#booktopus writes
the tribulations of one Hermione Granger and her laconic best friend, for the @drarrymicrofic prompt “good” (T, 50 words) this is so dumb, pls forgive me.
“How’d you do on your NEWTS?”
“Good.”
–
“How was your date with Jean-Paul?”
“Good.”
–
“How’s your cheesecake?”
“Good.”
–
“How was last night’s match?”
“Good.”
–
“How are things going with Draco?”
“Hermione, he’s bloody amazing, I’ve never felt this way before. And he does this thing with his tongue…”
“Harry James!”
for the @drarrymicrofic prompt “I’m Lucky” (M, 350 words)
Being the Master of Death came with an especially peculiar side effect. Harry had become, for lack of a better term, reallyfucking lucky.
As he strolled Diagon Alley, Galleons glimmered on the sidewalk.
Over the din of the crowd on pub night, Madame Rosmerta announced him as the winner of a year’s worth of free drinks.
He lost his money pouch one night and thought the streak was broken, only to have it returned by a handsome Frenchman named Jean-Luc who made him see stars. Three times.
A visit to Eeylops turned into a tearful reunion with Hedwig, who had been found over a year ago with a broken wing and rehabilitated. “I’m sorry for making you wait,” Harry choked out as she nipped at his finger.
Who needed Felix Felices?
–
But Harry’s luck came with consequences. His friends refused to play Quidditch with him. “It’s no fun when you find the Snitch within 10 minutes every time, Harry,” Ginny had apologised before launching herself skyward.
Creeps came out of the woodwork, asking for “a little advice” on that afternoon’s Puddlemere game.
Ron’s jealousy was worse than ever, even as Harry plied him with free broomsticks, free box seats, free dinners.
He had the Black fortunes at his fingertips, but missed Sirius with every inch of his being.
And the intuition that drove his luck, putting him in the right place at the right time every moment of every day? It kept forcing Draco Malfoy into his path. It didn’t stop Draco from sneering at him, lashing out and causing a scene, spitting Potter like an obscenity.
It didn’t stop the two of them from getting trapped at Grimmauld Place, the house holding them hostage. It didn’t stop Hermione from recognising their entrapment as ancient sentient house magic, with irreversible sexual requirements. It didn’t stop Harry from stumbling into a freshly-showered Draco in the narrow, dim hallway, clutching a small towel around his waist.
But as he blinked sleep from his eyes the next morning, greeted by soft sunlight that highlighted Draco’s freckles, Harry whispered to himself, “Lucky me.“
I know it’s not Mother’s Day in England, but it is here in the States. this is a love letter to anyone else suffering today, for whom today isn’t a day for brunch and flowers. I see you and love you. (G, 450 words) cw: estrangement from a parent
Half-asleep, Harry gropes at the empty spot on the bed, blinking awake when he finds nothing but empty coolness where his husband ought to be.
He pads downstairs, listening for signs of life and hearing nothing but the complaints of the wood beneath his feet. Creeping through their quiet home, he finally opens the door to the rear garden, shivering a bit at the brisk morning air.
“There you are.” Draco sits among the spring blooms, sweeter than honeysuckle and lovelier than peonies. He looks up at the sound of Harry’s voice and his face relaxes, a smile blossoming across his angular features.
“Morning love. Sorry I left, I couldn’t sleep.”
Harry joins him, kissing Draco’s knuckles. “S’alright. Did you have a nightmare?”
“No.” Draco answers simply.
Harry tries to remember the date, if there’s something he’s missed. It’s difficult, his brain still foggy from sleep and in desperate need of his morning cuppa.
“It’s Mother’s Day.” Draco answers Harry’s unvoiced question.
“Ah,” Harry says, squeezing Draco’s hand.
“I wonder what she’s doing. If she thinks about me at all.”
Harry purses his lips. It’s a difficult line to balance, one he’s pretty sure he’s never gotten quite right. Draco’s warring love and anger for his mother, his ever-present disappointment. The desire for things to be different from how they are.
“I’m sure she does. She loves you.”
Draco huffs. “Not enough. Not me, really.”
Harry stays quiet.
“Maybe the idea of being a mother. Maybe the idea of her son. But not me. Gay. In love with a halfblood, with a man. You. Working for a living, for a Muggleborn, no less. Love shouldn’t be conditional, Harry.”
Harry drops his hand in favor of draping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in and dropping a kiss on top of his head. “You’re right. You deserve to be loved exactly the way you are. I’m sorry that she can’t see that.” He feels the silent tears soak through his threadbare t-shirt. “I love you. I know it’s not the same, but I do.”
He spares a moment to think of his own mother, whose eyes he can’t escape any time he looks in the mirror. It’s gotten easier to miss her over time, as he’s learned to sit with his grief. Therapy helps.
“Can I make you some breakfast? Coffee? Maybe we can go see a film? Go for a walk?”
Draco sniffles pitifully, but rolls his shoulders back and nods weakly. “That’d be nice, yeah.”
“Just another Sunday, okay?”
“I love you.” Draco kisses Harry wetly, but he has no complaints. Harry will accept Draco’s kisses in any condition. It’s just what you do when you love someone.
