Microfic May: “Pathetic”

environmental storytelling

Kreacher has been staring at Harry for weeks.

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

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

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

Then he starts leaving weird shit around the house.

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

Harry remains suspicious.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hermione, can house elves go senile?”

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

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

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

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

Something clenches in Harry’s stomach.

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

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

prompt a day may - day 2 - black

a story told over the course of a month, in 50 word increments. based off prompts here: [X] you can read past entries here. drarry. 50 words. no rating

Entering the room is disorienting. The air is close – the walls, floor, and ceiling a uniform, shimmering black. 

Harry drops his things – mucky-looking against the shine – and tests the bed. Soft sheets. All of it black. Prone to stains. 

Harry closes his eyes. Stars begin to fall from the ceiling.

In happiness and in sorrow

mid-story lines

thanks for tagging me @garagepaperback <3 @faiell <3 and @astralrainn <3

rules: pluck a juicy morsel from somewhere in the middle of up to 10 of your fics (I've taken garage's invitation to pad things out with material from the WIP mines, and you should too) and tag up to 10 people accordingly

rational economic actors

Trapped like a fish caught euphoric on its hook.

the bower

There must be an overflowing abundance of pleasure, a cornucopia of sensuous flavours and savoury sexual favours. A hearty ravishing, a Bacchanalian rhapsody in blond. Harry’s performance must have perfect pitch from overture and hors d'oeuvres to satiated ovation.

gimme friction

“Do you guys know any, y’know—spells?”

---

and a bonus from the un-published stuff:

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, dropping Malfoy’s hand as if he’d been caught pinching his coin purse.

“Freak.”

Surely this wasn’t romance.

the long game

It was reckless, almost, to go around in such a state of sexual frustration.

🚧 📂 WIP zone 📂🚧 (ooh, ahh, mysterious)

orgy for two

"The Auror orgy isn’t real, Draco."

untitled sex magic story

Was it awkward, having Draco Malfoy’s penis in his mouth? Was it erotic? All he could officially say was it certainly was happening.

untitled role play thing

He’d signed up for a bit of cheeky role play, sure, but he wasn’t prepared to keep track of side characters.

untitled sad auror academy story

He knew most people didn’t need to come close to losing their lives in order to feel them.

without having at all kept track of who's already done this (although consider - there are always more lines) I'll tag @fluffyunderneath @its-the-allure @the-forbidden-forest @toomuchplor @tackytigerfic @jupitersbetrayal and whoever else sees this and wants to join in :)

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

Medieval Drarry 🏰

"heaven resides in the arms of my noble and gracious special someone"

- said no-one! jesus(dianxia) I need a sprite anyway here's hualian <3

Yaoi is in my blood atp

VIII. Crystal

<- previous

Turned out having breakfast with Harry Potter also meant having dinner with him.

The bastard eased Draco into it. “I’m making curry tonight, you want some?”

Spiraling out of his control, Draco went from rarely seeing Potter to twice a day. Potter’s cooking being just as good at night as it was in the morning was the only upside. 

The rising daylight was accompanied by, what Draco regrets to acknowledge, was amiable silence as they prepared for the arduous days ahead of them. The nighttime was accompanied by actual conversations. It start menially: a bunch of “how was your day?”s and “who do you think will win Quidditch?”. Then Potter would bring up a memory from their eight year and Draco would start gossiping about their old classmates.

On it went, from polite chatter to affable talk then friendly banter—or from an outside perspective: verbal war. 

“You almost murdered me once,” followed by: “Like you wouldn’t’ve.”

“You were a prick in school,” proceeded by: “You weren’t?”

One night they finished eating and Potter asked, “You want a drink?”

Draco, exhausted and always susceptible to alcoholic bribes, said yes.

Potter took out firewhisky from the liquor cabinet and poured it into two matching crystal cups.

Their conversations reached their inevitable climax: quasi-flirtation. Perhaps it was the heat from the liquor—the heat radiating off of Potter—but the air felt tight-knit with tension. It might have been Draco’s imagination warping the way Potter smirked around his glass. The light from the room refracted off the crystal somehow made his green eyes shine even brighter.

“Draco,” his name coming out of Potter’s lips sounded indecent, like intruding on a tender moment. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Draco pretended he said it with sober fondness and not drunken impulse. He allowed himself this one thing.

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