Corpus.

corpus.

“Do you want to get high?” Draco asks, sharp knees knocking against Harry’s. They’re lying on the worn-down mattress on Draco's floor— a relic of a thing Harry admires for not just giving up and bursting— staring up at the cracks patterned like lightning on the ceiling.

“No.” He reconsiders. “I mean yeah, obviously, but no, can’t. There’s this— thing in two hours. Have to be there and I can’t show up—" he gestures at the air. “Y’know.”

“I know,” Draco clumsily pats Harry’s forehead. “Oh, I know.”

There’s a touch of condescension there, and Harry knows Draco well enough to hear everything he isn’t saying— I know you don’t want to go, I know you want to stay with me in my shitty apartment, I know you don’t talk about me to them at these things. There’s a version of Harry, lying somewhere in a ditch on the highway between who he was and who he is, who’d tear Draco apart for those insinuations. This version sighs a little and pokes him in one pointy shoulder.

“Hannah probably won’t understand the urge to stay holed up in here with my disreputable stoner boyfriend instead of attending her birthday party." He means it as a joke, it falls very flat. "I’m sorry.”

“You keep assuming,” Draco says, drawled and posh, despite the mould growing in the corner of the room, “that you need to justify yourself. You live your own life, Potter, I stake no claims on it.”

They say nothing for a while.

“Muggles have this thing,” Harry says eventually, breaking the silence. “The share market. Stocks.”

“Stocks.”

“Yeah. Hermione explained it to me. It was complicated and most of it went over my head but, but it all boiled down to— ownership, really. You— buy out parts of a company and you own those parts till you sell them. I think? I guess. The more you own, the more decision making power you have. Or something like that.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s— whatever, if I was a company, you’d own— fifty eight percent of my stocks.”

Draco’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. And alright, that’s fair, but he’s trying here. He needs Draco to— understand. Swallows. Realises he cares a little too much about how well Draco understands this.

“You own,” he begins, swallowing again, Merlin, he’s parched, “fifty eight percent of me. Most of me. So much of me, Draco. I’ve never given myself over— like this. To someone else. But there’s a remaining thirty— no, Merlin, should have taken Arithmancy— forty two percent? That they still own. Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Neville and Luna and—” He gestures at the air again. Doesn’t turn to look at the softly breathing body next to his.

“Corporation,” Draco says slowly, words rounded without the razor sharp edge of before. “Corporare. Corpus. Corpus means body, do you know that? That’s the root of these entities, the body.” His hand, fine-boned and blunt-nailed, cards through Harry’s hair. “I own fifty eight percent. They own forty two. How much of your body do you own, Harry?”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t?”

They lie in silence again, the gentle scratch of Draco’s nails against his scalp a monotone soundtrack to their thoughts.

“Pansy bought me a book on anatomy once,” Draco says conversationally after long minutes have passed. “It was kind of awful. And I was thinking about making some grand statement about how you own the percentage of me that my heart weighs, but that’s about—? 0.69%? Which isn’t a declaration at all, it’s actually kind of offensive. So I thought of adding in the percentage of blood, which is about 10%, but even that sounds ridiculous.”

He pauses. His hand stills in Harry’s hair for a beat too long before starting up again. “What you own—” he clears his throat. “You own my thoughts, Harry. And they can’t measure that. Every time you walk out, you own my grief. Every time you stay, you own my joy. I can’t measure it, Harry, but immeasurable and infinite are synonyms.”

“I’m not going,” Harry says, sitting up. “I’m not going to Hannah’s stupid party, Draco, fuck it, I’m not—”

Draco just stares up at him. “42%,” he says after a second too long of silence.

Harry laughs. It’s wild, maybe a little hysterical. “Fuck it,” he says again, looking down at Draco’s flushed cheeks. “Yours. All yours.”

written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: my girl has four cats and a sonos speaker system. i have no idea how it went to the weird places it did, but oh well.

List the Drarry tropes that make your heart and stomach go- 😩💗😭🦋🦋🦋😳🥰😍

I think I enjoy anything as long it's a got a good beginning that gets me hooked but here's a few that I like

1. ENEMIES to " I might care about you a little " to " I thought you were different " to " prove me wrong " to LOVERS, TROPE

2. A domestic drarry trope, with friends to lovers. I read this work by @slytherco one or two month's ago and I made a post about it too, it's fairly domestic with fluff and it's my favorite one.

3. The secret relationship drarry. If anyone's ever read it was all just a game by writeme_227, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

4. the " I don't love you but I'm jealous to see you with anyone else " kinda trope when Infact they love each other. So jealousy drarry trope with smut, maybe.

5. Lastly I love any trope with slightly literary language, something that I can't explain, but might have references like " anatomically saying.. " or " according to Greek mythology.." . I don't think it's a trope but this sort makes me jump.

I ask you the same.. tell me what makes you 🦋🦋🦋🥺🥺😭😢🥰😍😩🦋

07.31 ➵ HAPPY BIRTHDAY, H A R R Y P O T T E R.

anyway - harry, a very happy birthday to yeh.

Charming Conflagration

Harry’s on a date with Byron the first time it happens. They flee, chased out by wailing alarms and thick smoke billowing out from the kitchen. 

Draco’s unimpressed. “Must have been an accident, Potter. No need to be melodramatic.”

There’s no second date.

—

Harry’s clothes still reek by the time he slams through the door. 

He waves his arms wildly, ashes floating across Draco. “Michael’s jacket burst into flames in the middle of a rainstorm. I’m cursed! I just know it.”

Harry tries to visit Michael in St Mungo’s, and is turned away, ‘thank you but I’d rather not see you again.’

—

Harry and Margo are in the middle of ordering when the cooler magnificently combusts. Ice cream sublimating into steam from the scorching flames.

“Draco, the frozen ice cream was on fire!” Harry takes in Draco’s bored expression with suspicion.

Margo sends her regrets via owl, apparently flaming desserts are not her idea of a good time.

—

He doesn’t even make it to his date with Chris, as his wardrobe is charred beyond recognition before he can save anything.

Draco laughs shamelessly as Harry describes the blistered wood and scorched wallpaper. “Your clothes were hideous anyway, I’d call this luck.”

Harry swears off dating…until Draco invites him to dinner.

—

Harry palms his wand all night, anxiously awaiting the inferno while Draco watches him with amusement over his wine glass.

They barely make it to the sofa before Harry’s mouth is searing a path across Draco’s jaw. “I know it was you…”

A wicked smile lights up Draco’s face. “I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

For the @drarrymicrofic prompt: dust/ash. Thank you to @lou-isfake for being the best buddy and beta. 

Previous microfics.

Hermione and Draco talks about muggle Physics and it's application: *nodding*

Harry : * pretends to understand everything *

( really old draft. Compensation for inability to post Today's prompt/requests )

So this so damn sweet 😩😩💜🦋

Hi Bee! Let's say Draco discovered the USA and decided he loves all about it, specially cowboy hats, old country songs, and the worst wannabe "wild west" accent :D

YES okay i had so much fun with this one >:) hope you enjoy! you can read on ao3 here (also the belt buckle is based on one i saw in real life with my own eyes so take from that what you will)

“Howdy.”

Harry startles so badly he falls right off the sofa, sprawling across the plush rug of the Eighth Year common room. Above him, Draco huffs with laughter, then sheepishly covers his grin with a pale hand.

“Merlin, you’re like a fucking cat. You have to stop doing…” Harry trails off, finally getting a good look at Draco. “Uh. What are you wearing?”

“Do you like it?” Draco punctuates the question with a little twirl, and Harry nearly laughs when he remembers how surprised he was to learn Draco is gay. Anyone less oblivious than Harry could look at Draco breathe and know he’s gay.

“I’m… honestly, I don’t think I understand enough of what’s going on to decide if I like it or not?” Harry says, then immediately regrets it when the bright expression on Draco’s face dims. It wasn’t a truthful answer, anyways, because the fact of the matter is that Draco looks unfairly and unquestionably fit. Finally scrambling to his feet, Harry stands in front of Draco and looks the other boy up and down.

Draco looks like a cowboy. There’s no other way to spin it.

His shoulder-length hair is tucked behind his ears and mostly covered by a black felt cowboy hat with no ornamentation, a surprisingly modest choice considering the absolutely blinding circle of silver metal that is Draco’s belt buckle. He’s wearing dark jeans tucked into black cowboy boots with a significant heel, and tucked into his jeans is a deep red and grey flannel shirt that looks like–

“Is that my shirt?” Harry asks, and Draco goes bright red.

“I didn’t have any like it.”

“When did you go into my– no, you know what, I don’t even want to know.” Harry gives Draco another once-over, then freezes. “Draco.”

“Yes?” Draco asks, looking like he’s about to bolt.

“Does your belt buckle say bodacious?”

Draco’s face scrunches up, like he’s considering blatantly lying, and that’s when Harry cracks.

“You– you,” Harry wheezes out with laughter, resting his hands on Draco’s shoulders as he doubles over. “Draco, you’re the best– I can’t– oh my god–”

“I just really liked those Western films we watched in Muggle Studies, alright?” Draco mutters defensively, but his face is also twisting into a reluctant smile. “And I didn’t mean for the belt buckle to be quite like that when I transfigured the sickle.”

“Oh god,” Harry says, straightening up and wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re the most ridiculous person I know.”

Draco smiles wider at the fondness in Harry’s voice. “Darn tootin’,” he says in the worst accent Harry has ever heard, and Harry spirals back into fits of laughter, collapsing down onto the sofa. Draco follows, pressing his jean-clad thigh against Harry’s, seemingly delighted by Harry’s mirth.

“It can’t be that funny,” he says, peering at Harry with a raised eyebrow. Harry takes a few deep breaths, trying to pull himself together.

“Bodacious,” he states very seriously, emphasizing the word with his hands, and this time both of them crack up, Draco’s rare and deep belly laugh tangling up with Harry’s breathless wheezing.

When their laughter finally trails off, they’re sprawled against the back of the sofa, pressed together from shoulder to hip. Harry tilts his head back against the cushion and closes his eyes, marveling in the force that is Draco Malfoy.

When they returned to Hogwarts for the informally dubbed Eighth Year, Harry and Draco had skirted around each other, unsure where they stood if not diametrically opposed. But Draco shoved his way through clumsy but sincere apologies to anyone who would listen, and Harry watched with reluctantly sharp interest as Draco threw himself into Muggle Studies and devoured any book he could find that opposed the belief systems he grew up learning. So Harry had given Draco a chance, sitting down next to him on the sofa in the common room one night to ask a question about Potions, and he hasn’t once regretted the friendship that easily blossomed between them. Draco is funny and passionate and silly, something Harry never could have prepared for.

The way Harry’s heart races when Draco looks his way is also something he couldn’t have prepared for, but he tries not to think about that too much.

“Does it really look ridiculous?” Draco asks softly, and under his deliberate levity there’s a current of insecurity. Yet another thing Harry has learned about Draco: he’s trying so hard to finally be himself, but eighteen years of shame don’t just go away with a snap of elegant fingers.

“‘Course not,” Harry says, opening his eyes to look over at Draco. “Maybe a bit different than what people expect, but that doesn't matter, and I like your hat. Though that belt buckle is ridiculous,” Harry adds with a snort.

“I concede to that,” Draco says with a wry smile, plucking the hat off his head and placing it crookedly over Harry’s curls. “Hm. I think you’d look better with a cream-colored hat, with your hair color and skin tone. It would pop more.”

“Are we going to be cowboys together, then?” Harry asks, and Draco flushes red for some reason, darting his eyes away from Harry’s face. Harry settles further into the sofa, getting comfortable. “Will you tell me about the Western films?”

“You were there in class too.”

“I know. But I also know you’ve probably done enough research to know stuff that’s way more interesting than Professor Gillipsie’s lecture. And I bet you’re busting at the seams to talk to someone about it,” Harry teases, poking Draco between the ribs until he makes a discontent sound and whacks at Harry’s hand half-heartedly.

“Stop, stop, fine.” Draco goes quiet for a moment, biting on his bottom lip. “You really want to know?” The quiet uncertainty of his voice asks his real question: are you sure you want to listen to me ramble?

“Yeah,” Harry says, and leans back as Draco tells him about the politics and downfalls of mid 1900’s Hollywood, the well-known Western actors, the racism and sexism seeped into the genre that did little to dilute its popularity. Eventually Draco veers into a rant accompanied by wild hand gestures about the complete inaccuracy of most Western films to the reality of cowboy life and his eyes go bright as he describes harsh winters, open skies, rodeos and cattle drives and solitude. There’s a cadence to Draco’s voice that spills easy warmth into Harry’s chest, so he tilts his head towards Draco’s shoulder without thinking. Stumbling over his words, Draco’s hands momentarily freeze in the air before he continues talking. The hat still perched on Harry’s head gets bumped even further askew by Draco’s jawline.

“Also, a lot of cowboys were gay,” Draco is saying, and Harry startles, sitting back to look at him. Raising his eyebrows, Draco stares right back. “What? It makes sense.”

Are we going to be cowboys together, then?

“Men who were employed as cowboys were frequently shunned by society for a variety of reasons,” Draco continues. “And it was all men, out in the middle of nowhere, so…” He shrugs, and the tips of his ears turn a delightful shade of pink.

“Draco,” Harry starts, then pauses, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“Yes?”

“I’m bi?”

Grey eyes terrifically wide, Draco freezes. “Is that– are you– is that a question?”

“No, I know I’m bi,” Harry states with more conviction. Frantically, he tries to remember where he was going with this. “I just meant– I’m… we could’ve been. Uh. Cowboys.”

“Harry, what?” Draco sounds desperate with confusion, his gaze darting wildly between Harry’s eyes.

“We could be cowboys together,” Harry says in a rush, silently willing Draco, endlessly bright Draco, to understand, but Draco’s eyebrows rise even higher in confusion.

“What?” Draco exclaims, but it comes out more like “whmph” because Harry’s mouth is in the way.

The kiss is graceless, full of weird angles and Draco’s shocked breath and Harry’s tongue catching Draco’s delicate cupid’s bow, and it’s fantastic. As Harry pulls away, Draco immediately places two fingers over his own lips as though to trap the kiss there, and it’s so endearing Harry immediately kisses him again, momentarily ending up with Draco’s fingertips in his mouth. This time, Draco kisses back so enthusiastically that he flings his arms around Harry’s neck and knocks the cowboy hat right off of Harry’s head. Tangled together, they tumble down across the couch, Draco radiating warmth beneath Harry’s hands. In a brief moment of clarity Harry thanks his lucky stars that it’s a Sunday afternoon and no one else is in the common room, because he doesn’t know if he can physically stop himself from kissing Draco silly.

“Harry,” Draco breathes out, breaking their kiss but remaining only a breath away. His eyes glint a bright silver that blurs in Harry’s vision and everything feels tinged with giddiness. “All I needed to finally woo you was to put on a cowboy hat?”

“Woo me?” Harry laughs out, shifting back so he can see Draco better. “Have you… been trying to do that?”

“Yes!” Draco exclaims, suddenly so frustrated that Harry grins in bewilderment. “Merlin, you are oblivious. Oblivious! We literally spend all of our free time together. I make sure you eat breakfast! We go out for picnics! I tell you about the things I’m interested in! I– I trust you,” Draco says, suddenly sounding much less sure of himself.

“Draco,” Harry says in wonder. “You didn’t even know I was bi.”

“I’m devastatingly hopeful,” Draco mutters, turning his face to the side. Harry takes the opportunity to press a chaste kiss to the smooth arc of pale cheekbone, and Draco startles slightly.

“We could be cowboys together?”

“You’re ridiculous. That doesn’t even make sense,” Draco gripes, but a smile is fighting its way onto his face.

“It does, because it pertains to your interests,” Harry states, not bothering to hide his own grin. “You’re stunning, by the way,” he adds, then yelps when Draco hits his shoulder hard. “What the fuck?”

“You can’t just say that!” Draco exclaims, affronted. “You– you– I need warning.”

“For... compliments?”

“Yes!”

Harry tilts his head down into Draco’s shoulder and laughs. “I like you.”

“Well I like you,” Draco retorts as though it’s an insult, then flushes deep red in realization. “I– I’m. Oh dear.”

Tilting his body away from Draco’s, Harry searches along the floor until he finds the discarded cowboy hat. He perches it back on his head and looks back down at Draco, heart immediately twisting with happiness at the way Draco’s eyes are nearly shut from how widely he’s smiling. Clearing his throat, Harry looks down at Draco seriously.

“Well, pardner, I reckon this town just might be big enough for the two of us,” he says in his best approximation of a Texan accent, though judging by Draco’s gleefully horrified expression he widely misses the mark. “Ya know, once we get those doggies to pasture maybe we can go out back behind the shed and–”

“Stop, stop,” Draco manages to wheeze out through laughter. “This is painful. This is hurting me. Emotionally. Psychologically. Physically, even.”

“Well,” Harry drawls, not dropping the terrible accent. ”You best find a way to shut me up-mph!” Harry’s words are cut off as Draco grabs the brim of the cowboy hat and pulls down until their lips meet, and Harry doesn’t get a chance to speak for quite a while, though he finds he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

~

my prompts are OPEN, just send me an ask! 

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