#i still think daily about this
Draco always tells the muggles he fucks about magic.
Maybe he likes the power it gives him, or maybe he finds the stupid look on their faces funny when he coaxes a Lumos to his palm. Whatever the reason, Harry can’t stop the heat that rages every time Draco parades someone to his bedroom, casting Harry a look of triumph, as though Harry shares in the spoils.
Draco always asks for Harry’s help with the memory charms.
“Be a dear, Harry? What are roommates for, after all?” he says one night, leaning his bony hip against the doorframe. Inwardly, Harry seethes. Outwardly, Harry shrugs, but he can’t suppress the tremble in his hands.
Harry always smiles when he replaces memories of Draco’s body with something terrible, something tragic.
Draco’s bedroom is a mixture of sweat, smoke, and sex as Harry hovers over the unsuspecting muggle. As soon as the man starts crying, Harry pushes him out the door and turns to face Draco. He’s not sure what sets him off. Maybe it’s the neutral gaze Draco uses to watch him. Maybe it’s Draco’s well-fucked hair. Or maybe Harry’s patience has finally expired.
A fire spreads in Harry’s lungs as he crowds Draco against the doorframe, leaning his full weight into his chest and scowling at Draco’s nonchalance.
“Are you ever going to fuck someone I don’t have to Obliviate?” Harry growls.
Draco’s lips curve into a wicked grin as he threads his fingers through Harry’s belt loops and ghosts his breath over the shell of Harry’s ear.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
For@drarrymicrofic’s prompt, forbidden.
