noarc
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prompt fills for EscapeInMyBookshelf's microficmay challenge 2026
50 words each (or less)
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Potter was a hero, he had the sword. Draco wasn't the most impressive wretch in his myth, but still—his.
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Malfoy smells like day-old bin, of lime, cloves, hazelnut and cinnamon, humidity, the dirt under his fingernails, cheap pomegranate body wash, the sticky ginger parkin biscuit he ate maybe an hour ago and a heavier scent underneath all of that, like the parted, thick roots at the bottom of an old oak tree. He smells the same way he tastes: like a man.
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One night, every month, Harry is a coyote. Malfoy has a silver tooth. Sometimes, he cuts Harry’s hair.
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For Harry, it's not a question of whether New York is good or bad, whether he likes it or not. The city just is. Crude, bright, trashed and demanding. All that energy in the mornings, then spoiled and slow, simple again once night gives in. Pretty with its breath held - he'd look pretty if you didn't know him.
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The first time Potter had said: harder, more, meaner—meaner, Malfoy, fuck, I thought you’d be— until Draco was, exactly, whatever he wanted him to be. Draco could fit any shape it took to keep two hands devout between Potter’s shivering, spread legs.
“What do you want?” Draco asks again.
“I dunno,” Potter says for the second time, smirking, like he’s already gotten everything he wants, to keep folded and glowing under his tongue.
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“It sort of is, you know,” Harry says, a little delirious, heavy-headed.
“What?”
“A bond. Like, you feel what I’m feeling. We’re connected.”
“It’s a disunion bond. And as though I needed a spell to—” Draco’s hands rise up under Harry’s shirt, the bedwarmed skin singing, sighing, groaning from the magic, every touch echoing with a crude second grasp. Kissing hits like Harry’s put his mouth on an outlet, sudden and sharp. Draco pulls back to marvel at it. “Fuck."