sleep with his back to the wall
some nights they don’t sleep because of nightmares. some nights they don’t sleep for other reasons: ginny straddling draco and slipping her fingers into his mouth, draco’s eyes wide and dark and his long body stretched out in the moonlight, half in harry’s lap, harry’s possessive hold.
NYE 1999 they go to cornwall, just the three of them. they sit on the freezing empty beach with an enormous bottle of prosecco that harry bought at sainsburys for £3 (it is - not good) and don’t really talk. somewhere a long way down the beach they can see the glow of a bonfire. when the fireworks go off somewhere in the distance draco sighs and shifts, shoulder overlapping harry’s, and ginny says in a distant, not unpleased voice, “well, here comes the future.”

fem!Drarry - Harry is jealous of Pansy (Partial)

In third year Pansy Parkinson started hovering around Malfoy all the time with this supercilious, smirky air that pissed Harry off the moment she first saw it. Malfoy and Parkinson had always been thick as thieves, obviously, marching around sneering down their noses at everyone, holding tight hands, all the other Slytherin girls trailing after them with an air of terrified misery. Now, though, sometimes Parkinson would hang off Malfoy’s arm, batting her eyelashes, or else she’d finger the ends of Malfoy’s plait, the curling lock hanging sleek and shiny under the velvet black ribbon tying it off. It was gross, Parkinson was always touching Malfoy and then staring around all weird and possessive.

“It’s like she thinks we all want to be Malfoy’s best mate!” Harry said, stamping annoyed up into the Gryffindor Common Room. “When we don’t! Who’d want to be mates with a little toad like Malfoy?”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “We know. Who cares? It’s just Parkinson and Malfoy, they’ve always been horrible–”

“No, there’s something different now,” Harry said, shaking her head impatiently. “There’s something worse. They’re – they’re up to something, wait and see.”

In fourth year, Harry was proved right in the most infuriating of ways when Malfoy and Parkinson spent the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year sitting in the corner of The Three Broomsticks snogging.

“It’s disgusting,” Harry yelped, striding as quickly back to the castle as her legs could carry her, with Ron and Hermione jogging up from behind. “It’s foul!”

“Harry!” Hermione said, sounding shocked.

“Um, look,” Ron said awkwardly, “I’m not sure how it is with the Muggles but here it’s quite normal for like, witches to like witches and stuff.”

“It’s perfectly normal in the Muggle world too!” Hermione said, and frowned. “Harry, is this something your awful aunt and uncle told you?”

“No!” Harry said, though she did, now she thought about it, vaguely remember Aunt Petunia delivering a whispered monologue over the phone to one of her ghastly friends about how Susan had left Greg, yes, gone overnight, and she’s moved in with the woman who sold them their house– but Harry blinked. “It’s not about that! It’s because it’s them!”

“Right,” Ron said doubtfully. “Uh. Is that different?”

“Yes! Honestly, I don’t care that they’re–” Harry made a couple of wild hand gestures that she vaguely associated with pictures of stern ladies in Victorian outfits and/or togas. “It’s just Malfoy and Parkinson. Ew.”

“They’ve always been ew,” Hermione said. “Harry, it would be so disappointing if you were homophobic.”

“No, honestly, no,” Harry said, and scowled, flushed at the ground. “Just – whatever. It’s gross. Trust me.”

“Sure,” Ron said, exchanging a meaningful glance with Hermione. “Yep, no worries, mate,” and Harry found a couple of pamphlets hidden in her bed and her trunk over the next few days with loads of rainbows and smiling women hand-in-hand on the front, but that was pretty much the last they talked about it.

Then Malfoy took Parkinson as her date to the Yule Ball.